I'm not crazy [closed/complete]
Characters: Orestes
Date/Time: 24th Feb, evening
Location: 6A
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Language?
Summary: He contemplates Neoptolemus--insofar as he can. Tisiphone's voice was borrowed with permission.
The shard of glass, too big to fall victim to the vacuum cleaner, turned over in his hands. The warmth it had stolen from his fingers gave away just how long he had been holding it. It was keeping him occupied, if nothing else; the repetition of such a simple action was calming. He knew he would have to set it down at some point. Tisiphone's very presence would shatter any peace regardless. Not that he had the faintest idea where she was.
A car alarm screamed for attention outside and Orestes was hauled out of his reverie, his most recently acquired habit stopping mid-rotation. He did not care enough to make sure it was not his vehicle, though he quickly discarded the glass, unsettled by the apparently disembodied reflection of his eye. But such was his state of mind since that bastard had made an appearance--and... always, really. The most rational part of his mind told him to simply ignore the moron unless given reason not to. The reasoning most inclined to react to Clytemnestra--mother is dead; people ought to remember that--called for pre-emptive action, a re-run of their last encounter. Every other mode of operation he possessed (even the sheer indignation caused by yet another of his murders returning) had harked down to let the first two speak. And he listened insofar as he could, since they were prone to arguing amongst themselves, leaving him with unanswered questions. Really, they were questions Electra could have answered... but her answers were in a league of their own and he wasn't certain they would help right now--and, then, there is the question of protecting, not involving. Although her talent for keeping certain 'throats' at an appropriate proximity was commendable.
Keys in the door, and Orestes shied away from the main living area, locking the bathroom door behind him. "I can't decide whether you should live or die--" She had her iPod on, he knew. "--Oh, you'll probably go to heaven; please don't hang your head and cry." It wasn't that the girl could not sing, just that her volume turned up to eleven--what does that even mean?--as those earplugs made her increasingly deaf. And yet the ringing appeared to be in his own ears. But her entrance reminded him he had a habit to feed, and cigarettes and lighter respectively were retrieved from his inside pockets before he had fully realised what he was doing. Which concerned him, he realised, as he blew smoke at the reflection that refused to look at him--would his reaction be any different should he run into the man? Orestes was a blunt instrument, and acutely aware of it. He knew he would find it just as natural to walk past Neoptolemus without acknowledging his existence as he would to stop and shake his hand while driving his thumb into the bastard's eye socket. Neither course of action was what he wanted to take--but... that's just not feasible, really, is it?--but destroying the source of annoyance did not work on a long-term basis within the realms of the complex. They just came back.
... Am I drowning? And never--never--in his life had he found himself floundering in such a manner. As a young man, he was unsure, but he was driven and he had had his sister's guidance. Madness followed that; reckless, impulsive, barbaric madness--and almost entirely without aim--but he had still managed to pave the way for his future in the meantime, though he had virtually no recollection of how. During his reign, problems had arisen and he had hammered them back down in a manner that would have impressed even the Smith God himself, folding layer upon layer of bronze, unyielding discipline into both himself and the people who would have risen against him. And now...
Now he was sat upon the floor against the sink, flicking ash into the toilet bowl--my kingdom for an ashtray and a...--because old conquests had somehow found their way back. He lacked the sheer desperation he had wielded the first time round. Taking one last drag from his cigarette--and promptly pulling a face (burning plastic did not taste good)--Orestes threw the end into his improvised ashtray.
Maybe Neoptolemus would bring the desperation back. What it would take, however...
"Oh, I could throw you in the lake or feed you poisoned birthday cake. I won't deny I'm gonna miss you when you're gone--" His usually stoic expression broke formation to stare disbelievingly at the door and the lyrics sounding behind it. Time to feed the fury; Neoptolemus was shoved aside for rather more mundane thoughts. Like whether or not they had any steak left. "--Oh, I could bury you alive, but you might crawl out with a knife, and kill me when I'm sleeping." That throat would have to wait.
Date/Time: 24th Feb, evening
Location: 6A
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Language?
Summary: He contemplates Neoptolemus--insofar as he can. Tisiphone's voice was borrowed with permission.
The shard of glass, too big to fall victim to the vacuum cleaner, turned over in his hands. The warmth it had stolen from his fingers gave away just how long he had been holding it. It was keeping him occupied, if nothing else; the repetition of such a simple action was calming. He knew he would have to set it down at some point. Tisiphone's very presence would shatter any peace regardless. Not that he had the faintest idea where she was.
A car alarm screamed for attention outside and Orestes was hauled out of his reverie, his most recently acquired habit stopping mid-rotation. He did not care enough to make sure it was not his vehicle, though he quickly discarded the glass, unsettled by the apparently disembodied reflection of his eye. But such was his state of mind since that bastard had made an appearance--and... always, really. The most rational part of his mind told him to simply ignore the moron unless given reason not to. The reasoning most inclined to react to Clytemnestra--mother is dead; people ought to remember that--called for pre-emptive action, a re-run of their last encounter. Every other mode of operation he possessed (even the sheer indignation caused by yet another of his murders returning) had harked down to let the first two speak. And he listened insofar as he could, since they were prone to arguing amongst themselves, leaving him with unanswered questions. Really, they were questions Electra could have answered... but her answers were in a league of their own and he wasn't certain they would help right now--and, then, there is the question of protecting, not involving. Although her talent for keeping certain 'throats' at an appropriate proximity was commendable.
Keys in the door, and Orestes shied away from the main living area, locking the bathroom door behind him. "I can't decide whether you should live or die--" She had her iPod on, he knew. "--Oh, you'll probably go to heaven; please don't hang your head and cry." It wasn't that the girl could not sing, just that her volume turned up to eleven--what does that even mean?--as those earplugs made her increasingly deaf. And yet the ringing appeared to be in his own ears. But her entrance reminded him he had a habit to feed, and cigarettes and lighter respectively were retrieved from his inside pockets before he had fully realised what he was doing. Which concerned him, he realised, as he blew smoke at the reflection that refused to look at him--would his reaction be any different should he run into the man? Orestes was a blunt instrument, and acutely aware of it. He knew he would find it just as natural to walk past Neoptolemus without acknowledging his existence as he would to stop and shake his hand while driving his thumb into the bastard's eye socket. Neither course of action was what he wanted to take--but... that's just not feasible, really, is it?--but destroying the source of annoyance did not work on a long-term basis within the realms of the complex. They just came back.
... Am I drowning? And never--never--in his life had he found himself floundering in such a manner. As a young man, he was unsure, but he was driven and he had had his sister's guidance. Madness followed that; reckless, impulsive, barbaric madness--and almost entirely without aim--but he had still managed to pave the way for his future in the meantime, though he had virtually no recollection of how. During his reign, problems had arisen and he had hammered them back down in a manner that would have impressed even the Smith God himself, folding layer upon layer of bronze, unyielding discipline into both himself and the people who would have risen against him. And now...
Now he was sat upon the floor against the sink, flicking ash into the toilet bowl--my kingdom for an ashtray and a...--because old conquests had somehow found their way back. He lacked the sheer desperation he had wielded the first time round. Taking one last drag from his cigarette--and promptly pulling a face (burning plastic did not taste good)--Orestes threw the end into his improvised ashtray.
Maybe Neoptolemus would bring the desperation back. What it would take, however...
"Oh, I could throw you in the lake or feed you poisoned birthday cake. I won't deny I'm gonna miss you when you're gone--" His usually stoic expression broke formation to stare disbelievingly at the door and the lyrics sounding behind it. Time to feed the fury; Neoptolemus was shoved aside for rather more mundane thoughts. Like whether or not they had any steak left. "--Oh, I could bury you alive, but you might crawl out with a knife, and kill me when I'm sleeping." That throat would have to wait.