I | video
{Where most of the morning had been spent in a stagger, a stream of expletives and a reawakening of sorts, the afternoon and evening were spent in... much the same way. The door, he knew the door. Knew the sky. The city. Knew the scent of the air, pungent with native... well...
pungent with native.
He knew where he was. Knew he could do little to reverse what had happened, as well. No matter how many people he'd sat and observed during his previous stay here, none managed to merely stroll out and end up where they wished. It simply didn't work that way.
The knowledge gave him a leg up over most people thrown across the threshold-- he knew where to go, and certainly where not to. So here he sits, stretched lazily in what was likely the most drab room he'd been in since his last visit to those pathetic, peasant districts of Firenze, fiddling with a piece of machinery he'd hoped he'd never have to deal with again.
- click -
Hello, Anatole.
Here are your goggles, murky, betraying nothing. They sit stark against a white mask, the semblance expressionless-- the unfinished portrait of a newborn snowbird. He tilts his head. You swear you spot a flash of his eyes, blinking several times, regarding the screen not with curiosity and hope for a friendly voice or face, but with moderate disdain.}
And so I arrive again.
{the sigh is exaggerated, intentionally dramatic}
Do you remember me? I remember you. Vaguely. {Vividly.} And here I wonder how much has changed, who has changed. Who has left, and who's arrived.
{his accent is thick, the voice behind the mask low, gravely}
Or perhaps I don't care. I highly doubt many care for me, after all, and I certainly do not blame you.
So? Speak to me, Anatole. Have you anything to say tonight?
pungent with native.
He knew where he was. Knew he could do little to reverse what had happened, as well. No matter how many people he'd sat and observed during his previous stay here, none managed to merely stroll out and end up where they wished. It simply didn't work that way.
The knowledge gave him a leg up over most people thrown across the threshold-- he knew where to go, and certainly where not to. So here he sits, stretched lazily in what was likely the most drab room he'd been in since his last visit to those pathetic, peasant districts of Firenze, fiddling with a piece of machinery he'd hoped he'd never have to deal with again.
- click -
Hello, Anatole.
Here are your goggles, murky, betraying nothing. They sit stark against a white mask, the semblance expressionless-- the unfinished portrait of a newborn snowbird. He tilts his head. You swear you spot a flash of his eyes, blinking several times, regarding the screen not with curiosity and hope for a friendly voice or face, but with moderate disdain.}
And so I arrive again.
{the sigh is exaggerated, intentionally dramatic}
Do you remember me? I remember you. Vaguely. {Vividly.} And here I wonder how much has changed, who has changed. Who has left, and who's arrived.
{his accent is thick, the voice behind the mask low, gravely}
Or perhaps I don't care. I highly doubt many care for me, after all, and I certainly do not blame you.
So? Speak to me, Anatole. Have you anything to say tonight?