—no. Imitations of people are going about their rigidly simulated lives, and sometimes in their paths they fleetingly look in Diavolo's general direction. There is no one here but Doppio to truly see him; the rest are only fragmented memories of bygone routines haphazardly cobbled together.
Somehow, reframing it doesn't make Diavolo feel any less scrutinized.
A woman glances through them as she tends to some potted plants livening up the street. Elderly. Peaceful. She hums a tune to herself, and though he can't quite place it anymore, he knows he's heard it countless times before.
Dead, he recalls, in the fire. Too close to the source to escape. She hadn't done anything wrong, not really, except be a bit too nosy, always full of well-meaning but excruciating questions about his day, his schoolwork, his father's health. He never liked to answer any of them, preferring to shuffle back indoors as quickly and quietly as possible. She never really knew, of course, why some days the neighbor boy was oddly quiet, but he remembers her accepting the discrepancies in personality graciously enough.
An unfortunate casualty. He saw her name in the paper and it gave him a moment's pause years ago. He wonders what would happen if he struck her down here and now. Anything to ease the tension welling up within him. Anything to get her to stop looking.]
Hmm?
[—oh. Doppio. There, off to his side, exactly where he shouldn't be. It's hard to disguise the initial shock ... and the hint of disappointment that comes after.
This is already too much. He's getting caught up in the past. He wants to give up, but he won't, not until Doppio is every bit as desperate to leave.]
cw: uh. fantasizing about murder?
—no. Imitations of people are going about their rigidly simulated lives, and sometimes in their paths they fleetingly look in Diavolo's general direction. There is no one here but Doppio to truly see him; the rest are only fragmented memories of bygone routines haphazardly cobbled together.
Somehow, reframing it doesn't make Diavolo feel any less scrutinized.
A woman glances through them as she tends to some potted plants livening up the street. Elderly. Peaceful. She hums a tune to herself, and though he can't quite place it anymore, he knows he's heard it countless times before.
Dead, he recalls, in the fire. Too close to the source to escape. She hadn't done anything wrong, not really, except be a bit too nosy, always full of well-meaning but excruciating questions about his day, his schoolwork, his father's health. He never liked to answer any of them, preferring to shuffle back indoors as quickly and quietly as possible. She never really knew, of course, why some days the neighbor boy was oddly quiet, but he remembers her accepting the discrepancies in personality graciously enough.
An unfortunate casualty. He saw her name in the paper and it gave him a moment's pause years ago. He wonders what would happen if he struck her down here and now. Anything to ease the tension welling up within him. Anything to get her to stop looking.]
Hmm?
[—oh. Doppio. There, off to his side, exactly where he shouldn't be. It's hard to disguise the initial shock ... and the hint of disappointment that comes after.
This is already too much. He's getting caught up in the past. He wants to give up, but he won't, not until Doppio is every bit as desperate to leave.]