Marco's Heart

[peccatore]

You find yourself in a bright white, circular room. It's nearly empty; too bare, almost clinically so. But the bareness of it means that what is visible here stands out:

A podium in the center, where a familiar figure sits, head buried in his hands. Three paths running from the podium to three different spots near the edges of the room - not corners; circles don't have corners - where three doors leading seemingly nowhere stand with no regard for their complete lack of structural support.

It doesn't take you long to figure out where you are, does it? You only have to decide where to start.

Comments

[peccatore]

Marco barely lifts his head - just enough that his eyes are visible above his knees.

"Ah? Ahh... Agh."

[eudaimoniac]

[gesturing toward the doors]

It'll be all right. What should I look for, hmm? While I'm here?

[peccatore]

"... Don't bother. You really... You shouldn't bother."

[eudaimoniac]

Hm. I'm going to. But it's all right if you don't have much to say for now.

[peccatore]

His neck goes lax, but his arms and legs tense up. He looks like he's trying to condense himself into the shape of a folded towel.

" I guess-- I guess this is my punishment."

[eudaimoniac]

No, I don't think so.

[he knows he can't do much by talking here, though

. . . taking off his jacket to give to marco]

At least lie down, my dear. Rest. I'll be back in a little while.

[peccatore]

Strictly speaking, by the definition of the verb "take," Marco does take the jacket. In practice, however, it looks more like he's just been handed some part of an alien spacecraft and he has no clue what to do with it.

"I-I don't deserve it."

[eudaimoniac]

[sighs]

Rest.

[and he will go through a door.]