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 exhales. Perhaps it's supposed to be a laugh.

"I don't blame you for not recognizing my... Heart. My mind. My soul."

[queenamongrooks]

This... is not right.

I've seen how you talk about the people you hold dear. It isn't this cold. This distant.

[peccatore]

"... Was I cold to you? My apologies. My sincerest apologies, Mallory."

He does look at her then, earnestly apologetic behind the pain in his expression.

[queenamongrooks]

No. Not you. This place. I don't believe that this is what your heart looks like. Now unless you have any more information for me, I'm going to get about proving you wrong.

[peccatore]

"... If..."

Genuine terror breaks through Marco's voice.

"If it isn't my heart, then... then what...?"

[queenamongrooks]

Then, somewhere else in here is. Or... this place is incomplete. I'm not sure yet but I know a cold white room where you sit above people is not how you really are.

[peccatore]

He makes a sound that sits perfectly between a sob and a laugh.

[queenamongrooks]

[Disconcerting. But Mal must press onward.]

[peccatore]

And press onward she does...