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]

"Perhaps that's... okay. Must you know if it's exactly the same? Isn't it enough to understand?"

[voidofhearts]

That is if I actually manage to understand. I hope I do! Hopefully. I try...

...I try really hard to.

[peccatore]

Agnes smiles. It's hard to tell, but Marco might just smile a tiny bit, too.

This memory isn't quite done yet, though. The other Agnes asks:

"A century-old vampire wandering the streets in this state..." Despite the clarification, she looks no less shocked. "Do you not know how to hunt? Where is your sire?"

For his part, Marco seems less eager to answer these questions, and not because of the language barrier; he doesn't even start trying.

[voidofhearts]

[turns back towards Marco]

...An entire century lost and confused. I can't imagine.

[peccatore]

Agnes, not Marco, is the one to address you.

"He had managed to pick things up here and there, naturally. But not enough. Therefore, I..."

The background blurs. When it coalesces into a solid shape again, Marco and Agnes are sitting at a table; he's gripping a book, staring it down intently. Squinting.

[voidofhearts]

[...Cautiously creeps forward to see what's in the book]

[peccatore]

It's... a penny dreadful?! Maybe not the best learning material... but that may not be the only reason Marco is struggling so visibly, not only squinting, but searching for a proper viewing distance.

He doesn't wear glasses yet.

[voidofhearts]

[Well first things first, Void does read everything on the open pages. You don't need to narrate everything in there but she does read it. Only when she turns to Marco expectantly waiting for him to turn to the next page does she begin to realize he's struggling]

...Oh shit, your glasses...

[peccatore]

Look I don't know the only penny dreadful I'm aware of is the original Sweeney Todd. Either way, congratulations on your reading speed.

And don't feel embarrassed. It takes the Agnes from the past this long to realise, too.

"... Could it be that--?" She sighs. "One moment."

[voidofhearts]

...

[While Agnes is assumedly grabbing glasses, Ellie flips the page for Marco so she can keep reading.]

[peccatore]

"... You know, I'm not sure I remember the story all that well anymore," Marco whispers. "I don't know that there's much to read."

Then again, dream logic is dream logic. Maybe you won't need to parse any words to enjoy the book?

In any case, Agnes returns with a pair of glasses that doesn't suit Marco terribly well, but it does help; he still reads somewhat haltingly, but he's no longer squinting.

[voidofhearts]

If there's not much too read, that's a little interesting too, isn't it? What parts stick out, what gets conveyed anyways... isn't that kinda fascinating too?

[She flips the page again.]

[peccatore]

Marco smiles. Agnes - the guide, not the one from the memory, though at this point the distinction hardly matters - places a hand on your shoulder.

"There isn't much else to see in this particular memory, I believe. But if you wish to keep reading, I can wait."

[voidofhearts]

...Ah...

... No no, I... shouldn't get distracted.

[peccatore]

"Onward, then."

This memory is fading, now; there really wasn't that much to see. Your surroundings take a little longer to solidify this time, but once they do, Marco is sitting alone at a desk in a sparsely-decorated room. It looks like he's writing a letter.

"... Ah," Agnes says. "This is... after he set out on his own again."

[voidofhearts]

How long did that take...?

[Continuing her trend, she'll read the letter over Marco's shoulder]

[peccatore]

"Hm... Let me think. Some fifty years, perhaps? Sixty...?"

It seems Marco has written a decent bit! He keeps at it, but even though he doesn't move his lips, his voice reads it all out...

Dear Agnes,

I believe I am finally settling, despite my wretched timing (as I mentioned previously). Even in this short time, I have hopes that the economy is starting to recover. Maybe unfounded? I have tried to read some theory, but I have to admit it's somewhat tedious.

Regardless, I have carved myself a little niche in this city. I work most nights as a pianist. The pay is enough, and I am getting by, so please don't worry. (You are worrying! I know that you worry.)

I do miss your company and, yes, your supplies. As of my writing, I have worked out a method. Much like the piano playing, it is working, and I am getting by...

[voidofhearts]

A method to obtain blood?

[peccatore]

"One that he deemed... acceptable," Agnes explains.

She seems reluctant to elaborate.

[voidofhearts]

[taps her foot anxiously]

That's... ominous.

[peccatore]

"I am not sure if it's my place to share..." Agnes is seriously pondering this. "But then again, they would be far less kind about it..."

[voidofhearts]

Are uh... "they" going to bring it up...?

[peccatore]

Her eyes narrow. "Unfortunately, yes."

[voidofhearts]

Mmmm...

...You... you know Marco best. Like, definitionally you kinda have to. So I... I trust whatever you think is the right call here. You said I should listen to you, and you seem trustworthy... so that's what I'm gonna do.

[peccatore]

"... Very well. Perhaps if I..."

Agnes guides you to the window - this room is two floors above ground level, but she points your eye to something that looks like it should be happening under the cover of a back alley. In truth, it was, but in showing you this memory herself, Agnes has to make some concessions.

In any case, down there, men in striped suits and hats are locked in a gunfight.