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]

It seems he's written a decent bit! Marco keeps writing, 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...

[queenamongrooks]

Oh, I do wish we had a piano for you, Marco.

I'm glad I'm not the only woman who worries after him, though.

[peccatore]

"He has a secretary, I believe. One who knows, that is."

Agnes looks... thoughtful.

"Is he leaving a trail of concerned women in his wake...?"

[queenamongrooks]

What I wouldn't give to shake her hand.

Frankly, I'm almost certain that most men do leave a trail of concerned women after them.

[peccatore]

Genuine amusement shows on her face.

"I think I would have liked to meet you, Miss St. Clair."

[queenamongrooks]

As I would have loved to have meet you, dear Agnes.

[peccatore]

Already, everything is starting to blur again...

"... That was brief." Agnes frowns, but it seems there's nothing she can do to stop this.

When things slow down, Marco is at a different desk, in a room that looks more like an office; a small, messy one, the kind that looks repurposed from an otherwise unused room. His hair is longer now, his glasses significantly chunkier, and he is staring at some kind of metallic board with traces and doodads like it's a precious treasure.

[queenamongrooks]

[Mal frowns at the strange small board.]

Is this a computer? It looks so... small. And how is one even supposed to use something like this?

[peccatore]

"It's a part of a computer," Marco helpfully explains. "But it does look intimidating, doesn't it? I agree."

Agnes is just watching, this time. Looking on fondly.

[queenamongrooks]

Have you figured out how it works yet?

[peccatore]

"I've been studying. I'd like to... Well, it's a lofty goal, really. Haha. But I'd like to make these machines easier to use. You know, for a common person. Granted, not a lot of people have one of these... But it would be neat if they did, wouldn't it?"

[queenamongrooks]

[She smiles. There's just something so genuine about how he wants the technology to be more accessible. Not for money, just because it would be neat.]

That it would, if they are capable of all you've told me they are.

[peccatore]

"I'm not sure what you're talking about, ma'am." He winks.

[queenamongrooks]

Right, of course you don't know yet. What are you trying to learn from this one?

[peccatore]

"Oh, I'm working on software for it, but, ah, that doesn't actually have much to do with why I'm looking at the board. I'm just admiring the craftsmanship."

He seems... just a little flustered.

"It's amazing how small they've gotten these things already. A little more work and I really think machines able to send people to the moon are going to become a lot more commonplace in regular homes."

[queenamongrooks]

On- on the moon?

In what year? Surely, at least a hundred from my day.

[peccatore]

"Just a few years ago." He smiles. "1969."

[queenamongrooks]

[Her jaw drops.]

In Forty five years? In my lifetime we make it to the moon?

[peccatore]

"That's right. Things have started happening so fast..."

There is a genuine kind of thrill that Mal might never have heard in Marco's voice before.

"... I want to be part of it."

[queenamongrooks]

I understand that sentiment, so much Marco.

[Look at this couple of pioneers. One in technology, the other social justice. Surely nothing could ever change their friendship.]

[peccatore]

Agnes has been quiet, but she is still here, looking on. She places a hand on Mallory's back, just to let her know...

"It is time for the next one."

The transition doesn't take long, this time. They're in Agnes' "establishment" once again; the building is either not the same, or it has been extensively renovated over the years, but there are certainly shelves stocked with blood in here. A few vampires seem to be dining, in fact.

But, most importantly, there is an Agnes who looks exactly like Mal's guide, and there is a Marco who looks exactly like this.

[queenamongrooks]

Well... that certainly is a different style. Most blonde men I know tend not to opt for the mustache...

[peccatore]

"I thought you said you wanted to see it," Agnes whispers. It's... unclear if she's serious.

The Agnes in this memory looks at a gift-wrapped box with the suspicion and skepticism of an adult who has been telling Marco that she doesn't need gifts for nearly a decade.

"Go on, it's yours," Marco tells her.

She relents and opens the box, revealing an absolute brick.

[queenamongrooks]

I did. And now I have... maybe if he were wearing a suit again?

What in heavens is that thing?

[peccatore]

"That, Miss St. Clair, is a cellular phone. One of the latest models, at the time."