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

[mindmills]

I - uh -

[ he takes a deep breath. Trying to remember how Marco had tasted and bringing that to the forefront. ]

I don't know?

[peccatore]

"Know what, Mr. S?"

That was the narration, Mark.

[mindmills]

Nothing, just. Thinking.

[ Look, he's got weird severance bullshit going on, that's why he's responding to the narration out loud and definitely not Rho misreading -

Anyway. It does taste sludgy at first, but the more he thinks about his own memory, the nicer it gets, until he's ravenous. ]

... Not the same. But - close. I think.

[peccatore]

It's a perfectly understandable mistake to make. The narration just felt like being cheeky and indulgent.

"Interesting..."

This seems to be the other Agnes' cue to pick up where the memory left off.

"A century-old vampire wandering the streets in this state..." Despite the clarification regarding what exactly it has been a century since, 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.

[mindmills]

[ Mark S turns to him now, also curious. ]

... where is your sire?

[peccatore]

"... I don't know," Marco says. "I don't think I'll never know."

[mindmills]

Do you know who they are?

[peccatore]

"I... barely remember what they looked like. I never saw them again--"

Agnes places a hand on Marco's shoulder, gentle.

"This door isn't for you to dwell on such things. Remember me, Marco." And then, anticipating his reaction, she turns to Mark. "I understand you are curious. It's alright."

[mindmills]

... Right. Sorry, just - I'll watch again.

[peccatore]

They both offer Mark S a strangely tender smile. It really is alright.

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. He squints at the words on the page.

He's not wearing glasses.

[mindmills]

What's that book?

[ he leans in to take a closer look. ]

[peccatore]

It's some manner of penny dreadful. Which, you know, might as well be the most sensational piece of horror fiction Mark S has ever read. It's difficult to say that Agnes looks self-conscious about it, exactly, but she is awfully quick to note:

"I had little to none learner-appropriate literature. Giving lessons to an illiterate man had never been in my plans."

[mindmills]

[ It IS the most sensational thing he's ever read. Man is starved for options even after having read a few things in Trib. Mark S is delighted. ]

What are you talking about? This is great.

[peccatore]

The Agnes guiding Mark S seemingly opts not to comment on this. The other, meanwhile, is fetching some glasses for Marco. This pair doesn't suit him terribly well, but it helps. While he does still read somewhat haltingly, he's no longer squinting.

"... It's an uneventful memory, but I suppose he cherishes it."

[mindmills]

Of course he would. I remember the first time I read a real book too. It's the little things that make life - well - life.

[peccatore]

"... Hmm."

This memory is fading already, though; it seems like there really wasn't that much to see here. The 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."

[mindmills]

[ Mark S creeps forward again to peer at the letter. ]

Where did he go next?

[peccatore]

"The United States, which..." Her brow furrows. "... is where I assume you come from."

Marco has written a decent bit already! 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...

[mindmills]

I mean, probably. Odds are good.

[ Mark S still doesn't know though soooooo...

Anyway, he leans over to read it. ]

... I didn't know he could play piano.

[peccatore]

Marco actually replies!... He seems flustered, though.

"I-I'm just... decent."

[mindmills]

Decent's still better than anything I've ever heard.

[ A shy little smile. ]

Maybe you can play for me sometime?

[peccatore]

"I--"

If Marco was actually writing, rather than reliving the memory of doing it, he probably would have forgotten everything else he wanted to include in the letter on the spot.

"I, maybe. M-Maybe."

[mindmills]

[ ALAS he'll just have to repeat the expression later. ]

When we're not in your heart, anyway.

... Sorry uh, I keep interrupting.

[peccatore]

"I don't mind."

Something heavy and sad and remorseful flashes across Marco's expression then -

"... I'm so sorry. In, in advance. I'm so sorry."

- and everything blurs again, even as Agnes frowns in the background.

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 - think Luigi without the moustache, pretty much - and he is staring at some kind of metallic board with traces and doodads like it's a precious treasure.

[mindmills]

[ Well the office puts Mark S at ease at least, and so does the appearance of this Marco. He leans in to get a closer look. ]

What's that...?