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]

"She is looking..."

The sight that follows is unpleasant.

It's his mother that Marco tears into first, with all the grace and care of a starving animal getting its first kill in days. He seems to have the presence of mind to do cover her mouth and muffle her screams until her strength fails her, and to smack his father away (sending him crashing into a table) when he tries to separate them, but nothing else.

He drinks until there's nothing left to drink, and when his mother collapses, pale and drained, he goes for his father as well. When he finally stops, he falls to his knees.

[turntoash]

[Ashwyn holds her hands in front of her mouth. She's no stranger to crime scenes, but... but this is...]

[She bites back a scream.]

[peccatore]

Slowly, Marco's head turns her way...

"I'm... sorry. I'm so sorry. I knew it was too cruel to let you see this..."

"You would have hidden it from her?!" the Father interjects.
"Liar. Sinner."

[turntoash]

... no. You don't get to decide what is and isn't too cruel for me to see.

[She shudders. The smell, oh gods above, the smell is still there. The smell of blood, of flesh.]

And you, [she adds, pointing to the Father,] you're not helping. Calling him a sinner isn't gonna make this better.

[peccatore]

"It's the TRUTH," the Mother retorts. Does it truly matter which of them is saying what, though?

[turntoash]

[She growls.]

So what if he is? I'm not excusing what he's done. He did it, and there's no getting around it.

But everyone - everyone - deserves a chance at redemption.

[peccatore]

"Of course." This time, the Parents sound... almost sweet. "Of course they do."
"Why, you've seen it. You've seen how he'll aim to reach it."

[turntoash]

... what do you mean?

[peccatore]

"Oh--"
"There IS an order to these things."
"There is a list."
"There is a tally."
"Oh, but she's so close..."
"Maybe it would be alright? To show her where it all leads?"
"Would she like that? Would she prefer to go in order?"

[turntoash]

Hold on. Either you're saying I don't have all the pieces yet, or that there's more memories in this door.

I'll keep investigating. I owe it to him.

[peccatore]

"Of course there's more."
"So much more. He doesn't even remember all of it."

Marco looks down in shame, and then he and his surroundings start to blur...

It looks like the scene is going to settle on a cobblestone street under a cloudy night, with a familiar blond man following a captivating scent, but it isn't long until the Father interrupts -

"No, not this one. Further ahead."

(Ashwyn could stop this, if she wanted a closer look. But perhaps there's somewhere else to see this memory without the nagging commentary of guilt-based specters.)

[turntoash]

[The narration has a point. Might be best to see what they want her to see first, then dig as necessary.]

Let's keep going, then.

[peccatore]

In that case, everything zooms, indeed, further ahead, until the world settles into place again for real.

Now they're in a back alley, where men in striped suits and hats are locked in a gunfight. It is, once again, night time.

[turntoash]

[Ashwyn snaps her fingers to freeze the memory. Now - time to touch everything.]

[She'll examine the men first. Do any of them look familiar? Who are they shooting at? Is there anything valuable in their pockets? Anything else she can glean about them?]

[peccatore]

Well, let's go down the list.

One: No, nobody looks familiar - unless, of course, by sheer cosmic coincidence, one of the men present here happens to strongly resemble anyone from Ashwyn's world. These things do happen.

Two: It seems there are two groups of men shooting at each other.

Three: Their wallets are reasonably loaded.

Four: They are all wearing striped suits and hands. At least one of them has a cigar. These are criminals; mobsters. But... if the visual language doesn't translate to Ashwyn's world, she might have no way of figuring that out.

However, the good news is that the gunfight itself is of little importance. Since time is stopped, she'll have ample time to notice a familiar blond man watching quietly from the shadows.

[turntoash]

[Point 3: Ashwyn doesn't know anything about paper money, so unfortunately this doesn't mean much to her. She still takes the wallets though.]

[Point 4: You are absolutely correct, narration. She doesn't understand anything about who these guys are. She will, however, see if the guy with the cigar has any fresh ones on him.]

[Once that's done, she'll sidle up next to Marco.]

So what's this about?

[peccatore]

"Uh--"

Marco is looking a lot more put together these days. Dressed formally, in a style that marks him as a respectable member of society rather than a criminal like the other men here (but will Ashwyn even able to tell the difference...?); hair combed neatly, with small sideburns. He wears glasses now.

"Do you mean, this," he gestures at the gunfight, "Or..." he gestures at himself.

[turntoash]

Mostly the guys - those guns are way meaner-looking than anything I've ever seen.

You're looking sharp though.

[peccatore]

"Oh, uh, thanks. It, er, it was the fashion at the time--"

"He's STALLING," the Father grunts in disgust.

[turntoash]

[She points at the Father.]

Didn't ask. I'm the one who froze this memory, and I'm talking to my friend. He's not doing a godsdamned thing wrong.

Anyway, Marco, how about these striped guys?

[peccatore]

"Right, er. They're gangsters."

[turntoash]

Gotcha.

[Ashwyn takes one of the pilfered cigars and slips it in between her lips, lighting it with a lick of flame from her thumb.]

So... why are you here?

[peccatore]

"... To eat."

But first, the memory needs to resume.

[turntoash]

[Ashwyn nods wordlessly, takes a slow drag on her cigar, and snaps her fingers.]

[peccatore]

And things resume.

It's only when the gunfight dies down, two or three men left on the ground bleeding to their deaths, that Marco walks in.

Perhaps it would have been obvious by now, even if he hadn't told you, Ashwyn, that this is his dinner.

The affair is much more deliberate and controlled than what happened with his parents (or what it sounded like, at any rate). One by one, Marco kneels at each criminal's side, bites down, and simply drinks until there's no more left to drink. Neat, silent and methodical.

He looks torn about it when he's done, all the same.