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

[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.

[voidofhearts]

Huh...

[creeps closer to the window, looking out at the scene]

...Just like something out of one of Mal's stories...

[peccatore]

"Indeed," Agnes says. "This is very close to her time period."

The gunfight isn't terribly important. It's only when it dies down, two or three men left on the ground bleeding to their deaths, that Marco walks in.

He's 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; hair combed neatly, with small sideburns.

Also, the Marco writing a letter up here is still right where he was. Don't worry about it.

[voidofhearts]

[Void has to look away from the violence itself. The killing and the spilling of blood... it's so horrifying... she hates it seeing all that death. Those real, human lives simply going to waste. But at the same time, part of her simply wants to join in. All that blood... all that life, going to waste...]

[She can't let herself think that way. So she looks away until the gunfire dies down, and Marco appears. She glances back at him.]

Marco...?

[peccatore]

He looks up at you, frankly a little confused. Are you supposed to be all the way up there?

Well, er, no matter. The viewing angle is, perhaps, not that important. He's here for dinner.

It's a rather deliberate, controlled affair. 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.

[voidofhearts]

[The blood isn't going to waste. Void gasps, stumbling back a few steps from the window. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. The red rings in her eyes are quivering as she covers her mouth with both hands.]

[peccatore]

Agnes stops you - gently, with a hand on your back.

"Are you all right, Miss Void?"

[voidofhearts]

[...very slowly, she shakes her head.]

[peccatore]

She nods, apparently not shaken.

"May I offer you a drink?"

[voidofhearts]

A drink...?

[peccatore]

"Yes. We can return to my establishment, if you would like."

[voidofhearts]

...I don't dislike blood, but it's not quite the same for me as it is for a... regular vampire. Mostly whets my appetite...