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

[turntoash]

[Ashwyn would have described the architecture as Vandrian. What even is Europio.]

[As she watches, she'll ask the girl:]

What is your name?

[peccatore]

"My name is Agnes. How gracious of you to ask, Ashwyn."

... It seems she has already filed Ashwyn under A Little Rude.

The window on the building that the scent leads to is difficult to see through, but the sign outside labels it as an apothecary. The blond man - and Ashwyn too, if she's keeping pace with him - step inside to find a small girl at the counter. It is obviously another Agnes, albeit wearing clothes that must have been outdated even on the day this happened.

Also, she's almost definitely standing on a crate or a chair.

[turntoash]

[Well, Ashwyn IS a little rude, so Agnes isn't off the mark. She is keeping pace, and she watches the scene quietly with her hands folded behind her back.]

[peccatore]

The Agnes at the counter regards the man who is obviously Marco coolly.

"Wipe your feet. Stand up straight." Her eyes narrow. "... State your business."

Marco's response comes in slow, heavily accented English.

"I, I felt... I smell... Why is it this much...?"

Counter Agnes seemingly takes a moment to scrutinize Marco's dishevelled manner and clumsy use of the language silently until she finally says:

"Come with me."

She walks through a door at the back of the establishment, and Marco follows her.

[turntoash]

[Ashwyn follows the two of them as well, moving as silently as usual. These are happier memories, she tells herself. There's not something bad about to happen.]

[peccatore]

The room that the Agneses - one at the front, one at the back - guide Marco and Ashwyn to contains dozens and dozens of bottles filled with blood, like some kind of bar. While Front Agnes pours the contents of one bottle into a cup, however, Back Agnes softly taps Ashwyn's shoulder.

"Are you uncomfortable?"

[turntoash]

Uncomfortable? No... no, that's not it. Worried? Yes. Marco's my- my-

[She struggles for a word and settles on:]

Friend. I knew he had a lotta dark in him, and I knew he beat himself up over it a lot.

I just didn't know it went this deep, you know?

[peccatore]

After a moment, she nods.

"He tries very hard to hide it."

[turntoash]

He and I have that in common, I think.

[peccatore]

"It is... a very human thing to do, I believe."

Marco drinks the offered cup like a man dying of thirst. He may very well have been. She sighs, Agnes sighs, but there's no sign of exasperation in the sound.

"How long?" She asks him.

"Ah..." He is visibly trying to do the math in a language he doesn't have the most solid grasp on yet. The words take longer to come to him than the numbers. "Maybe, a... cccentury... Not exactly..."

[turntoash]

[Ashwyn gets a wistful look in her eyes. A "human" thing to do, to be able to hide what you don't want on display...]

[But, she keeps watching, placing this memory in the timeline in her head. Must be after the memory with his parents...]

[peccatore]

The Agnes of the past blinks.

"A century-old vampire wandering the streets in this state..." Despite the clarification, Agnes 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.

... Meanwhile, Guide Agnes is still watching Ashwyn closely.

[turntoash]

[If she assumes that the memory of his parents was soon after he turned, then this is much later...]

[Ashwyn only watches quietly. She's in no hurry to interrupt. Her expression is still wistful, mixed with sadness, mixed with frustration.]

[peccatore]

The background blurs, but only briefly. 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. If Ashwyn decides to take a closer look, she'll see that it's some form of penny dreadful.

She'll also see that Marco is clearly struggling to find the right viewing distance, perhaps because he doesn't wear glasses yet.

[turntoash]

[The sadness grows stronger. So she was his teacher, of a sort. Oh, Marco...]

[Her fists clench, but release soon after. Life dealt too many raw deals.]

[peccatore]

... Agnes places a hand on Ashwyn's shoulder.

[turntoash]

[Quietly:]

It's not fair, Agnes.

[peccatore]

"What isn't fair?"

[turntoash]

Marco's... Marco's a good guy. I know he is. I can tell it in every interaction I've ever had with him.

But... he got such a raw deal. He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve being pushed to a place where he feels like his only choice is something so... so horrible. Marco deserves better than that.

[peccatore]

"... I must ask." Agnes fixes her with an expression that's difficult to read, even for someone like Ashwyn. "Are you referring to his diet? Or to his crime?"

[turntoash]

Mostly... mostly the crime. But he didn't deserve his diet either.

[She meets Agnes' face; hers is easier to read: she clearly has affection for Marco. This hurts.]

[peccatore]

She's silent for a moment.

"... Shall we move on?"

[turntoash]

[Ashwyn breaks eye contact]

... sure.

[peccatore]

And things move forward again.

When the world settles, 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."

[turntoash]

[She nods.] Thank you.

[She approaches the desk to see the letter closer.]