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

[nevercaught]

Jarlaxle kneels down next to him.

"I don't think it is. You are obviously still hurting from what you did when you were not in your right mind."

[peccatore]

"It's not... not the main problem right now."

The Parents clearly do not like hearing this.

"What is he saying?"
"Is he telling him to forget this? To IGNORE it?"

[nevercaught]

Jarlaxle ignores them.

"So I cannot comfort my friend who was just made to relive a terrible experience that he obviously regrets?"

[peccatore]

"Is THAT what you believe you're here for?"
"He warned you, and for what?"

Marco looks away.

[nevercaught]

"I know that I am not here to comfort you," Jarlaxle says, still looking at Marco and not the heart guides. "I can see you do not think you deserve it. But I see a man who due to circumstances outside his control ended up committing an act that still hurts him to this day and I wish you did not have to relive it once again. I can see that it causes you pain."

[peccatore]

"That..."

He exhales.

"That is kind of you to say."

[nevercaught]

Jarlaxle squeezes his shoulder again.

"I have made terrible mistakes that have gotten people killed as well. I understand what it is to see the disaster of your own making and to know that if you had only chosen rightly, it would not have happened."

[peccatore]

The Parents cut in.

"A kindred soul?"
"Can compassion outweigh sin?"
"It's important."
"It IS important."

And, in unison: "But..."

"When was the last time our son had an excuse?"

[nevercaught]

"... I liked your parents much more before they became spectres," Jarlaxle comments, getting to his feet and offering Marco a hand up.

[peccatore]

But Marco doesn't take it. His old home starts to blur, and he knows they're going somewhere else.

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 the Father interrupts -

"No, not this one. Further ahead."

- And 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.

[nevercaught]

Is one of them Marco?

[peccatore]

Marco is nowhere to be seen right now... unless Jarlaxle is particularly diligent about looking. If he is, he might find him waiting around a corner.

He is in a suit, though. In fact, he's looking a lot more put together these days. Though he's dressed formally, his style marks him as a respectable member of society rather than a criminal like the other men here... which may mean nothing to Jarlaxle, unfortunately. Marco's hair is combed neatly, with small sideburns, and he also wears glasses now.

[nevercaught]

Given that Jarlaxle just rolled a 26 on Perception, I'm going to assume he did find Marco. Since he did, he'll dash over there and provide cover for his friend, calling a pair of blades to his hands with his bracer of flying daggers and readying an action to stab or throw them if these gunfighters move to threaten them.

"Ah, Marco!" he greets him. "You look well!"

[peccatore]

Jarlaxle may have rolled well, but either the gunmen didn't or they simply don't care. They appear to be split into two groups with little interest in firing their guns at anybody but the members of the other group.

Meanwhile, Marco seems kind of stunned that Jarlaxle just walks up to him, frankly.

"I-- I wasn't expecting you to--"

"How are you going to eat now, you little leech?"
"That's what you're worried about. That's all you're thinking about."

[nevercaught]

"It's natural to wonder how one will keep one's belly full," Jarlaxle tells him directly, ignoring the spectres. "Do not be ashamed that you are thinking of food while you are hungry."

[peccatore]

"..." Marco sighs. "I was waiting for the fight to... follow its course."

[nevercaught]

"So that you could eat whoever perished?" Jarlaxle guesses. "A clever solution."

[peccatore]

"... Whoever was left for dead, yes."

"Scavenging like some sort of vulture," the Father scoffs.

[nevercaught]

"I think that is an excellent way to keep yourself fed when you needs must eat other people," Jarlaxle says. "Do not listen to the spectres of your parents."

[peccatore]

"... Thank you. I should--"

The gunfight is dying down now, with only two or three men left bleeding on the floor. Marco moves as if to advance on them, but before he can take more than two steps, the Parents interrupt.

"He thinks he's civilized."
"He thinks this makes him better."
"Look! Look at this! Remember THIS!"

And everything blurs.

[nevercaught]

Jarlaxle attempts to grab onto Marco as the blurriness commences.

[peccatore]

"W-What are you...?!"

The surroundings begin to settle into something that looks like a hotel room. That is the last pleasant thing there is to say about the scene. Lying on the bloodstained bed is a half-naked young man, his neck and shoulders covered in bite marks. There are some scratches on his body, too.

Marco, whom Jarlaxle is now holding on to, is half-naked as well, and very suddenly weeping. His hair looks a little longer.

[nevercaught]

Jarlaxle gingerly, telegraphing his every movement, puts his arms fully around Marco, so that he is properly holding him.

"If you need to weep, then weep. It would be understandable to, after making such a mistake as this."

[peccatore]

Though the telegraphing is appreciated, it isn't quite enough to keep Marco from tensing up tremendously.

"Y-You can't-- I just, you, you can't...!"

"Oh, poor son."
"Poor, careless, heartless son."
"How many times until he gave up? Five? Six?"
"Too many."

[nevercaught]

"My apologies, but I am very tired of listening to the spirits of your parents speak," Jarlaxle says, letting go of Marco so that he can pull out his wand of viscous globs and flick it at them, covering their mouths with the sticky material.