ARRIVAL LOG 005

[larkers]

WHO: Everyone
WHERE: New Amsterdam
WHEN: Night of August 23 (through to August 30th)
WHAT: The fifth arrival
NOTES OR WARNINGS: Coercion and loss of autonomy. Further notes at end of log.

> ARRIVAL LOG #005

Awareness comes to you in blurred snatches, cloudy fragments of sound and light, color, sensation. Hazy and difficult to grasp on to, but slowly aligning into focus. A series of regular, rhythmic beeps. A medicinal, astringent smell. The sensation of movement, a low hum and accompanying vibration under you. Your eyes are heavy, hard to keep open, but in the glimpses between slow, dark blinks you see four people in black body armor seated opposite you, as well as a man in dark gray scrubs. You realize there are others next to you. All of you in white scrubs, hair recently cut but at various stages of growth, restrained by straps across your chests, arms, feet, holding you to the bench under you. To your left, an armored interior door, two more people visible, the movement of dark streets and neon windows passing through a windshield. You try to open your mouth to speak, but it's as if your tongue is coated in tar, and you manage nothing more than an empty parting of lips. The vehicle stops. The guard opposite you stands and comes to unbuckle you from the bench, helping you to your feet. Your limbs feel wooden and heavy, slow to move. One guard opens the back of the vehicle: beyond it, a chamber only dimly lit by strips of light along the floor. The nurse moves to stand at the back of the vehicle, checking each passenger over one by one just before they're helped out of the vehicle, quick and methodical. She doesn't climb out after you, moving to sit as the last passenger is unloaded. The guards keep their heads down. Their actions are quick, firm, but not entirely unkind. Under your feet, you can feel the thrum of heavy bass vibrating through the floor. You see nearby that there is another bus, another load of passengers being helped out, lined up much like you are. Once you're all in place, the guards move down the line, pulling dark hoods over each passenger's head. Your arm is lifted, placed on the shoulder of the passenger in front of you in line. "Hold on," says one of the guards. "Stay quiet. Keep moving until I say stop." There is no will in you to fight the orders. How far you walk is hard to determine. Counting steps is difficult, and any concept of time passing stretches between the sound of footfalls and breathing - soon overshadowed by the music. Growing louder, closer, the heavy bassline begins to reverberate through the air around you, amplified by the acoustics of the place. Melody and vocals become audible, the chatter of a crowd. Finally, you stop, and the hoods are pulled off, following down the line as the guards walk back. You turn to look after them, but they quickly disappear into the darkness of the tunnel behind you. The door in front of you swings open, the full weight of the music washing out. A tall woman with sharp, geometric patterns of ink tattooed across her skin smiles at you with sharp teeth, glowing luminescent in the UV lighting above her. "First timers?" she asks, but doesn't wait for an answer. "Don't worry, those costumes are great. Come on, come in." As you move to comply, she takes each of your hands, stamping a twisting design on the back, shining bright in the UV light. "Welcome," she says, as she ushers you out of the lobby and into the noise and crowd beyond. "To the Insomniacs' Ball." ◉ Though entirely capable of independent action and thought, new characters will find themselves completely, unquestioningly compliant to any verbal statement which could be taken as a command or request.

> THE INSOMNIACS' BALL

The message from El comes the same as previous: insistent, not waiting for any active attempt to open it. Scrolling within your vision as if being written while you're reading it. I'm not saying bus #5 got past me, but our favorite mysterious human traffickers have gone seriously sneaky this time around. And I'm not saying I can't help you get to where you need to be, but I can't. This one needs legwork, because you're going to have to land invites to the Insomniacs' Ball. The Insomniacs' Ball is an open secret. A New Amsterdam urban myth, disbelieved by many and desired for by even more. A week long party held every year as the working schedule changes, as the city struggles between the oppressive heat and the shifting of sleep cycles. Whether you'd prefer to be asleep at night or day, the ball doesn't care - a rolling, 24/7 event that continues until it disappears, as quickly as it arrived. Its location is a secret. Existence frowned upon, possibly even shut down by the authorities - dancing until you fall down is hardly advisable while water rationing is in place. Yet every year the rumors spin again, the whispers, clues and tastes and photos shared on social media which vanish before anyone can really be sure what they saw. Whoever puts the ball together is as good at keeping their head down as Morningstar - and most likely greases more wheels, rather than trying to be a wrench in the machine. Either way, all El can do is point you to the same paths anyone else hungry for an invite is taking. THE PUZZLE Emerging on social media like proverbial white rabbits, clues in the form of bizarre symbols, phrases or riddles have appeared, hidden in images or tucked in VR simulations. Solving them isn't for the impatient. Some take more work than others, a knowledge of numbers or pattern recognition, or ancient cultural references. The answers come as new clues, pointing to locations in the city, to other VR simulations, to figures waiting in cafes or particular enemies in your favorite VR video game. A treasure hunt for the modern age, as each step is completed the participants are whittled down, but for anyone who reaches the end, the prize of an invite to one of the most mysterious pieces of New Amsterdam life is worth all of the work to get there. THE DARE The challenges start small. Stand up and sing in a crowded restaurant. Take a selfie at the UNA's front door. Eat a live scorpion. Soon it escalates, taking even the most jaded of adrenaline junkies on a rollercoaster of illegal and death-defying stunts. Joyriding a notorious gangster's hoverbike. Climbing a construction beam between two of the tallest buildings in the city. Standing in central square and declaring yourself to be a Morningstar operative. The risks climb higher and higher, and for some the stakes are too much. Others hold their nerve, eyes set firmly on the goal, the victory of holding an invite in their hands. THE BOON And then there are those who make no effort at all. Passed to them by the hands of lady luck, their invites arrive in their pockets, slid under their doorframes or hidden under a glass at work. Bartenders open up crates of stock and find a wedge of them tucked in amongst the packaging; bike couriers arrive at delivery destinations only to find a parcel waiting there for them. Whether targeted or purely a matter of chance, many attendants at the Insomniacs' Ball will have had the opportunity simply fall in their lap - and some may not recognize what they've received at all. However you've managed to get your hands on an invite, the directions on the back are the same - leading you deep down into the city's underground, past some of the darker corners and into some even darker ones. A rusted, disused door to an abandoned maintenance area wouldn't look like the place, but the intricate geometric design painted silvery and barely visible across the surface matches the invite you hold, and you know you've found the entrance to wonderland. Behind the door, lies a twisting network of tunnels and rooms built into natural caves, ultimately abandoned by the city when its insides proved too difficult to navigate. Now, for a short time, it's home to a carnival of revelry. Strobing neon lights illuminate snatches and glimpses of the crowd, glowing in pools of UV: a dense mass of people from all over the city, young and old, music and dancing flowing from chamber to chamber, clashing and mixing between. Extravagant, outrageous costumes mingle with simple streetwear, or with no-wear at all. People hand out masks, drinks, substances which it may not be advisable to consume. Sealed bottles of water seem to appear from nowhere, passed among the people, their source and seeming escape from the rationing in the city far above going unquestioned. Smaller chambers offer some respite for those who need to take a minute, catch their breath, or want a quiet corner to talk with a new friend. Other chambers contain more hedonistic displays, with most participants always willing to accept another into their number. No one seems to be in any rush - there's roughly a week to soak in all the delights, and you can even come and go as you please, the UV pattern now stamped on your hand allowing access back through the various doors, if you can find your way back to one. But you're here for a different purpose, and whether it took you hours or days to find your way here, you know that the party will end eventually - and anything more unusual which may be hiding inside will be revealed. ◉ The Insomniacs' Ball and the related methods of gaining an invite will last for one week, from August 23-30. New characters can be retrieved at any time during this, or can find their own way out and be discovered on the streets - just please be advised that they will not be able to survive in New Amsterdam without first spending time in the Morningstar safehouse and having their ID set up. ◉ We will not be dictating set pieces of the ARG puzzle or challenges - these are left to player discretion as to what your character would have realistically managed to solve or complete! ◉ The invite themselves are business card sized pieces of metal with an intricate geometric patterns etched on one side, and an address on the other. The address leads to a quick series of clues and locations which will take characters to the door as described. ◉ The same geometric design will be present throughout the ball, worn by some of the guests and doorpeople, and even carved into the walls of some of the caves. ◉ While in the ball, there will be rumors and whispers circulating about the owner of the ball being in attendance, and that particularly impressive guests may earn some special reward - or just guarantee an invite again next year.

> THE SAFEHOUSE

Access to the safehouse is a hatch hidden behind stacks of empty storage shelves in the back of an abandoned supermarket in an outer district of the city. The immediate area is similarly abandoned, empty stores, flanked by several blocks of dive bars and clubs which cater to more niche tastes. A place where people can come and go unseen, or, if seen, not spoken of. A dark haired woman called Gaby is ready to greet the new arrivals and get them settled in, brusque and no-nonsense – she'll be open for in depth questions later, but will advise everyone to ask the people who brought them in for the beginning bits of information. ◉ The safe house is a large open space, filled with rows of basic cots set up to sleep a large amount of people. Basic, but outfitted with everything necessary for daily life. A few doors lead to back rooms for storage, medical care and a large communal bathroom, and past the long rows of cots there is a communal kitchen, fully stocked, and an eating area. Privacy is at a minimum. ◉ New characters will be asked to pick their beds, and provided with a change of (second-hand, mismatched and somewhat threadbare) clothes and basic toiletries. ◉ While there were previously also NPC occupants of the safehouse, natives to New Amsterdam, these people have now been moved on to somewhere safer. A few of their belongings remain, discarded or accidentally abandoned. ◉ Gaby will make it clear to all new arrivals that if they have any requests or queries, they should contact her or El. ◉ The drugs making new characters compliant will remain in their systems for a few hours after their being dropped off by the guards before finally beginning to fade. They will be gone entirely after a night's rest. In the meantime, they may want to be careful of what others say to them. ◉ New characters will be given rudimentary access to the network on arrival in the safehouse, but will not have their ID set up yet. They will be able to make posts and replies, but their messages will be anonymous and they do not have inboxes yet. ◉ New characters will not be allowed to leave the safehouse until FOUR DAYS AFTER THEIR ARRIVAL AT THE SAFEHOUSE. These 4 days are for them to adjust, learn about the world they've arrived in from their fellows, and for El to speak with them and work on setting up their IDs.

> FINAL OOC NOTES

Welcome to Meadowlark, newbies! You're now free to post to the network and logs comms. To reiterate, your characters will have no IDs or inboxes, nor be allowed out of the safehouse until they have been there for four days. At that point it's expected they'll have gotten a good idea of their new situation from their fellow characters, and will have discussed their background and job potentials with El in order for their false IDs to be set up. If you have any questions or ideas about how you'd like to get your character involved in the world, or if they'd like to join Morningstar, please head over to the plot engagement post and drop us a comment! For questions specific to this log, there is a thread below. Please check out our December calendar rundown for a look at things happening this month. As a reminder, AC this month will be a check-in only. AC will be posted on December 20 and close on December 27. If you do not reply to AC, you will be considered idled and dropped from the game. We will not post a warning list.

> NAVIGATION

Comments

[ofobedience]

[His eyes dip down towards the single bullet scar, drawn by the movement of the other man's hand-- a small reminder of how desperately fragile the human body is, that a little thing like that could leave one hanging in the tenuous balance between life and death. What a joke it is. What a farce, and the thought sends cold shivers along the length of the Spine because he has to wonder if that's what he's been reduced to here, whether a single bullet would pose that kind of life-rending threat to him now.

Images from the party flash up unbidden behind his eyes, he and Heine caught in their usual dance, all violence, all teeth and claws and there had been blood, nothing odd about that, but then the blood had kept coming.

The wounds have gone now, closed over fast. But not as fast as they should be.

Very slightly, he frowns.

In an effort to shake away his rattling thoughts, he answers, a little less obliquely than before. Just a little.]

I wasn't in immediate danger of losing my life, if you believe that's where the commonality may lie. If anything I'd thought...well.

[he lifts his shoulders, lets them drop. Smiles his brittle smile.]

Perhaps we're simply missing memories.

[It wouldn't be a first. Not for him.]

[blyat]

[One theory out. Cain isn't disappointed so much as he's led further into confusion, grasping at the blank in his own memory - because that's all he can determine for certain. He has no recollection of being stitched up, nothing to explain the neural implant in his head (an upsetting truth to learn) or the mysterious blue glow in his ribs. Wide spaces between then and now.

Between him and Abel.

His scowl is a counter to Giovanni's expression, yet just as bladed.]

No shit. Who are you, anyway?

[Rude introductions are a bit par for the course.]

[ofobedience]

[Well that makes two of them, then, Giovanni's original idea of how he came to be here no longer making sense in the wake of meeting the others, in knowing that Heine is here among them. None of this makes sense, and dwelling on it for too long causes pain to flare up behind his eyes, a tight ache in his chest that almost has him lifting a hand to himself. Almost.

But he'll show no weakness, here.

The other refugee asks his blunt question and again there's the quick bark of Giovanni's laugh.]

A lost dog.

[His smile is wry, but rather than leaving him with vague half-answers this time, he continues.]

If you're asking for my name, it's Giovanni. Giovanni Rammsteiner.

[The second part is more his make and model than a name in the true sense of the word, but it suffices.]

[blyat]

[A lost dog? What the fuck. Cain's expression creases in non-understanding, but he doesn't push it. This guy's given him a strange feeling since he first met those bright red eyes in the mirror, and it hasn't improved over the scope of their conversation thus far.]

Cain. [So they're on the same page. He doesn't, however, offer a surname.] Guess we're in the same shitty situation.

[Truth, at least. He paces over to where he's left his clothing - recently acquired, new and pricey, not the pieces of threadbare secondhand articles they were gifted by Morningstar upon arrival at the safehouse. The jacket is loose and breathable in the heat, and the shirt is decorated with dark blue rhinestones. Not his style; far better than denim.]

So what are you gonna do now, 'lost puppy'?

[Subverting dog to puppy seems to amuse him. Nicknames are more fun, anyway.]

[ofobedience]

[Perhaps it amuses him, but does it amuse Giovanni? Not so much. He isn't about to get wild over the use of a diminutive name, and he's been called worse things besides (worthless mutt, useless dog, stand up and fight), but there's a hard animal gleam to the red of his eyes as they follow Cain, and there's the jump of muscle under skin, a sharpness about his face that speaks of something darker there.

He's not a tall guy, he has no bulk with which to intimidate. But he's never required those things, doesn't especially need to try. His smile is sharp enough to cut through skin and muscle and tendon right down to the bone.]

Aren't you funny.

[His voice is a soft Germanic drawl.]

As for what I'll do now, once we're no longer under house arrest...well. What we're expected to do. Find work. [His gaze falls on the pricey clothes, one brow slightly raised.] Purchase better clothes. Keep an eye on my interests [You know. Heine.] Blend in.

[The last words, they drip-- as if he's ever going to achieve that.]

After that? It remains to be seen.

[blyat]

[Please don't kill him for his transgressions, Giovanni, he's not the sharpest crayon in the box.]

You're just gonna bend over and let them tell you what to do?

[It isn't as though Cain's ignoring the clear necessity of getting a job. But he doesn't like having his arm twisted into it. The backstory, the network ID... it's all familiar, it all wears on him to consider. The fatigue goes further than the scope of their conversation. He's a tool yet again, honed to the grain of blackmail. (Or, in this case, drugs, kidnapping, and human experimentation.) But what does he actually get out of this deal? Is freedom guaranteed?

Cain appraises the man in front of him. Red-eyed, cagey, too wide smiles.]

Gotta say, your whole look really doesn't blend in.

[The clothes provided by Morningstar notwithstanding.]

[ofobedience]

[I mean he's not going to make any promises at this stage in the game.

And as Cain appraises him, Giovanni continues to return the look in kind, his gaze steady and hot and hard, lips curled, the points of his teeth bared. You're just gonna bend over and let them tell you what to do? It's what he does, what he's always done, never once has he had control of what passes for his life and so why start now, in the grip of the worst uncertainty he's ever faced? Why start at all? He may know how to kill a man with his bare hands, how to use a multitude of weapons, how to slip around the Underground unseen as a spectre or some long-forgotten ghost, but how to function in the world, among people instead of sharp-faced beasts like himself?

He has no idea.]

Some things require patience.

[Is all he says and that at least is something he knows, how to lie in wait for one's vengeance, how to subsist until the final act. As for the rest-- there's the upward tilt of Giovanni's chin, the widening of his uneven smile, and at his neck the collar catches the light. Gleams dully.]

Noticed that, did you? And no, I suppose it doesn't. I doubt it was ever meant to. But here we are, and needs must.

[Never mind that he has no confidence in his ability to convince anyone that he's anything other than what he is-- a tool, a weapon intended to be held in someone else's hands. A hound of war. Not a person at all.]

[blyat]

[The noose of the situation tightens around Cain's throat for a separate reason: all the while he's had his choices decided for him, unarguable plan unfolded beneath his feet, demands made of him, instructions given. It was because he had no other choice. And yet freedom continues to hang over his head, a luring dream. And he's stubborn enough to keep fighting until he gets it, until he doesn't have to listen to anyone else or do anything he doesn't want to do.

If only it were as easy as patience. A trait Cain himself hasn't polished.]

What the hell is that thing?

[He finally asks. The metal latched onto the other man's throat, shackled into bone, gleaming silver under the bulbs. Something unique, not the implant they were given, not the blue in their chests.

They're discussing appearances, after all.]

[ofobedience]

[Whilst Giovanni has always known the only freedom he'll ever find is in death, a death he's never been certain he'll attain, his body nigh impossible to kill even as his mind collapses in on itself. The collar, the cold metal at his throat that pushes down deeper than skin, right down into the darkest places of him, an ache that never goes away-- it's reminder enough that he's tied down and leashed and owned and that no matter where he goes or what he does he will always, always be a dog, will be ruled by her six-fingered hand.

There's no escape, no freedom, for his kind. Something his dear brother may not have realised yet, but will know it down to the bones of him in the end.

So he's always believed. Does being here change anything? It remains to be seen, but for now, it's too much to consider that everything he's ever known could have been swept away, just like that.

As such, he laughs softly. Gives Cain his lupine smile just for a moment before he turns, moves to retrieve his (ugly, threadbare) clothes.]

Most dogs have collars, don't they?

[As if that explains everything.]

[blyat]

[Another obscure reply. A question for a question, oblique and nonspecific. Giovanni's fixated on the animal enough through the course of this conversation, he'd be really stupid not to pick up on it. But Cain's never seen a dog, not in real life - not in the flesh. Pictures and grainy vids served the purpose of education, because none of the colonies' imported dogs, not when they were a luxury animal. Of no use, except hunting, and there was nothing to hunt.

Looking over Giovanni, it calls an image to mind. An animal with its jowls pulled back over fangs, too-wide split lips, muzzle wrinkled. Was it a dog? He can't remember now.]

Wouldn't know. [He leans back against a tiled wall and thumbs out the pack of gum Prompto gave him. Not cigarettes, and he's itching for nicotine, but it's kept him occupied away from the crave.] You don't look like a dog. They've got fur and stuff.

[Paws... claws... cute little black noses. Okay, off track.]

I've only seen some vids.

[ofobedience]

[Giovanni pauses in the act of sliding into his dilapidated shirt, and there's the canine cant of his head as he turns to regard the other man once again, his gaze quietly assessing. It's not as though he's encountered many real dogs himself-- none exist in that place deep in the bowels of the city, the forsaken hell in which he was created, and whilst he's seen a few around the Underground, he's never taken much of an interest in them, never taken the time to study what the creature he's forever likened to is actually like. It's irrelevant, really. It's the descriptor that matters-- the thing lodged in his back is as much like a domesticated animal as a housecat is to a lion. Only the barest bones remain the same.

The loyalty. The obedience. The instinct to hunt, to destroy.

He regards Cain with glacial interest, then finally laughs.]

There's no need to take it so literally.

[Though that both is, and is not, true.]

What kind of place are you from, anyway, that you've never encountered a dog before?

[Even he, subterranean thing that he is, has some experience with them after all.]

[blyat]

[There's this song and dance. He has no reason to lie, even less to conceal his origin for other reason, and yet... Cain has kept it close to his chest. Not Earth he's said. Nothing like this, not in any reality or any universe has he seen Earth -- pale and distant, like a small blue marble one spot closer to the sun. It may not impress upon Giovanni the reaction he's so accustomed, the disdain and judgment, but it remains ingrained in him.

So he decides,]

Not Earth. Like I said, I've seen vids. I know what they look like. But they weren't around where I'm from.

[The cats held more interest to him, although he won't confess it.]

Before you ask, I'm human. Some of us don't live on Earth anymore.

[ofobedience]

[Not Earth he says, and again there's the cold clatter of horror in him, the enormity of it, something so far removed from his own experience that it's nigh impossible to imagine. His face remains impassive and distant and cold even as his heart beats out an erratic rhythm within the cage of his ribs and a feeling like metal bands snapping tight around his lungs fills him up, makes it harder to breathe. It's hard for him to contemplate life in the Above, what it would be like. The wider world outside the city of his creation, that may as well be another planet, may as well exist among the stars it seems so far from him.

All this? It's something else. A fever dream. Only here it is, right in front of him, actually happening.]

Not Earth.

[He repeats the words with a cool flatness, as though they're devoid of meaning. As for the rest?]

And I wouldn't have asked. What constitutes human, anyway?

[It's not a category he considers himself to belong to. Could he be said to be human? His base DNA, he supposes, might mark him as such. But can anything that has been laboratory grown and genetically altered and kept so far from human society as to have no idea how to exist within it truly be called human? Zollner had called him a synthetic lifeform, and that's what he supposes he is. Something artificial, something set apart and twisted and wrong which should probably never have existed at all.

A monster of sorts. A hound of war.]

Damned if I know.

[And he turns away as he finishes buttoning his shirt.]

[blyat]

[The incomprehension bleeds through that parroting back. Or Giovanni doesn't care, and he's moved on to another question, one which furrows confusion in a line across Cain's brow. The full and heavy weight of multiple universes is beginning to bear down upon him through the course of this conversation. He wonders how it's possible, and what it means for his own existence: a tiny sliver of a life in the grand web of reality. Yet he was brought here. Some force seemed to deem it necessary to choose him... unless it was a fluke, unless it was a shot in the dark and vastness of all space, a random probability.

His eyes roll. He can't help this knee-jerk instinct of frustration, feeling cornered by his own confusion.]

Seriously? A human's one of us. Evolved on Earth, got two thumbs, two eyes -- you know, all that bullshit. [He's very scientific.] I don't even think we'd be having a conversation right now if you were some alien freak.

[It occurs to him, then, others may lack the unfortunate awareness he possesses of extraterrestrial life out there in the stars. Or perhaps, deep within the bowels of whichever universe Giovanni was ripped from, a non-Earth species doesn't exist. This, Cain finds difficult to digest. The Colterons may not have chosen to attack Mars in every version of the universe -- but they're still out there, right? Or something like them? Something else?

He's getting a headache. This is why navigators run the numbers, not him.

A step back puts him against the wall, chewing at cheap gum - flavor quickly diluted - while he watches Giovanni dress.]

You look human enough to me.

[ofobedience]

One of us.

[Again, the repetition, but this time there's something sinuous-sly in the Germanic drawl of his voice, the hint of a quiet bitter joke because he certainly isn't one of you, this he knows right down to the very centre of himself, to the loamy marrow of his bones. What he is, it's something born of flesh and blood yes but also gunsmoke and cold hard steel and the piercing glass certainty of the laboratory, Her six-fingered hands all caught up in his innards turning them black and twisted. Those like him are either dead and gone or walking corpses like himself, falling apart one fractured piece at a time.

(Lily Lily Lily Lily)

There's an ache in him suddenly, one so hard and sharp and fast that it's difficult to breathe around it but it's an old old ache that he knows and holds close to him because it's full of--

(red on white, blonde hair streaked with blood)

--her.

He takes a breath. Soundlessly steadies himself. Doesn't allow it to show around the edges of the cracks in what holds him together.]

You know what they say about appearances. Hahah.

[Words that undulate darkly even as he shimmies into his torn jeans.]

hope it's ok to end it here! lmk if you'd prefer something else

[blyat]

[Again, that sense of off Cain can't place, doesn't know what to do with, how to scent it out and identify the abnormality. So he only watches Giovanni bite out words like he's speaking around a mouthful of glass while climbing into clothes that hang on his lean frame. Though fashion is less a priority in this situation, he's realizing he's one of the lucky ones for robbing those drunken assholes. At least he won't look like he's wearing a burlap sack.

Chewing the gum, pushing it around his teeth, gnawing on the wad of tasteless elastic until he thinks of how to respond--]

Not really.

[What, appearances are deceiving? Giovanni isn't an alien in his eyes, but perhaps there's something else, invisible beneath layers of human-like skin. Cain doesn't think so, but he's met someone who claimed to perform sorcery, and someone else who knocked him out cold in one strike.

He can't help but think: this world isn't meant for him.

Cain leans away from the wall, intent on spinning on his heel to leave the bathroom, unless he's stopped.] See you around, weirdo.

Nope, this is fine!!

[ofobedience]

[And for his part Giovanni only turns to watch the other man leave, lips curled around the ghost of a smile, chin lifted.]

Adieu, then.

[Words softly said as Cain takes his exit, disappears from view.

Weirdo. Well. He supposes that's one word for it.

Alone in the shower-room, quietly, darkly, Giovanni laughs.]