Ten thousand ways to avoid understanding a man who avoids saying any thing about himself deliberately. You get him on a pedestal? He could talk a storm about anybody else.
A countless measure that just proves he doesn’t have to know. It’s almost to that extent achievable he can’t ignore, it’s been on his tongue all day. Something he can repeat, but he’d rather not.
He’s asked before, he’s sure. All things in making have a ‘start’, but here, they almost look identical. That’s why he keeps close, and that’s his excuse of trying to locate the man today. Especially today.
He gives the earth a stomp.
He starts early. Mid day, when the sun’s alignment comes into full power and scorches the earth in its entirety, he rakes his larger hands through the crowds as it moves along above with him.
Figuratively, when the sky was bathed in red? He would just have to follow its theoretical position in the sky, along with his senses.
Nevermind that nothing made much sense.
To resolve anything, he makes noise wherever he goes. Apollo successfully doesn’t say a peep before noon. Exaggerating his gestures, he gets the activity down pat. Asks a couple people, gesturing for the distinct collar around his neck that makes him noticeable from any bypassing walk. The strut gave it away. For some...
He mimics it, a sight sore if he’d seen it himself, but it communicated the people that missed out on the way he tosses his hands, recreating the unmistakable voluminous pelt around his neck. They didn’t seem to get, or miss, anything.
Angrily taking through most of the city, descending into the levels that fostered the more frightened crowd - the most depraved inhabitants of this whole fiasco. The ones he asks that he’s dubious of, suspicious answers, he uses his sharp tongue to reiterate what they just said, -- and if he couldn’t, granted their size and how worth it it was, to keep them afloat in a stilled current.
Apollo took something of his.
In another light. The ones that pointed him out in the general direction of where the tell tale plague sauntered off to, he’d lose an accessory each time that day. Belongings of his, humbly no longer a part of his amassed collection, the only that signed his authority, -- he’d never unhand in the light of day.
With each sincere response that helped point him out closer to his so-and-so target, he lost individual, distinct namesakes’ disappearing and his arms grew more barren. by the end of the day, the sun he couldn’t make out obediently following him - started to give. It was about that time, but his resolve didn’t.
Apollo wrang his hands out, unable to give any warning of the laboring sun, - and the likes of the increasing night that didn’t care about his search.
He looks to the moon, all kinds of burnt out and if you give, I’ll take, with an unpromising commitment he gives to her every time he really wants something. His shoulders at just the right point to sink to a believable level. He appears wary, at his best -- but gives a sigh.
This time, when he asks its permission without being able to give it back anything.
The spitfire in his speech is absent, once he finally stutters the most roundabout way, like they do, -- even if he’s not talking to anyone. He tosses his hand up at it in frustration, the last of his two twin bracelets letting out a sound. In likeness of something valuable gone missing, ‘Have you seen him,’ his question gets consumed in the roar of a passerby rebellion.
They’re so loud. He goes for the ledge, peering over just in time, wherever carnage was he was. Wherever there were people, real miscontrued, horrible, all of them, each and every one of them --- identical people, committing deeds lost to the wind hoping to leave a mark.
He can always spot him first.
Forgetting his confiding in the single-faced ring of serendipity, that met his promise. He thinks back briefly to the unrelenting favors he could have reaped himself, but he’s asked that of just as many today.
Perhaps the wind picking up, the stars being swallowed by the darkness above, just proves that it could be neither of their faults this time.
Letting momentum pick him up full swing, he swoops down to where fire is breaking out, somewhere someone could get blown out in a moment. And it’s this moment, he grabs for the man unafraid of anything, unafraid of being seen, being caught, being involved with any of this ---
--- knocking him into position, where he’s just out of sight. The moon pours in and the narrow segue they depart from the scene where screaming still reaches their ears, something only he’d enjoy, of course he would.
He mouths something, lost in an unforgiving ‘boom’ in the background, bathing everything in the flicker of a distant fire. The charismatic red that consumes both their outlines, making them perfectly unnoticeable.
‘Say it yourself.’ His barren forearms clasp each side of his head, not removing a gaze that means this from that universe, that from this depraved walk of life.
For someone that’s never prayed before, his smile grants him a chance, and his hands get purchase or hair tangled between his fingers. His eyes narrow, ‘Today’s unlike any other day. Isn’t it?’
‘Say it yourself.’ It not what I do, his eyes flicker, ‘I’ve been chasing down people all day.’
For the man who made himself, he can’t lay any claim other than giving him a chance to talk. Which he likes best. He runs his hands through, tilting his head at an angle that gives him less of the advantage, scarcely giving him room.
‘How is it? To walk in, you’ll walk that dynamically out.’
But not today. What a day to make yourself known, to be carried out like a storm.
‘You’re not the modest type. What is today?’
kokkei