- ̗̀ — CARNAGE. That’s the best way to describe the state he left St. Mary’s in. Pews upturned and stained glass shattered, God’s favourite hotbox sits war-torn and wrecked, and the wretched exploits of its officials sit splayed in full view. A small boy of only seven, malnourished and hurt, laid out like Jesus on the cross alongside a note.
Look at him. Look at this poor boy. Does it sicken you like it sickens me?
A lot of things make 001 sick. Though he’s been raised to lust for the thrill of the kill, he sees the world in vivid, terrible detail, the debaucherous failings of man; an ugly hotpot of ultraviolence that people frivolously try to deny. 001 detests this menagerie like most people detest war or famine. Nothing quite provokes his hatred like dishonesty.
As he enters Creel’s Clocks and carries himself up the stairs, he shrugs off his coat and stands motionless in the centre of the living room. It’s as if he’s lost, not recognising his surroundings, stiff and silent before he unties the laces of his boots and takes them off. System buffering.
This place isn’t terrible. He can see why his host takes pride in it. Of all the places he could have wound up, a building teeming with this much character is about the best. Long fingers idly trace the back of the couch, a foreign blanket draped over the back of it slowly picked up and drawn around his shoulders.
[ Now let us leave, and open the door of time. ]
He opens the fridge with a croon of approval— a plume of frigid air breathed out into his face as he feels along the spine of the milk carton. Cold. Eventually, he settles on lemonade, the pot of leftovers pointedly ignored as he stares at the clock on the windowsill. He’s never known how to act in this space. He just has to wait until Henry is ready to come back. / @wheelxr
