fatespoken | [ fifty-one ]

Entry tags:

[ fifty-one ]

∞ [ private to self][ not hackable ]

[ as noted on a private entry on his device ]

TO BUY:
→ Cat Food
→ Ledge?
or
→Picture Frames
→ Captain Morgan
→ Gloves

[ on the table in his living room, placed on top of a photograph there's small sheet of paper covered in neat handwritten print— ]

Out of the rolling ocean, the crowd, came a drop gently to me,
Whispering, I love you, before long I die,
I have travel’d a long way, merely to look on you, to touch you,
For I could not die till I once look’d on you,
For I fear’d I might afterward lose you.

(Now we have met, we have look’d, we are safe;
Return in peace to the ocean, my love;
I too am part of that ocean, my love—we are not so much separated;
Behold the great rondure—the cohesion of all, how perfect!
But as for me, for you, the irresistible sea is to separate us,
As for an hour, carrying us diverse—yet cannot carry us diverse for ever;
Be not impatient—a little space—Know you, I salute the air, the ocean and the
land,
Every day, at sundown, for your dear sake, my love.)

-- that's the one you liked, wasn't it? I remember.

[/private]

∞ [ private to peter pevensie ][ not hackable]

I found a picture of yours.

[/private]

∞ [ private to shilo ][ not hackable ]

Hey, Shilo. I think I have something that belongs to you.

[/private]

∞ [ private to adrian veidt ][ not hackable]

If you want it, ~~I'll drop it~~ come pick it up tomorrow. Otherwise it's going in the trash.

[/private]

∞ [ private to eden ][ not hackable ]

I have one of your pictures. You don't have to answer this if you don't want to. I'll slip it into your mailbox, otherwise.

[/private]

Wasn't that bad of a curse this time around, assuming you aren't some type of water creature. I'm referring to the deluge of photos, not the collective fashion disaster. For all their misgivings and idiotic April Fools jokes, you have to at least admire the ingenuity of some of their tricks. The logistics of plucking specific memories from an entire City full of people, transposing them photo form is hardly simple. To stick their hands into our brains, so many brains, without fucking anything up, admittedly takes skill.

Still, most of their tricks are moronic and pointless.

A LATER EDIT: No, it's not 80's night at the Blue Light. No, you won't get a discount if you come in costume.

[ ooc: Backdated to Saturday around 7 PM? The links in the private entry are real links, except pretend they are from stores in the City.

He is also cursed and currently dressed in gray ACID (sob typo) wash jeans, chucks, oversized sweatshirt, and eyeliner. If you are a Broo Lightian, you are free to comment log. And laugh at the fact that his balls can't breathe. DX Yes, even his hair has more body. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I wasn't going for strong insults or winning any contests. I was going for the truth.

[Pushing off of the bar, Claire brushes her impossible hair back - it really should be impossible - and then reaches for a towel, tossing it to him.]

If you wipe it off, will it come back?

[ As much as he debates letting it fall to the floor, Amory catches the towel in the nick of time, carelessly flipping it onto the counter of the bar. Two more raised eye brows at Claire this time. . ]

It won't wipe off.

[ And believe him, he's tried several times. ]

Try bleach.

[Her hand disappears into her apron, bring out a hideous scrunchie she uses to tie her hair back as best she can. Claire turns to survey the tables, looking for Ginny but not spotting her immediately.]

Is there anything else you want to be annoying about or can I just get the night over with?

I'm not an idiot.

[ He slips his hands in his pocket, leaning back on the balls of his feet despite the uncomfortable tightening of his pants. While Claire looks away, Amory continue to observe her-- or at least his eyes are still turned toward her, his mind on a different plane. There are words being thrown around in his head, indecision and curiosity tugging at separate ends. ]

His grew back like anyone else's, albeit slightly faster. [ he pauses ] He showed me once.

[There is no reply to his first comment, though Claire does roll her eyes before turning back around to face Amory. Her arms are crossed again, though her position and the tension in her back and shoulders slowly unwinds and becomes something different at the subject change, only to tense again a moment later.]

I'm not gonna show you so that you can make a comparison. [Claire pauses, glances down the bar a moment, and then slides in between two chairs.] Was that all that he showed you?

That wasn't my intention, I was only commenting. [ He shrugs after that and feigns distraction by picking up the tossed-aside towel on the counter. There's three swipes of the bar before he continues, head tilted downward such that the bangs of his fluffed-up coiffure droop into his eyes. ] I never really saw him heal, nothing besides minuscule things-- I think, a paper cut or two until the accident.

[ As with most personal matters, he strings it along slowly with measured breath and a dose of uncertainty. There's something raw in words born close to the heart, lacking the steady confidence of external knowledge and concrete opinion. A breath acts as a pause, two more swipes of the counter, before he continues. ]

Never was one to get hurt much, neither was he one to ever talk about it. It was only that one time when I asked him whether his hair would grow back— the next day he had a new haircut.

Edited 2010-04-12 09:30 (UTC)

It's not really something to show off, and it's kind of an awkward conversation topic at parties.

[Her tone isn't as acidic as it has been: some of the weight but none of the bite. A paper cut or two is something that Claire almost wishes she could claim as being the extent of her ability when it comes to displaying it. A paper cut, a hair cut, and then one accident and maybe subsequent repeats of something else here and there. She hasn't had that luxury. Neither have the people that she cares about.

The lingering question of genetics, of whether or not Amory got any part of his father's condition, nags at her, but she doesn't ask it.]

You said, on the phone, that he couldn't really die easily. Does that mean he could die?

[Genuine curiosity, and Claire tries not to reflect it back on her own insecurities and tries to keep her tone as kind as it's able to be, in case of the worst.]

It's not that strange- [a pause ] To me, at least.

[ Though he provides surface wounds for evidence, Amory suspects, knows that it's an observation from a limited perspective. His father had always striven for a lacquer of normality; a hand slipped discreetly into his pocket during that rare instance of injury. He also assumes that fortune and ability must have allowed him the luxury of avoiding danger, but what his father did in his private hours had always been unknowns.

And it's best she doesn't ask, for a question like that would surely return Amory to his barricades and snark. ]

I'm sure there's a limit to what his body can take. Others like him have died before, I've heard. [ Amory doesn't notice the difference in Claire's words, too preoccupied in unsettling the dust of thoughts, memories and pieces stowed where the air had long gone stale. Nevertheless, her curiosity would hardly be a surprise, for it's her interest, the personal quality of her questions that draw out candor from the brick-walled bartender. In a way he understands, not so much by his own state, rather through the reality he had always known. How can someone live forever, the effects on the soul, the actuality of forever-- these have all been questions he has mulled over. ] There's something that definitely can kill him, but after two-thousand years, I'd call that essentially immortal. Even if it isn't completely.

[Claire doesn't answer immediately - partially because she doesn't want to address the idea that bringing up this topic at all to someone like Amory might be less strange than bringing it up with anyone else, going off of experience - and instead spends some small amount of time chewing her lip and staring at the surface of the bar. When she looks up, her face is closed off and walled, and she tries hard to appear vacantly interested though she knows she's terrible at it. It doesn't help that those words - two thousand years - sink into her guts like stones.]

I don't know how you can say that's only essentially immortal.

[There are more questions, more answers that she wants, but Amory isn't the friend. More often than not, Amory is the enemy. Not necessarily as violent and terrifying as someone like Sylar, but still someone that she dislikes, someone that she doesn't trust. She pushes back off the bar, one hand on a high-backed chair.]

I should get to work.

[ Amory allows Claire her space of silence as he takes to cleaning a short stack of dirty glasses, water streaming against the backdrop of dragging seconds. He's undecided whether to continue or to sever the conversation at its current point. Indecision, in this case, is a matter of considering if there's really a point to it all, or if his words are falling on deaf ears. Given who he is and his track record, Amory's opinion could be valued at empty syllables for Claire. Hardly a surprise. It's minutes before he answers, even as he considers that she may have already left. ]

Because he could have died. Anytime century, any year, he could have decided enough was enough. [ Shutting off the faucet in a quick movement, he remains standing there in a stance betraying no emotion-- shoulders still, back straight. ] And yet, he found reasons good enough to prefer living.

[Her immediate reaction is to snap with something caustic, but Claire bites down on her tongue until it probably would hurt if she was capable of processing that anymore. It only serves to bring her back down to the ground, clear her head, level her mind. She's envious, wants to say something about how nice it must be to be able to have the choice, and for her it's as much a matter of logistics and as it is matter of necessity: someone needs to be there to keep people like Sylar from getting back up again.

She stares at the cleaned glasses, evening April sunshine from the windows glaring over the curved surfaces. Claire doesn't trust Amory enough to address anything with any degree of honesty, to open up and let him in in any capacity, so she slams the door shut, even if her expression betrays all the electric, working currents running through her mind.]

I have to get back to work. [A pause, and Claire pushes off of the chair, high top shoes scuffing across the floor.] Thanks again for the picture.

[She lingers one more moment, opening her mouth to say something else - she's trying to find reasons, too, as many as she can - but thinks better of it, gives him a half-formed nod, and then moves to check her section.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ fifty-one ]

time won't give me time;

time won't give me time;

time won't give me time;

time won't give me time;

time won't give me time;

time won't give me time;

time won't give me time;

ime won't give me time;

time won't give me time;

time won't give me time;

time won't give me time;