It was night. It was always night it seemed. In this city, daytime was when the real world slept. Those who went about their business during the suns chariot race across the sky were like the insects on the forest floor. Going about their business ignorant of the anything around them, the forest for the trees if you will. The forest could be on fire and the insects would still scuttle back and forth, among the decaying mass called society and be completely oblivious til the flames directly crossed their paths. And by the time the inferno rained down upon them, it was already too late, and their McFat faces would always register a completely shocked and awed expression of stupid surprise while turning to each other silently asking, "Who knew?" and "Why didn't anyone tell us?".

The fact is, you can't feel sorry for the insects, they are just not capable of helping themselves. You can give them all the signs, the sweltering heat of their atmosphere being incinerated, or choking their oxygen from around them as the smoke congests their streets, hell you can even try and send them water to help and they will simply drown in the flood cursing the "men behind the curtain" for not telling them why. It's their own damned fault you see, and with insects while they serve their purpose in the ecosystem of the forest, providing a chain of function and nutrition for the life forms above them, you simply can't feel sorry if you accidentally step on a few.

In Seth's lifetime he had definitely stepped on a few, hell, one wouldn't be surprised to see him out back behind the figurative would shed with a magnifying glass from time to time either. However, Seth also knew that if you piss off one ant, wasp, spider, or human, you risk the attack of the horde. And in turn you best be wanting to kill that damnable insect before it kills you.

The phone call he received from Dale, "It couldn't have been anyone else...could it?" he thought to himself languidly, was distressing but not altogether unfamiliar. He had seen his share of lynch mobs especially during the freeing of the slaves, but the mobs of today's realm existed in an anonymity that those ignorant bastards of the KKK could never achieve. For it was the age of information and the internet and television and satellite. And though this caller could be another boy who cried wolf, this world, this time, there is always somebody listening.

He made a mental list of the places to start trying to track down Dale. He had the boy's school, which was a start, but that wouldn't be a guaranteed lead to his current whereabouts. He compiled a list of places and things that he tried to remember Kayla referencing when he got to know her. The more and more he thought about it he got wound up in a cycle of memories and living horrors as he suddenly found himself facing all those he destroyed. All the innocents, the unintentionals.... he was rocking back and forth on the couch, his shirt was off and he didn't realise that with the dull prongs of the fork he was clawing deep rigid gashes in his left pectoral muscle. The pain was numb as it always was and the slow burning sensation of the wound was the key to knowing it was already healing but he still tried in vain to keep cutting. It was with such vigorous effort that he was gouging himself, completely oblivious to his actions as he recited the names of the innocent....so many that he hadn't yet begun to repeat himself and wouldn't for awhile. The sharp snap of the fork as it caught jaggedly on one of his ribs, was enough to jar him from his psychotic nightmare mantra.

Shaking himself into reality, climbing out of the well of souls that lay ever smoldering inside him, he realised he was getting cold from the blood loss. The couch was leather, easy to clean when this happened. He stripped off his remaining clothes and with the bundled up wad of a shirt pressed to his sore gaping wound, he strode to towards the bathroom. It was almost routine, like an alcoholic falling off the wagon. He'd just pick up where he left off, dust himself off and try and start again, shoving the episode of weakness to the back of his mind until it came running forward another time.

He turned on the shower, the bathroom still in darkness, and climbed into the already steaming abyss. The hot water cleansed his wound with a fury that even he was surprised at how much it burned. Ironic that he who walks in flame gets burned by the essence of water. He leaned against the glass wall of the shower cubicle and let himself just sit there and burn. He knew the water was red, but he didn't dare turn on the lights when he had one of his episodes. He wouldn't look in the mirror either for a full day probably as his guilt though satiated for another day to his self inflicted torture, always lingered around him, like the stink of the dead that only he could smell. Atlas would have sighed and looked away in sorrow to the weight on Seth's shoulders.

After about a half hour or so, he robotically climbed out and dried himself. No need of a towel, he was dry within seconds, save for head full of damp hair. The wound though deep had already cauterized itself and would probably be only a thin white scar within the next day or two. Gingerly, he pulled out the first aid kit from the closet and dressed the wound, if he found himself exerting or contorting unusually, the wound could still split open, which would be a terrible inconvenience if he wore a white shirt.

Once that was done and still nude, he went upstairs to his walk in closet and selected a plain black long sleeve shirt, pulling it over his head with a faint wince and then selected a pair of silk boxers to put on as well. Jeans and socks were next til once again fully clothed he felt reasonably fresh and headed downstairs. Grabbing a leather jacket out of the main closet near the entryway, and selecting a pair of shitkicker biker boots, he decided he needed a breath of fresh air. It was still a couple of hours til morning and the river front was a great place to relax and clear your mind amongst the tranquil serenity of fog horns on barges and the ever present sirens always somewhere off.

He hardly ever met anyone on these endeavours late at night, walking by himself, but he knew he wasn't the only one up. Like rush hour traffic the city would be teeming with the real animals of the forest. The ones to which the insects supported, and there was always the chance of happening upon one of the many wolves or blood suckers that prowled the forest night.

He put on his sunglasses that he had grabbed from the end table on the way out, then searched his pockets as he walked down the rain slicked streets. Another thing about this city was the perpetual look as if had always just rained, and yet he didn't recall it raining earlier...

"Ah there you are..." he found the rolled joint that was in the inside pocket of the leather jacket. He wasn't one for drugs but every now and then he would smoke a joint to take the edge off. With his metabolism alcohol was about as effective as a sugar rush from soft drinks, plus drinking by yourself was always pathetic. The joint had probably sat in that jacket for about a month, so it was probably a little dry, but he didn't care. He needed to mellow out.

Not caring for lighters he lit the end of the pinner and drew in. He exhaled after holding it in for a few and coughed lightly, wondering as always, how people could get hooked on this shit or even cigarettes for that matter. Taking a turn down an alley the dock where he liked to sit and chill was in sight. A fog was rolling in as the warmth of the early night was burning off and the cool water created the vapour that made the harbour truly ambient in the wee hours. The only sounds was his thick leather boots echoing off the walls of the alleyway and the smoky distant call of the fog horn like some mechanical lonesome loon of the modern world.....


(ooc: up for grabs if anyone wants to. Be gentle though, I still new to this. heh)