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lastvoyagesArriving at the Barge left Scharlach feeling an odd sort of melancholy. Here he was, used to power, wealth, followers, and most of all, freedom. In the City-- particularly with the police force in shambles at the departure of Erik Lonnrot-- he had the run of things. Those in the Southside (and now a slowly expanding segment of the City-proper) deferred to Red Scharlach: their leader, their god. And he had earned the right to be worshipped, being as benevolent as he was fearsome; he certainly gave more to the people of the Southside than the politicians of the City ever did.
But for all his fighting to reach his position of prominence as the most feared gunman in the City, what did it take but one more stray bullet to finish the job that Lonnrot began three years prior? And as he'd closed his eyes, feeling the cold, stone floor against his back, he'd felt as though he were returning home-- no, no, not home. To the Villa, the labyrinth, that hated maze winding and turning, always taking him back to where he'd started out.
No, not even where he'd started out. Trapped on a vessel in the sky, he had nothing to his name-- not even his name, in fact. Red Scharlach meant nothing to these people; there was no meaning to it. And any other name... he had no name. Since his youth (oh yes, he'd gotten his start in crime early. A natural, if there ever was one), he was only Red Scharlach. But who was he here?
Perhaps he was considering the wrong question. What was he here, if not alive or dead?
He put a hand to his heart, tentatively, as he had done countless times since waking up on the Barge. Beating. He was back to the same point, alive against all odds and reason. Was this to be his fate? An eternity of life and death, each winding back around. How many times would Red Scharlach be brought to the brink and then restored? According to what he'd heard and read, it would be endless. Death and life feeding into one another, bleeding, seamless...
Was this the next life Lonnrot believed in? Or was this an aleph, like he'd spoken of, the point at which all things are visible? Was his purpose here to hunt Lonnrot once more and deliver him to death in the proper place? He stretched his fingers tensely, anxious to hold a gun in his hands and complete his task, but that would be quite impossible for now. There was no Lonnrot, and there was no gun to be had. There would be no liberation through force (at least, not yet), only adaptation. Scharlach would die, just for a while, as 'Alonso Zunz,' earnest and wide-eyed, would learn all he could about this place, through books, through the journals, through the vanity and loose lips of his newfound 'associates.'
He adjusted his glasses (not that he needed them; his vision was fine), hunched his shoulders slightly as he seemed to draw into himself, and began to walk the corridor. He gave off the air of a man who felt much smaller than he was, who seemed unsure and uncomfortable with his own body, and wrung his hands for a moment, before-- seemingly at a loss for what to do with them-- shoving them into the pockets of his drab, dark coat. He would find his way to the library, and there, as Zunz, he would learn. There were books covering worlds upon worlds, seemingly independent of one another, yet all converging here, on the Barge, and he would absorb what he could about each and every one of them.
But for all his fighting to reach his position of prominence as the most feared gunman in the City, what did it take but one more stray bullet to finish the job that Lonnrot began three years prior? And as he'd closed his eyes, feeling the cold, stone floor against his back, he'd felt as though he were returning home-- no, no, not home. To the Villa, the labyrinth, that hated maze winding and turning, always taking him back to where he'd started out.
No, not even where he'd started out. Trapped on a vessel in the sky, he had nothing to his name-- not even his name, in fact. Red Scharlach meant nothing to these people; there was no meaning to it. And any other name... he had no name. Since his youth (oh yes, he'd gotten his start in crime early. A natural, if there ever was one), he was only Red Scharlach. But who was he here?
Perhaps he was considering the wrong question. What was he here, if not alive or dead?
He put a hand to his heart, tentatively, as he had done countless times since waking up on the Barge. Beating. He was back to the same point, alive against all odds and reason. Was this to be his fate? An eternity of life and death, each winding back around. How many times would Red Scharlach be brought to the brink and then restored? According to what he'd heard and read, it would be endless. Death and life feeding into one another, bleeding, seamless...
Was this the next life Lonnrot believed in? Or was this an aleph, like he'd spoken of, the point at which all things are visible? Was his purpose here to hunt Lonnrot once more and deliver him to death in the proper place? He stretched his fingers tensely, anxious to hold a gun in his hands and complete his task, but that would be quite impossible for now. There was no Lonnrot, and there was no gun to be had. There would be no liberation through force (at least, not yet), only adaptation. Scharlach would die, just for a while, as 'Alonso Zunz,' earnest and wide-eyed, would learn all he could about this place, through books, through the journals, through the vanity and loose lips of his newfound 'associates.'
He adjusted his glasses (not that he needed them; his vision was fine), hunched his shoulders slightly as he seemed to draw into himself, and began to walk the corridor. He gave off the air of a man who felt much smaller than he was, who seemed unsure and uncomfortable with his own body, and wrung his hands for a moment, before-- seemingly at a loss for what to do with them-- shoving them into the pockets of his drab, dark coat. He would find his way to the library, and there, as Zunz, he would learn. There were books covering worlds upon worlds, seemingly independent of one another, yet all converging here, on the Barge, and he would absorb what he could about each and every one of them.
