He suddenly lurchs away from desk, hands dragging through his messy hair while a chocked down, frustrated scream makes his throat quiver.

He then slumps, tired.

This is not the first time you've seen him like this, nor will it be the last.

As he looks out the tall windows into the night sky forlornly, you cannot help but wonder how it came to this.

You stare from across the desk, silent and stoic, the youth an open book to your expert gaze. You've known him for what feels like forever now; even if he's learned a little about stoicism in recent months, he never bothers to put on masks when you are the only one watching.

Your gaze slowly drags away from his tired countenance, to the many texts strewn over his desk- the source of his frustrations. Your scythes feel heavy with a need to cleave.

He used to care about such things almost as much as you; that is to sau, not at all. But ever since he started wearing those fancy fabrics and began acquiring actual meals, those texts and the meaningless symbols within them had become a daily part of his routine.

You don't really understand why, but his circumstances, your circumstances, have gotten much better since he began forcing himself to suffer through those texts.

Everything has gotten better. You assume he must be doing something right.

So why does he always look so miserable?

You hate it.

You want to cut the source of the youth's stress to tiny pieces.

But only a few moments later... he's back at it again, brow set as he looks into the abyss of meaningless symbols and gleams meaning where you are certain there's none.

So you refrain then, as you have every other time in the past.

For now.

---

TAG: @

[player]https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/793627575091593227/839159727489286198/Bruce_Springsteen_-_Born_To_Run.mp3[/player]

'On autopilot' seems like a rather apt description. Driving through the long, lonesome roads of Route 111 on a rickety pick up truck, your trainer's gaze is worryingly unfocused and absent; not entirely there.

His unschooled expression makes him an open book. He is remembering. You don't know what.

The music is one of those old-ish sounding tracks he often plays on repeat when alone.

You don't know why he dragged you along with him on this meaningless waste of gas.

You know it sure as hell is not for companionship; he has not spoken or even looked at you at all since you set out.

You've been driving for over an hour and he doesn't seem to be planning to go back (or to do anything, really) any time soon... So you give him a little prod.

The car jerks suddenly as his head bops sharply, arms and spine straightening out without warning and giving you both- well, him, really, this is hardly a danger for you- a good scare.

A moment later, his eyes narrow as his lips purse, brow furrowed as he glances at you.

"What?"

You stare at him flatly. His frown slowly wilts under your silent stare until it disappears entirely.

"Oh... right. I didn't tell ya anything, did I." He said, turning his gaze back to the road. His squeezed the wheel tightly.

"We are just going to make a... small experiment, is all." He says, which immediately brings a thought to your mind.

Ah. Fascination Ufo.

You think you understand what you'll be doing now.

Boring.

So boring.

He is boring.

He is always glued to that boring desk now.

Pouring through boring papers and boring news and boring lectures and boring reports and boring challengers.

He isn't entertaining when he is alone.

He doesn't make funny sounds or funny faces.

He doesn't whine or complain.

He sits there with a blank, boring expression and wastes away in his self-inflicted misery.

So much misery.

You can almost swear it's killing him, if it weren't making you, and therefore him, stronger.

Ah... This is so terribly dull. Self-loathing is the most boring, pathetic form of suffering.

Ah... You wants to go Crypt Hunting so badly... Even without having been there yourself, it was wonderful. Thrilling. Painful.

Ah... Won't someone, anyone make something, anything happen?

---

TAG: @

Winner-Take-All Politics.

And several other examinations of Capitalism.

Recently, you began replacing the young master's Super-Caffeinated Charja-Cola with... water.

Either he's letting you get away with it, or the beverage has already burnt through his tastebuds.

Though you hoped the change would improve the young master's sleep, there's yet to be any noticeable changes on his sleeping patterns- or the lack thereof.

Bizarre, given how often he's been reading recently. In the past, you would've found him passed out from boredom after only half an hour of books.

Now, they are beginning to pile on his desk, a mess that pains you to look at when combined with the several empty cans of (water) charjacola laying around it.

A sigh from the young master brought your attention back to him as he set down yet another book on the table, closing it shut.

"Hn... " He says, leaning his head onto his palm whilst rubbing his temples.

You approach him after a moment, interrupting whatever this is by setting an egg atop the table.

He glances up, staring at the gargantuan oval for a moment before awkwardly reaching for it.

"Uh... Thank you." He mutters, meeting your gaze for a moment before slowly glancing off to the office's large window.

Darkness covers the night, the moon unseen. What time was it now...? Something like 4 in the morning...?

"Sorry. I'll go sleep now." He mumbles, slowly beginning to stand, stumbling as he does. You round around the table to support him.

"Thanks, Joy." He mumbles, leaning against you.

A Beautiful Day.

yeeeesss.

Oh, it was a beautiful day.

CRASH! CRACK!

A desk flew out a shattered window within Camp Winstrate as a panicked voice rose high.

"C-captain?! P-please calm down!"

"NO, WHO THE FU-?!"

This was wonderful.

"Captain WAIT!"

BAM!

"THOSE GENOCIDAL CUN-!!"

"Sir, that's the Commissi-"

"I DON'T GIVE A SHIT! GET ME MY FUCKING PHONE! NOW!"

You silently laugh while lounging in the couch.

Things are finally getting fun again~.

---

TAG: @

Amateur.

You call that tactics?!

"Stop cheatin' already!"

You blink innocently at the young Captain of Winstrate. You've no idea of what he's talking about! Honest!

"Don't give me that look! Ya think I didn't notice that?!"

Notice? Notice what? You've just been sitting right in front of him! You were kind and generous enough to accept his invitation to play this BORING ASS GAME, even! Chess, mwesh!

BORING!

"YER EATING THE PIECES!"

... Maybe.

"GIVE 'EM 'ERE!"

The youth threw himself at you, leaping over the chess board.

You could just freeze him midair... or wrestle him down, you've got quite a bit of strength yourself, despite your looks.

Still... the two of you roll around for a few seconds before you choke hold him, laughing the entire time.

Well, you were laughing. His screaming eventually brought the whole camp to his office.

---

TAG: @

[player]https://file.garden/ZeX_8xo9KEiz9dtz/forum%20music/Rainy_Day_Cafe.mp3[/player]
The first thing to greet him upon opening the door was not a face full of dust, as he had expected, but the low notes of a piano to go with the rain pouring outside of the apartment building.

Nostalgia washed over him as he took his first steps inside his old... new flat.

Though it felt as though dust and cobwebs should've covered every inch and every surface in the room, everything was instead clean to a polish.

He could see himself on the polished wood beneath his feet. On the glass panels of book shelves and vinyl storages around him.

A version of him, at least.

Standing before old CDs and books he could barely remember, the youth slowly brought a hand to his face, smooth and without a hint of facial hair or wrinkle.

It happened. He knew it had.

Yet here he stood, 19 again, with nothing to show for it.

He needed some rest.