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On the busy harborfront, how was he going to get it out?

Simple.

Iden began to move for one of the docks. The boats were lined up, and he still looked like he was on business. The thing was, everyone was busy with their own thing. Would anyone really notice if a single person rounded a corner, then suddenly wasn't there? With a bustling dock, it wasn't hard to find cover. There must have been plentiful places to duck and hide.

Of course, he wasn't ducking or hiding, but soundlessly slipping off the dock and into the water. What little noise he would make would most certainly be drowned out by the din of the workmen doing their jobs.

This....was going to suck.

Maybe he should have thought this plan out a little more, but alas, it was Iden. Impulsive action was his nature.

That said, he curled his body around the wetsuit. He wanted it unharmed. He whethered the tumbling, and his right arm reached out, in a desperate attempt to find purchase amongst the crusted over old stones at the bottom. If he could grab hold, he could control his movement, and that would be something akin to a godsend.

As soon as the hurting stopped, he knew he wasn't fully dead, and was clear of the harbor.

Step one, complete.

Now, began step two....holding position. Not a CHANCE was he emerging from the water as he was. It would lead to HORRIBLY awkward questions.

So he remained in the deeper waters, planted firmly to the bed of the water, and waited for the light to go away.

And that explained the second part of why he was doing what he was doing.

Now he knew WHY he wanted the wetsuit, seeing as it had struck him halfway through that, being a dead man already, would he really need the outfit?

Yup.

Come the abandoning of the beaches, he hauled a**, plain and simple. GT of the F'ing O.

Destination? His little hideaway hotel.

At first, his pace was a steady walk. He looked normal enough, albeit a little soaked.

But as the minutes drew on longer, his gait became a little more unsteady, and he took to a shuffling walk. Most would identify him as having had just a little too much to drink, just by nature of his lack of coordination, which was all well and good. He didn't need the attention.

He reached the hotel, and made all haste to close and lock the door behind him. By now he was in an all out twitch, and his facade of supreme detatchment was failing in the most epic of ways. He forced himself to sit at the desk provided in the room, and cradled his head in his arms. He was panting, as if short of breath, despite that he needn't breathe, and his body was twitching slightly, making the sight unnerving indeed, despite that there was no one present to see it.

For a moment, it seemed he was growing calm once more. The twitching slowly receded, and his breath stabilized. But then, he grasped the back of his head by the hair, and his hands forced his head down, slamming violently into the desk. Not once, not twice, but repeatedly he bashed his face with astounding force into the wooden surface, each repeated hammerblow producing another muffled banging with the impact. Soon, his head began to bleed, as the wood began to give and show signs of the abuse. Splinters gouged into skin, and blood began to dribble freely over Iden's face as the self-inflicted abuse continued.

Soon, the effort burned itself out, and his face flopped forwards limply onto the desk. Once again he began to twitch, though this was not to pass any time soon.

Minutes continued, as the dribbled blood continued to seep across the desk. Iden's face slowly lifted, and a blank stare fixed upon the marred desk. He ran his fingers through it, slowly drawing designs, and making marks upon the wood. Why, was impossible to tell. But from the blankness in his eye, and the mechanical way in which he drew onwards, it was plain to see that he was only partially there.

And so the night would draw on, and likely it was for the best that no one would be present to witness what occured within that room.

Something snapped, and it was likely a good thing.

First and foremost, he withdrew to the shower, and ran the tap over his head. Then....well, he had a hotel owner to deal with.

Iden shuffled to the door, holding his head with his right hand. The wound was smaller, now, thankfully. Not so large, not so bad. He'd managed to rid most of the blood with the running water, thankfully.

He opened the door. Sure, the owner was likely an irritated SoB, but Iden had a legitimate excuse. He LOOKED the role of what he was feeding to the man...an American on vacation, whom had tipped a few too many, and wound up falling over, and giving his head a good crack on the furniture. The noise, then, was what happened when poor coordination paired itself with physical injury...and the reason it had stopped was because he had forced his head into the shower, and then taken to laying down.

Aaaaaaaaand with the presence of the owner no longer gracing his room, Iden returned to his desk. Forcing himself to appear at least relatively sane was a strain, however. Slowly, his head sagged forwards, and thumped softly onto the desk. It was going to be a long night.

Dawn.

For most, mornings sucked. For some, mornings were a blessing. For Iden, it was a relief.

The morning sun brought with it focus, as he had his mission to fulfill.

He stirred, having long since collapsed in the bed, incapable of physically sustaining himself in a state of self awareness. The first thing he needed was to throw himself (figuratively) into the shower...his arms had blood all over them, long since dried.

As the stress and blood washed away, Iden could see that the damage had not been explicitely done to himself. The only wound was still that on his head....and it seemed he had reopened it, and tried to peel the flesh away. It had healed, but it was highly unnerving to think about.

The shower proved to help, however, especially in fixing his mind on the task at hand. He needed to take stock of what he had done so far, and what he needed to do.

First off, he was not surprised to see that the wetsuit was no longer usable. Somewhere along the course of the night it had been torn, ripped up. The largest intact piece was a bloody ribbon, where bizarre pictographs and words had been inked crudely. If Iden had to guess, it was WHY his fingers had been coated in blood...and he could only shake his head at the only coherent sentance scrawled on the ruined suit.

"NO IM NOT AWAKE"

Iden shook his head. It was a hopeless cause, this suit. But it was of no consequence. He'd still gained something from the previous day, now that he had the clarity of mind to think of it.

But now, he'd need a new wetsuit.

Iden slipped out of the room, and left the "do not disturb" sign at the doorknob. He had business to attend to, and a role to play. He looked the part, wearing light colored cargo pants, and a loose, light t-shirt. The shades made to finish the look, once again making Iden appear the part of the American tourist.

Iden took to the streets well. Despite his cold demeanor, he managed to mask himself to look like he were enjoying himself.

First stop? The shops. He needed a wetsuit.