The door clicked shut behind him and Lawrence exhaled. His room was one of the few places that he could convert himself back to the creature that lay within the bounds of Chantelle’s persona pulling the levers. Here, he was completely alone and - after his shower - free of the makeup that provided nothing but more bars at the windows of that same prison. For the time being, he was free but even with that freedom came a sort of dread that inside this shell he should not be able to define his own parameters.

Things had been exceedingly difficult since he had been podded and set inside this artificial body, what had once been a helpful mask had become a place where he had found himself utterly trapped, saying stupid vapid things that he could not strictly control. The need to maintain the persona eclipsed all other considerations and got in the way of his persistent plots and machinations. Being found out would set him back to square one, held at arm’s length by those who knew him and even those who did not, this pathetic mask had become more important than it had ever been. With his body he had lost what tenuous sense of self he had and there was a stirring of restlessness that was as close as he ever came to irritation that it was all H’s fault. He was not one for revenge as a general rule, but it was still noted that it would be satisfying in some way to exact an equal exchange of inconvenience with the other man, a balanced business transaction.

Pulling on one of his white shirts and trousers, he stood critically in front of the mirror, narrowing his eyes in disapproval at the darkness of this golem’s complexion and her hair - hair that was unfortunately rooted to the scalp rather than to a removable wig. He saw his own features there of course, but they were nigh unrecognisable in their realisation. It was like looking at a mountain cast in shadow from a direction one had never encountered, its entire nature changed by a simple shift of light. He tied the hair back briskly and sat on the bed. He could not bring his books down here to this dark and dingy prison, they should be damaged by the dampness, creeping into their pages, foisting a shortened lifespan upon something which should have been immortal.

He had not been able to really find an excuse to visit Horace other than infrequent examinations of his mental state in the infirmary. The man seemed to retain an attachment to him which was a compliment to his own cunning and manipulation. He understood love, even if he could not truly feel it in the glandular, emotional sense. It danced to the tune he played for it and could turn human beings into servants willing to die for his enjoyment, to devote themselves entirely to him with the correct base components. Horace had survived the crescendo due to interference from outside factors, denied the beautiful death that he had intended to give him, left incomplete and suffering. It was cruel, a wounded animal which could no longer function. He remembered too well what happened to hopeless strays, being the final hand upon so very very many of them. Humans had an essentially flawed attitude towards death, valuing their own selfish existences over that of perceptibly lesser creatures. He considered this so absurd as to almost be amusing, the creatures that shared the planet with selfish humanity had purpose and drive, sharp direct lives which were not hampered with illogical emotion, brutality, life and death came most naturally to them. He fell somewhere between and above both worlds, able to comprehend the wonder of his own intellect while being unhindered with the weaknesses that emotions brought with them. Horace had been burdened with so much emotion, different in pitch and tone from America, a solitary melody used and abused so much already, a stray dog which would see a packmate in anyone, who would return to lick the boot of infinite kicks. It was this animalistic slant to the man which had made him entertaining and still did. He was an unfinished work and required completion.

Following America had also become more of a burden than it had ever been of late, he could no longer permit himself to be seen by her - which he often had - for matters of intimidation. He had to use every ounce of stealth he possessed to keep out of sight and more often than not had to surrender a vigil because of the risks of being spotted and questioned.

He did not have a temper in the same way other people did, stress was not a factor in his mood, but he did have a libido and that more than anything else dictated the pursuit of satisfaction from one source or another. Horace had provided a certain level of control over this factor, paired with Melvin, but now he had neither and that had left him a little short when it came to his willingness to let issues be and exercise self control. He could get so close to America like this yet whisper not one single word to make her angry, to bask in that rage and indignation he enjoyed so much. He was trapped and was not certain how long the mask might sustain itself before the creature beneath it was forced to pursue the emotional outbursts that assuaged the restlessness and regardless of consequences, take advantage of this opportunity.

Leave presented itself as an option and he made note to check his clearance at the portals, what one could not attain on the island, one might always attain elsewhere. This prospect seemed to ease the coiled tension settling somewhere beyond the void and once again provided him drive and motivation to continue. He reached out for Chantelle’s makeup and resolved that he would do just that, and that he would begin to pen the composition that would in time be all that remained of Horace.