Quote:
Backdated to before mayday mayday.
Faustite seldom wrote. He thought that understandable, if unfortunate, given his condition.
Even so, he made every effort possible to write when he could, as he much preferred it over hunting and pecking at a keyboard that wasn't even alphabetized. He didn't understand how the other agents could deal with the tablets or their obnoxious touchscreens, if not for the fact that his coworkers weren't on fire, so they could touch the screen without starting to melt it. Of course, their preference for tablets meant that their handwriting was atrocious, too.
Faustite didn't want to be lumped in with them. But as he looked at his finished note, ink still wet in the nib of his pen, he blew out a smoky, testy sigh.
His handwriting sucked. And he would have to leave this for a boy.
Trey had been right — of the team, he was the one with the best rapport with this particular boy, even if said rapport amounted to 'walk the other way instantly, straight back into a mirror'. Part of him was at war with trying this at all — why would Murikabushi care, or even show at all when he was under no obligation? — but the team had so wanted a Dark Mirror ally. They wanted this ally, not that femmy Gorgon b***h or Acubens, who screeched perpetually and had even less chill than Faustite, who was literally on fire. This whole affair was a recipe for getting stood up, for wasting a General's time when he could've been plotting another mission or planning some way to break into that building in the Rift without using dynamite.
Maybe that'd be what he'd do after this. Pop down into the Rift with a few cases of dynamite, use himself to light the wicks, and hang around until he painted the rocks with a fine black paste. Wouldn't be much different than what he already experienced, he assumed.
"Whatever," he muttered to no one in particular. Faustite pinched the paper between two black claws as he vanished from his office.
The Farnsworth was still the same mess that he remembered. The renovation team had started with the basement, it seemed, and the basement was where the money ran out, which left the first floor a complete wreck with much of the furniture pushed against the walls. The receptionist's desk was a short walk from the locked entrance — a large oak table that was meant to say we have more money than you to any other working professional that walked in the door. It had burnt less than he expected, given that much of it was still intact, if blackened and withered.
As he knelt, he found that some of the drawers still worked. Faustite opened a cabinet at the bottom of the desk and tented his note on the most visible shelf therein. As an afterthought, he wrote an M on the back, partially for Murikabushi to know that the note was for him, and partially because Faustite had very little clue how to spell the boy's full name. It would have to do.
Shutting the doors, Faustite stood and vanished. He felt foolish. He always did.
amorremanet
would've gone for a transparent bg if all of my art programs weren't horribly broken
