Part of him wanted to run there, to seek comfort, to confess what he'd done and be condemned because Simon was a nurse and there was no way that he was going to be okay with Nagyagite having almost ripped out someone's soul. He was in the business of saving lives, there was no way he'd approve of someone who had nearly so casually taken one.
But he wasn't sure he'd be able to take it. There was one, singular, goddamn good thing in Nagyagite's life; he was not eager to lose it. And maybe it was selfish and maybe it was shitty, but the idea of telling Simon the real, whole, unvarnished truth of what he was and what he did? Yeah, no, not pleasant.
He certainly wasn't going to hang around the neighborhood, though, because--well, what if Simon saw him, and then the confrontation became inevitable, and--no, no way, he had to leave. He turned, and started walking, and hoped that with people huddling up to avoid the terrible, stormy weather, no one would notice any of the strangeness he carried about him.
No one would look close enoguh to see scales. Or if they did, hopefully they'd dismiss it as a trick of the strange light.
His vision seemed strangely blurry, and Nagyagite wasn't sure what to make of it for a moment, until he realized that, in a display of ultimate miserable patheticness, he was starting to tear up. He'd nearly murdered someone, and he was crying like he had any right to be sad.
When he spotted a disused-looking alley, he ducked into it, to give himself a chance to lean against a wall, hide in the dark, and try to stop crying like the world's whiniest faux-villain.
Seriously. How pathetic.
He'd thought he was finally doing something worthwhile with the powers the Negaverse had given him. But no. He was so marked, so monstrous, that his very presence was enough to warrant attacking him. Yeah, sure,. he'd been draining energy, but with these storms, there was so much to take it barely mattered. And he'd responded to getting battered around by trying to kill someone.
And once upon a time, he wouldn't have cared. What the hell was happening to him, to turn him into this piteous, miserable creature? He'd never thought, before, that he would get precious about a little attempted murder, especially not once he'd become Nagyagite and been freed from the need to give a s**t about what anyone else thought of him unless it was one of his Negaverse superiors. Certainly none of them would have cared overmuch.
A flash of purple lightning briefly illuminated the alley, and Nagyagite groaned, burying his face in his hands.
This was stupid. He was ridiculous. But he'd thought--he didn't know. he'd thought maybe he was doing something right for once. And it hadn't ******** mattered, because he didn't get to do that. Not as he was.
[wc: 520 words][
/size] 