Portal Breach: The Collision of Worlds :: v.4.0

    Ridi, Pagliaccio



    Posts : 383
    Join date : 2017-04-08
    Age : 33
    Location : Anywhere the wind blows, babe.
    Level : 15

    Character Sheet
    Defense Bar:
    20/20  (20/20)
    Health Bar:
    200/200  (200/200)
    Stamina Bar:
    30/30  (30/30)

    Ridi, Pagliaccio

    Post by Scaramouche on Tue Jan 01, 2019 7:17 pm

    Time: 04:30:00
    Date: 1.02.09

    Life was the same old, same old. The same repetitive, tiring, and monotonous grind that plagued his days from morning to sunset, from the first note of the sparrow's romantic song to the twilight aria of the great hooded owl; from when he woke up broken, sullen, and miserable to when he went to bed broken, sullen, and miserable. He would 'sleep', he would hope for a brighter day, and it would mournfully culminate in yet another grey, dreary twenty-four hours of existence. The world had not changed, his sorrows did not improve. It was little more than a vicious, unproductive cycle.

    It was simply... nothing.

    Footsteps quickly creaked across the bedroom floor as a tall, slender figured moved quietly under the guise of early morning, their eyes twinkling within the gloom. Nearby, a clock faithfully tick'd and tock'd as it would until the end of its dutiful days, its metal hands pointed to the Roman numerals of IV and VI; 4:30 - time to prepare. Time to work...

    The morning went as it always did: Scaramouche grabbed his clothes for the day, having already laid them out the night prior, and readied the ironing board.

    They were, admittedly, nothing fancy or tantalizing to the eye. While his clothes had once been new and crisp to the touch, they were now worn, loose at the seams, and faded. They were old, they were exhausted. And yet he still fussed with them all the same, for the robot had nothing else; wanted for nothing else. In ten minutes' time, right down to the very last second as it usually did, he finished ironing his uniform and carried it to the master bathroom to dress himself. Except, this time, the android hesitated as he stood before the mirror generously sprawled across the bathroom wall. "..." Look at him, so dull and fatigued and morose. It was laughable. It was pathetic. And yet, it was the truth in his reflection. He stared down at his clothes, at his costume, and felt a twisting pang of shame.

    Once he slipped into character, it would be the death of himself. The world will see a grinning, laughing metal-man - a fool - and for the longest time he had been content with the portrait it so blithely painted.

    Up until, that is, the vestiges of last year.

    Friendships had been forged and subsequently rent in twain; the world took on water and yet it was emptier than it ever has been; and he never felt so strongly, irrevocably... alone... Optics turned balefully to the clothing grasped within his hands, the fabric bunched tightly and no longer a work of perfection. And yet, Scaramouche did not care. How could he, when he had grown to despise these oppressive rags? Grown to yearn for carefree days of olde as a bird in a gilded cage yearned for the blue sky? The moment he put these on, all the world will again know him as Scaramouche the Cook, Scaramouche the Bartender, the Dishwasher, the Working 'Bot, the liberated servant who so brashly sold himself into servitude for the siren's song that no self-respecting fool could resist: the intoxicating allure... of love. And it was that same love that kept the android willingly shackled to perhaps the greatest joy of his long, arduous life. Alas...

    Alas, things were changing; people were changing. And here he was, expected to laugh and smile as if life hadn't altered course. Friendships had become meaningless... Others were incapable of sharing the weight of another's sorrow... Everything had gradually felt so... distant... In the end, as much as he wanted to burn these clothes - to once again adopt the mantle of a carefree vagabond and sword for hire - ...they were all he had. They were him, and he could not separate the actor from the role without exposing himself to the insensitive jeering of others.

    He could not show his friends that he was broken.

    He could not show his Adonis, his best friend that he was sullen.

    And he could not, would not, show his love that he was as every much miserable as she had been in the past.

    Thus, it was with a heavy 'heart', that Scaramouche slipped into his pants and buttoned up his shirt, his every action slow and without feeling. This was him. This was who he had to be; for them... for her... Let him be the fool. Let him be the honking asshole. Let him be anything the world wished, for it was but a stage and he a proud, charismatic jester that delighted the audience and basked in their laughter. He sniffed once, polishing his face and LED display, and wore a nascent smile. "..." It was short-lived. All that stared back was himself; a lonely thespian without his troupe, a friend without his companions, a lover without his better half. Just... him, and the unshakeable realization that he will never be good enough for anything other than that of a buffoon.

    Well... Being based off of Scaramuccia gives you something to hold onto, I'd say. In those times when life rocks you and leaves you unsure, you still know you're Scaramouche, and all that that entails.

    An unsteady sigh escaped his nostrils. Scaramouche splashed a few droplets of cologne behind the boxy corners of his jawline and left the master bathroom, unable to look at the truth any longer as he grabbed his hat along the way to the downstairs kitchen. The show must go on, and he had his role, however unfulfilling, to play.

    They all did.


      Current date/time is Tue Mar 26, 2019 10:55 am