[ti]Ep 3.5[/ti]I Am Pagliacci [Placebo]
Aug 24, 2022 16:14:20 GMT -5
Post by Windshield on Aug 24, 2022 16:14:20 GMT -5
Episode 3.5 | Week 1 | Day 2 | Open
The wind blew cold and fierce that night. No, it was not the kind of summer breeze one could enjoy passively. Only those of dulled senses or braver natures would walk the streets of this quiet mountain town at these hours. As luck would have it, just such characters gathered under lamplight tonight. There was a small bar up the hill from Main. Nothing special. A shoddy, seedy building with a sizable outdoor venue. Most people at most times would simply pass it by without a second thought. But not tonight. This time of the year, it was the local hotspot to enjoy some live rock music and have a few drinks in like-minded company. The weather mattered not, dozens showed either way. Leather and metal accessories adorned the patrons who came hither and yon.
Across from the open venue sat a modest parking lot. Several bikes and choppers littered the sides, but for the most part, cars took up the bulk with the occasional pickup truck breaking up the monotony. It was not particularly busy and the bright lights and music from the venue drowned out any other distinctive features the place may have otherwise had.
Some months back, Windshield was here for the first time. He remembered driving up the steep serpentines, telling nothing to the Autobots of his little foray. This adventure was his and his alone. He remembered edging closer to the venue, as far as the shaded parking lot would let him, and putting on his Holomatter avatar the way a human would clothes.
That was a night. A good night.
The people were nice, the music was good, and the food, well, he could not eat it, but it looked as amazingly disgusting as any other organic concoction the humans tried to pass for sustenance. He paid, back then, for a cup of black coffee which he pretended to drink, then joined some others to dance—before slipping away into the morning sunlight like the phantom culture thief he was.
None of them knew he wasn't human. It really was a good night.
This night wouldn't be quite so good. In fact, nothing was quite as good ever since he did what he did to Patch. Emotions long-buried, emotions he thought he had strangled early on in his Intelligence career, were rearing up their ugly heads again—a multi-headed hydra of shame, rage, and regret. And as much as he hated to admit it, it was affecting his performance.
He always slept little, now even less, and he'd often inject himself with whatever would put the edge off. He didn't have the opportunity to do that lately, but he wasn't stupid enough to think the withdrawal was the cause of his woes. He never was that kind of addict.
But there existed only one other person who ever knew this. That person was now on Earth. That person now wanted to see how one of his patients was doing. That person demanded they talk. No, that was a lie Windshield told the others—and himself—to shift the blame. It was his idea to invite Placebo out here to spend some time and have a nice "chat" during which he would no doubt be poked and prodded about the last few decades or centuries or...He did not remember how long it's been.
The black-and-purple Mustang rolled into the parking lot, slow and deliberate. It nearly faded into the night and it would have were it not for its lights. Just like it did those few months ago, the muscle car stopped close by the venue. There was a short pause as its engine died down—or pretended to do so. After all, this was all just pretend. Then, the doors opened and a "human" took his first step out of the "vehicle."
He wore mostly leather and (despite being in near-total darkness) a pair of sharp shades. His hair was slicked back, raven, and well-maintained. Oh, how he loved this avatar. Of all the faces worn, this one was his favorite by far. Perhaps more so than his own, if he could admit as much to himself.
Having stepped outside, the human facsimile adjusted the collar of its jacket and leaned laxly against the car. There was one more free spot by the Mustang. The puppet would not let just anybody take it. Only Placebo could and would. Windshield waited for him now, listening in on the echoes of distant music. Just because he was about to "talk things out" with a shrink didn't mean he couldn't enjoy it.
Another lie.
The wind blew cold and fierce that night. No, it was not the kind of summer breeze one could enjoy passively. Only those of dulled senses or braver natures would walk the streets of this quiet mountain town at these hours. As luck would have it, just such characters gathered under lamplight tonight. There was a small bar up the hill from Main. Nothing special. A shoddy, seedy building with a sizable outdoor venue. Most people at most times would simply pass it by without a second thought. But not tonight. This time of the year, it was the local hotspot to enjoy some live rock music and have a few drinks in like-minded company. The weather mattered not, dozens showed either way. Leather and metal accessories adorned the patrons who came hither and yon.
Across from the open venue sat a modest parking lot. Several bikes and choppers littered the sides, but for the most part, cars took up the bulk with the occasional pickup truck breaking up the monotony. It was not particularly busy and the bright lights and music from the venue drowned out any other distinctive features the place may have otherwise had.
Some months back, Windshield was here for the first time. He remembered driving up the steep serpentines, telling nothing to the Autobots of his little foray. This adventure was his and his alone. He remembered edging closer to the venue, as far as the shaded parking lot would let him, and putting on his Holomatter avatar the way a human would clothes.
That was a night. A good night.
The people were nice, the music was good, and the food, well, he could not eat it, but it looked as amazingly disgusting as any other organic concoction the humans tried to pass for sustenance. He paid, back then, for a cup of black coffee which he pretended to drink, then joined some others to dance—before slipping away into the morning sunlight like the phantom culture thief he was.
None of them knew he wasn't human. It really was a good night.
This night wouldn't be quite so good. In fact, nothing was quite as good ever since he did what he did to Patch. Emotions long-buried, emotions he thought he had strangled early on in his Intelligence career, were rearing up their ugly heads again—a multi-headed hydra of shame, rage, and regret. And as much as he hated to admit it, it was affecting his performance.
He always slept little, now even less, and he'd often inject himself with whatever would put the edge off. He didn't have the opportunity to do that lately, but he wasn't stupid enough to think the withdrawal was the cause of his woes. He never was that kind of addict.
But there existed only one other person who ever knew this. That person was now on Earth. That person now wanted to see how one of his patients was doing. That person demanded they talk. No, that was a lie Windshield told the others—and himself—to shift the blame. It was his idea to invite Placebo out here to spend some time and have a nice "chat" during which he would no doubt be poked and prodded about the last few decades or centuries or...He did not remember how long it's been.
The black-and-purple Mustang rolled into the parking lot, slow and deliberate. It nearly faded into the night and it would have were it not for its lights. Just like it did those few months ago, the muscle car stopped close by the venue. There was a short pause as its engine died down—or pretended to do so. After all, this was all just pretend. Then, the doors opened and a "human" took his first step out of the "vehicle."
He wore mostly leather and (despite being in near-total darkness) a pair of sharp shades. His hair was slicked back, raven, and well-maintained. Oh, how he loved this avatar. Of all the faces worn, this one was his favorite by far. Perhaps more so than his own, if he could admit as much to himself.
Having stepped outside, the human facsimile adjusted the collar of its jacket and leaned laxly against the car. There was one more free spot by the Mustang. The puppet would not let just anybody take it. Only Placebo could and would. Windshield waited for him now, listening in on the echoes of distant music. Just because he was about to "talk things out" with a shrink didn't mean he couldn't enjoy it.
Another lie.
