wolven7 | Tools of the Trade.

It burns. Grafted together with minute precision, and on every metaphysical cell, a Mark, that is mine. The Mark Reads: "I go Anywhere. Try to stop me, if you'd be so kind." Bravado. It's an unintentional marking, because it's an unintentional Thing. Experitmentation. "What does This button do?" We'll see. And I'm mine, and whosoever wants me, damn well better ask. Because this is a trade of Messages, and straightforward communication. I've got an arrow, and Message for you, Sir.

Because it leaves, and things were never the same, after that. Welcome to Politcal Life, zero one one one. In Which We Learn The Nature of the Games We Play, and How to Avoid it. Don't get any of that on your clothes; it abstains.

Not Minion, not lackey, not errand boy, not servant. Messenger. Bad things happen, when there aren't any. What would you do, without your mRNA?

["It burns, here, and i'm cold, all the time."

He folded his wings around him, and there was a thin layer of burning black flame, there. Huddled to keep himself warm.

"The bits aren't integrated, yet, and i feel like i'm not part of any of them. Like they hold me, and i can't do anything about it. It itches. Inside of my mind, it itches."

He scratched the back of his head, unconsciously, then, and I put my arm, around his shoulder. Around his wings. "It's all in your Head," I wanted to tell him. "Everyting about this that traps you, all that itches, inside, under the layers, the outside. It's all in your head. All in everyone's heads. Walls help define pathways, and any wall can be broken, if it must." But I said nothing. Because i knew that, one day, he'd-- they'd-- figure it all out, for him[them]self[/ves].