[ Kim follows Midnight in, far more begrudgingly than the other man, but willingly enough. A trap it may be, but a trap he's willing to trigger to get some more information, though he supposes it would probably be wiser to hang back and wait until someone else tries it first. Still, in for a penny, in for a pound.
He's not sure what he's expecting, exactly. A cryptic note, perhaps? A gift, much like the 'gifts' they have received before? Jewelry? Gems? Something that belongs to this City, something that belongs in a box like this one. Maybe even a trick; exploding glitter, organic warfare, maybe a creepy bug or two. What he didn't, couldn't have expected, was the little toy that sits innocently within: a small toy aerostatic, white with red wings and blue accents on the tail, its title etched along its side in deep black Seolite characters. Brow furrowed, he gingerly reaches out to touch it and finds himself flooded with a visceral, unwelcome memory. It was no moment of great trauma, nothing that would make its way into any autobiography, any film; just a small offense among the many that made up Kim's life. Suddenly, it is as though he is nine years old again, isolated even for one of Revachol's great many orphans, bangs cut in a bowl cut drooping low over his glasses, cartoonishly thick on his narrow face, staring furiously down at the toy that he believed had brought him such great grief, though it had been a gift from a family long since deceased. All because of a few foreign characters. The accusations lobbed his way, the names he had been called -- it's not the sort of thing he cares to repeat. He remembers the way he had angrily shoved it into the trash, making sure that the other kids could see the way he refuted his heritage.
He had regretted it as soon as the trash had been taken away. A precious relic of a good life he may have had, gone. And what did it do for the bullying? Nothing. If anything, it amplified it. Kim knows now as an adult what he didn't back then: nothing he did or said could have quelled the torment. It was his birthright, plain and simple. He should have just kept the damn toy.
In the here and now, Kim recoils as though the box had burned him, stumbling backwards to put some distance between it and himself. ]
Goddammit, [ he swears swiftly. ] This place is just fucking with us now. [ This shouldn't be possible. It had been relegated to some trash heap decades ago. He takes a breath, deciding to do what he does best: deflect. He turns to his companion, posture now ramrod straight. ] What'd you get?
no subject
He's not sure what he's expecting, exactly. A cryptic note, perhaps? A gift, much like the 'gifts' they have received before? Jewelry? Gems? Something that belongs to this City, something that belongs in a box like this one. Maybe even a trick; exploding glitter, organic warfare, maybe a creepy bug or two. What he didn't, couldn't have expected, was the little toy that sits innocently within: a small toy aerostatic, white with red wings and blue accents on the tail, its title etched along its side in deep black Seolite characters. Brow furrowed, he gingerly reaches out to touch it and finds himself flooded with a visceral, unwelcome memory. It was no moment of great trauma, nothing that would make its way into any autobiography, any film; just a small offense among the many that made up Kim's life. Suddenly, it is as though he is nine years old again, isolated even for one of Revachol's great many orphans, bangs cut in a bowl cut drooping low over his glasses, cartoonishly thick on his narrow face, staring furiously down at the toy that he believed had brought him such great grief, though it had been a gift from a family long since deceased. All because of a few foreign characters. The accusations lobbed his way, the names he had been called -- it's not the sort of thing he cares to repeat. He remembers the way he had angrily shoved it into the trash, making sure that the other kids could see the way he refuted his heritage.
He had regretted it as soon as the trash had been taken away. A precious relic of a good life he may have had, gone. And what did it do for the bullying? Nothing. If anything, it amplified it. Kim knows now as an adult what he didn't back then: nothing he did or said could have quelled the torment. It was his birthright, plain and simple. He should have just kept the damn toy.
In the here and now, Kim recoils as though the box had burned him, stumbling backwards to put some distance between it and himself. ]
Goddammit, [ he swears swiftly. ] This place is just fucking with us now. [ This shouldn't be possible. It had been relegated to some trash heap decades ago. He takes a breath, deciding to do what he does best: deflect. He turns to his companion, posture now ramrod straight. ] What'd you get?