[ It isn't the thrill of exploration that leads Peter to the bank β or even the necessity of exploration; some others may see it that way, the newly-opened bank doors as a threshold to potential answers about this place. Its secrets.
Peter doesn't want to know. Whatever secrets are to be found in this empty city, they should stay buried with all of the other dead things he knows.
No, the only reason he ends up standing outside of that bank is because he's wandered close to it in one of his typical fugue-states, a thing that's more ghost than a person, drifting aimlessly. It happens so often to him now, half-lidded and lost. He could wind up anywhere. He does now β and it isn't curiosity that leads him inwards to step carefully against thick marble floors, breathing in cool, still air. He just doesn't know where else to go but forwards. And maybe some part of him still thinks he's dreaming, thinks if he keeps walking he'll find someone eventually, he'll wake up. (Into what, he doesn't know.)
So he moves. Though he's been cleaned up considerably since he first arrived in this place so broken and bloodied, he's still something of a startling sight. A bandaged splint is evidence of a freshly-broken nose; purple bruises blossom out from the injury, and around his eyes.
When he finds a key with his name on it, something slick and unpleasant worms its way into his stomach, then coils itself tightly there. He doesn't like it, things knowing him. Doesn't like the implication of something that needs to be found, and opened. (But despite his fear, he's so small on the inside, and enough days have passed that he's begun waking in the night crying out for his mother. He misses his family, even if....)
He has to wake up. Keep going, wake up.
He steps into the vault. And there is a box that matches the key, and all of Peter's focus is vexed on it, eyes wide. When he draws it to the table, his hands are shaking so hard that it's difficult to turn the key, and he's oblivious to anyone else who may be stepping up into the vault behind him, someone mere moments behind his journey forwards. His breath is a staggered thing as he unlocks the box and sees what's within β frozen for a long moment, before everything crumbles. He can feel the chilly wind of that afternoon, the way the grass smelled. The waves of irritation, tucked beneath the layer of numbness he'd learned how to forge for himself over the years. He only wanted to go home.
(His mother's smile that never reached her eyes, his father's smile that was always too strained. Charlie, so small and always out of place, like a little bird who fell too far from her nestβ)
βPeter cries out, hands dropping the photo like it burns. It flutters to the table, and behind him, something he doesn't even register, not yetβ the sound of the vault door slamming shut, and sealing everything within. ]
it's true, people take things but rarely. ( π½π¨π΅π¬πΊπΊπ¨ π°π½π¬πΊ )
Peter doesn't want to know. Whatever secrets are to be found in this empty city, they should stay buried with all of the other dead things he knows.
No, the only reason he ends up standing outside of that bank is because he's wandered close to it in one of his typical fugue-states, a thing that's more ghost than a person, drifting aimlessly. It happens so often to him now, half-lidded and lost. He could wind up anywhere. He does now β and it isn't curiosity that leads him inwards to step carefully against thick marble floors, breathing in cool, still air. He just doesn't know where else to go but forwards. And maybe some part of him still thinks he's dreaming, thinks if he keeps walking he'll find someone eventually, he'll wake up. (Into what, he doesn't know.)
So he moves. Though he's been cleaned up considerably since he first arrived in this place so broken and bloodied, he's still something of a startling sight. A bandaged splint is evidence of a freshly-broken nose; purple bruises blossom out from the injury, and around his eyes.
When he finds a key with his name on it, something slick and unpleasant worms its way into his stomach, then coils itself tightly there. He doesn't like it, things knowing him. Doesn't like the implication of something that needs to be found, and opened. (But despite his fear, he's so small on the inside, and enough days have passed that he's begun waking in the night crying out for his mother. He misses his family, even if....)
He has to wake up. Keep going, wake up.
He steps into the vault. And there is a box that matches the key, and all of Peter's focus is vexed on it, eyes wide. When he draws it to the table, his hands are shaking so hard that it's difficult to turn the key, and he's oblivious to anyone else who may be stepping up into the vault behind him, someone mere moments behind his journey forwards. His breath is a staggered thing as he unlocks the box and sees what's within β frozen for a long moment, before everything crumbles. He can feel the chilly wind of that afternoon, the way the grass smelled. The waves of irritation, tucked beneath the layer of numbness he'd learned how to forge for himself over the years. He only wanted to go home.
(His mother's smile that never reached her eyes, his father's smile that was always too strained. Charlie, so small and always out of place, like a little bird who fell too far from her nestβ)
βPeter cries out, hands dropping the photo like it burns. It flutters to the table, and behind him, something he doesn't even register, not yetβ the sound of the vault door slamming shut, and sealing everything within. ]