-❽❽°

[Politics]

Ｃｈａｐｔｅｒ ❶ || Ｃａｓｅ ⓪
Ｔｈｅ ｒｅｓｏｌｕｔｅ ｎａｔｕｒｅ
Ｏｆ Ａ Ⓜ︎ａｎ ｎａⓂ︎ｅｄ ＲｏⓂ︎ｅｏ


A splintering pain seeped through the edges of his wound. Red dribbled out, mimicking more a babbling brook than any blood could be. That one fateful kiss of the bullet was enough to send him tumbling down. His suit was rumpled. His tie lazily strewn up his collar, of which was wrinkled and carelessly tousled in two different directions. The two topmost buttons were missing In action, off to live forever out of reach of the young man to which they served. A golden watch glinted in the morning light, barely grasping onto his strong wrist.
An ancient quiet had arisen where he lay. The silence of death, of angelic harmony, and of ear-ringing soundlessness. A silence that had tailed man closely, waiting for demise, war, and meloncoly to return once more, filling the ears of humankind. A silence whose sole purpose was to feast on the kindling hopes of the earth. It was unbearable. The nothingness of it lured out all will to live, burning it in the flames of despair. Silence was a killer. A killer whom he knew very well.
What did he do wrong? Why was...this happening so soon? Too many questions whirred in his head like locusts ready to feast. They picked and prodded at all of the potential he was wasting. As he, himself, was wasting away, slowly leaving this world on a sharp note. He had left the song of himself unfinished. A lacklustre end to a legacy. A climax cut off at the biggest turning point. The reality sent panic drilling into his heart, letting loose a rampaging heartbeat.
A grand, sweeping garden lay above him.
He felt himself loosing his grip.
The warm air perambulated and danced about his flank. The soft, gentle carpeting of grass that lay below blanketed his sense of reality. The carnations and roses caressed his skin, preparing his deathbed with silent consoling. The small flecks of light that were cast down upon him seemed to blur and glow, melting into the world. The curtain would soon come to a close. This place had always been a dangerous one. Yet...was also renowned for being the most appealing. Rolling hills crowned the large estates. Masterful gardens were filled with flowers that seemed to be crafted with the very stars in the sky. Miles sweeping, open feilds coveted by lush forest. Warm, pillowy sunlight in every season. Gentle breezes that blessed the flowing waves of wheat and tall grass. The very heavens seemed infatuated with the place. And that is here he laid now.
Orange eyes took one last glance at the world.
It was beautiful.

[Politics]

【Ａｃｔ ❷】【Ｃａｓｅ ⓪】
【Ｔｈｅ ＤｒｅａⓂ︎ℹ︎ｎｇ，ＨｏⓂ︎ｅｓℹ︎ｃｋ】
【Ｓｔｒａｎｇｅｒ Ｓｔｕｃｋ 】
【ℹ︎ｎ Ｒｅａｌℹ︎ｔｙ】

What a beautiful thing he'd chanced upon. Or, moreso in detail, woken up in. Granted, it was wartime here and everything was stupidly overcomplicated because they were all loosing their heads(along with their minds) over political issues they were all too lazy to read into properly. But the delicate stranger was unwillingly resilient. They were unchanged, similar to nature. They seemed to be the only two things that remained without a care for the war or for people, which was a calming thing to see. The stranger, in of themself, was quite calming to look at themselves. They were rather charming in face, and nicely curved in figure. However, their eyes carried the look of a young man whom had seen far too much for his age. And this was true in all actuality. This was the stranger's empire. Their mind and thinking. But young Romero, as he was, stood cluelessly at the gate of this grand, complex empire, unknowing that his first word would spur on far more than he needed. And so his investigation unwittingly began. Seventeen by face, most likely. Feminine in figure, with soft, distant eyes. Expensive clothing, but sitting casually and not on edge. Eyes fixated not on a person, but tracing the delicate woodwork of the train they were on. Meticulous and clean. All clothing ironed and scarcely wrinkled, tie neatly tucked into coat, hair done up very well, and shoes polished masterfully. Gender was still up in the air, so he saved it for later. In any case, they were probably wealthy, not from the country, and most definitely out of place in every other nameable way.
In the meantime, the stranger's through observation of the deep, reddish wood was out of boredom and not admiration, as they'd seen finer. They were a well traveled fellow, and, at this point, were comfortable in many a situation. This was child's play. They paused at each delicate curve and stroke of the wood, following it from an artistic perspective, and lesser so of an analytical one, as it usually consisted of elements of both. The stranger looked down for a moment, over at Romero in an ever-so-polite(yet slightly confused) look as they met eyes, both of them averting glances as they noticed the other's. But still, the stranger persevered in their observations. It was more of personality, as they felt they'd known that kind of person anywhere. But their thoughts were so reserved that it would be hard for an omniscient author to regale you of their philosophical endeavors. The first obvious thought was the funny chain of coincidences that led to their meeting once more. It started on opposite tracks, Romero standing indecisively at the station, quite clearly having nowhere to go, and staring intently at the stranger. They, too, had nowhere to go, but decided against making it blatantly obvious, as many overly reserved folks such as himself would be able to flawlessly commit to. It just so happened these two directionless fellows boarded the same train. But the final coincidence wasn't one at all, it was simply that Romero was appalled by the distant, dreamlike demeanor of the stranger, and was coaxed by his list to seat himself opposite them.
It was not well known Romero was neither preticularly curious nor intuitive. His intelligence was not lacking in the least, but his mind could not compensate for the natures he'd worked many years to try and put off, against remembrance of the impoverished, close-minded society he'd escaped. From this perspective, Romero was wholesome, yet shamefully materialistic. It was a trait he disliked himself, but he couldn't get over his crippling appreciation for the enjoyment and having of all manner of material liabilities. This has most definitely slowed, but he could not contain his love for beautiful people. He'd found himself a stunning subject, to say the least, but he remained blissfully ignorant of the wonderfully unjust and rather mad mind of a genius who could be described by the very same words.
{It's a good day for gardening, don't you think?} The stranger said in a soft, patient tone, carrying a Swedish taint. Romero looked back at them, listening to their silky voice once more before continuing in their own, hoping to achieve the same level of intruge that the stranger's voice carried.
«I'm not a gardener myself, but I'd have to concur.»
The stranger only smiled softly.

[Politics]

Ｃｈａｐｔｅｒ ❸|| Ｃａｓｅ ⓪
Ｔｈｅ Ｋℹ︎ｎｄｌｅｄ Ｆａℹ︎ｔｈ
Ｏｆ Ａ Ⓜ︎ａｎ ｎａⓂ︎ｅｄ ＲｏⓂ︎ｅｏ

Boston by accent, though it’s lighter. He’s trying to cover it up. His clothes are a bit scruffy. Long day. Smells of alcohol. Drinker? Oh, just wine. He’s only 18, by the looks of it. What’s he doing out here? Oh. New tie. Shoes shined. Blazer and slacks. That doesn't match up. His hair is slicked back and he hasn’t touched the gel, though it looks like he touches his face often to fix his hair. Back to his clothes. A bit on the pricier side. Well-Off, just broke into ‘wealthy’ territory. Definitely. Nobody else would wear gold cufflinks and a gold watch without a bit of precaution. Though, he has an aimless look on his face. Nowhere to go, but he enjoys dressing up. Not tacky at all, but not exactly modest. Oh. The stranger's mind habitually ran rampant with observations. Silence was about to come fourth, but it was cut off by the stranger. {Really, now? I'd suggest trying it. It's a craftsman's work, and a nobleman's articulation. A pleasant balance of construction and intuitive courtship of nature.} There was this unfathomable peculiarity within the stranger's words. Of what manner? Why, it was rather unclear to Romero.