"The eye is a keyhole, through which the world pours in and a world pours out. And for a few seconds, you can peek through into a vault, that contains everything they are. But whether the eyes are the windows of the soul or the doors of perception, it doesn't matter: you're still standing on the outside of the house. Eye contact isn't really contact at all. It's only ever a glance, a near miss, that you can only feel as it slips past you.
There’s so much we keep in the back room. We offer up a sample of who we are, of what we think people want us to be. But so rarely do we stop to look inside, and let our eyes adjust, and see what's really there. Because you too are peering out from behind your own door." - Dictionary of obscure sorrows
Username: Byteme
Name: Titania Sumie
Title: Sosna
Gender: DFAB- Transgendered male
Why do they cover their eyes? "Who needs eyesight when you've got integrity..." A loud voice from the back edges of a run down building twirls out yells as if they were drip drops of water from a broken faucet. This voice is followed by the clanking of metal, a clattering landslide of multiple motorbikes neatly placed in a row hitting the ground.
Amidst hisses and mumbles, and the noise of the last motorbikes date with the dirt, another voice chimed in, harsh and dry. "Heh, says the man who fears even making eye contact with another." There is a silence, deafening in its own creation. As if one were watching lightning wile waiting for the thunder.... What follows next is quite worse than thunder, through the silence an explosion of noise and colorful mist taking to the skies begins tainting low lying clouds in a matter of seconds. Soft footsteps echo in, the sharp breaking of glass ending the echo. "Screw you." He stood by numerous items that had crashed to the floor, a shadow in front of the buildings wide doorway. "Test my intimidation, you'll find no fear."
Slowly, out of view yet getting closer and closer the bearer of anger makes towards the entrance, both large metal doors of the surrounding fence opening in his grasp and heavily closing behind. Wile he brushes some dust and powder off of his face, tugging blond locks back with a graduated breath, people are scooting away with disgust drawn on their face like a crude children's art project. He stares at them through the strands, amidst his own world, surrounded by pale ruffles of ghostly hair. He wears it like a warrior does a helmet, or a turtle wears its shell. A soft beeping noise comes up near him... The dialing of a cellphone. "Oh please." Brushing blood off the side of his face, lingering on a patch of soaked red hair he turns to the direction of the beeping, sighing as he grabs a random old ladys phone and throws it over the fence without a twitch. His hair parts carelessly to the sides, almost killer golden eyes meeting her unintentionally then veering away. "What did you plan to tell the polic anyway?"
Softly, delicately his hair falls over his face once more. Dispatching something from his back pocket the hidden man gives the lady a smirk, shaking what seems like a trio of small test tubes between his thin fingers. "Just like a firework, but worse. Watch." Winding his arm back he begins mixing the test tubes back and forth before tugging a certain set of item from his jacket, a string and a flare. "Gunpowder, fire... A string, and a little bit of what makes up salt..." He lit the string, closed up a single test tube and threw them over. "You've got ten seconds, make 'em count," He transcendently whispered before running.
---
"Well, hello there,"
Let me give you something, a little gift. It isn't needed, but it's callous to survive without. So very, very ascetic.
An introduction to the man who could masacer everyone in his whole damn town. Sosna is not your usual kind of gang-head. No, he could recite to you every element in the periodic table, front to back, back to front. He could also tell you the best ways to get a bullet out, and implant that bullet in you all the same. His every line runs on science. Biology, chemistry, physcological analogy. It may not be believable, but considering his tattoos atributed to Schrödinger's cat, and both his plant and animal cells tattoos, plus his ability to explain them fluently, the doubt becomes invalid.
-- Test my intimidation, you'll find no fear
And because only some of his enemies, who would also harm him presumably, had seen his face space
Maybe he has some crude scars on his face too
--
"Do you fear them? The people you make contact with, mister Sumie." A tatterdemalion silence shrouded the air like mist. Touching at his hair, fingers falling deep into the pale blond cascades and almost becoming adrift in the smooth tangles, the young man scoffed, albeit with shakiness. His breath lingered gingerly and slipped off too quickly for comfort before he started speaking. "It's not that... " He paused, like a train gutteraly slowing on the track, trying to figure out which way to go. Left or right? Back again... Or was it the new path ahead?
"It's hard to explain. Eye contact is so intense, you know? My minds made it an instinct, trying to avoid that instinct is sickening. You wouldn't eat more food than what your stomach could handle, at the risk of vomiting, that in itself would be biting off more than you could chew. Making that..." He paused, raising both arms only partially and quoting his next word. "... Contact, it wouldn't feel like a comfortable thing for me." His back arched slightly where he sat, asured of his placement although lightly playing with tangles of hair, his thought stream filled to the grim with ideas all trying to form something others could understand, a way of communication that didn't befuddle another person. Then little Sosna kept on going, "I'd be intentionally biting off more than I could chew, trying to force my stomach acid out and get my nausea tumbling..." It took him no moment to go from soft silent explanation to a deeply ingrained part-rant to try and push across understanding... He needed understanding. So, he went on babbling.
"... Like monarch butterflies change directions in open space because of adaptive instincts passed on from years before, because once there was a mountain where there is open space now " The doctor, a man sitting on a comfortable green chair nodded before catching himself. "Yes."
Once again he drifted slowly. "...It's habitual, instinctual... Like a beings ability to stay upright even though the world spins, because as a baby that ability was learned... To stay functional."
Writing thing:
"Go on a date with me." That's right, there's no way to say no when a gun's pressed to your temple.
Titania wasn't much of a lover, a fighter on the other hand... Well, who could say wether someone is either or? Of course, if you valued your sanctity you'd be better off calling him Sosna. His gun's a truly close friend. Sosna, the great gang leader. Babe, if his unnerving contradictory status to stereotypes doesn't scare you, then a pistol barrel to your forehead mite.
"Go on a date with me." Finnegan wasn't for dying.
The place they went on a... "date" for was a small parlor-cafe, cutsie and fluffy. It seemed like the devil was sitting in the lunchroom of heaven. There he was, across from the pale man, his posse on borrowed seats behind him.
Sosna felt his resolve give in, staring Finnegan down. "You're bacterial... Oh man, there's a bit too much dopamine right here. My frontal-lobe isn't capable of this..." There was a pause.
"It's only that... You send serotonin rushing through my veins." Then, a gang-mate with the wish to die, pitched from beyond, "Give me a godamn break."
His gun raised once more.
"It takes a fraction of a second for your neurons impulses to fire, do you want to feel the bullet?" Getting the parlor nervous Sosna smirked... "Ohh, but you'd be dead soon after, no honey?"
He turned back to Finnegan. "Now, where were we?"
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