allein

Schuldig was in a good mood. Having a good time. He'd been in a good mood since leaving München.. Wait, or was it Paris? No, he'd been in a terrible mood upon leaving München: everyone else gearing up for the mayhem of the yearly fest until he'd thought he was going to fly apart, bursting into so many pieces he'd never find them all, never restore the fragments to the container of his mind. So he'd fled. To Paris. And hated it. Hated the people, hated the food, hated the weather and the stink of the city and.. good God, everyone else hated it too! A slow smile can be spread over his memory at this point. It had been intoxicating how unhappy the Parisians were, a toxic miasma and his mind thrilled at the presence of his favorite drug, favorite flavor, favorite.. everything.

Though he'd miss it all, he was in a terrific mood when he left Paris.
Well-prepared for the inevitable crash in that he'd be coming down from the highest of highs; why do anything half-way, if it's.. no additional effort or work to do it spectacularly high-speed, full-throttle, wings wide.

Schuldig has no wings. He stands on the footwide balcony-for-show in the rathole hotel he's chosen and spreads his arms to the night. Stretching {ostensibly to any unknowing observer}, trying to fly {he tells himself, giddy, lying}, trying to fall {trying not to think this, ignore it, but the giggles give him away}. He laughs, it's forced out of him as he leans forward, hips pressed to the cold metal railing at a magical point that is just low enough to appear very very dangerous, and just high enough to prevent him from spilling over and decorating the concrete below; a red carpet of glossy blood, a tangled fluff of bright hair, long limbs broken and twisted.. he can see it, with his minds eye, and realizes he's failed to ignore the thought that he's courting death out here, pressing against the night. The quiet whispers and voices and thoughts battering in like endless waves or winds tease, utterly without the mass to hold him up. It's not fair, they press against him and pass through him, he feels them, gaining entry and smashing about.. he presses back and would fall against nothing down into nothing. Until he hit the pavement. Not fair at all.

He grunts, dissatisfied, and lets his arms drop, picking up his head to look out over the street below. Smoke time; he rummages in a pocket and produces pack and lighter, shakes a slim cigarette up to his lips and sparks it with quick, economical movements. Plenty of time to watch the night, smoke in the dark, play with his precarious balance in the gusting wind and unpredictable mindscape of Tokyo. God, he hates it here, why is he back here? It's insane, this place is insane, the people are insane, they make each other insane, it all makes -him- insane; the pavement below tempts, attracting his attention with a flicker from a malfunctioning soft-drink vending machine. "Hn," a puff of smoke and his eyes flit to the low rooftops nearby, though some reach a few tentative and weak floors higher than his building; he's discontent to continue watching, waiting, maybe someone will try to outdo him. The 4th floor would hardly be considered making an effort.

A smirk and the sparking, glowing buttend of his cigarette makes the leap; a shining orange-tipped proxy, winking out before it has a chance to bounce from sidewalk to street. Now.. that *really* pisses him off. Oh he hates this place..

Doitsujin-schu @ Tumblr

Reclaimed: Subdued

Schuldig is given a set of scrubs that have been boiled at least a hundred times; Esset was never as cheap as this, resorting to some bargain laundry service. Must be Naoe's influence on the Kritiker board, he decided, grimacing as he finished dressing. "Ready or not, here I come," he alerted his escort, slipping his feet into the paper booties and shuffling into the hall.

The walk was brief but the corridors and stairs were blandly modern and designed to make the way un-memorable. Dampers were in effect, though with less strength between doors so Schuldig could occasionally feel a dizzying pull between muffled silence. His guide was keeping his own thoughts quiet and subtly shielded, while he himself was not, and his expressions betrayed him as well as uneven pace and direction. What the hell, he'd have a minute or so to pull himself together, and how serious could this interview.. debriefing.. whatever it was be, they expected him to arrive in hospital garb.

The man in the lead gave a polite bow as they reached their destination, a small room with a table, two chairs, and one obvious observation mirror, and pointed to the chair opposite the mirror. Schuldig gave a slightly stiff and comedic bow in return before sitting, but to his surprise his guide accompanied him inside and settled into the chair across from him. For a moment neither spoke. Schuldig tried on his best "I knew you'd do that" face and his guide smirked right back.

"Du Halsabschneider, you're reading me," Schuldig leaned forward, thin and predatory, defenses crackling as he desperately tried to keep up a front. This guy, this holding cell errand boy, could read him despite the effect of the dampers? Schuldig couldn't even really feel the barriers or resistance of the dampers, it was like appreciating heat or cooling without ever feeling the air move; whatever new technology Kritiker was rolling out was new and horrifying, and damned if he was going to fail whatever..

"Too late," the man across the table shrugged. Schuldig opened his mouth to protest, frowned as he realized that was ridiculous given the circumstances, and then the circumstances brought heat to his cheeks. The other rose from his chair and Schuldig watched, rapt, desperation suppressed but rising. "Don't bother getting up, and don't be too disappointed, this wasn't actually your interview."

With that Schuldig was left alone to consider his reflection.