Morrigan was patching her wounds with a dash of squirming salve spread along her lower torso. She bitterly looked at Vere as he beckoned for the bloody bullet that she had to extract from its buried state just seconds prior.
"You're surprisingly petty, you know. I didn't even think you would smirk while fighting back..." She placed the bullet into his gloved hand, irritated at the sudden blank look accompanied by the muffled joining of his fingers repeatedly meeting his palm.
"Next time, don't attack me without warning. Besides, you deserved it. You were having a little too much fun changing the complexion of my stomach." Vere sent her a sidelong glance that revealed a bit of irritation. Truthfully, though he felt irked at her gall, he felt something was missing.
It wasn't a stretch to say that his current personality was hollow and bland. He himself arrived at this conclusion when he invoked the Cognitive Force of his Conspiracy. Yet, even those words seemed a mere shadow of what he truly felt.
Morrigan was right; he did seem to be a petty man. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, Hammurabi was basically a lifestyle in Vere's perspective. Of course, he couldn't fully remember what that name pertained to--but it felt right.
Snarky thoughts seemed to hide underneath the mantle of stoicism. But, as he was partially on a mission to discover who he was, Vere made a note to explore what he felt somewhat made him feel whole from now on.
Of course, this took a backseat to his primary objective. The more he stood underneath the familiarity of the B-Side, the more he felt this mysterious "C" held many of the answers he sought.
The powers he had somewhat grasped just now should prove to be an invaluable tool in both the present and the future.
Speaking of the invaluable tool.
Vere's eyes drifted back to Morrigan as she rubbed the salve on her stomach. Aided by the intensifying river of Authority Thought Power that washed over her body, the wound squirmed and closed in on itself. The paste seemed to be squirming as well, a purple radiance emerging in Vere's right eye as his vision zoomed inwards on the heap of specks.
Tiny gadgets roamed and clung together, pretending to be a homogenous substance. They dove for any subtle cuts that hid from the naked eye, aiding the cells to replicate even faster than the result of Authority Thought Power assistance.
"You like what you see or something? You're staring, Vere." Morrigan giggled as she ripped off a portion of material from her calves to use as a makeshift bandage. Although the man didn't feel any emotional response, he feigned a look of concern with all the skill of an experienced actor.
"Hehe, you don't have to pretend. I can tell you're curious. Cognitive Force--especially from the Authority and Mystic Rami--well, it helps us recover from any injuries. However, this process must be taken slowly in order to prevent degeneration of the psyche.
When our psyche degenerates, it becomes much more susceptible to the allure of possessions by DDs, or Desire Demons. Interestingly, our SADS are formed from one genus of the Desire Demon--the Superego.
You see, the Ego is the conscious, melded recognition of the self in our eyes. But it isn't our only self. The Superego and Id are reflections of the parts of our mind that we push into the subconscious. We're desperate to ignore their clutches.
But they bring the sweet allure of power. Interestingly, some Wardens have fused with their own Ids and Superegos to various effects. Some become a Desire Demon immediately, losing their entire sense of self and obeying the subconscious whims that forced their way into reality. Some can't handle the strain of power and go on to become Suspects--those we hunt especially from the Desire Crevices--or Inciters, who aid in the creation of Suspects and possessed people. Much fewer are those who master this power, becoming the main powerhouses of the Wardens.
Mental stress tempts the innate Desire Demons in the psyche to try to take hold of you. So even if you have to heal at a snail's pace, I'd take this instead of losing my mind any day. You'd be wise to do the same." Morrigan sighed, her eyes suddenly weary and drained. She gestured with her head off towards the distance. Vere fully experienced that sad look, feeling slightly melancholic for the first time since he awakened. Like always, he'd note down these facts and carve them within the depths of his mind.
"You don't have any money, right?" She tried to become cheery but failed. A slight twinge bickered back and forth in Vere's mind as he contested what he was about to do at this moment.
"Wrong." Vere shook his head.
Three fingers. An "O" shape. Five fingers. And lastly, six. These hand signs read the current amount of dosh he was carrying, each listed off in succession. The sudden grand gestures felt a bit shameful, but he had to admit he was ever so slightly amused by his own antics.
But that wasn't the point.
As if basking in the welcoming rays of the sun, a smile burgeoned on Morrigan's face. Markedly pointed at his absurd series of actions that seemed rather obtuse to his pale, serious face, she had to admit that he even looked handsome as a fool.
It wasn't enough to distract her from the fears that crawled along her back. But it was flattering that such a seemingly direct, no-nonsense, and sarcastic man cared enough to make himself look funny. That damned "vague" sarcasm of his was drier than a box of month-old cereal, though, there was no doubt about that.
"356 Merits? That can get you a nice place to stay for a while; I know just the place. Come with me~!" Her eyes were like full moons partly concealed by alluring clouds, peacefully drifting with no hurries or worries.
Her words elicited a soft tsk from Vere, though.
"Merits? Three dot fifty hyphen six dollars. 3.56. Don't tell me dollars don't exist in the future..." Vere hesitated as his brows furrowed, messy strands of hair curtaining his face in such a way that it framed his uneased countenance.
Although he felt increasingly familiar with playing around with the composition of his emotions, there was a trace amount of genuine distaste that he couldn't get rid of.
No way! Thought he. Was he really a poor man in the past, the present, and the future?!
This couldn't be. People have been prattling on and on about relics; hey, maybe the coat on his back was valuable? As he fished through his pockets, the realization started to close in on him.
'Old shit usually depreciates in value. And uh, my stuff isn't in the best quality. Plus--what the hell am I supposed to wear if I pawn the clothes on my poor little body?!'
"Dollars? What the hell even is that? Look, if you don't have the Merits to exist in Old Westwood, why didn't you say so?" Morrigan looked concerned, a hint of pity prying into the thick fortress that was Vere's (admittedly clustered) mind.
"...I'm not poor..." The world-endingly captivating man mumbled under his breath.
"What was that? Vere, I know a place where you can stay, okay? No need for pride..." The woman with an ethereal beauty spoke clearly and crisply as more pity leaked into her voice.
"..." For just a moment, Vere felt defeated. Then, guided like a lamb by a shepherd, he was forced to listen to Morrigan's subdued solicitudes as they walked towards a place only she knew.
At least between the two of them.