Post by Katpride on Apr 11, 2022 5:36:19 GMT
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Lark does enjoy a good self-fulfilling prophecy every once in a while. At least this one is more benign than most; the current version of themself just has to be in a particular place at a particular time. Luckily, this place and time coincides with an ongoing curiosity surrounding a certain masked man of mystery. Or perhaps luck has nothing to do with it, and their path was laid the second they saw themself here. Either way, they’re standing outside of a pretty run-down apartment complex in the aptly named Duskburg, constructed right beside a railway line.
Rent must be cheap, they muse, climbing the rickety stairs in a series of time stops. Like hell are they wasting precious present-time on climbing stairs of all things. They stop outside one apartment in particular, knocking on the door although they know no one will be home.
A flash of light from within the residence, muted through the windows, and the deadbolt slides out of place, a second Lark letting the first inside. It’s a neat trick, and they follow through with the miniature time loop, going back a few moments to unlock the door just as they’d witnessed.
They re-lock the door again and stroll further into the tiny apartment. This way, there’s no sign of forced entry, keeping everything nice and tidy. They don’t even have to pull out the lockpicking kit that their fingertips brush when they put their hands in their pockets.
They’ve gone for a different look for today, with an oversized, gray button-up shirt tucked into bell bottom jeans with a garishly bright pattern. A similarly patterned jacket is tied around their waist, in case they want to complete the look and have a whole color party. It’s very 80s, which may be where they got the clothing from. They’ve even thrown in a fanny pack for flavor, although that was mostly to store their shuriken and various knick knacks that wouldn’t quite fit in their pockets. It isn’t important.
What is important is looking around the apartment, which clearly hasn’t seen use in quite some time. The kitchen, approximately the size of a postage stamp, has half a pot of coffee still in the machine, which has grown a considerable film from sitting stagnant for so long. There are dishes that have gone past dry and started collecting dust in the drying rack, and a single unwashed coffee cup sits in the sink.
The time traveler moves past the kitchen and into the living room, which is to say they take a couple steps to the side. A low coffee table overflowing with papers and a beat-up old couch are waiting for them there. Nudging a stray sweater aside with their foot, they take a look through one of the stacks of papers. Sticky notes full of blocky letters and annotations in sharpie litter the pages. From a cursory glance, there isn’t anything newer than a few weeks in here.
Of course, the timing of the reports means very little to someone like them. A quick glance over the pages is enough to seal them in their memory, until a quiet chime alerts them to the anticipated arrival of their past self. A train rattles by outside, sending lights through the darkened apartment and causing the whole room to rumble. They reach out to steady their younger self when their foot is, predictably, caught on the sweater and they almost fall. The twelve-year-old is curious, of course, but they stall until a slightly older Lark shows up to whisk them away again.
The rattle of the train continues for another long moment, before all is abruptly quiet again. Lark continues to shift through the papers, sending little puffs of dust up occasionally when they reach deeper into the piles. Old case files, mostly. Newspaper clippings. It seems they’ve found the right place, as most of the reports concern the Devilman himself.
A rattle, this time from the door, as a key turns in the lock. Lark smiles and straightens up, making no effort to hide or conceal their presence. Speak of the Devil…
Lark does enjoy a good self-fulfilling prophecy every once in a while. At least this one is more benign than most; the current version of themself just has to be in a particular place at a particular time. Luckily, this place and time coincides with an ongoing curiosity surrounding a certain masked man of mystery. Or perhaps luck has nothing to do with it, and their path was laid the second they saw themself here. Either way, they’re standing outside of a pretty run-down apartment complex in the aptly named Duskburg, constructed right beside a railway line.
Rent must be cheap, they muse, climbing the rickety stairs in a series of time stops. Like hell are they wasting precious present-time on climbing stairs of all things. They stop outside one apartment in particular, knocking on the door although they know no one will be home.
A flash of light from within the residence, muted through the windows, and the deadbolt slides out of place, a second Lark letting the first inside. It’s a neat trick, and they follow through with the miniature time loop, going back a few moments to unlock the door just as they’d witnessed.
They re-lock the door again and stroll further into the tiny apartment. This way, there’s no sign of forced entry, keeping everything nice and tidy. They don’t even have to pull out the lockpicking kit that their fingertips brush when they put their hands in their pockets.
They’ve gone for a different look for today, with an oversized, gray button-up shirt tucked into bell bottom jeans with a garishly bright pattern. A similarly patterned jacket is tied around their waist, in case they want to complete the look and have a whole color party. It’s very 80s, which may be where they got the clothing from. They’ve even thrown in a fanny pack for flavor, although that was mostly to store their shuriken and various knick knacks that wouldn’t quite fit in their pockets. It isn’t important.
What is important is looking around the apartment, which clearly hasn’t seen use in quite some time. The kitchen, approximately the size of a postage stamp, has half a pot of coffee still in the machine, which has grown a considerable film from sitting stagnant for so long. There are dishes that have gone past dry and started collecting dust in the drying rack, and a single unwashed coffee cup sits in the sink.
The time traveler moves past the kitchen and into the living room, which is to say they take a couple steps to the side. A low coffee table overflowing with papers and a beat-up old couch are waiting for them there. Nudging a stray sweater aside with their foot, they take a look through one of the stacks of papers. Sticky notes full of blocky letters and annotations in sharpie litter the pages. From a cursory glance, there isn’t anything newer than a few weeks in here.
Of course, the timing of the reports means very little to someone like them. A quick glance over the pages is enough to seal them in their memory, until a quiet chime alerts them to the anticipated arrival of their past self. A train rattles by outside, sending lights through the darkened apartment and causing the whole room to rumble. They reach out to steady their younger self when their foot is, predictably, caught on the sweater and they almost fall. The twelve-year-old is curious, of course, but they stall until a slightly older Lark shows up to whisk them away again.
The rattle of the train continues for another long moment, before all is abruptly quiet again. Lark continues to shift through the papers, sending little puffs of dust up occasionally when they reach deeper into the piles. Old case files, mostly. Newspaper clippings. It seems they’ve found the right place, as most of the reports concern the Devilman himself.
A rattle, this time from the door, as a key turns in the lock. Lark smiles and straightens up, making no effort to hide or conceal their presence. Speak of the Devil…
