[In some ways, Bavan is even more lawless than Napoli was. Back home, one had to take certain measures to duck legal consequences of petty or not-so-petty crime (said measures mostly consisting of bribes, for which one needed money, for which one often needed the law to look the other way, and so on). Here, though, monsters are essentially exempt from legal proceedings. As Bakugo would say, the cops are fucking cowards. From another perspective, they simply don't want to give their lives for a snatched purse.]
[He doesn't take advantage of this state of affairs too much, in part because he's already taking up a lot of social and moral space by having to eat people and in part because it's just not his style. But . . . it's been a bad month. He hurts from his skin down to his marrow. He wants to lash out, to do harm, to wield his sharp tongue like a weapon and draw himself out of the kind embrace of those who care about him like lancing poison from a wound.]
[Because they're not right. Because they're not who he wants. Because even if he knows it's not true, it feels like the ones he wants have slipped through his fingers all over again. He failed, again.]
[He wakes up at any odd hour, pillow wet, expecting to see a shock of messy black hair, sleeping fitfully or roaming about the room or banging belongings together. At this point, he'd take a poltergeist. At least it would be loud company.]
[He doesn't reach out for help, because he doesn't want it. On the other hand, he doesn't lash out, either. What he plunges his hands and heart into are petty, harmless things, possessions grabbed from those who can afford the loss, from assholes, from people whose faces he doesn't like the look of. He cuts corners, gets sloppy, and still doesn't get caught. In small ways, he reminds himself that he's still alive, and that's something worth fighting for.]
[Today is sunny. In the center of Bavan, a specialty food shop (not that kind) has set out a table on the front awning of their storefront, offering free samples to passersby and tempting them inside. Giorno hasn't taken the bait, but the employee manning the table, a young man with messy dark hair and the look of someone who's taken this job without much enthusiasm at all, seems distracted. Because while Giorno hasn't entered the shop and clearly doesn't intend to, he has perched on the edge of the table and, over the passage of time, has leaned thoroughly into the young man's space, fingertips brushing his wrist on the way to pointing out the different samples on offer. He has a lot of questions that appear extremely genuine and well-informed. The samples guy is no longer paying attention to his samples even a little bit.]
[He's also not paying attention to his back pocket, which is currently being unburdened of its wallet. For someone who hasn't seen him do it before, it might be shocking how effortless and natural the action seems, as easy to him as a wave. The wallet is concealed on his person before he finishes his sentence.]
action, july 1.
[He doesn't take advantage of this state of affairs too much, in part because he's already taking up a lot of social and moral space by having to eat people and in part because it's just not his style. But . . . it's been a bad month. He hurts from his skin down to his marrow. He wants to lash out, to do harm, to wield his sharp tongue like a weapon and draw himself out of the kind embrace of those who care about him like lancing poison from a wound.]
[Because they're not right. Because they're not who he wants. Because even if he knows it's not true, it feels like the ones he wants have slipped through his fingers all over again. He failed, again.]
[He wakes up at any odd hour, pillow wet, expecting to see a shock of messy black hair, sleeping fitfully or roaming about the room or banging belongings together. At this point, he'd take a poltergeist. At least it would be loud company.]
[He doesn't reach out for help, because he doesn't want it. On the other hand, he doesn't lash out, either. What he plunges his hands and heart into are petty, harmless things, possessions grabbed from those who can afford the loss, from assholes, from people whose faces he doesn't like the look of. He cuts corners, gets sloppy, and still doesn't get caught. In small ways, he reminds himself that he's still alive, and that's something worth fighting for.]
[Today is sunny. In the center of Bavan, a specialty food shop (not that kind) has set out a table on the front awning of their storefront, offering free samples to passersby and tempting them inside. Giorno hasn't taken the bait, but the employee manning the table, a young man with messy dark hair and the look of someone who's taken this job without much enthusiasm at all, seems distracted. Because while Giorno hasn't entered the shop and clearly doesn't intend to, he has perched on the edge of the table and, over the passage of time, has leaned thoroughly into the young man's space, fingertips brushing his wrist on the way to pointing out the different samples on offer. He has a lot of questions that appear extremely genuine and well-informed. The samples guy is no longer paying attention to his samples even a little bit.]
[He's also not paying attention to his back pocket, which is currently being unburdened of its wallet. For someone who hasn't seen him do it before, it might be shocking how effortless and natural the action seems, as easy to him as a wave. The wallet is concealed on his person before he finishes his sentence.]