AN: I do not own.
He doesn't remember leaving, arms full of empty books about him about this world about the way things are and have been and might be someday. His legs carried him through fog onto the ship between white narrow walls and the un-stories fell dumped poured out like a flood he could not bring himself to contain. Kneeling, he shut the covers out of something like respect but left them lying there wordless. Without words leaves Vincent Law.
On the ground smoke smog the very same fog repeats its cycle. He lies flat, his back over dust and dirt he will always be dirty less than more than other than himself or anyone. Who he is he does not know ergo he is Ergo Proxy, a name he has yet to fully grasp. Thinking is not being he does not think he knows with certainty…something. Nothing. All in a matter of self-perception, the impossibility of which has been explained over and over he does not understand or want to.
Vincent Proxy tortures himself with his own mind or something deep inside his mind tortures him and does the difference really matter?
He is a proxy.
His eyes burn blur bleed down his face he is so sick and tired of this but that really doesn't matter right now does it (does it)?
He is a proxy.
Proxies are magicians like Hoody clever Hoody dead Hoody braver-than-you Hoody said. They can do awful, extraordinary things Vincent does not want to be. Does he even want citizenship anymore? Why does he even want?
He remembers Re-l.
And she is there.