Siren's Pull

[ A lot of things happened to Marco after his last post. Well, maybe not a lot, but he did things that seem pretty momentous while suffering depression. And thanks to Jesse Pinkman's rather generous donation, he was more than able to get an apartment: he was able to get a job. A real job, mind you. No more consoler Marco, little kids. Summer's over, time to go to school.

When Marco presents himself, he's in a different room now. No hotels, no plain looking beds with plain looking prints of beach paintings. No, there is a real room, a table that looks like it is actually being used. That's a real dinner plate to the side. Behind him is the kitchen, with the oven and the fridge and a toaster and something that looks suspiciously like a waffle iron.

Perhaps the most surprising change of all is Marco. Previously he looked at the NV with a mop of dark hair with crinkled clothes and eyes that just look like he is done with the Universe's jokes and wish them to stop. Now? He's brighter somehow, wearing an actual suit for once. He looks cleaner and sharper, and looks like he even took a small haircut. He still holds the swagger and the shit-eating smirk, but that cold glare he gave to everyone in his previous post is now gone. There's still no warmth to his expression, but it's cocky, as though saying Fuck you world! I'm the better comedian, and I can see the buckets of dog pee that you are and I laugh at it all.

Well, maybe people might not understand exactly what his look is describing as, but they'll get the point. If not, he will be making it clear very soon. ]

I've got a job.

[ He sounds terribly pleased with this. ]

Now, I thought about going to school. Gave it some real, deep, serious thought. I thought about home. I thought about being here. I thought about home again, and then I realize: no way I am going to be the same kid from home.

Screw home. Screw it all. Gangs are one thing, those are a dime a dozen and they still shoot you in the head. I can deal with gangs. Well, I rather not, I hate them, personally, but I can tolerate them. It's a human thing I can deal with, you know. But good God I'm tired of home. I'm tired of going to school. You know what school is? A place where you have to pretend you learn everything, do things half the time you don't even care, and come back again.

But then I have to go home, pretend I'm asleep, and go out at night to be part of a secretive guerrilla war. And Hell just happens to be directly underneath my school.

If that won't solidify your hatred for your school, I don't know what will.

So I'm going to take a job that might not give me the risk of getting shot, or disemboweled, or stealing old men's toupees.

I think being an actor covers that, don't you?

And hey, if I have to sing the praises of AGI on the side . . . well, I'm good with that too.

[ It is too damn early for a post. This young kid, maybe fourteen, fifteen years of age, is looking at NV like Jon Stewart does when doing a show: self-deprecating and a wit clearly evident. Like most kids his age, he doesn't look a bit tired at all, the ass. No, seriously, he is giving you the most shit-eating grin you ever lay eyes on.

He's in a room that the most seasoned traveler can recognize as a flea-bitten motel. Of course, he isn't actually living there, his real hotel room is somewhere else. No, he just snuck in and stole a room for a minute. He sits down on the rickety table. ]

Hi, guys. You know, I've been thinking. I've been thinking a lot, actually. About what has happened to us Newcomers in the past, what, week? Two weeks? That guy, what's his face, the one with the accent all British or Scottish or whatever. I forget his name. Anyway, he said something around the likes of "understanding you aren't free." Wise words, and it's the kind that Keanu Reeves get the sunglasses on and dodge bullets in slo-mo.

[ Oh yeah, Marco's been quick on catching up his pop culture from the past decade and he fucking loves it.

He reaches over and grabs a can of Pepsi, his breakfast of the day. The familiar hiss and click of the can opening is very loud at the silence Marco is making, his face a little closed off, thoughtful. ]

Some of you people have been here for a year, maybe two or three. That hunt wasn't the first hunt to be started. We get to be blamed for natural disasters for and we are still running around with our heads cut off. We got superheroes and aliens and gods and dragons and we haven't done a civil rights parade or anything? Man, Martin Luther King Jr will be super disappointed. Che Guevara would have think of us as lost causes.

Mr. UK is right. I'm starting to think we don't even think ourselves as equal in the first place, and these natives know it. Except in maybe in soccer, if that's what that guy is actually serious of making those neutral games.

[ Another pause. Then: Kanyeshrug! ]

Oh well. We'll just wait for the next awful thing to happen and we'll bitch about it. That always works. And I am really good at complaining. It's my day job and one day, I will actually be paid for it. Or maybe I'll be paid for simply being good looking. That's definitely a possibility.

[ He takes a sip out of the Pepsi. ]

Oh, and to anyone who just arrived: Welcome to Canada. Watch out for the moose people. They tend to get a little hysterical and blame you for the sour milk. …and speaking of which, why are the milk in bags? If that's not a walk-in boob joke, then I don't know what is.

[ When Marco learn of Canada's cursed island and the monsters and the companies, he knew he has to go on the network and learn everything.

First thing's first: ]

Ok is it really 2012???!?!?!

what happen in the last 14 years

[ Wait. Marco deleted that part, thinking. He's not sure why, but for some reason, he thinks that asking the year of his timeline would not be . . . best.

And when it comes to his gut, that gut it usually always right. He tries again, sending out a more polished text message. ]

what happened in the last 16 years i need to know