The near-setting Sun casts orange light upon Nikeah.
Gogo does not need to look to see what is going to occur, soon enough: the sailboat of that lobster aficionado will arrive from South Figaro, as it does every Marden; Aliana will close her pottery shop stand for the day; the Fishing Five will come back with a net and a half full, maybe dragging a rare kind along; a Mobliz-descended eccentric will take out his banjo at the street corner and play to signalize the start of the evening; the tourists start heading out of the inns, and the passerbies head into the inns to stay the night before sailing early the next day.
The boy knows this, all of this, because he rarely stays inside.
What's there for him, inside his house? Parents, perhaps. But they are exactly what he wishes to avoid, being outside like this.
The simple memory of his parents make his teeth clack together in a cringe. Inconsiderate, inconsiderate. Fought over anything, and it was his fault, too, he knew it; the Nikeans had said before, to him, that it wasn't as bad, this pointless bickering, before he had been... "born". Gogo knows he wasn't born normally, must not have been. With the way he is now, how can he think otherwise?
Out in the city, he felt more like a free individual. Could talk to all sorts of people, earn knowledge from all over the world. It was much more than his parents could teach him.
As night falls, Gogo's stomach growls. At least mom and dad feed me, he shook his head.
They greet him inside with an acknowledging glance, and the boy wonders if there is something amiss because even that tends to be rare.
"Tomorrow we will have to depart for a few days to Vector. His Majesty Gestahl wants fine monuments around the city." the father explains; an offhand comment. Gogo takes the warning with near indifference, since he's never allowed to go on these trips anyways, not since his seventh birthday.
In his bedroom, he passes through a mirror – he almost shattered it, before, was slapped hard for it, it's just a bit broken now – and pauses, that brief pause he always does but shouldn't.
His own eyes catch his attention first; they are a bright olive green, one of the only parts of him seen when he covers his face with cloth like that. A fringe of hair, not that brown yet not orange, falls over one of his cheeks. He's going to turn away – it's enough, now – but of course he doesn't do it quick enough.
There are the stripes, red stripes. Five of them, lining his face in equal intervals; two by the sides of his eyes, two crossing his lids and then cheeks, one that follows the line of his nose. The only ones he can't hide fully.
Why hide, one would wonder- simply get some water and rub them off. But it's not paint, he's tried to scrub the red away so much, with all sorts of materials, sometimes until it hurt, until it bled. The skin that recovered afterwards, however, was still that red.
Nobody has these, it's not normal. So what was he, a monster? Were those stripes the reason his parents regarded him as a mistake, an accident? He growled low under his breath, clenching gloved hands.
Of course, if anyone asks, he says it is a strong paint.
By the next morning, when Gogo chooses to rise later than he usually does, his parents are already on a ferry, likely parting to Albrook. He is fully alright with that, really, only grieving the fact he could be seeing more of the world if he was allowed to travel with them. They leave him some gil so he can at least eat out when he's hungry.
This is a thriving trade town, so of course people are already up and about by this hour, opening shops or simply taking a walk. Here, many can afford to choose when they open business and when they don't.
The lonely boy sits on the stone steps outside his house, watching the usual movement. People always have something to talk about, don't they? He picks up that honest joke from the air: "If only these pushy Vectorians weren't this imposin', the rest of the world would be learnin' Nikean right now!"
He's about to grin at that, when brisk movements at the corner of his eye catch his attention, drawing in his gaze.
Oh. It's only those three.
Zooming past people carelessly (they get a curse from a tourist; Gogo cannot say whether the man is from Tzen or Figaro, given the languages' similarities), the three troublemakers get to him with smugness already strapped onto their faces. They seemed oddly excited today.
"Haie, Gogo-go. We saw your parents taking off at the port. Going to be alone again?" there isn't malice in Dorib's tone, just underlying purpose.
"Na'am, it seems." he wondered what card they kept up their sleeve, now. These boys have acted as comrades to him in the past, but they also mocked him, playfully and not. His androgynous voice had been target of such mockery before.
"Great! That means you're free for us?"
Gogo raises an eyebrow. "Free for what?"
The unspoken leader, Al'Misha, explains in a whisper: "We want to check out Elmire's hidden recipes! We will know things nobody else does. Aren't you the knowledge-eater here?"
"Huh." Elmire is a famous chef in town, and there are countless rumours going on about him, including his 'heavenly' recipes. Which aren't let out to the public, of course. Trying to take a peek at said recipes would be selfless and irresponsible.
"We need your help to distract people so they won't catch us."
"Sorry, I'm not in." Gogo replied decidedly.
"Aw, come on, we can do it!"
"No, and no."
Al'Misha frowned. "Don't be such a pain."
Gogo frowned. "Don't be such a pain."
An odd silence took place between them, and brief looks of surprise were exchanged. The striped boy blinked, puzzled. Had that... come from him? He sounded exactly, exactly like Al'Misha, and he could swear it was the troublemaking boy that had said the phrase twice.
"Did you just say that?" Al'Misha murmured towards him.
"Did you just say that?" the voice was not Gogo's, but now there was no doubt that the words came from Gogo's mouth. He had even felt an odd tickling sensation at his throat. And why had he spoken, even, if he hadn't even chosen to?
"Don't imitate me."
"Don't imitate me." Gogo repeats, almost unconsciously- the unusual vibrations are there, controlling his vocal chords again – and the boy seems noticeably more weirded out now.
"Stop being weird." the leader-boy uttered, though there was no strength in his tone now. Gogo has to swiftly grasp at his own mouth to keep from saying anything, because he already felt the vibrations start up again. His eyes widen in a small panic.
"Bump on you later," the youths offered their informal goodbye, maybe finding the situation too strange to cope with, running off in the direction of the port and leaving him alone again.
Releasing his lips slowly, Gogo thought; What... was that?