Disclaimer: DOGs and it's characters © Miwa Shirow. I own nothing but the prose~
Sometimes it makes Heine scoff when he realises just how mutt-like he really is, but he takes pleasure in the thought that when he's out roaming the streets like a stray, Badou is probably putting up wanted posters for his safe return, tag wagging. But Heine needs a break too and while he feels like freedom is finally in his grasp it escapes him with the rebounding shock of his memories; as fresh and as bloody as the day they occurred. He wants to shake them off as he flees alley upon alley, pushing passed crowds and knocking over merchandise from stalls unfortunate enough to be in his path, but the shadows keep coming and he knows he cannot escape.
The angry cries of people around him are clear in his desperation but they come as boosters to the dying calls of spirits that never leave his head. The people he's torn into shreds will never disappear. Day after day, the hunger of the demon inside him is reflected in the ghouls that block his path.
The city is too loud.
And so he runs from the noise, rising above the smog and pollution for a while to catch a needed gasp of fresh air.
He likes it out here, it's calm and quiet and green. So fresh and new looking that it once forced him to reel in surprise. It's the only place in the vicinity that the city does not tower over, a suppression that is so difficult to escape but it manages somehow, with plush grass and the odd, ancient tree to relax against — though he is never really relaxed at all. He notices then that even the sun is tainted as it hits the city that he overlooks, burning red against the skyline and becoming trapped beneath the deadly smog he breathes daily. Even the light of the sun cannot escape once it has entered, for its strength is extinguished the moment it hits the surface.
It's a disgusting world.
But he can't seem to tear his gaze from the outline of the city, in all its apparent grandeur. The vista is clear and stunning almost (although that beauty is a bitter one as it touches him because he knows the darkness of reality), but he can still see the pollution. It's like Badou is standing beside him feeding his nicotine-desire and puffing clouds of smoke in front of his irises, masking the beauty that could be with a suffocating, deathly fog.
And suddenly, through that miasma wanders a figure that's approaching too leisurely for his liking; closer, closer, closer. The feet stop in front and he pushes back against the bark behind because he's suddenly bubbling with fear again; it's futile. It's always futile. So he gazes up and sees beauty without a mist of toxic smoke to cover it — absurdly, because this person is deadliest of all. His eyes meet yours and he instinctively recoils.
But when you smile at him he doesn't know what to do at all.