Innocence
Could innocence be bottled? Could it be processed back into its raw form? Would it be a liquid, a gas, a solid? Could you meld it in your hands, like putty or clay, shaping it to your will?
Bishop clasped his hands behind his back, staring at the screens which lined the wall, the thought teasing his brain, which teemed with unanswered questions.
If innocence was tangible, could it be broken and damaged beyond repair, or was that simply a metaphor? Could it be drawn out of someone? Did it sit in the brain, in the heart or in the blood? Could it be reproduced, magnified?
Bishop eyed the screens keenly, the running scan of binary code providing rest for his mind, found within the repetition. Rest for a mind that refused to stop, even in the stillness of the night sky, where his greatest threat lay. Rest for a mind that drove him into a kind of madness. A kind of frenzy.
He had to know.
His fingers twitched and he clasped them tighter, turning into the darkened room, the night cloaking secrets from view. Bishop's voice, a cold, iron fist within a velvet glove, wove its way into the darkness.
"I suppose we will find out soon, won't we, Michelangelo?"
AN: I have always found Bishop a very interesting character to write. I hope my take on the word did it justice. It's been very hard to find time to write today. I had a lot of work, and the day has left me dreamy and floating on cloud nine, but I am glad I got it done.