Clemente
If he thought his world was sideways before, he was wrong. Can’t go home. Can’t go back. Clemente didn’t have a very deep attachment to his little warehouse, or his city, but it was all he knew. It was where he was born, where his mother had lived and died. What did he possibly have now? Clem leans his head back against the tree and tries not to cry any further, feeling a numbness spread in his chest. He’s a gutter child, an orphan. Nothing is permanent he has learned. Apparently not even worlds. This is just another thing to force himself to move on from. To adapt to.
Her name breaks his reverie, and he glances up at her distrustfully, hands pulling habitually at his thin shirt. Her fangs draw his eye, and he relaxes, shoulders slumping with ill-concealed relief. This, at least, is the same. He has no reason to think that this world is any different than his own in that manner, so Clem assumes everyone is like them in that moment, and the world seems a little less dark.
”I...uh...I’m Clemente,” he offers softly, suddenly shy. Women had always been kinder, maternal, and he’d been as weak to them as they had been to him growing up. ”Is there a-anywhere I can go?” he asks helplessly. ”Anywhere with a roof, or somewhere with some decent scraps? Any homeless clinics I can stay at for a little?” Down to business, he needs to figure things out immediately and shelter is only marginally higher on his list than food. Did humans exist here? Donors? Programs? Clem was used to stealing to survive, he just needed information to get by.
i stopped being a kid the day
you sent me down here to die
