This is one of the ideas for introducing Origin Lines that I had tossed around when I was thinking about how best to introduce a character like Gengiro and the 'nicks. Eventually I decided that starting in this way would be a bit off-kilter with an odd setting and a disjointed introduction.

The classic dispute about human nature is whether or not it is part of nature or a result of nurture. Most lean towards a centralism, where disposition and teachings both lead to the individual. That may be true... But some people are made to be evil, despite being born to be something completely, radically different. An individual is more than their genes, but sometimes even the strength of internal resolve is not completely enough to break free from the pull of rage and sorrow rooted in blood.

This is the story of a man born for something good, who barely lives beyond being a boy to be made into something very, very different.

Music, it turns out, is one of the greatest indications of energy level.

Not because it existing makes it clear that a good time is to be had, but because the fact that each different type of music tends to bring different qualities to the fore in different people. If the music is high-energy, the people are high-energy, if the music is sad, people are sad, if the music makes everyone feel like they want to take their clothes off... Well, it didn't mean people actually were, it just made it all the more likely.

And as a case example for why the 'energy' of music does not always have a direct correlation to people actually doing things was sitting at a table, alone, and quite happy to be doing so. The person was dressed for the locale, more or less, and was drinking something, which was common also he just didn't seem to be paying attention to the overall feeling of the place. Any indication of sexuality was the first two buttons of his shirt being undone allowing you to see his collarbone. Hardly anything risque. And the drink in his hand was orange but judging by the fact it was his third drink of the night and he hadn't changed at all, it was clear that it was not alcohol. In fact, the adjective was the beverage, juice. That's it.

But aside from sitting what he would consider a 'safe' distance away from the dance floor of the club, and not drinking alcohol, and sitting alone at a table, he looked at home more or less in his surroundings. That said, despite the general innocence of his placement and actions... He had actually planned his entire protocol.

He was beyond 'comfortable staggering distance' in his estimation, the distance away from the dance floor that nobody inebriated enough to actually try and get him to dance would actually put in the effort to try and make him do so. He had found this distance by trial and error by finding out that women could be quite assertive when they found someone they thought should dance, so far as actually dragging him out of his seat onto the dance floor. He had thought that the woman would stop when his head hit the floor, turns out that she had other ideas.

He actually had to get a brace on his hand for that.

So he decided he would start far away and slowly move towards the dance floor and back up if anyone got a funny idea. The last week he had been here a woman had gotten awfully close so he decided to back it up a bit.

Now, one might question why exactly someone would go to a club (or really a bar with a place to dance in his opinion, though he was no expert) but not dance, and also not drink. That question would be met honestly; with a shrug and him coming up with some bullshit explanation like 'the atmosphere is enjoyable' or, 'he likes watching people enjoy themselves'. Now, either of them might be true, there's no way of saying he doesn't enjoy those two things, but one might be skeptical. Reasonably so, one might argue.

The real answer though, is that he doesn't know. Or he's jealous. Something like that. He likes watching people dance but it takes a rather impressive amount of patience to actually make him dance along. A few people have tried it, a few people have enjoyed it, both people took about an hour to actually make it work, and some might say that the people who were successful should become the types of monks that inscribe things on pieces of rice.

And because of this he has a passive-aggressive relationship with the dance floor and the people on it. He wants to dance, but won't do it on his own, and refuses to even think of doing it when someone asks him to dance. But when they do make him dance he enjoys himself. So he goes back. And doesn't dance.

Rather convoluted, really.

So he sits, and he stares, and he waits. For something. While dreading the same something.

He takes a sip of his juice and eyes the crowd not too far away and makes mental notes about everyone, a flick of a glance reminding him if he has seen them before, whether they usually dance like that, and at times coming up with inspiring vain internal commentary on the ones he has decided he doesn't like. Something about a man being a jerk, a woman being a bit too touchy-feely, a person he can't argue either way being rather uncomfortable and not dancing though it looks like he wants to.

He misses the irony on that last one.

Setting the glass down he slips his hand into his pocket and grabs his phone, tilting the display and looking at the time.

8:45 He thinks to himself and frowns, a slight motion that doesn't translate to his expression at all, though he can feel it in his muscles. For whatever reason, it feels earlier in the night than that. Not to say that the time has passed by quickly, more like he had the feeling the night would last longer than it usually would for him. He tried to bugger off around midnight so that he could be home at a respectable hour and then pass out so he could have Saturday to recover and Sunday to enjoy being quiet.

He slips the device back into his pocket after considering playing with it for a moment. It wouldn't hurt to spend some time looking at it he supposed. Despite the fact that watching people was of interest to him and generally passed the time quite well he felt the urge to busy himself. Yielding to the feeling, he pulled out the device, and the moment he did so he could feel that something was wrong. Not one of those feelings which creeps into your stomach telling you something isn't right, more along the lines of the fact he could literally feel someone brushing past him and sliding into the seat beside him.


He wasn't exactly against people sitting with him, it was just that it hadn't happened before so he was more or less surprised that such a thing happened. Either people tried to drag him into the dance or they left him alone, the mid-ground did not exist so he was more or less flabbergasted that something breaking from the norm had happened. He could handle change, or so he thought, but he kept his eyes glued to the palely glowing screen in front of him while expeditiously ignoring the fact there was someone sitting with him.

He lasted four seconds which felt like four minutes trying to not do anything. He felt the pull to be polite poke him with guilt and he relented. Slipping his phone back into his pocket and looking up he realized that he really hadn't been paying attention. At all.

Five people sat at the table with him which made it clear that someone had dragged a chair over from one of the near tables so they could be seated. All five were women and they were looking at him intently. And he felt more than a little bit uncomfortable. It felt like he had been the one to unknowingly sit with them as opposed to the opposite being true. He had a slow internal debate before closing his eyes a moment and taking a deep breath. When he opened them again he was calm.

He leaned back in his seat and raised his brows glancing over each of them in turn before shrugging.

"The last time a group of women appeared without my noticing I was forced to realize that the girl's changing room was the next one down the hall." He said as if what he had just admitted wasn't something rather embarrassing to openly admit to people. It was the kind of story a parent would tell at your expense but he said it as if he was talking about something he'd scraped off his shoe. Passing disgust but nothing bitter.