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Moral sat back on his sofa with a grin.
They were aware Art disliked them. Somewhere in the back of their mind, they knew their actions were deplorable to the general populace; but they were not of the general populace. Neither was Art, really. The two should understand each other, shouldn’t they? They both lived in a world where only some people had power. Moral wanted to bring power to everyone; Art was powerless. The logical conclusion was that Art would support Moral.
And yet his eyes burned into him like a smoldering fire. Quiet for now, but not for long.
The grin grew.
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Art blinked at the body at his feet. There was blood matted in the long white hair, and the limpness of the sprawling limbs was disgustingly obvious.
He suddenly kicked at it, sending it tumbling not a foot away. Art felt his fists clenching, the fingernails digging into his palms, his vision clouded by white noise; and then it cleared, suddenly, and he was alone with the body on a boat. He could hear his own heavy breathing.
Art had his memories back. He knew a lot of things now; he knew where he had to stand, what he had to do, and how everything had to fall into place.
He kicked lamely at a limp leg one more time. As he walked out of the dank room, he winced, and made a motion to cover his ears. No; there couldn't be anyone laughing behind him. He was alone with a body on a boat.