[center][h2]Psychomachia:[/h2][/center]
Hazel eyes darted in their sockets like fireflies around the lamp, intermittently clenching shut when strands of bleached blonde hair found their way beneath the eyelids. Christopher Fan, bed-hair, pajamas and a half-baked wakefulness, was slumming it. The ‘fabled’ locale of post-adolescent purgatory, mother’s basement, served as his base of operations, the sun barely making its glimmering acquaintance through the small of the raised ranch window. All around him was the grey and dim lighting of bulbs at half-life, suffused with the browning din of cardboard storage. Solitude. 

Mom and dad had felt obligated to take him in; they hadn’t felt obligated to acknowledge his existence. All the better. 

Fingers engaged in rapido staccato, as Chris tackled cape work in the only way he had ever known to tackle anything; through study and rout memorization. Written word on the web, with perhaps one source compelling enough to treat as gospel. Details, more fun facts and (trivial) trivia, assaulting his memory banks ad infinitum as he clicked and scrolled. An exercise in abject futility, he knew; in all his schoolings he had established a basis of knowledge from a very young age. In this, he was… unschooled. 

Best to pivot from his current methodology. Maybe he needed to find something just a bit more [i]engaging[/i]: 

Jobs. Meetings. Gatherings. Reputable or otherwise. Just something to get himself out there.