[center][h3]Roy G Bivolo[/h3][/center]
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A stiff breeze pulsed throughout Roy’s bedroom, pivoting his damp hair across the trembling goosebumps that now gyrated all along his freezing forehead. His ears stung sharply and his nose ran plentifully. In spite of his constant quivering and short-breathed shivering, he was having the time of his life as he drug his unsteady hand against the wall.

It started a few minutes prior. Roy’d just finished taking a shower when the building’s power died with a full-body whimper, along with the bathroom’s light and their electrical hot water with it, in a wanton slaughter on first-world privilege. In the cover of darkness, he scurried back to his bedroom, dripping wet, draped in a towel when he heard the sound of Vincent stripping the wallpaper from his room, which happened to be on the opposite wall of his own. It was that sound, the dull growl of hesitating paper clinging for dear life that inspired him to balance the scales. And so, while one side of the wall was exorcised of its demons, the other would be absolutely infested.

Cracking a window for inspiration, he felt the City of Tomorrow piercing him with its mighty breeze. And so, he took his shower water, the runoff of his own correction, and mixed it into his watercolor set, splishing and splashing a stylized and incomplete rainbow across the wall, with one careless sweep of his unsteady wrist after another. Though the electrical interruption had rendered him somewhat powerless to follow his path, in the act of embracing the bitter biting breeze and steering into the drift, he found serenity. Though he hadn’t quite gotten a proper scrub behind the ears, he felt cleansed to a degree that he rarely ever had. Immaculate, even.

At that, he permitted himself to dry off. Taking a gander at the rainbow he’d left on the wall. He wasn’t sure what he meant by it, not exactly, but it felt important. Even if it didn’t mean one thing precisely, it was as true as any confession he’d ever made. It was all he had, after all.

After allowing the breeze to dry him off, he finally closed the windows before feeling his chapping flesh. It was absolutely atrociously cared for, if he was to believe anything that he’d ever heard from anyone remotely dermatologically inclined but charmingly so. Slathering on a metric ton of prescription strength lotion, which had actually been designed with severe eczema in mind, he shaved and otherwise readied armed himself for a casual social encounter with the building’s other inhabitants. [I]Golly,[/I] there sure were a lot of them.

All the same, fully dressed in a set of khaki pants and a polo bespeckled with with rainbow splashes, which he had actually sewn in place himself, he calculatedly tousled his hair before opening the door and making his way to the living kitchen, where he saw Conor and Eilidh chatting it up with Kevin and ….

He took a deep breath. They were chatting it up with Johnny, whose mildly grimy aesthetic greatly outclassed his own both in grime and in mildness. When Roy looked at himself, he at once couldn’t help but feel like he was both underwhelming and overstimulating, the sort of uncomfortable that is, more often than not, probably best politely but pointedly looked past.

Even so, there was a bestial hunger burning within him, as though his very innards might loosen themselves to go on some sort of rampage. For fear of degenerating into a self-loathing bellyaching berserker, he braved the company of kitchen dwellers and gave a wave to them before slinking into the cabinets and sheepishly snaffling a Danny Burger from the refrigerator, tipping a nonexistant hat to his fellows before standing in the corner, wordlessly, doing his best impression of someone confident and comfortable.