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A daily walk - Baburrus

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Baburrus stepped down the street, holding his robe tightly. This wasn’t because he was cold - he could barely feel his body anyway - but as a show of defiance against the persistent thoughts in his head. He knew she was still in there, trying to manipulate his mind and enslave him. Frankly the thoughts and desires were embarrassing, and it took much of his focus to fully fight against them. But he needed money. Everyone needs money here. And to do that he needed to get a job. He pondered for a moment; he could always go to Jeremiah and offer to help him with chores in exchange for food and lodging, and then he could dance and-

“NO.” He says, forcefully, grabbing at his head. A few passersby give him a weird look. He barely notices, trying to think and drive the thought away. He was *not* going to offer himself up as a slave, and he wasn’t going to degrade himself. More than he had to. His body was already plenty degrading; he looked like some sort of clown mixed with one of the creatures humans kept as pets. And apparently they found him ‘cute’, which infuriated him to no end. Not that he could do anything about that; it seemed Clarion had taken into consideration that he might free himself from her machinations, and his body was utterly incapable of being a credible threat to anyone, unless they wanted a pillow to cuddle up to. Though, making humans happy like that was maybe something useful that he could do, and-

He presses more tightly against his head, taking deep breaths. Going out today was a mistake. She keeps getting into his thoughts and eventually he’s going to do something he doesn’t want to do. He can feel his concentration slipping, and that’s a problem.

He turns around to head back the way he came, bells jingling as he moves. He needs to find a way to muffle those. Or remove them. Or… something. They’re not so bad, anyway. He can ignore them. Or make music with them. He shuffles along, trying to make a bit of a tune with them as he thinks. There has to be something he can do. There’s plenty of strange magic here, plenty of ways that he might be able to be fixed. Assuming he’s alive. The times he’d been injured it seemed like his limbs were mechanical and… that’s a problem. Then there’s how they always seem to heal back to the way they were. Even those bells, he couldn’t remove them permanently; they just grow back-

He stopped, realizing finally he’d been making music with the bells. He frowned. Angry. She got him again. Making a frustrating noise, he tries grabbing the rope loop from his cloak and ties it along his head, attempting to restrict the movement of his floppy ‘hat’ part; and he grabs at his tail. It’s uncomfortable, but until he gets home he can try to make the bells make less noise. This leaves his front exposed, which is mildly embarrassing, but it’s not like he has anything objectionable to see. Clarion made sure of that. With a bit of rage, he wishes he could do something to hurt her and her stupid humans who’d taken his life away. There’s a pushback of a thought, that he was immortal and had a wonderfully cute body and a beautiful singing voice, so it wasn’t all bad, and-

He grabs at his head again, trying to force the thought away, but he’s tired. And anyways, it makes sense, doesn’t it? Why should he be angry all the time, maybe he just needs to relax a little bit and-

No, he can’t relax, he has to-

Do what? There’s nothing he can do here, he might as well enjoy himself. Besides, all these things on him are uncomfortable. He loosens the tied rope, letting his hat head flop down again, feeling a bit better. Why’d he ever think that was a good idea, anyway? He continues on, his mood improving somewhat. Was he angry about Clarion? Some part of him was screaming ‘yes’ and gave him a nagging feeling that he shouldn’t be happy about all this, but that was probably also the part that thought suiciding himself against her was a good idea. The angry, scary part. Why not enjoy himself and dance and sing? He slipped out of the uncomfortable cloak, and began skipping around in a happy dancing motion. People moved away, somewhat distrubed but who cares? He’s happy, isn’t he and-

The angry voice comes roaring back, and suddenly he realizes he’s acting like a fool again. He stops dancing, and grabs at his head. He just needs to get home, and then he can dance and sing and-

He struggles again against the thought. He knows it isn’t what he wants, but it’s so hard to force himself not to listen to it; it feels like he’s trying to force himself to be angry at an innocent child. Why is he angry? It’s irrational. Unhealthy. He shoves back against the angry, scary voice. He should dance and sing. That’s really what he wanted to do, anyway; it’s what he came out here for. Maybe he’ll find someone playing music, and then he can really show off.

He skips away, singing a tune and unashamedly making a complete fool of himself. He was happy.

And wasn’t that really what was important?
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