（ on a normal world, amidst normal people, he clings to a veneer of a like life. just a guy. unageing, unchanging, undying, normal. he's been running for almost ten millennia now, never staying in the same place too long. avoiding worlds with the sort of advanced tech that could track him or put a stop to his comingling with the locals. it's not like he refuses to tell people what he is as a matter of principle — if he's close to someone, if he cares, he'll tell them. it's better than just walking out one night when someone gets a little too suspicious about why he doesn't look a day older or why he never seems to cut himself shaving or any of the other million little tells he knows he has.

but a place like this? with no vested interest in keeping his mouth shut, cy's largely ambivalent to the fallout that might ensue.

he watches the kid turn and head back to the locker like he's pacing in a cage, and tilts his chin up faintly. ）

I'm not really one for hoping. （ haha, anyway — ） And besides, we're already familiar...ish. We're having the most fun we can with our clothes on, according to the brochure.

（ he points meaningfully to his watch. look, there's a whole paragraph about clothed, nonsexual conversation. ）

Okay but now I just gotta ask. You can tell I'm a 'Whatever, TBA, Mysterious Entities Gone Wild' over here, but you're still that confident you're the dangerous one?