#alyos vc: i can't be fucked to muster up enough hatred for disdain rn so just be a good boy & keep up

[bitbrumal]

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REGRATOR  chin to the back of his wrist / fingers idle despite their grip on a fountain pen. it’s sleek & glossy just like its ink. the purple of his gaze finds the blue of another’s. “many politicians are all about an ego divorced from reality.”

             not... just politicians. “they need the illusion of getting things done; the people’s illusion that they do.” & while the fatui’s upper ranks are meant to understand this well enough to use rather than be used by it - there are those among their number who could do with a crash course. all too much effort for alyos. “anything more they cannot handle.”

         but, where it concerns the tsaritsa’s whelp... a harbinger yet fledgeling - it’s not an ideal situation. chaos chases his heels & the vanguard is where he is found; too often will tartaglia exist in the same space as their business & be the one controlling its tide. it doesn’t pay to refuse to teach at this point. her majesty sees to it that he will not remain blind or malleable, & so it is just... a bother. a smaller bother than him blundering through the bank’s business.

“you must have noticed them flounder in your wake by now?” the corner of his mouth kicks up for the first time. “nothing like a good disaster to have the authorities scrambling for purchase.                         the moment people no longer believe they are achieving things, they no longer are. their only real achievement is control- and control is created more within those controlled than by those doing the controlling.”

with a little sigh, he rests his chin on his palm. the tip of the pen scritches his cheek, nudges his glasses askew just a touch. his nose wrinkles. “i realise this material is dull, but it has value.” what was once a smirk & then a frown now spreads sharply around a sugary tone:            “i could offer you a cookie-?    to keep you focussed.”                                 or a taunt.

a single finger pushes the dish of small pastries to the edge of the desk he’s using. he might bat his lashes, once, & the spark of vitriol that keeps his black heart beating might have bled out into vague amusement.