Dictatious lounged on a worn couch, one hand holding half a slice of pie while the other stroked a disgruntled cat.

The television laughed for him.

He preferred it that way.

Once, he'd been a creature of purpose and grand ideals. Now? He had pie, a television, and the comforting knowledge that nobody expected anything from him.

The cat escaped his lap.

"Perhaps I'm not completely beyond boredom," he muttered. "How tragic."

Taking up his staff, Dictatious stepped outside without a destination.

He told himself he didn't care.

But some part of him still listened.

Still watched. Still waited.