The room is dark, save for the open, 3D window, which gives off a cool luminescant glow. Piotrich is hunched over on a bar-stool, staring vacantly at the half-formed shape floating within the window, unable to concentrate. One hand is poised, though drooping, half way into the window.

The entire room pulses with a quick-paced, electronic beat, on one hand thudding at such a low level as to make everything vibrate, on the other hand, moving so frantically, and so high-pitched, that it's almost beyond hearing.

The music is doing nothing to move Piotrich, not now... it has been nearly sixteen hours into his free day, and he hasn't slept for more then a couple of days before that. His face, now bathed in the blue-white light, is pressed into his free palm, though the metallic engravings on his cheeks and forehead reflect the light. He rubs at his eyes and tries again to focus on the screen, but is unable to concentrate... so finally, he lowers his half-poised hand and taps the window off.

Usually he is able to produce five or seven sketches in the time that he's taken to half-finish this one... and during his work hours he takes said sketches and melds them into the complicated structures that now litter his room. Call it a hobby... call it practice. Piotrich is a metal-mage, and a damn good one, at that. Usually he crafts the intricate parts necessary in the ever-popular cyborware... but he is, as of late, not enjoying himself.

The little green around his shoulders rustles slightly, her webbed wings brushing against his miniature, entirely man-made, feathery ones. In response, he raises a hand and runs it across her small neck. She makes a contented noise, and resettles herself. She remains quietly awake, amid the endless beat of the music.

'Destiny-y-y-y-y-y-y' an underlying voice whispers, cut and reshaped to fit the beat, Piotrich sighs, tilts his head back, and closes his eyes. '-Fiy-i-i-iy-nd you-oo-oo-oo'

"Destiny. Hmph." He pushes his chair back, ignoring the sounds of cans and glass bottles rolling away, and stands slowly. "If there's such'a thing," he mumbles, "it's because a person goes out and finds it himself."

The green flit cheeps at him sleepily, reprimanding him for upsetting her perch as he weaves his way around the mess on his floor to the unmade sleeping pad.

"Hush, you." He orders, and reaches for her, pulling her down into his arms like one would to a beloved cat. "Little racket, you are." She chirps again, and makes as if to bite his finger when he waggles it at her. "Now now, no trouble. Up to your sister, you. I'm going to sleep." He holds her out on one arm as she takes her time stretching her wings, and then launches her. She makes perhaps one flap of the wings before rushing into the hanging spikey metal sculpture, and, waking and upsetting the white, the two begin to squabble. Piotrich lets them for a while. He falls backwards onto the mattress, wings folded flat such that they won't be crushed, and once he's settled, he folds his arms behind his head. "Music off," he orders, and suddenly the room is plunged into an empty void, devoid of sound or light. The two flits have gone quiet, and only the swaying of their glowing gold-green eyes lets him know that they're still there.

He stares up at the invisible ceiling, entirely too comfortable, even the nagging worries of not having his work finished unable to reach him. He's on the verge of sleep, standing on the ledge before the realm of dreams, "...find it myself..." he mutters, and closes his eyes.