He was running. Hard to be sure of much else.
Someone had tried to kill him again.
He wasn't sure, either, why everybody he met seemed to have it in for him. He was noticeable with his bright colors and he talked a little strangely, but he'd never actually offended anyone as far as he knew. He had a fair idea of how conversations were supposed to work, after all; he used to be made of them. Sort of. Another point of confusion, that.
He skidded to a halt. The footsteps behind him had fallen silent an hour ago at least, and then he'd just kept going because it was less effort than trying to stop, but this was an enclosed space and he didn't want to hit anything. And it was sort of…creepy. Dark and broken-down and far too empty for his taste. There were shadows here, too, of a less usual kind, ones he could only see because of his odd nature: impressions left behind by the people who had once spent their time here, before it became an empty shell of a building, half-present people crowding around and brushing up against him and occasionally even walking through him…
Standing still was worse than moving, so he started to walk. He wasn't going any particular way—nowhere really to go even if he had any idea where he was—but maybe if he walked the creepy feeling would go away.
