like the sea, constantly changing from calm to ill.
Rapscallion has never had anyone ask him what he was thinking. In all of his life he was either told what to think, shown what to think or told others thoughts. He was very much so an observant man and of few words, especially in intimate moments. He doesn't know really how to answer this and in that moment, he realizes he overthinks every word. A "nothing" or "about the war" would suffice, he is sure but that is just not the way his mind works.
Rapscallion is a truthful man, even if his truth is not popular opinion.
"I don't even know how to explain, Wichita, it's not so easy as "what are you thinking" - none of my thoughts are formidable in my mind. I think I'm thirsty but instead of getting a drink, I think about a walk in the forest, a waterfall and how the algae eats bacteria, salmon, how it swims against the current because they're ignorant suicidal fish who's only purpose in life is to drop eggs upstream, then I think about evolution and how they never get smarter," he says blankly, his pupils tight, small and far away; lost. He could have said any number of things, "Nothing, what about you?" "I'm thinking about the war" but he can't speak on the impending war. Just the thought, now, sends him soaring into a dark place where he can feel and invision himself charging towards someone - to be unrelentless in his attacks. Then, he could mask his sociopathic ways behind a proposed reason; hell, someone would perhaps call him heroic when really he was a wolf in sheep's clothing. He mentions nothing but the idea is there and he shakes, his hair lays flat once more and his eyes move back to Wichita from the distance.
"What are you thinking about, clearly me at some capacity," he says, plainly, but any other man would use that as an ego stroke. He is intelligent enough to be charming and cunning but the mechanics of women are lost on him, they have been since birth.
.r a p s c a l l i o n.