[ Pushed from the periphery, what is base in Spock has been forced to focused wanderings. For so much of the duration, Spock had made himself a shadow to his Captain. Unerringly, he had followed with precision the exacting nature of Jim's steps. As though pieces to a singular, as though bound by some unseen thread, their determination had been as one breath, as one firmer understanding. But, now—

It is only him. It is only Spock, untethered from the physical gravity of Jim. It is only him, the runs of alleys turned over and abandoned in the pursuit of something more fundamental. On the hunt for, it would seem, something more important.

For those who have grown wise to their prior tricks, they may find it most curious that a fellow Gnosia has left their snares unmanned. And for those who have fallen astray of the newest? No one arrives to check. Once as though clockwork, they are left to fend for the elements. Those who are spry and determined may find themselves able to claw themselves out, unimpeded. But, still: those that have been untriggered are ferocious; they spare no power behind the force of their offset, the inevitable snap back more likely to be literal than figurative.

But, where does that leave Spock?

At night, Spock traces the periphery of the lessening boundary. Where he can, he presses his palm flush to the brick and mortar of the remaining buildings within their containment, as though one feeling for something that those beyond can neither see nor sense. He learns to cover his tracks, but the wounds he had earlier acquired from Claude chafe beneath the lay of his robes. They weep, occasional and sluggish, the scent sharp and copper when one catches it. At times, he paces through the funneled nets that he would once occupy — dead-end alleys, narrow crevices between the oppressive scrape of buildings.

Often, he is not heard until one is already upon him. And by then, the deafening silence that uncoils from his frame as any emotional riot from another's is already scrabbling up against the surface. To another's psyche, it should feel as though a bruise, a greater hunger that subsumes. A splintering grind, sand against a wound. This is just the start of what one might compare it to, alien as it should be. Alien as it is.

During the day, Spock does not deviate. He does not deviate, but he does slow. Glimpses of him reveal more in the full cast of the sun, robes stained an unappealing bronze in spots. It becomes obvious where it is it originates, his skin mottled with a greener liquid (blood?) that crawls beneath and above the surface. His hands are at times slick with it, knuckles bruised in coppers and ochres.

Has he stopped to rest at all? It's unclear. But, it is obvious that he has no intention to truly lean into the opportunity until something gives or someone comes his way. ]