A/N: Randomly thought of this while goofing off in my room. Hope you like it!
(Disclaimer: I don't own PJatO. Which sucks.)
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It's June 22nd, 6:03PM —and it's also sweltering hot. At 95° with a heat index of 107°, you're practically melting as you walk down a crowded New York street. You can see heat waves dancing off the tops of passing cars, and if you toss a crayon onto the pavement, it melts to sludge in less than a moment.
Not the day to be wandering around outside.
You hail a cab and hitch a ride to the nearest fast-food restaurant—McDonalds. You don't usually eat there, but all you need is about twenty four gallons of something—anything—liquid. You stagger inside and place your order.
Ten strangely long minutes later, you sit down with your Diet Coke at the table furthest from the main entrance, hoping to avoid suffocating drafts. This proves ineffective, because as soon as you sit down, a boy walks through the back entrance right next to your table.
You almost overlook him, but he catches your eye as a creepy person. Goth, almost. He's wearing black jeans, a black shirt with dancing skeletons on it, and an old aviators jacket that nearly swallows his arms. His hands are just sticking out from the sleeves far enough for you to see a silver skull ring. His hair, raven-black and feather-like, is shaggy and kind of long, as if he needs a haircut, and you can see, even through his oversized jacket, that he's skinny and small. You don't manage to get a glimpse of his face before he trudges up to the lines. His movements are sluggish, and you wonder if he's had his coffee today.
You shrug and turn your attention back to your soda.
Four refills and a bathroom break later, you pop the lid on your cup and toss an ice cube into your mouth. You see the goth-kid just finishing his order. You watch as he picks up his items: about six Happy Meal boxes, all with some silly cartoon character emblazoned on the sides. You almost laugh as you watch him walk back toward you, his face nearly hidden behind the boxes. You glance down at your cup, swishing the ice cube with your tongue, fighting back a smile. Through your peripheral vision you see him near your table, and you glance up, ready to give a friendly, witty remark. But as he raises his head and you lock eyes with him, your smile melts away like the ice in your mouth.
His eyes are as dark as midnight, and his cold stare sends shivers down your spine. Dark marks under his eyes give him a sleepless, evil look. His skin is a sickly olive color, and his face is thin and gaunt. But though his gaze is icy, you see a pool of sorrow behind his eyes, as if he's seen too much for his years. A strange aura engulfs him; something you can't place.
You swallow and drop your gaze from his, your stomach feeling frozen—and not from your ice cube. The boy takes a step forward and seems to vanish in the growing shadows—Happy Meals and all. You glance back up again, and it's as if he were never there.
You shiver and spit your ice cube into the cup. You get up hastily, still a little shaken. You toss your empty cup in the garbage and open the door to leave, making sure to use any door but the one that boy had used, when you realize what that strange aura was.
It was the aura of death.
THE END