Author's Note: Most of the characters involved in the following are the exclusive property of Poppy Z.
Brite. A very few of them aren't, because they are characters that have been developed
by myself and the collaborative efforts of Naomi, Mark and Sarah. Much appreciation
goes out to them for their assistance. Let me preface this by saying that I've been
roleplaying Nothing for over a year now on AOL (for those of you on aol, the SN is
xixnothingxix), so I've taken some creative license with Brite's original concept. It
takes place fifty years after the 'death' of Zillah, on the streets of New Orleans. This
one's going to be pretty tame, there will undoubtedly be chapters to follow. Stay tuned.
By the way: Sometimes it takes me awhile to get a plot built. Just..hang in there. I'm getting to a
point, I swear.
Nothing stalked offstage just before the house lights came up. The crowd was still enthralled in a frenetic whirlwind of shots and cheers, screams and sweat, pushed to the limits by the burning, bleeding intensity of the singer they so adored. One of the roadies handed him a cigarette on the way to the dressing rooms, which he took without smiling, shoving a small hand into the pocket of worn black jeans and fishing for a bright pink plastic lighter. With a rolling of black electric tape wrapped thumb, he lit the cigarette with one hand. With the other he shoved a curtain of dyed black hair behind an ear impatiently.
"There's a man who's been comin' 'round here askin' about you, cher."
Nothing blinked, twin pools of inkwell turbulence shifting their attentions to the girl who had spoken. She had short hair, black as midnight, clipped sleek and chic to frame her jaw. She wore a black leather corset with her black velvet broomstick skirt. She had eyes of the most intense, unfathomable electric green imaginable, that shade of neon brilliance that imprints itself just behind your eyelids and haunts you in your sleep, equalled by no other living creature. Living, that is.
"Oh yeah?" The singer took a harsh drag off that Lucky Strike, filling his lungs with acrid smoke as he studied Nia, the proprietress, in the haze. It had been twenty years or more since he'd been to New Orleans. Who could possibly remember him well enough to know that he was back?
Just then another girl joined them, her purple braided extensions pulled up in pigtails on either side of her head. She wrapped both arms around Nia's waist and laid a head on her shoulder, Nia smiling like the proud owner of a prize winning, pedigreed pet.
Devi nodded. "Yeah…" she trailed off, glancing up at her girlfriend for approval. Nia nodded slightly, tangling her fingers in purple braids. "…this guy I met the other night while I was downstairs at the Absinthe House. He said he was looking for a boy, a skinny little boy with big black eyes like a Cajun swamp and hair dyed black to match. Said he'd probably be travelin' with two other boys that looked like twins but weren't really. Said he'd known you a long time."
Nothing's heart misfired, snagging itself on barbed wire and exploding into action once it remembered that it had stopped. His mind swam with possibilities; impossibilities, a crazy tornado of thoughts like a swarm of bees between his ears. With shaking fingers, he lifted his temporarily forgotten cigarette, dragging fiercely, exhaling a cloud of bluish smoke to separate himself from Devi's words. The little girl, just a little bit spacey on pain killers and alcohol, grinned up at him like a chesire cat.
"He was quite handsome, Nothing." Nia looked sharply at the girl in her arms,
she had a possessive jealous streak a mile wide. Devi trailed off again, her voice
singsong and discordant. "He knew your name. He had eyes like Nia."