A.N: Feel free to submit a character still. I love new characters :)
X-X
It wasn't that it was wrong. It was a little more than wrong. It was a little more than horrible, too, but that wasn't what the matter was.
No, he thought, the matter was more that he was almost fine with it. It was so simple: take the folder, carry the contents to a certain person, report back. Problem solved. Easy. Quick, too, if he could just get his feet moving, if he could just take those first few steps, if he could just walk away from the office that loomed behind him. And maybe the folder held things like doctor's notes, or a request for some nice soup at lunch time. Maybe it held love and peace and just being ok with. That was it.
He shook his head. He was using a standard ego defense mechanism. Denial. For the sake of calming himself down, he muttered the definition, "When an individual mentally or verbally argues against the existence of an anxiety-inducing stimulus," he murmured, and then took one step. Then two. Then three. Under his feet, his lithe Houndour wove a glittering orange trail, like infinity against the grass. Four steps. Five.
It was hard finding her. She blended with the scenery, smoke against the sky. She raised one eyebrow while he approached. "Thompson," she purred, "Look who got taken in," she stated, and then buffed her nails against her shirt. "Up to four tally marks?"
He looked away. It was his senior year. Just nine and a half months. And then he was free. If he kept his head down and his mouth shut, maybe the world wouldn't close in on him. Maybe it would stop the slow compression of less air, less air, less air. He drew a breath. Nine and a half months. Impossible.
Caen held out her hand, waiting for the folder she knew was coming. Her silver fingernails glinted against the glow Thompson's Benjy provided. The little Houndour was panting by his feet, his wet pink tongue lolling out of his soft orange maw. Caen bounced her hand impatiently. "Come on," she snapped, "I don't have all day. Contrary to what Dean dearest thinks, I occasionally do things with my life," she hissed. Thompson handed the file over, waiting for Arceus to smite him for his horrible deeds. But no. It changed hands easily, like silk, like forever, like one two three years days hours left before his heart stopped beating its quiet tattoo. She grinned, snapped her gum, and disappeared like thoughts into the night.
Oh misery, he thought, forgive me for giving in to your vacant soft allure.
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Dawn. Crack, slip, bones at the ready.
When had he gotten here?
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There was too much blood. She knew that. When she looked down, her whole world fell apart like butterscotch candy. It spilled red rose petals down, down, down. All across the pretty white fabric. One bright glint of metal, and then nothing. It hadn't hurt at first. But then it spread wildfire all over her. She couldn't get out of it. She couldn't escape it. Wound, wound, gape open to the world.
She opened her eyes. Across from her, a pretty girl with honey hair. She couldn't remember if she was awake or not. But of course. Of course. That's why it hurt so much. Such pretty cotton candy pain. It made patterns dance in front of her eyes. Pretty, pretty, pretty.
Blue eyes opened to meet hers, and a sudden frown crossed the young face. "Grace?" the girl with honey hair asked, all concern. All worry. All of the past in tumbling locks of golden hair like grass in the sunlight. Pretty, pretty, pretty. Faintly, "Grace? You're crying," the past said, calling out sweet, sweet veracity.
Was she? Is that why diamonds stung in her eyes? Is that why her vision blurred so horribly? Is that why her breath caught and these horrible sharp sobs ricocheted out of her ribs?
She curled up and cried the world away, letting pretty, pretty, pretty pain swallow her like honey.
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It was sort of funny, the way the blood coated his fingers. Just like love. It wouldn't wash off. He scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, taking red red red lily petals off his crawling skin. It hurt. It burned. It dug into his palms like glass.
He hunched over the black basin of the sink, his slim figure shaking and scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing, blearily removing all evidence of her from his raw palms. How long had he been here? One, two, three hours days years, just washing off sweet scarlet sanguine sorrow. The water was pretty pink horror with blood. It was her blood. It was his blood. It was the blood of the world and the air and it left bodies with oh such quick delight.
He paused and examined his hands. A long time ago, he had stopped scouring off her blood and started scouring at his own. Such thin skin he had, to wash off and down that drain. Under his eyes, his palms swirled red faucet dripping. It gaped raw wound pain under the dim lights. All of him flowed with the water, down, down, down, out and into the world.
And it was good.
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No, the voice was wrong. That was the problem. The voice was entirely wrong.
Yuki stared at the ceiling and watched the sun creep in, a slim stealthy intruder. Around her head, voices clambered for attention. None of them were the voice she needed. It haunted her, hung on her. She waited for the moment when the sun would creep into her mind, too, and show her what she had been missing.
She started to sing under her breath, just a little lullaby her mother had taught her. But the words were mixed up. They sounded like iron, like someone had slipped in and whispered them in her ear while she was sleeping. Without knowing why, her tune switched towards a song she'd never heard.
"I pledge my loyalty undying to the Dean of Frost, whom I will serve faithfully, no matter what the cost," she sang, and then choked on her words. When had she learned anything like that? Instantly she felt the tug in her mind.
It was something about the voice. If only she could remember.
xxxxxxx
It wasn't that bad. He'd been in worse places before. He'd been in more pain before, too. This was easy. This was ok.
Although, Sage mused, something should be done about the way the world was spinning. If anything, it was just really annoying.
This is why, he thought, you don't do drugs.
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When he came to his senses, he was standing in front of the door to the kitchen. Orson grinned. He'd always been a nervous eater. He was certainly nervous. And definitely hungry.
Yes, Orson was confused, starving, and in pain, but his mamma had raised him right. He rolled up his sleeves and pushed open the door.
"Alright then, put me to work."
xxxxxxx
He poked his roommate, trying to get the stirring lump of clothes to respond. He stared at Thompson's immobile body and yawned. It was too early for this madness. He tucked a strand of his inky hair back over his ear.
"Thompson," he sang, "Thompy-cakes. Little Tommy Blue," he hummed, his amber eyes dancing. He watched the bundle move and grinned his sharp smile. "I will sexually harass you like a squirrel climbing a tree," he chirped, patting the body idly. Instantly Thompson was on his feet, staggering from his head rush. He glowered at his roommate.
"Mate," he sighed, "There has got to be another way to do that," he murmured, sitting back down on his bed, closing his deep blue eyes. "You could kill a man like that, Felix," he chided lazily, but his friend showed no guilt in his light brown eyes, and instead just sat down on the sheets next to him, stretching out a bottle of pills. Thompson pulled a face. Necessity was the bane of his existence.
That was their little secret, shared between two pairs of eyes that twisted colors: one pair such a light brown they were amber, one pair such a deep blue that they were indigo. One orange pill bottle. One pink. One blue.
Thompson grudgingly knocked one back without water, holding out his hand for the next. Felix deftly switched it out while saying, "I see you were out late last night, like a bird on the wing. My little Tommy. All growed up," he sang, and waggled his eyebrows suggestively while handing over the blue pill. That was all Thompson had to take in the mornings, and Felix got him up every day to do it on time, but the number was set to increase soon. Maybe it would be five next time. Six. Seven.
Thompson rolled his eyes and crunched the blue pill between his teeth. It tasted like childhood chalk: all broken and used. "Yes, I went out and saw a girl, you big bully," he half-growled playfully, running his tongue over his teeth, trying to rid the taste from his mouth. Felix gave him one of those smiles: all sharp teeth and cleverness. You had to be careful about Felix, he knew. The other boy just didn't get which lines should not be crossed. It made him a potentially deadly enemy and a strong ally. Yes. He was a much better ally.
"Oh, look at you, smug as a rug. What was her name? Also, does she have a sister?" Felix grinned, amber eyes all aglow. This was normal, right now, right for this instant, just two senior boys, just two people that had been best friends since freshmen year. No. Thompson knew he had to ruin that, take that away and replace it with stark sorrow. They didn't keep secrets from one another because they kept secrets from the rest of the world.
"It was Caen," he murmured, and instantly the smile dropped off his friend's face. It was replaced with cold calculation. Thompson looked away. "I'm up to four," he admitted quietly, and dragged his eyes back to his roommate, who was absentmindedly holding his left shoulder. Cold, cold calculation hummed from his amber eyes.
"Well then," the boy who was half beast growled, "We need to do something about that, don't we?"
xxxxxxx
Crack, click, muscles back in action.
God, he hated walking. But it was better than being strapped to a chair. He didn't remember how he got here. He didn't care. He needed a nap. Some food. Some pain meds. Around and around his head swirled, while around and around Zulu circled his feet.
"You know something?" Mika slurred to the Umbreon, "I really, really hate this school."
xxxxxxx
Bright, bright, bright.
He was lying down but it felt like flying.
Bright, bright, bright.
Black.
xxxxxxx
Oh river, slow river, wind your way home.
No. It wasn't that easy.
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"Look," she said passively, "It's not that I don't like your singing. I do. It's just… you keep pausing to mutter something. It's just very strange, is all," Kratch tried to explain, while Yuki stared at her. The shorter girl waved away the plea.
"I can't remember what her voice sounded like," she murmured, and then it was back to singing and muttering, singing and muttering.
Kratch bit her lip and gently removed her Luxio and Skitty from the bed so she could make it. It was best just to ride these things out. Problems had a tendency to solve themselves, if you let them.
Suddenly there was silence behind her, followed by a deep, frightened breath from her roommate. Kratch flicked her sheets out in a white wave and threw a questioning look over one shoulder.
"I know the voice," Yuki hissed, "I know the voice because I've heard it before. A long time ago. But it couldn't be her. She disappeared. I mean. It couldn't," she babbled, her eyes wide. Kratch sighed and tucked in the corners of the sheet.
"If you feel like explaining at any point, let me know," she grinned, retrieving another blanket from the floor. Yuki was pacing behind her, her pokemon making the trip with her. Back and forth, back and forth. Kratch just watched the blanket soar up then down. Her friend would talk when she was ready.
"It can't be her. She's supposed to be dead."
xxxxxxx
Sleep meant dreaming, and dreaming meant remembering. It flicked in front of his face and settled in his chest. The pain kept him awake. That was fine. If he just shoved everything to a very far, trembling corner, then everything would be alright. He would be ok. That was all there was to it: he just couldn't think too hard.
Watching Will makes Lucario tired, his pokemon admitted, peeking over the edge of the bed. There. That was ok, Will thought, letting the smooth voice roll calm over him. Stability. Yes. Everything was fine. Nothing hurt.
He reached out and ruffled his partner's fur. "Hey," he croaked, "Did you see where Nathan got to?" Will asked, yawning. He should get up. He hadn't actually slept at all, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered and nothing hurt. Yes. But Nathan had slipped out of the room the night before, and had yet to return. It wasn't that strange, though, for the writer, Will figured, shrugging a little.
Broken friend belong Will is in washing room, Lucario informed him, struggling to describe Nathan. Will grinned and threw back the covers, ignoring the sweet slice of pain through his entire body. He reached for his crutches and then hobbled towards the door of the bathroom, his pokemon stalking his every move.
Will leaned his head in. Blood stained everything. Nathan was standing over the sink, and he was smiling. He looked up, his steel eyes bright with some sick light. "Good morning, Will, Lucario. I trust you slept well?" Nathan asked, with such a light, happy tone that his roommate waited for the horror. It didn't come. Instantly something clicked inside of the photographer. That wasn't right. He should be diving for the sink, stopping his friend from removing any more skin. But no. He just stood there and felt strangely at ease with the actions before him. He felt Lucario subtly scan his thoughts. And then, the answer, the truth, the explanation behind the growing throttling numb.
Will is broken too.
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Quick river, slick river, run your way right back to me.
He didn't say anything to his friend. Not, "I'm so happy you're alive," or, "Thank god you're ok," or, "I've been looking for you." Nothing. He just picked up a cantaloupe and started slicing.
Orson grinned. "Nice to see you too, my dear friend. On the matter of waking up in the middle of a field with scaldin' pain runnin' down one of my arms: I have no idea what happened. By the looks of your stoic nature, I would dare to say the same happened to you. Well, my fine feathered friend, let me tell you, once these fruits are properly distributed, I will see what we can do about it. Perhaps a complaint to management is in order. Nevertheless," he paused and looked up, grinning, "I must say I am awfully happy to see you."
His friend didn't mince words. He just sliced downwards in one quick, clean cut, straight through the tough rind. That was it: just one lethal stroke. Then it was on to planning.
xxxxxxx
Oh bright star. Bright, bright, bright.
"I really hope you aren't dead."
Echo, echo, echo. It rattled around his head like breaking glass. Smooth but sharp. His mouth opened to reply, but no sound came out. Oh snow, fall for me.
"Oh Arceus."
Bright echo, bright echo.
"You know something? I ought to get paid for this kind of nonsense. But no. Nobody ever thinks to pay the quiet ones. I'm telling you right now, I'm a regular, every-day superhero. I deserve a badge or something."
Bright, bright, bright echo.
Black.
xxxxxxx
The money was laid out in front of him like a river of lies. And it was so easy to count: one hundred from a hungry family. Three thousand from an orphan. Sixteen hundred from… He couldn't think about it. It hurt too badly.
The cons weren't that bad, he'd conned before, and had gotten used to the guilt, but this was something new. This was a sign of his cowardice, right in front of him. Oh, he'd gotten the money, all right. But it hadn't been fair. It had been a scam. And then, like ice falling down, he had to hand it off. Who knew what the Dean did with it.
Rhyme sighed and carefully folded it into slim blue rubber bands in stacks of thousands. Then it was into a briefcase and under his arm. He wasn't going to leave that much money alone. He yawned and rubbed his eyes. It had been a late night. He padded wearily to the door, his Vulpix trotting along after him.
"We're running the twenties for some quick cash and then on to the widow, ok, Lilian? How does that sound?" Rhyme cooed, and she glanced up at him and chirped her love. She had no idea what was going on. But that was ok. Just one more secret.
Across the grass, into a taxicab, and then on to stealing money from the witless. He almost laughed at how easy it was, watching the school slide away. He could get out at the bottom of the mountain, turn his back, never look back. He could risk everything and just scamper until his feet gave out. It wouldn't be too hard. He'd lived in rougher times than these before, and the briefcase on the seat next to him promised a safe life, if only for a little while. It would be easy. He could run the con for himself for a little while, and loan shark on the side. Nothing too big. He'd stay under the radar. Yes. It would be easy.
He laughed again. The world just didn't work like that.
xxxxxxx
Mika stumbled into his room. He deserved a nap, an explanation, and maybe some hot cocoa. Zulu burst out hissing and spitting, but that was pretty much normal for the little ball of fury. And then: fur, in his face.
Mika thrashed and wrestled the thing off of his body, flinging it as far away from him as it would go. It landed on his roommate's bed with a soft cry of defeat. Davion instantly scooped it up and held it tight, glaring at Mika.
"What in the name of all that is holy is that?" Mika exploded, pointing one finger and making the sign of the devil. The Zangoose in his roommate's arms lifted one sad ruby eye to the offender. It hadn't meant anything by the attack. It just didn't like Mika very much.
Davion looked down and then up, eyeing the boy in partial armor as if the model wasn't sure the other boy was sane. "Jared," he stated dully, as if maybe Mika wasn't all there. The boy in black blanched, the scar over his eye darkening.
"Get it away from me," he stated simply, "Get it away from me now." He briefly considered swinging the long sword he had on his back for effect, but there was probably something in the student handbook that disagreed with that idea. Instead he bared his teeth, Zulu like a little black flame under him.
Davion didn't move. He just went back to flipping through a magazine. He was trying to figure out which page he got on. He had heard it was somewhere in the middle, but the fashion tabloid was pretty thick.
"You know something?" Mika asked into the silence. Davion looked up questioningly, so his roommate continued, "I really hate my life," he informed the world, and then flopped onto his bed and clutched his arm. It felt like it was going to fall off. He needed sympathy. Or congratulations on evidentially making it out of a horrible trap while unconscious. Or maybe a hug.
The model shrugged noncommittally and murmured, "Whatever." This was the sort of thing Mika had to put up with. He deserved an award. Or maybe that hug he wanted.
xxxxxxx
Tarrow stared at his roommate and shrugged. "I won't tell her if you won't," he stated, and shuffled the deck. "It would only hurt her to know."
Tommi stared at the blade in his hand. "It was an accident," he murmured. Tarrow just shrugged. They'd been friends for some time. Sometimes silence was the best option. Tommi looked up and stated blandly, "I heard Nico got a package to her," he muttered.
Tarrow looked up and smiled. "And so it begins."
xxxxxxx
Ike stood over the body and very scientifically examined it by poking it to see if it would respond. It did, a low, confused murmur.
Caen leaned against the wall, watching Ike's strategic examination. "He got a concussion and then they put him on drugs. It probably wasn't a good combination," she yawned. The boy was lucky she brought him to his dorm. She deserved a really good sandwich for her efforts. But no. Ike was just standing there, staring at his roommate with shock.
Ike was actually assessing for the cranial damage which she had mentioned and was debating a broken spine. Of course, Tobi would be in a lot of trouble if he'd been moved with a spinal injury, but Caen had meant well, at least. Slowly and carefully, he removed his friend's shirt, trying not to think it was too weird. He needed to examine the damage and the skin around it, was all. He quickly undid the buttons and sent up a prayer to Arceus that his shirt-removing shenanigans would not leave the room. It would ruin his reputation.
Tobi's slim body seemed fine, minus some thick purple bruises, but his skin showed none of the blue sheen of asphyxiation or any of the physical signs of permanent spinal injury. Ike breathed a sigh of relief and assessed for signs of shock. There weren't any, but it was better to be safe. Ike ripped off his own shirt and stuffed it under his friend's feet. He needed eight to ten inches of elevation, he noted. It was close enough.
"Woah, there, boy, do you need me to leave?" Caen purred. Actually she sort of understood what Ike was up to. He sent her a sharp glare and returned to the body. She held up her hands passively. She had been joking. No one ever understood it when she joked.
Ike felt for broken bones, flicking though his mind for any sort of premise on a concussion or overdose. He'd read the medical textbooks, of course, but it was different in practice. He laid one hand on his friend's left shoulder and instantly Tobi's eyes were open and he was crying out. Ike jerked his palm back, surprised, and padded to the other side of the bed to see the matter more clearly.
A long shimmering black mark had been etched into Tobi's tanned skin. A tally mark. Caen, behind Ike, whistled. "Oh dear. I wonder if all those poor winning losers have a mark just like that one. Well, then, I suppose your friend likely is hurting in his right ankle too," she murmured, but her voice had taken on a sort of maternal understanding that Ike felt was entirely out of character. He nevertheless darted to the other side of the bed and examined Tobi's leg. A thick red scar ran horizontally along the ankle, and Tobi growled when Ike touched it.
"Uh oh," Caen purred, staring at the tally mark, "Looks like your friend has four to go before he's gone," she sang, and then disappeared without explanation.
xxxxxxx
There was only pain and bright, brilliant shapes of colors.
"Tobi?"
Echo. It hurt his head. Something was struggling inside of his brain.
"Tobi, if you can hear me, I need to ask you how you got out of the nurse's office."
Everything was sharp sapphire bright. Everything cut like diamonds.
"Tobi?"
The echoes were so faint now. So faint and so loud at the same time.
"Tobi?"
Echo echo echo. Bright echo bright echo oh sweet star.
Black.
X-X
A.N: Sorry this is so late! We had a very bad storm and our power was knocked out. When they reconnected it, the power was all strange and wouldn't stay on longer than thirty minutes. I must have rewritten parts of this forty times. It was very sad. Since this is Wednesday, we're just going to pretend that I updated this week early, because it does actually take me some time to write these chapters. So...uh... happy early surprise? See you Thursday?
The two characters that made a debut were created by:
Thompson Baltimore: Lucariofan
Felix Masque: Tyltalis
I love every person who reviews, and all the people who read. Thank you all very, very much. I do my best to make the story enjoyable, and I like knowing people do actually follow Frost. It does my heart good. :)
I hope you enjoyed this week's (and last week's, I guess) installment of the story.
Take care.