LAURENCE MERCURY | DISTRICT 3

"Although Laurence is Lestia's fraternal twin, they couldn't be more of opposites. He's ever grounded to his reality, and is the walking definition of a "realist." Every single step he takes is a cautious one, every glance towards the outside world petrified, every move well thought out and reasoned. Tragedy has transformed this once innocent boy into someone who thinks he understands the cruelty of the world, and is determined to salvage himself from its wreckage before it could destroy him, too. However, even if he's accepted his reality, it doesn't particularly mean he has to like it." - Chelsey

There is a house built out of stone
Wooden floors, walls and window sills
Tables and chairs worn by all of the dust
This is a place where I don't feel alone
This is a place where I feel at home

With a sweep of his cape he flies, soaring around the bedroom with Lestia as his wingwoman. Gray eyes shine silver as they laugh and jump, spreading their arms and feeling the imaginary wind sweep through their hair. Together they save the day, protecting civilians from brutal Peacekeepers or from the clutches of the Arena. They then escape: untouchable, with infinite days stretching before them to make the world a better place.

But that was then, when summer afternoons were endless and he could always escape to the confines of his mind. Now the superhero's emblem is tattered and ripped, stashed away as a ragged cloth for the maid to wash the dishes with. And he's stuck on earth with no way out, wishing his feet could levitate off the ground just once more.

NAME: Laurence Alistair Mercury
AGE: Sixteen
DISTRICT: Three

The six-and-a-twelfth-sized boy slips into his room, unnoticed by all. Mother's in her room, sitting remotely, letting the french onion soup become a gelatinous mess. His siblings are anywhere but here, forced out of this house that still reeks of death and malice. He stumbles up the stairs, lanky limbs banging against the wood and head smacking against the railing; a curse is harshly muttered, and he rubs his forehead, knowing that the too-pale skin will probably bruise. Eventually he manages to escape the confines of the stairs (such a perilous obstacle for the boy who once flew) and flee into his sanctuary.

He runs his hands, dry and rough, through his messy hair. It's greasy: not having been washed for a few days has caused small clumps to stick together, and sometimes he just wishes that he could shave it all off. His eyes are tarnished and bloodshot, with bags clearly visible underneath. With a thump, Laurence plops down onto his bed, lying on his stomach with his eyes gazing at his wrist, ridged and scarred from days that seemed to be far worse.

Six months ago we buried him.
A year ago everything was fine.
Now it's not.

As if on cue, he hears his mother's laugh ricocheting through the halls. He sighs, sits up, rubs his freezing arms and rummages through the closet to put on a sweater. It's a bit too big and very thick, but he likes it that way. For Laurence, it's akin to a snuggle and a hug: warm and comforting, a solace from the everyday turmoil that has haunted him since that fateful day, when he stepped in a puddle the color of wine and his eyes turned black and his body limp.

He opens the door with smiles in his eyes and slight tremors in his hands. "Dad - Dad guess what," he stammers at a million miles an hour, practically jumping up and down for joy. After all that work, all of those hours spent studying instead of sleeping have finally paid off. The results are in, and he's ranked fifth.

Laurence knows that his father will say something along the lines of "Well why aren't you ranked first? You can do better," but the glint in his eyes, the slight elevation of his mouth will say something entirely different. I'm proud of you son. You worked hard and look where that's gotten you. Top of the class. Feet pitter-patter towards the study, the door oddly left slightly ajar, no sound emanating from the room. That's strange, Laurence thinks, but to him it's nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe he's just out, his father does often go out to lunch at odd hours, arriving back home with whiskey on his breath and a swagger in his footsteps.

He briskly enters the study and time seems to freeze and this time it's not his superpowers that have done so. There's wine on his shoes - it must be wine right? Wine's that red, rusty deep dark color - and splattered on the floor and on the wall, but there's no broken bottle to be seen. It's fallen somewhere. I'll go look for it and I'll clean up and everything will be better. His feet are shaking, he doesn't know why but maybe the iron smell in his lungs is the cause as he slowly sinks towards the ground, eyes looking anywhere but ahead because it's a mirage, it has to be. There isn't a person sitting in the chair. There isn't, it's just a figment of his imagination.

Where's the wine bottle. Where is it where is it where is it I can't find it what has dad done with it? "Da-" He can't bring himself to look, can't let himself accept what's happened as he glances upwards and sees his father, his idol sitting in his chair, just like usual. Only this time the wine seeps out of his throat instead of absorbing into his bloodstream. This time he doesn't look at Laurence with reproach or anger, but with a glassy-eyed stare that reveals nothing except that his father is dead and gone and he's not covered in alcohol, no matter how much he'd like to think so.

Only then does he allow himself to sob.

Life has a way of not caring about the individual, Laurence thinks. She nor her brother Time have never stopped to mourn someone great and powerful, nor someone insignificant. Time didn't stop and bow his head for his father, Life won't stop and weep when Lestia finally sighs her last breath, and they most certainly won't stop for him. But he's not one of these otherworldly beings who hold him in their hands, molding him to their liking. Time makes him grow old in body and mind, Life slowly sucks her essence out of him as she grows tired of his constant, banal existence. Yes, he doesn't have that type of power, but that means that he can afford to be personal, can afford to mourn for the ones who were unjustly ripped away to the netherworld, unable to purchase a round-trip ticket.

His father never was one for sentiments, or for playing-by-the-rules. But he was the one who got things done, who brought their family up from the dirt ground to the mansion that they now comfortably reside in. His father didn't flinch at executions on the television or at the last Reaping when all 8 of his kids could have been thrust into a land of blood and thievery. His heart was colder than most, but he did care. He cared deeply, even if it was hard for him to show it. But he's dead now; whatever he did in his life wasn't enough to prolong murder. And Laurence knows that he'll be able to do better, to make his father proud as he looks down from the plane of departed souls.

For too long he walked behind his father. Now it's time for him to become his own person, to break the rules his father set before him. Rules are created for a reason, and his father's dead because he didn't follow them; therefore, following rules is probably the way to go. Family matters more than anything in the world, not liquor or booze or the girls that linger in alleyways with too much rouge on their faces and eyes that have been dead for years. Hard work will get you to the top, not bribes or blackmail or anything of the sort, so work with your head down and your eyes focused on the thing in front of you. Live life in the present, fear what may come, prevent it from happening.

And Laurence knows now that this is the only way - it has to be the only way because what else can he do - so perhaps he's become a little bit desperate to have the others in his life see things his way. Stubborn to a fault, he'll plead with them to see it his way, to "take the road most traveled, lest your fire burns too brightly and not long enough". Safest is best, statistics don't lie even as he says this with a hint of disbelief in his eyes; sometimes it's hard to believe your own lies.

"That's the way, Laurence. You've gotta believe in what you're saying for them to go along," Otis says as he sits with the four-year old. Laurence simply stares at his boots, waiting for the man to leave him alone. He just wants to play with Lestia, maybe watch Ezra make patterns in the sand or play tag with Delilah and Matthias. But instead he's stuck here for the time being, listening to his father talk about who-knows-what until he can finally be free an-

The slap on his face is enough to wake him out of his trance.

"Were you listening?" The man doesn't relent, even though his face softens slightly as tears run down the boy's ruddy, red face. "I thought not. You need to know this. You need to listen."


"But you don't, do you? You don't listen to me now, you won't listen to me later. How the fuck am I supposed to help you if you won't fucking listen?" Laurence is ten now, standing quietly, trying not to cry, trying not to let him see the cracks in his facade because he knows his father and he'll rip the cracks apart in some desperate attempt to chisel him into perfection. "It's not good enough, Laurence. It's never good enough, and right now you're not good enough. I expect more out of you."

"But I tried."

"Trying's not enough, it never is."


"Now, tell me," Otis states as they sit in his study, the cups of tea having since cooled as the sun ran away, clouds shielding him from the father's glare. "How do you get a businessman to invest an enormous amount in your product."

"Take him out to a restaurant and pitch the idea over wine and a nice piece of steak."

"Good idea, if you're too much of a sniveling piece of shit to get him what he really wants. Invite him to a club, give one of the girls a couple of bucks, have her invite him into one of the back rooms. Then he'll be ready to give you the big bucks. If that doesn't work, slip him a few thousand under the table."

"But isn't tha-"

"Isn't that what?"

"... Nothing."

"I thought so. Now go, you have to study for that test. What's your ranking right now?"

"Eighth."

"Not good enough."

"I know."

FACECLAIM: Johnny George
PASSWORD: odair
COLORS: I don't even know
MEMBER OF THE MERCURY FAMILY PLOT