Zigzagging Toward The Light :: [Open]
Jul 19, 2014 13:15:34 GMT -5
Post by L△LIA on Jul 19, 2014 13:15:34 GMT -5
The afterlife doesn't quite know what to do with Nocturne Vargas.
For starters, somebody in the universe seems to have fucked up, because whoever is in charge around here has yet to sort out if they've even got the right kid. ("Who is he?" Someone asks. "HNaowcthuorne," two contradicting voices reply simultaneously before breaking into an argumentative shouting match, neither wanting to admit to being the one who might have messed up. "Hawthorne Hamilton!" "No, Sir, that's Nocturne Vargas!" "Hawthorne!" "Nocturne!" "Hawthorne!" "Nocturne!" And back and forth they go, petty to the point that the whole situation spirals into the kind of immaturity that would put a devastating grin onto the face of the boy in question, if only he were privy to it. "Shut up!" "No, you shut up!" Clearly, someone on the Underworld Reaping committee is about to get fired. "You're so stupid!" "You're stupider!" "Well, you're the stupiderest stupidhead that ever stupidly stupored!" "What?!") To be fair, now that he has his memories back, Hawthorne "Nocturne Vargas" Hamilton isn't quite certain if he knows who he is either.
Mixed-up memories swirl around within his head without rhyme or reason: Walking down the hallway of the Hamilton's home and going to sleep in a one room apartment above a grungy convenience store. Kissing his mother on the cheek; kissing the mouth of a boy with a smile almost as crooked as his own; kissing the window of a skyscraper looking out into a night filled with too many city lights to actually be considered dark; kissing the lid of a coffin he doesn't want to give a name to; kissing his own forehead goodbye, blood on his lips from an unholy trinity of head wounds. He knows he has sisters he grew up with and others that he didn't, yet still remembers passing him by as he sat on a park bench one day. He also has a brother he thinks he might have died for, despite knowing with complete and utter certainty that he hadn't particularly been in the mood to die at all that day.
Pacing back and forth through this undecided place within the universe, everything — both within and without — is kind of a blur. At least he more-or-less knows his own name now (both of them), his own history (both of them), and the pain of death seems to have wandered off and gotten itself quite lost. "I'm not really sure what I'm supposta be doing here," he mutters to no one in particular, only just now realizing that there are other people here, shuffling around almost as aimlessly as he is. "Hey you," tapping the shoulder of one of the other souls stuck here in Limbo, he thinks he's about to start fidgeting like a madman if he doesn't do... something, "what're we supposta do?"
As if anyone around here has a clue.
(Note: Multiple people may join this thread. There's no posting order and no rules because: afterlife, rofl.)
