Post by January on Jun 20, 2009 4:25:08 GMT -5
Smathers staggers drunkenly. With a paper-wrapped bottle in one hand, he lurches haphazardly down a brick-walled alleyway, where a sparse veil of dim yellow floodlights cast a sickly hue. Their arhythmic flickering in the gloom contributes an appropriate atmosphere of nauseous anxiety.
Such an atmosphere is appropriate because Smathers himself is not well. Drink and drink as he might, spirits are no longer strong enough. All this time, all this irresponsible living on the streets and rampant alchoholism...
This is a man running from something. Man...a term used loosely, as he's really still a teen.
It would be bad enough if it was merely memories of a horrific past incident that the man wished would subside. No, it was not just a past he was fleeing, but a present; a state of being in which his mind is no longer what it once was. It is fractured.
As if these thoughts were physically sickening, Smathers retches, and smacks a hand against the brick wall. Was it all a lie? My memories...living on the streets...my Master...my training...all so clear...
Of course, this makes no sense. But recently, on the streets or in the halls of school, he see faces he's never seen before, and recognizes them. Phrases, images, mere shadows of recollection; they swim just below the surface in a murky sea.
And there were other memories as well...a fight against many large men (the word "Enforcers" comes to mind mysteriously and without explanation)...a fight in a white room with beds...dim laboratories, tables and restraints, and syringes, so many syringes. Then there were tests, sparring, training...and blood.
"Whose memories are these?" he asks the empty air, though his words are emitted as an incoherent jumble in his state of advanced inebriation. As if in response, his head is pierced by an intense pain, and rocked by the force of it he utters a pained grunt and falls to the ground unconscious.
Smathers drops from the sky into a plastic chair, and gazes about in alarm. He is not alone!
The scene is an impossibly large room. Grimy and green-tiled, it is lit from above by banks of white flourescence. The floor has drains in it. There is also a table, about which seven chairs of cheap plastic and metal had been pulled up.
Only three were occupied. Aside from himself in his rags, Smathers observes the other two.
One wears a white buttoned shirt with jeans and sandals, all clean but they show some wear-and-tear and are worn casually. Like Smathers, his long hair flows to his sholders, but this person's hair was immaculately clean and groomed, and it seemed a golden cascade flowed from his scalp. For all that, the hair and his short beard are a bit wild and lend his appearance a cavemann-ish quality. From his aura a lively and aggressive energy radiates quietly outward.
The other wears a sharp black business suit with all the trimmins: black shoes, black tie, white shirt. He tops it off with a very finely crafted black hat with a wide brim. His beard is trimmed perfectly and there is no dirt whatsoever under his nails. In contrast to the wildman, this person exudes an aura of calm, cold calculation, and he is absolutely still; there is not a twitch or gesture without conscious intent behind it.
Despite all these superficial differences between the three, one thing was plain to any observer: these people were the same individual. Or identical triplets.
The man with the golden mane immediately leaps from his seat.
"Who the FUCK are you people!?" he roars.
There is a silence for a moment, in which poor Smathers notices that he still carries his bottle. His face brightens, and he takes a swig from it gratefully. The other two eye him as he does so; the former with disgust and the latter impassively.
The one in the suit speaks finally. "...really? Neither of you have ANY idea? I must be dumber than I though...." And now he makes his first expression of the session: a smirk. It's a small, lopsided wry thing that reeks of condescension.
Understandably, the other two are pretty put off by the guy from the start.
The first guy retorts immediately and loudly. "you know, nevermind, I don't even give a shit. Been in here for months, and not to wait around to be smack-talked by a goddam suit!" He then shoves his chair violently and rages around for a little.
Smathers plunks the bottle down after a long draw from its contents. "...I just got here," he adds unhelpfully.
The suit considers these remarks for a moment before leaning back in his chair. "...Let's start with introductions. My name is January."
"Roland!" the angry one spits out.
"Call me Johnny!" says Smathers. He's starting to have an uproariously good time, what with the contents of the bottle rapidly disappearing down his gullet with every passing moment.
"Well, Roland, Johnny, welcome to our mind." January says cooly.
The two stare openmouthed, but by their feelings they know it is the truth. Roland dumps his head onto the table with a dull thud and Roland sits heavily in one of the remaining chairs.
Roland tilts his wrist and glances at his watch in a very purposeful way. He is so completely still that it's a bit unsettling; a bouder in the tide. Inside his consciousness thoughts tick away. These other two...Roland was the original personality, Smathers was born of Roland's need to forget the past's horrors in order to survive the mental stress of it all, and January...well, he was something else entirely.
And so, it is with purpose and sureity that he reaches inside his suit jacket. "I'd love to explain all this to you both, but I'm afraid there is business to attend to. So, without further ado..." He stands slowly.
The other two shift in their seats; after all, they are all parts of the same mind, so they sense something is afoot in their suited counterpart's consciousness.
Then, without warning...
*WHOOSH*
*SPLAT*
Roland jerks violently, and his hands raise to clutch at the hilt of a knife protruding from his throat, around whose blade blood is beginning to flow. Far from the end of his strength, he roars incoherently, and grips the edge of the table, flipping it up and hurling it violently at January. January, already on his feet, fields the table and whips it at Smathers, who is knocked over backwards in his chair by the blow. Soon he's back up on his feet, weaving to and fro drunkenly, but not in a purposeless way; this is his fighting stance, and he was pissed now...that table had spilled his drink!
Now the three rush in, and so the battle begins. A battle...for a mind.
The student in rags stirs, and comes awake gradually, as if clambering out of a great depth andback into the world of consciousness. His breathing comes slow and regular. The alleyway is completely silent; even the buzzing of the lights was gone...apparently someone had seen fit to shut them off at some point.
Using the wall to steady himself, the young man rises to his feet.
He regards his surroundings for nearly a minute without moving or speaking. There is a curious, unnatural stillness about his countenance.
Finally, he takes a deep breath, tasting the night air, and then speaks aloud.
"...Much better."
(OOC: PROFILE CHANGES TO FOLLOW. STAY TUNED)
Such an atmosphere is appropriate because Smathers himself is not well. Drink and drink as he might, spirits are no longer strong enough. All this time, all this irresponsible living on the streets and rampant alchoholism...
This is a man running from something. Man...a term used loosely, as he's really still a teen.
It would be bad enough if it was merely memories of a horrific past incident that the man wished would subside. No, it was not just a past he was fleeing, but a present; a state of being in which his mind is no longer what it once was. It is fractured.
As if these thoughts were physically sickening, Smathers retches, and smacks a hand against the brick wall. Was it all a lie? My memories...living on the streets...my Master...my training...all so clear...
Of course, this makes no sense. But recently, on the streets or in the halls of school, he see faces he's never seen before, and recognizes them. Phrases, images, mere shadows of recollection; they swim just below the surface in a murky sea.
And there were other memories as well...a fight against many large men (the word "Enforcers" comes to mind mysteriously and without explanation)...a fight in a white room with beds...dim laboratories, tables and restraints, and syringes, so many syringes. Then there were tests, sparring, training...and blood.
"Whose memories are these?" he asks the empty air, though his words are emitted as an incoherent jumble in his state of advanced inebriation. As if in response, his head is pierced by an intense pain, and rocked by the force of it he utters a pained grunt and falls to the ground unconscious.
Smathers drops from the sky into a plastic chair, and gazes about in alarm. He is not alone!
The scene is an impossibly large room. Grimy and green-tiled, it is lit from above by banks of white flourescence. The floor has drains in it. There is also a table, about which seven chairs of cheap plastic and metal had been pulled up.
Only three were occupied. Aside from himself in his rags, Smathers observes the other two.
One wears a white buttoned shirt with jeans and sandals, all clean but they show some wear-and-tear and are worn casually. Like Smathers, his long hair flows to his sholders, but this person's hair was immaculately clean and groomed, and it seemed a golden cascade flowed from his scalp. For all that, the hair and his short beard are a bit wild and lend his appearance a cavemann-ish quality. From his aura a lively and aggressive energy radiates quietly outward.
The other wears a sharp black business suit with all the trimmins: black shoes, black tie, white shirt. He tops it off with a very finely crafted black hat with a wide brim. His beard is trimmed perfectly and there is no dirt whatsoever under his nails. In contrast to the wildman, this person exudes an aura of calm, cold calculation, and he is absolutely still; there is not a twitch or gesture without conscious intent behind it.
Despite all these superficial differences between the three, one thing was plain to any observer: these people were the same individual. Or identical triplets.
The man with the golden mane immediately leaps from his seat.
"Who the FUCK are you people!?" he roars.
There is a silence for a moment, in which poor Smathers notices that he still carries his bottle. His face brightens, and he takes a swig from it gratefully. The other two eye him as he does so; the former with disgust and the latter impassively.
The one in the suit speaks finally. "...really? Neither of you have ANY idea? I must be dumber than I though...." And now he makes his first expression of the session: a smirk. It's a small, lopsided wry thing that reeks of condescension.
Understandably, the other two are pretty put off by the guy from the start.
The first guy retorts immediately and loudly. "you know, nevermind, I don't even give a shit. Been in here for months, and not to wait around to be smack-talked by a goddam suit!" He then shoves his chair violently and rages around for a little.
Smathers plunks the bottle down after a long draw from its contents. "...I just got here," he adds unhelpfully.
The suit considers these remarks for a moment before leaning back in his chair. "...Let's start with introductions. My name is January."
"Roland!" the angry one spits out.
"Call me Johnny!" says Smathers. He's starting to have an uproariously good time, what with the contents of the bottle rapidly disappearing down his gullet with every passing moment.
"Well, Roland, Johnny, welcome to our mind." January says cooly.
The two stare openmouthed, but by their feelings they know it is the truth. Roland dumps his head onto the table with a dull thud and Roland sits heavily in one of the remaining chairs.
Roland tilts his wrist and glances at his watch in a very purposeful way. He is so completely still that it's a bit unsettling; a bouder in the tide. Inside his consciousness thoughts tick away. These other two...Roland was the original personality, Smathers was born of Roland's need to forget the past's horrors in order to survive the mental stress of it all, and January...well, he was something else entirely.
And so, it is with purpose and sureity that he reaches inside his suit jacket. "I'd love to explain all this to you both, but I'm afraid there is business to attend to. So, without further ado..." He stands slowly.
The other two shift in their seats; after all, they are all parts of the same mind, so they sense something is afoot in their suited counterpart's consciousness.
Then, without warning...
*WHOOSH*
*SPLAT*
Roland jerks violently, and his hands raise to clutch at the hilt of a knife protruding from his throat, around whose blade blood is beginning to flow. Far from the end of his strength, he roars incoherently, and grips the edge of the table, flipping it up and hurling it violently at January. January, already on his feet, fields the table and whips it at Smathers, who is knocked over backwards in his chair by the blow. Soon he's back up on his feet, weaving to and fro drunkenly, but not in a purposeless way; this is his fighting stance, and he was pissed now...that table had spilled his drink!
Now the three rush in, and so the battle begins. A battle...for a mind.
The student in rags stirs, and comes awake gradually, as if clambering out of a great depth andback into the world of consciousness. His breathing comes slow and regular. The alleyway is completely silent; even the buzzing of the lights was gone...apparently someone had seen fit to shut them off at some point.
Using the wall to steady himself, the young man rises to his feet.
He regards his surroundings for nearly a minute without moving or speaking. There is a curious, unnatural stillness about his countenance.
Finally, he takes a deep breath, tasting the night air, and then speaks aloud.
"...Much better."
(OOC: PROFILE CHANGES TO FOLLOW. STAY TUNED)
