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It stills gets to you, sometimes.

Sure, it’s kind of neat, having wings; a lot of times you like to just lie in bed and play with them, run your fingers through silvery, fluffy-ish feathers (but not too deep; if there’s one thing you weren’t expecting was touching the skin underneath them to be a giant turn-on), appreciating the sensations.

And then there’s the fact that you’re learning to fly, which is also pretty neat, even though you’ve never had any particular desire to before you died. But you know a lot of people would be envious of you (the flying part, not the dead part, although being dead like this isn’t so bad; it’s actually pretty great), and you want to learn, figuring there’s no point to having wings if you can’t fly.

And they like your wings, like messing with them and raking fingers through your feathers when you let them out during sex (that’s another thing you haven’t figured out, that’s weird—where the heck do they go when you make them vanish?), which is an enormous turn-on and that turns you into a shuddering vocal puddle of goo, but somehow you keep wondering if it’s a good idea, if it emphasizes and brings up the distance between you, of two years spent as an angel wandering around with no memory whatsoever, if it reminds them—reminds him—of your death.

So it gets to you, sometimes.

Waking up in the middle of the night, sitting up and feeling things attached to your back, shoulders, moving as you do and muscles in tandem and it feels so wrong, like they shouldn’t be there, they should be gone and the only they’re there is because you’re an angel, now (and it’s not like you ever gave much thought to the afterlife even though you were fighting for your life on a regular basis); so you make them disappear. Always. Vanish away into some space inside your back, but that’s only creepier—it doesn’t make sense, but at least you can’t feel them like that.

You can’t keep them hidden away inside forever, but at least they’re out of sight. Out of sight, out of mind, isn’t that how the saying goes? Something like that. You don’t remember.

You have a hard time remembering things, sometimes; your memory’s returned, yes, but you still forget things often. Things like having wings, even though you wear your halo around your neck. It’s become almost—almost—like another piece of jewelry now, another one of those necklaces.

I didn’t want to die… and life’s good—death’s good—right now, but sometimes it just feels like… ‘Hey, Jervin, doofus, you’re dead.’

I never said I was smart, I never said I was good with remembering things or realizing things or feelings or anything—

Soft. Silvery. Attached to your back, spreading out behind you—

So very wrong.

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The longer of the necklaces you pull over your head, and the looser of the bracelets, drop them in his hands; he doesn’t say a word, just watches with blue, blue eyes; and behind you on the opposite end is your opponent, some hulking brute at least twice your size, in all likelihood, but you know this’ll be a cakewalk—the bigger, the slower, and quite possibly dumber.

Some kind of cheer—or perhaps it’s a jeer—comes from the motley crowd behind the chain link fences as your opponent flings off the red hoodie he was wearing and revealing his excessive muscles; you merely turn, approach, take up a ready stance. The first of the stiletto knives is in your left hand, its grip snug and perfectly fitting.

For a moment, nothing. For a single tiny moment there’s nothing.

Then there’s a rush, a blur, a feint, a swing and a duck and your first knife is sunk into the inside of his elbow, right at the joint, almost through; a howl of pain and you duck around, a kick to the back of the neck—something hits you in the midriff and you find yourself skidding back amidst a flash of pain, but it only takes a moment for you to catch your breath again and dig your boots in and you see brilliant blue watching you from all the way over there, only you, and you’re mentally counting down seconds until the chloroform kicks in, but you realize that you really don’t need it. And the second knife’s already in your hand and one more nimble side-step and right in the side of the throat—

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And it’s this nagging feeling, this feeling that you’ve forgotten something, something important—of course because you’ve forgotten EVERYTHING—every time you think about the fact that oh, hey, I’m dead now, or just when you’re not doing anything, just sitting there staring at nothing, and to this day you’re not sure what triggered it, what brought back that flood of everything, so strong it sends you reeling to the floor, head spinning and dizzy and nauseous as the whole thing plays back in your head:

Alone on the streets. Meeting him. Initial fight. Distrust. Mutual agreement—two are better than one out here—because he’s impressed with you for some reason and you kinda like him and it’s partnership. And then the training, and the knives, and the practices and the fights, hundreds of fights and tournament and victory and money, piercings and tattoos, jewelry and metal yanked from defeated opponents, metal around your neck, on your wrists, fingers, like a badge of your prowess—and then the occasional laughter, smiles; the kisses, the sex, the smoke—he and smoke always go together—the weird feelings and avoidance of that one word, because it’s dangerous here and the hiding from the rain and tough finding food, shelter—and then fights, arguments, snapping, and that good newcomer with the silver hair—no, not him. The cheater. The cheater with the lying smirk and the warning—and that brings with it this insanely powerful feeling of oh god I screwed up didn’t I and then the whole thing comes back: Fight to the death and desperation and this feeling of I can’t lose and so much blood and pain and then the final stroke and your last thoughts are I’m such an idiot I should’ve listened to you this is so stupid oh god I’m sorry I can’t even say goodbye TRACEY—

And that hurts, that hurts so bad, hurts even more when you think about how he must’ve found you, your best friend, your ONLY friend, lying there DEAD practically cut in half—you still have the scars—in a sea of your own blood and it hurts, hurts too when you realize how you’ve forgotten the whole thing, been so oblivious this whole time—and you can’t think, just this sickening, mind-numbing feeling of I’m sorry I’m so so sorry why didn’t I listen why did I do that to you god I’m such an idiot I never even TOLD you— How could I die like that god that was so stupid you even warned me I’m so stupid I’ve always been—oh god I’m sorry—!

--

When Jervin regained his memories of his life.

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Muse

A muse, hence her name. Pronounced in a way that rhymes with ‘Zeus.’ A cheerful and slightly manic girl. Seems to be between fourteen and sixteen years old, though is probably much older. Her main occupation, outside of being a muse and doing things that muses do, is having fun and acting like a child on a sugar high. Frequently seen scribbling something on the sheaf of papers she carries around. Loves cake and hates work; easy to get along with because of her childish nature, and can be very sweet. At times can be quite serious, though, and that’s when she acts almost like a different person. Thoughtful, deep, and to the point. Thankfully, this doesn’t happen very often. Has something of a rivalry with Annette; this goes back to when they first began working together and they absolutely loathed each other. Otherwise, Muse gets along well with everybody.

Muse has purple eyes and shoulder-length, clumpy black hair that she occasionally attempts to put in a bun, but it always falls out. Typically dresses in a brown skirt and shirt combination, or pajama-like clothes. Her most distinguishing characteristic, however, is probably her excited, goofy grin. [IMAGE COMING SOON]

Annette Strickley

Works as a proof-reader, though may be seeking alternate forms of employment where her skills will be put to better use than merely removing typos. As her name implies, she is rather strict and every inch that proper employee; speaks with polite formality and views the others mostly with annoyance and exasperation. However, she is very protective and even motherly, on the rare occasion. Most definitely not heartless. Somewhat famous for her incredibly sour lemonade—she adds no sugar whatsoever. A stickler for proper grammar and manners, yet has a definite weakness for cute things (e. g. Belial). Enjoys nothing more than simple peace and quiet.

Somewhat on the tall side, Annette has light brown hair she keeps in a bun at the back of her head with side-swept bangs to the left. Light brown eyes to match, and she dresses in stark gray suits, jacket and a skirt, combined with black pumps. A pair of rectangular spectacles on a chain completes her ensemble. [IMAGE COMING SOON]

Cheshire Carroll

Cheshire is... difficult to describe. His name is a good indicator of his personality; slightly mischievous with a fondness for knowledge and imparting that knowledge upon people in confusing and infuriating ways (read: Mind Screw). He has been described as, “A fascinating mess of charismatic contradictions,” which... also works. More often than not he can be seen wearing an amused smile on his face and is a bit of a flirt. And yet, while that is a very real part of his personality, the placid amusement and cheer, underneath it he is... quiet. Quiet and somewhat reclusive and perhaps even a little shy. He rarely talks about himself (though as of late he has been opening up more) and is more than a little depressed. His true name and age are unknown, as are his species/race and home world. Exceptionally skilled in magic and possesses strange eyes that allow him to see its raw nature. Models for Belial’s photographs and is in a relationship with it.

Blue-gray eyes, not steely. Tall and slender, rather willowy. Rather androgynous-looking. (Comes in handy when he cross-dresses.) Dark red hair, straight and split down the middle, cupping his face and forming a mass of curls at the tops of his shoulders. A slightly long, white cat’s tail, but no cat ears. Usually wearing some variation of blouse or turtleneck sweater in cold weather, and dark pants together with tall, lace-up boots. The one thing that never changes amongst his outfits is his relaxed, confident elegance. [IMAGE COMING SOON]

Belial Zèsilfrangür

A demon and an excellent photographer. Has no gender (though can change at will; is a shape-shifter), hence the pronoun ‘it’. Not the demon of Christian scripture, but shares the same name and happens to be from one of the high-ranking demon families. Its true form has been seen from time to time but mostly it stays in the shape of what seems to be a twelve-year-old child. Personality-wise it’s very quiet and sweet, often speaking in a near-murmur. It possesses empathetic abilities and its presence is known to be very comforting, despite having a dark, stalker-like streak; it can be devious and possessive while still being absolutely adorable. Has a wonderful, heart-melting smile. Often seen carrying around a big black camera. Cheshire’s soul mate.

Somewhat on the short side, Belial has large, striking green eyes and a mop of dirty-blond hair with long bangs that half-hide its eyes and goes down to the bottom of its shoulder blades in spiky ends. Often wears an off-white hoodie adorned has rainbow geometric, interlocking designs on the top that gradually fade towards the bottom, and beneath that long-sleeved shirts and jeans. [IMAGE COMING SOON]

Jervin Aldesworth

A third-class angel (spiritual reanimant) and ex-street fighter. He’s an upbeat, easy-going guy who is very accepting; he doesn’t bat an eye at anything. Has an fondness for piercings and nicknames, and is employed part-time at the mall, where he plays the synthesizer. Very fun to be around and almost always grinning. Cheerful and supportive. A bit of an experimental cook. Looks to be eighteen years old, and has a pair of silvery wings he can materialize at will. Due to his death he lost his memory and only regained it recently; even now he forgets things easily and often describes his recollections as “fuzzy.” Dating Tracey Danz (Cobalt) and Aaron Harchez (Rails) from The Other House; they’ve known each other from before Jervin’s death and while the beginning was rocky it is believed that at the moment the three of them are figuring out what it’s like to fall in love.

Fond of jewelry, Jervin has five piercings in each ear and one that’s healed up on his lower lip, off-center to the left—rather than putting the ring through his lip, he puts it on it. In his lobes he has a special earring from each of his boyfriends. Aside from that, he wears several bracelets, rings, and necklaces. Has fluffy black hair and golden-brown eyes, dressing usually in some combination of black and red shirts and jeans. Having lost his halo once, he now keeps it around his neck as a choker. [IMAGE COMING SOON]

Loki Laufeyjarson

Loki can be summed up in a single word: annoying. He makes it his main pastime to annoy people by pushing their buttons and getting into their faces. Not entirely surprising, given his identity; he is indeed the trickster of viking myth. Generally he is annoying, sarcastic, and more than a little devious with a strange sense of humor. Almost always at work at some thing or another, be it holed up in his basement lab experimenting with chemicals and runic magic, or designing blueprints for who knows what. Although he enjoys playing pranks on people, he mostly refrains from doing so inside the house; this is in part because everyone else would deal him terrible retribution if he did, and because it’s home and since his arrival he has been a little quieter than one would expect; grappling with personal issues. Flirts often with Cheshire, something which has earned him Belial’s bad graces, although they do seem to be grudgingly patching things up. Fond of playing with fire due to his pyrokinetic abilities; may or may not have some pyromaniac tendencies to go along with it.

A rather pointed face, with thin, faint criss-crossing scars across his lips; makes his smile rather crooked. Pale, shifty, fiery green eyes and orange-red locks that he keeps smoothed back from his forehead that form half-curly tendrils at the nape of his neck. Tall and thin, around Cheshire’s height, dressing in sweater-like long-sleeved shirts and pants. [IMAGE COMING SOON]

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July 2012

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