what precedes a storm — angel. & mackenzie. [argus]
Apr 25, 2020 8:20:50 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Apr 25, 2020 8:20:50 GMT -5
There was a colorful array of words one could use to describe Angel De Costa— stubborn, barb-tongued, hotheaded, caustic. Perhaps devilish or monstrous even, for the thick scars littered across his body were nothing a normal human could have. But if he had to choose one word to describe himself, it would be adrift.
Adrift like a ghost that haunted abandoned homes, caught in a hopeless search of one for himself.
He was a twenty-one year old ghost: ashen skin, raven-dark hair, sunken cheekbones, cladded in a black pullover with too many holes in it. It had been a long time since Angel went out without proper clothes to hide himself, even though he was certain the district’s interest on the undead had fizzed away. He and Lex were old news, memorabilia they gawked at for a second before turning their eyes back onto newer, fresher tributes. He never loved the attention anyways; in the beginning, he thought he would but the barrage of questions and the strange gazes he would garner made it impossible.
Now, Angel simply wanted to disappear.
And these papers tucked in his one arm, all needing a mere stamp from the Bureau of Labor, Goods, and Transportation, would help him with that. He would finally become an actual ghost, a boy here and then not here, whisked away to where Parson Cham was.
But, something was wrong.
Angel couldn’t tell much, but the air within the building felt … eerily still, a serpent coiled inward before it pulled its mouth back to reveal a set of fangs. He brushed it away as simple paranoia, his thoughts preying on himself. But the patience he’d held onto had begun to fray after about half an hour of waiting. Angel rose from the bench he sat on and made his way carefully towards the lone secretary who sat behind a table overflowing with reams after ivory reams of paper. From how tightly-knit her brows were, it wasn’t a challenge to glean her sullenness—but nevertheless, Angel molded a smile onto his face. “So, can I get my travel papers signed now? It’s been…” he cast a quick glance at a small, bronze clock on her desk. “thirty-seven minutes.”
“Oh, sorry,” her eyes flitted to him, then back onto the documents in her hands. “The bureau is closing down for the time being.”
An icy river of shock flowed down his backbone then, turning his breath to ice in the throat. Angel made his head shake—had he smoked before coming here? It had to be a trick on his ears, an anomaly in the rippling waves of sound. It had to be some sort of sick, twisted joke concocted to mess with him. But he found no humor in the secretary’s expression, only more sullenness. Angel pressed on, the smile on his face too-broad to be sincere now.
“Why? Has something happened?”
The secretary’s eyes flicked up, as if debating her response. Then, a hushed whisper: “accidents in Six and Eight. The districts are closing down again. I am sorry, kid.” Her eyes searched his face for a few more moments, before acknowledgment flashed in the brown depths. “You’re the resurrected boy from those games.”
He gave no response, for he was already turning on a heel. For he was already running.
By the time Mackenzie’s house loomed ahead, every breath he took was a sharp blade that jabbed at his heaving chest. But Angel choked down air and pushed the doors open with a shoulder, earning a deep screech from the metal hinges on the door. “Mackenzie,” the name came out too hoarse and tattered, wind through hollow reeds. He swallowed the pinpricks of tears at the back of his throat and clambered up the stairs, to where the victor’s room was.
They hadn’t crossed paths in nearly a month; Angel had made sure of it by going out only in the thick dark of night, by eating his meals in his room, by eluding the brown-haired man in every possible way. The key to the room Mackenzie had given him was forged by pity, and that alone. Angel resented that. But he had to face him now, because as much as he loathed to confess it, he was helpless without the other man.
He was no one —
no one but a boy that’d taken a blade to his eye, a boy who bled to death in brackish waters.
“Mackenzie,” he steeled his tone, a fist pounding on his door. Angel could feel dampness on his cheeks and let a hand rise to hastily brush the unwanted tears away. “Mackenzie, something happened—something’s wrong.” After a shuddering breath, he implored, his heart racing wildly in tandem with each passing second: “Please phone district six, please phone Teddy.”
Adrift like a ghost that haunted abandoned homes, caught in a hopeless search of one for himself.
He was a twenty-one year old ghost: ashen skin, raven-dark hair, sunken cheekbones, cladded in a black pullover with too many holes in it. It had been a long time since Angel went out without proper clothes to hide himself, even though he was certain the district’s interest on the undead had fizzed away. He and Lex were old news, memorabilia they gawked at for a second before turning their eyes back onto newer, fresher tributes. He never loved the attention anyways; in the beginning, he thought he would but the barrage of questions and the strange gazes he would garner made it impossible.
Now, Angel simply wanted to disappear.
And these papers tucked in his one arm, all needing a mere stamp from the Bureau of Labor, Goods, and Transportation, would help him with that. He would finally become an actual ghost, a boy here and then not here, whisked away to where Parson Cham was.
But, something was wrong.
Angel couldn’t tell much, but the air within the building felt … eerily still, a serpent coiled inward before it pulled its mouth back to reveal a set of fangs. He brushed it away as simple paranoia, his thoughts preying on himself. But the patience he’d held onto had begun to fray after about half an hour of waiting. Angel rose from the bench he sat on and made his way carefully towards the lone secretary who sat behind a table overflowing with reams after ivory reams of paper. From how tightly-knit her brows were, it wasn’t a challenge to glean her sullenness—but nevertheless, Angel molded a smile onto his face. “So, can I get my travel papers signed now? It’s been…” he cast a quick glance at a small, bronze clock on her desk. “thirty-seven minutes.”
“Oh, sorry,” her eyes flitted to him, then back onto the documents in her hands. “The bureau is closing down for the time being.”
An icy river of shock flowed down his backbone then, turning his breath to ice in the throat. Angel made his head shake—had he smoked before coming here? It had to be a trick on his ears, an anomaly in the rippling waves of sound. It had to be some sort of sick, twisted joke concocted to mess with him. But he found no humor in the secretary’s expression, only more sullenness. Angel pressed on, the smile on his face too-broad to be sincere now.
“Why? Has something happened?”
The secretary’s eyes flicked up, as if debating her response. Then, a hushed whisper: “accidents in Six and Eight. The districts are closing down again. I am sorry, kid.” Her eyes searched his face for a few more moments, before acknowledgment flashed in the brown depths. “You’re the resurrected boy from those games.”
He gave no response, for he was already turning on a heel. For he was already running.
By the time Mackenzie’s house loomed ahead, every breath he took was a sharp blade that jabbed at his heaving chest. But Angel choked down air and pushed the doors open with a shoulder, earning a deep screech from the metal hinges on the door. “Mackenzie,” the name came out too hoarse and tattered, wind through hollow reeds. He swallowed the pinpricks of tears at the back of his throat and clambered up the stairs, to where the victor’s room was.
They hadn’t crossed paths in nearly a month; Angel had made sure of it by going out only in the thick dark of night, by eating his meals in his room, by eluding the brown-haired man in every possible way. The key to the room Mackenzie had given him was forged by pity, and that alone. Angel resented that. But he had to face him now, because as much as he loathed to confess it, he was helpless without the other man.
He was no one —
no one but a boy that’d taken a blade to his eye, a boy who bled to death in brackish waters.
“Mackenzie,” he steeled his tone, a fist pounding on his door. Angel could feel dampness on his cheeks and let a hand rise to hastily brush the unwanted tears away. “Mackenzie, something happened—something’s wrong.” After a shuddering breath, he implored, his heart racing wildly in tandem with each passing second: “Please phone district six, please phone Teddy.”
