OOC: First Memory
With the sun finally down and the Sphere winding down, Wolfram tossed his legs over the bed and tried to reorient himself. The hunger was back, gnawing at him now, making it dangerous to be around the rest of the Fishbowl prisoners. Only sleep brought him peace, brought him an ignorance to the nearbye heartbeats in the closest houses, and he knew it wouldn't be long before he gave in again. He had no choice, he told himself. It was what he needed to survive. After Garnet, though...never again would he let himself go that far. From the moment the craving had returned, he had begun to think of ways around killing, ways to feed but not be caught.
It was upon thinking on this subject again, trying to come up with yet another way to avoid the law but not go insane from starvation, that he began to move about his small place in preparation for work. It was one of his shift nights and losing himself in scavenging the metal bones of the Yard kept darker thought at the edge of his mind. When it was time to slip on his boots, he hadn't even been able to finish putting the first one on before a biting pain dug into the bottom of his foot. Before he could yank it out, before he could do anything, he was falling; falling into himself.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Wolfram couldn't see a thing, couldn't feel a thing, but his ears and his nose were very much aware of what the other senses were not. Wherever he was, it smelled like a dozen different people and half as many dogs. He smelled wood. He smelled paint. It was obviously a building of some kind, but when the voices of the same people he sniffed out crawled into his ears from every which direction, he guessed apartments.
Or a condominium complex, maybe. Hmmm.
Whatever the case, it wasn't long before he heard four quick knocks. Judging by the proximity of the noise, he was guessing it was him doing the knocking. When the door opened, some of the scents from the hallway grew stronger. In the room just beyond him, there were several books; some old, some new. He could smell pencils, plastics, fake plants, fake furniture, glass, and cotton and and everything else you'd expect in a typical home. Over all of that, there was the vague underline of fear from the person at the door - something that made the out-of-body Wolfram salivate at in memory of Garnet despite himself - overtaking the rest. Still, it was a weak, diluted heavily by other things, other emotions.
"Hi. Can I come in?" Wolfram's voice. It was steady and casual.
The response came after a short pause.
"Oh, that's right. You have to be invited in, don't you?" A woman's voice, one laden with accustation and finished with a quick, aggitated flare of air out of her nostrils.
At her words, the out-of-body Wolfram almost lost track of the conversation. He had to be invited in? What, was he just freakishly polite, or was there more to it? His mind drifted towards the houses, the barriers, and he had to fight not to let it race off.
"You've been doing your homework." This time, his tone wasn't casual, but...careful.
"Want to quiz me? I’m just full of fun facts. For instance, I learned that your friend has been in LA before, did you know that? Yeah, at least twice. Once in 1929 and again in 1963. Oh and there is something in Boston in 1908. I think he was there, too."
Every word dripped with a sardonic energy and, in that moment, Wolfram knew that this woman didn't like him. By the way he had greeted her, it made him think that maybe, just maybe, they had been friendly once upon a time. The years she mentioned felt long gone and, yet, tugged at him somehow. Why he couldn't say, but he had a feeling this friend she mentioned was old.
"So you believe me." Wolfram sounded happy or relieved, or a little bit of both, but there was still that caution.
"Yes, I believe you." The woman sounded almost as if that didn't matter, like he was missing some point she was trying to make.
"Good, because he's planning something-" Wolfram started, but was cut short.
"------s." The word was fuzzy, full of white noise, but it stilled the air between them and she sounded almost smug about it. "Isn't that what he called you? ------s?" His name! It was his name! Why couldn't he hear it? "I looked it up. It’s all right there. The demon with the face of an angel. A particularly brutal bastard by all accounts." She sounded disgusted with him as she said it, but it quickly didn't matter to the Wolfram that was listening in.
It was true, then.
A demon.
He was a demon.
"Oh, and no, you can't come in." She was angry now, but the disgust never quite left her voice.
"I can't make up for the past, Kate. I know that." He was trying to reason with her, his tone still level, still civil.
"No you can’t." The fear was gone from her, long since now, and it was replaced with defiance. Defiance in him, in who he was, in what he had once meant to her. "In fact all of this what’s happening now, is really because of you. You made him, didn’t you?"
Wolfram was still very much confused, but he was putting together what little pieces he had been given. This friend, this old friend she had mentioned, he was doing something bad. He didn't know what she meant by 'made him', but theorized that she was referring to him being the guy's mentor, maybe. Why would an old man need Wolfram? To teach him to be a killer? The way the woman said it, he thought that that probably wasn't far from the truth.
"Let me help end it, please." Wolfram's voice was quiet, guilty and ashamed.
"Please." The word came from her in a disbelieving whisper. "Now there is a word I imagine you heard quite a lot in your time. 'Please.' 'No.' 'Don’t.'"
Wolfram's remembered Garnet then, remembered her sea of 'please's that had been ignored as he gorged himself on her blood. Whatever he had been able to push down about that night came boiling back to the surface. He had said things that indicated he was trying to do the right thing now, but did it matter? He was a monster, even in his old life.
"Thanks for the offer, but I don’t need your help. I know what to do - drive a stake right through the son of a bitch’s heart. And when that happens I suggest you don’t be there." A small pause. "Because the next time we meet I’ll do the same to you."
The door slammed in his face.
---------------------------------------------------------------
When he came back to himself, he had a number of junk thoughts that didn't particularly matter. Things like the realization that the object he found in his boot was a memory crystal that had been described to him by a man on the journals, things like what he was supposed to do now, things like if he was even going to work tonight now.
Then, of course, there were the thoughts that were important. He was an it. A beast. A fiend. Something that needed to be killed, even though he knew he wouldn't do it. It had been mentioned to him that he was fast, that his memory was eerily remarkable and his senses were acute, and he wondered if these weren't 'tools' of his demon race. The sun, and the way the woman had emphasized the stake in his heart...these were his banes, his weaknesses. Things that all demons should have so that even the meak in the Sphere could take him out, if need be. People like Burn.
The night dragged with him there at the foot of his bed, rolling the crystal and its rings hand to hand, and he tried to remember how to make thoughts of Garnet go away. Again.
It was upon thinking on this subject again, trying to come up with yet another way to avoid the law but not go insane from starvation, that he began to move about his small place in preparation for work. It was one of his shift nights and losing himself in scavenging the metal bones of the Yard kept darker thought at the edge of his mind. When it was time to slip on his boots, he hadn't even been able to finish putting the first one on before a biting pain dug into the bottom of his foot. Before he could yank it out, before he could do anything, he was falling; falling into himself.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Wolfram couldn't see a thing, couldn't feel a thing, but his ears and his nose were very much aware of what the other senses were not. Wherever he was, it smelled like a dozen different people and half as many dogs. He smelled wood. He smelled paint. It was obviously a building of some kind, but when the voices of the same people he sniffed out crawled into his ears from every which direction, he guessed apartments.
Or a condominium complex, maybe. Hmmm.
Whatever the case, it wasn't long before he heard four quick knocks. Judging by the proximity of the noise, he was guessing it was him doing the knocking. When the door opened, some of the scents from the hallway grew stronger. In the room just beyond him, there were several books; some old, some new. He could smell pencils, plastics, fake plants, fake furniture, glass, and cotton and and everything else you'd expect in a typical home. Over all of that, there was the vague underline of fear from the person at the door - something that made the out-of-body Wolfram salivate at in memory of Garnet despite himself - overtaking the rest. Still, it was a weak, diluted heavily by other things, other emotions.
"Hi. Can I come in?" Wolfram's voice. It was steady and casual.
The response came after a short pause.
"Oh, that's right. You have to be invited in, don't you?" A woman's voice, one laden with accustation and finished with a quick, aggitated flare of air out of her nostrils.
At her words, the out-of-body Wolfram almost lost track of the conversation. He had to be invited in? What, was he just freakishly polite, or was there more to it? His mind drifted towards the houses, the barriers, and he had to fight not to let it race off.
"You've been doing your homework." This time, his tone wasn't casual, but...careful.
"Want to quiz me? I’m just full of fun facts. For instance, I learned that your friend has been in LA before, did you know that? Yeah, at least twice. Once in 1929 and again in 1963. Oh and there is something in Boston in 1908. I think he was there, too."
Every word dripped with a sardonic energy and, in that moment, Wolfram knew that this woman didn't like him. By the way he had greeted her, it made him think that maybe, just maybe, they had been friendly once upon a time. The years she mentioned felt long gone and, yet, tugged at him somehow. Why he couldn't say, but he had a feeling this friend she mentioned was old.
"So you believe me." Wolfram sounded happy or relieved, or a little bit of both, but there was still that caution.
"Yes, I believe you." The woman sounded almost as if that didn't matter, like he was missing some point she was trying to make.
"Good, because he's planning something-" Wolfram started, but was cut short.
"------s." The word was fuzzy, full of white noise, but it stilled the air between them and she sounded almost smug about it. "Isn't that what he called you? ------s?" His name! It was his name! Why couldn't he hear it? "I looked it up. It’s all right there. The demon with the face of an angel. A particularly brutal bastard by all accounts." She sounded disgusted with him as she said it, but it quickly didn't matter to the Wolfram that was listening in.
It was true, then.
A demon.
He was a demon.
"Oh, and no, you can't come in." She was angry now, but the disgust never quite left her voice.
"I can't make up for the past, Kate. I know that." He was trying to reason with her, his tone still level, still civil.
"No you can’t." The fear was gone from her, long since now, and it was replaced with defiance. Defiance in him, in who he was, in what he had once meant to her. "In fact all of this what’s happening now, is really because of you. You made him, didn’t you?"
Wolfram was still very much confused, but he was putting together what little pieces he had been given. This friend, this old friend she had mentioned, he was doing something bad. He didn't know what she meant by 'made him', but theorized that she was referring to him being the guy's mentor, maybe. Why would an old man need Wolfram? To teach him to be a killer? The way the woman said it, he thought that that probably wasn't far from the truth.
"Let me help end it, please." Wolfram's voice was quiet, guilty and ashamed.
"Please." The word came from her in a disbelieving whisper. "Now there is a word I imagine you heard quite a lot in your time. 'Please.' 'No.' 'Don’t.'"
Wolfram's remembered Garnet then, remembered her sea of 'please's that had been ignored as he gorged himself on her blood. Whatever he had been able to push down about that night came boiling back to the surface. He had said things that indicated he was trying to do the right thing now, but did it matter? He was a monster, even in his old life.
"Thanks for the offer, but I don’t need your help. I know what to do - drive a stake right through the son of a bitch’s heart. And when that happens I suggest you don’t be there." A small pause. "Because the next time we meet I’ll do the same to you."
The door slammed in his face.
---------------------------------------------------------------
When he came back to himself, he had a number of junk thoughts that didn't particularly matter. Things like the realization that the object he found in his boot was a memory crystal that had been described to him by a man on the journals, things like what he was supposed to do now, things like if he was even going to work tonight now.
Then, of course, there were the thoughts that were important. He was an it. A beast. A fiend. Something that needed to be killed, even though he knew he wouldn't do it. It had been mentioned to him that he was fast, that his memory was eerily remarkable and his senses were acute, and he wondered if these weren't 'tools' of his demon race. The sun, and the way the woman had emphasized the stake in his heart...these were his banes, his weaknesses. Things that all demons should have so that even the meak in the Sphere could take him out, if need be. People like Burn.
The night dragged with him there at the foot of his bed, rolling the crystal and its rings hand to hand, and he tried to remember how to make thoughts of Garnet go away. Again.