two shots to the back of the head``open

[KORI FAWKES]

. . .a DIRTY joke is a SORT of
mental REBELLION. . .

Ashes to ashes, we all fall down.

There is a Great Plague upon us, Kori's mind mused, as he flicked the growing funnel of ashes from the end of his withering cigarette. A curtain call following the final act of a Great War. How befitting.
He sat in an armchair, slumping into it, his ebony single-breasted suit jacket sprawled upon the right arm of the chair. The top two buttons to his oxford dress shirt, ivory and wrinkled, were undone haphazardly. The Windsor knot of his blood crimson tie was nearly undone, and pulled down to keep from suffocating his neck. His 15 decade, antique French rosary, the darkest jet, was twiddled absentmindedly between Kori's long, pale fingers.

He took another drag off the cigarette, holding the noxious fumes in, savoring them, before exhaling the smoke slowly in a sigh through his full, slightly parted lips. This was the most relaxed state he considered himself to have ever been in. His paranoia had been kept at bay by the ever so calming ways of Marlboro. Kori's mind jumped feverishly, his lower eyelid twitching ever so often, but nothing more than usual.
His Freshman year at Winterthorne had gone little different from every other school year he'd ever had. Still no friends (not that he'd want any), avid dislike from the teachers (as was expected), migrating packs of sheep, and a certain social hierarchy which, of course, he found no respective place in.

However, he found that Germany, and Winterthorne, brought him many. . .different things. First and foremost, he didn't have to hide his powers. Bonus. Also, Germany was fucking cold. Too fucking cold.
The most easily seen of every change was that everyone here seemed to be extremely fucked up. Just like him. He was special, just like everyone else.

Kori's cigarette burned out and he scowled. Cigarettes were not easy to come by here. He'd already finished off most of the supply he'd brought.
He brought it to the underside of his palm, and hesitated for only an instant before pressing the still-burning embers into his skin. The flesh seared; it was a nasty sort of stench, but Kori took it in, full force, anyway. He closed his eyes in ecstasy and smirked faintly. Mmm. Singed flesh. Every slasher-film's designer drug.

Kori flicked the butt to the floor, and returned to skulking in the acrid reprieve surrounding him. Running a hand through his long brunette locks, he crossed his right leg over his left, slowly, relaxed almost. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back, enjoying the silence.
Slowly, the squared watch encircling his pale, lithe wrist ticked, the second hand passing through the nine, the ten, the eleven, and finally, finally, the twelve. For one moment, every one of the three hands were in the same place. Kori's heart skipped a beat, and his lungs forgot how to work. Air stopped in his larynx.
The second hand began moving once more, as did the minute hand, and the our joined int he ticking orgy, also. Kori's organs began to function again. A shadow had passed over him.
Shadows are so overrated.
How long, really, does it take for a bullet to pierce the cease fire?
If you're looking for peace, prepare for war. If you're looking for democracy, prepare for imperialism.

how many words ? Five Hundred Fifty Five. (Very short, I know.)
what's he wearing ? Suit. Rosary.
who’s there ? Anyone who wants to be.
be there more ? I don't think so. :]

[/size][/center]

[FLETCHER CROSS]

O U T F I T.

It had been snowing all day.

The teachers had given them one of those "surprise holidays" that really only seemed to happen at boarding schools; it had been posted on the message board in the morning. Of course, he'd expected that they would've had school that day, and he'd left his books in the drama building (he stopped by every other morning or so to help with set building, and usually left his things for school in one of the lockers there). He hadn't thought of the fact that there could be a possible snowstorm when he saw the faint trails of white the evening before. It always seemed to be snowing at Winterthorne--which he loved, don't get him wrong--so he had pushed it to the back of his mind. Besides, he figured, if things got too bad, he could always use his power over the weather to make things go his way.

When he trudged back to his bed that morning, after reading the notice that school was shut down, he'd been overjoyed. Tired, but overjoyed. After climbing in his bed and trying to decide which was more suitable, hot chocolate or actual chocolate, he'd realized that his notebook was in his bag, which was still trapped in the drama building. Normally, he wouldn't have cared; he left his bag there late at night and got it early in the morning. No one saw it. However, it was a snow day, and the crazy drama-kids of the school were sure to go practice anyway. Hell, they'd probably have all sorts of snowball fights and play weird games, or whatever it was they did. The point was that someone would find his things.

So, he dragged himself out of bed again and headed down to the drama building.

His atmokinesis power wasn't nearly as developed as his cryokinesis power; he'd rediscovered that fact when all the snow he attempted to blow away only strengthened and hit him in the face. By the time he'd gotten back to the dorms, he was covered from head to toe in snow. No scarf, no gloves, no hat. At least he'd been smart enough to grab a coat before he'd gone out.

The blonde trudged through the deep, pearly-white snow and up to the door to the common room of the boys' dorms. He shifted his mug of hot chocolate to the other hand and fiddled with the key ring in the other until he came to the right one: the tiny, brown, rusted key. Finally, he managed to get it into the lock and, smushing his face against the door until it budged open, entered the room. For a moment he paused to set the mug of hot chocolate on the ground beside him and lock the door behind him. Then, he shook his coat, watching the snow fall to the ground, and proceeded to do the same with his shaggy locks of hair and the bottom of his boots. Laziness overcame him, and he threw his coat on the hanger by the door and set his bag there as well. He didn't have to go up to his dorm yet, right? Nah.

He had grabbed his mug again, sinking into one of the chairs and sighing when he saw the other boy. Almost instantly, his cheeks shown a light shade of pink. How long had he been there? "Uh. Hi." He had a way with words. For a moment, Fletcher watched the other boy. He seemed like he was straight out of a movie, or something. Very...badass? Yeah, he guessed so.

The second thing he'd noticed was that it was a lot warmer. I mean, sure, there was a difference between a raging snowstorm and the warmth of a comfortably heated room, but this was...insane. It was like he'd walked into a boiler room. He looked around, checking to see if Andrew was up, but didn't see him; he was pretty sure that those types of temperature vibes only came off of people with the elements. He, for example, usually had very cold skin.

"Did you do that?--the...warm thing." He sounded stupid. As usual.

[KORI FAWKES]

. . .a DIRTY joke is a SORT of
mental REBELLION. . .

Kori hadn't noticed how quiet it was in the Common Room until the boy trudged in, making quite a bit of extraordinarily superfluous noise. Kori himself could have sworn the boy knocked his head against the door in an effort to get it open. Kori's paranoia peaked to the point he was nearly ready to reach for the heavy butterfly knife he kept in the waistband of his trousers, and had flinched only slightly in a predatory move to lunge at the intruder. However, the urge came as soon as it passed. It was only a kid. And this certainly wasn't the place to make the walls an abstract, bloody canvas. The boy had simply caught him by surprise, despite the obvious sort of entrance he made.

The demon appeared to have not moved at all. His chocolate eyes, set against the ghost of a bloodshot backdrop, watched the boy lazily as he moved. Oblivious, Kori thought, watching the boy shake off the slowly melting snow from his attire. Women’s attire? The demon wondered, noting the tight fit and the sculpted thread. Kori was never one for cross dressing, but to each his own. Whatever floats your fruity boat. If Kori wore a suit to class every day and stayed up for endless hours watching Cartoon Network, smoking cigarettes, and reading forgotten literature, who says this kid couldn’t dress how he wanted?
Oh, and there’s the other thing Kori did after hours. He considered it his night-job. After finding out the school’s biggest secret—students just happened to be disappearing left and right—he thought he’d do a little investigating. Bring a camera along and show the pictures to mommy to be congratulated on his good job.
He didn’t bring the camera, but he remembered everything either way. A psychopathic demon, well isn’t that a new one? But one as such an efficient killer as Ezra, that had to go in the Guinness Book of Psycho Records. As reluctantly as admiration built, a sort of competition rose even faster in Kori. He decided he wanted to play this game, too. He knew Ezra from glance in the hall; with an empty face Kori watched him, knowing his secret, and silently smiling to himself about it. And Ezra really had no idea until some kids he himself hadn’t killed started showing up missing, had he? Kori supposed so, but really, he hadn’t the faintest idea. The group Ezra fell into the absence of the group Kori fell into never really crossed paths. Even so, Kori was positively elated to play cat and mouse with Ezra. He was biding his time, fitting different pieces into a bloody puzzles, a cigarette in one hand and a remote in the other. Eventually, Ezra would have to find out. And Kori couldn’t wait for the confrontation.
His head tilted slightly to the left, inclining forward with a gentle angle. The full lips were rested; his face almost curious, but utterly emotionless. A brunette eyebrow twisted up, questioning.
Kori was a little disappointed with the boy's introduction, but again surprised, for he was used to being such an obscure attraction he was met with merely an upturned nose and a withering glare. All things considered, "Uh. Hi." was certainly an improvement.
He watched the boy's cheeks pink slightly, and not from the cold, and nearly smirked.

With an eerily soft motion, he slipped the rosary beads down the haphazard mess of a dress shirt he wore, letting them fall upon his chest, directly over his heart. He leaned forward, settling his hands together, enclosed in his lap.
"'The warm thing'?" Kori inquired, his tone a wicked and yet bizarrely lovely thing. His gaze fell to his hands as his fingers spontaneously spawned yellowed candle flames, lithely swaying in an invisible breeze.
He looked back up to Fletcher.
"Were you inquiring about this, 'warm thing'?" His chestnut stare traced the smooth curves of his pale hand, his face again to its apathetic state. Ever so suddenly, ripples of fire began pulsating down the carefully sculpted anatomy of his right hand.

Kori looked back over to Fletcher, and smiled. It would have been a pleasant smile if it wasn't upon Kori's lips. Instead, it merely looked as the smile of a madman's might.
"If you were, then yes," He stopped, gave a swift little chuckle, and brought the digit, waves of Fahrenheit rolling over it, to his face. He gazed, almost greedily, before blinking slowly, closing his eyes for a few moments. Upon opening his eyes, the flames were absent. He clasped his hands together gently once more, as if nothing had happened.
Leaning back in his seat, he continued to smile. "I did that.”
Kori shook his bangs out of his face, and yet they returned, obscuring and yet embellishing the dark humor in his persona.

how many words ? Eight Hundred and Nine.
what's he wearing ? Suit. Rosary.
who’s there ? Fletcher!!
be there more ? Woo...fire. xD

[/center]

[FLETCHER CROSS]

O U T F I T.

As he watched the boy's eerily fluid movements, he kind of wished that he had remained in his nice, cozy bed. He didn't need his notebook that badly, right?--and what was the most that could happen if someone had seen it? Nothing. It was just a bunch of drabbles and doodles that Emma had made inside. The only thing that could possibly be embarrassing was the fact that some drabbles were about Andrew. It wasn't like they were hiding their relationship anymore, but it was uncomfortable nonetheless that people would know exactly how he felt on some things. If he wanted everyone to know about stuff like that, he'd put it on a t-shirt, or something, and not hide it away in his notebook. And then there were the occasional rants about Parker, and tiny seeds that were stuck in the creases of the pages because Monster had decided to snack there--but that didn't matter as much, did it? Then again, he reminded himself, if he didn't want anyone to know this, he shouldn't have written it down in the first place.

The warm thing? Okay, he knew he had sounded stupid, but it was kind of rude to mock someone you didn't know. However, he nodded, squirming a little in his seat. He didn't like this boy. At all. Fortunately, his question was answered quickly; the boy's hand burst into flames. He would've been shocked, but he'd seen Andrew do that too many times to care at this point. The blonde nodded again, a tiny bit this time, and settled back into the chair. It was oddly comfortable. You would've thought that a school that was being attacked by a group of vicious murderers would cut the budgets on comfy chairs and start, perhaps, doing something about all the kids dying, but that was a bit too much to ask. Besides, he knew who was doing the killing. He supposed he was just as bad. The school had provided him with an extremely comfortable chair, though. He felt like he owed them something.

Then came the smile. At first, it made him freak out. That was definitely the smile of a psychopath if he'd ever seen one. Then, it made him sick. He wanted to bolt right out of that room and never return. It was like watching a pile of rotting bodies being torn up by a gleaming chainsaw. And then, once all of that was past, he felt like he was staring into the face of a very unwelcome porcelain doll. He hated dolls. He always felt that they were watching him and planning his death. This one, however, was very much alive and very much looked like it was planning his death.

"Oh." He watched the fire for a moment, and the moment that the other boy seemingly relished, and then averted his eyes. He had to figure a way out of this. He didn't want to move too fast, because then the other boy would jump him, or something. And sitting there was probably going to be a disaster in the making. He could just see the headlines for tomorrow's paper: Stupid Boy Slaughtered Because He Was Too Much of a Dumbass to Move out of the Way of a Knife.

But, still. He could've been blowing this all out of proportion. He hadn't seen the boy around, so he was most likely new; maybe he was just looking for some friends (and was a bit too creepy to actually make them)? Instantly, a wave of guilt came over him. Maybe the other boy didn't know his utterly disgusting aura was pushing other people away. I should talk to him. After a few seconds of doubt, his conscience spoke up again and he sighed. "So, are you new here? Or have you just been hiding?" He attempted a smile, though it came off weak, and sunk back deeper into the chair. It made him feel a bit more...protected, as silly as it was.

Then, he remembered his manners.

"I'm Fletcher," he added quickly. "And you are...?"



[ fail at responding on time. D: sorry! ]