Post by Seraphim on Mar 8, 2006 11:56:21 GMT 12
[Name >> Seraphim Raphael “Lucifer” Ashadar
[Age >> 14
[Gender >> male
[Tribe >> Cigarettes
[Rank >> Alpha
[Nationality >> American
[Politics >> Democracy
[Romantic orientation >> Straight
[Appearance >> Seraphim’s appearance is mild at first glance – not out of the ordinary. His hair is coal-black, reaching down to his shoulders in slightly curly waves. His face is feline, his eyes slightly almond shaped and brown. His nose is sharp, but not overly so. His build is actually rather scrawny, but his lean muscles are stronger than their appearance suggests. His legs are long, with well turned calves.
If you were to peer closer, you’d see the nervous, restless anger in his eyes and the bird-like jerkiness of his movements. Come even closer and you’ll notice the scars up his left arm and part of his neck, the unfading bruise around his right wrist where it was severely dislocated a year or so ago.
On closer inspection, the features on his face become sharper, and the white face-paint of his tribe stands out more, and his character emerges from his expression. His nervous, darting eyes suddenly seem watchful and alert, scanning the perimeter. His tendency to twitch when something unnerves him becomes a pre-emptive dodge for a blow that doesn’t end up coming; the way he flinches when something surprises him is a backlash of having to duck every time his stepfather was in half a bad mood.
[Attitude >> Seraphim is cold, usually, in the emotional sense. He sometimes forgets to care about what’s going on around him. He’s intelligent enough – but he doesn’t think his actions through enough. He’s headstrong and stubborn and has a tendency towards a temper; he can sit through a storm of insults some days, and will ignite if someone throws a friendly jibe. Some days he’ll be very quiet and calm, but it’s usually a sign that something has surprised or hurt him, and can be considered the calm before the storm.
Despite his many character faults, Seraph has an aura of something that might be power or danger – or a splicing of both. His enemies tend to fear him and his peers tend to admire him, although they often don’t admit it. He can seem rash and uncaring, but as soon as someone or something he cares about is threatened, he’ll suddenly adopt leadership skills no-one knew he had. He swears frequently, but it seems as though he only does so to uphold his reputation for being a hard-ass-son-of-a-bitch, because swearwords fall away as soon as he decides to be serious.
Seraphim likes to set stuff on fire. He’s been to prison for arson, if only for a year. He collects lighters, and has raided almost every corner shop and mr. mint for both cheap plastic lighters and expensive-looking silver Zippos. His tendency towards pyromania has given rise to the belief that he uses fire to torture prisoners of the Cigarettes Tribe. This isn’t true – although he’d sometimes like to.
[Notable History >>
‘Its so scary in a house that allows no swearing
To see him walking around with his headphones blaring
Alone in his own zone, cold and he don’t care
He's a problem child, what bothers him all comes out
When he talks about his f**kin' dad walkin’ out
‘cause he hates him so bad that he blocks him out
But if he ever saw him again, he'd probably knock him out
His thoughts are whacked, he's mad so he's talkin' back
Talkin’ black, brainwashed from rock and rap
He sags his pants, 2 rags and a stocking cap
His stepfather hit him so he socked him back
And broke his nose, this house is a broken home
There's no control, he just lets his emotions go
Come on... ’ ~ Eminem
‘If only the wolves would howl less loudly
we wouldn't have to explain the way they sing
if only they wouldn't scare lonely people at night
we wouldn't have to proclaim how harmless they are
if only they wouldn't worry children after school
we wouldn't have to declare them an endangered species
if only they wouldn't attack and devour our domestic pets
we wouldn't have to demonstrate their ecological necessity
if only they wouldn't scrape their claws against our windows
we wouldn't have to dilate on the loneliness of being a wolf
if only they could be persuaded not to collect in packs
we could show more easily how each is really a loner
if only they weren't so snappish
we could invite them onto our committees
we might even invite them into our homes
if only they acted less hostile
we could even promote a "dialogue with the wolves"
if only they showed an interest in conversation
we could really prove how we and the wolves are one
if only the wolves would agree
if only they'd stop that eternal unnerving prowling
we could all sit down at the same table
if only their ears were less sharp
they might hear our side of the argument
if only their eyes were different
perhaps they could see things as we do.’ ~ Anon
‘Suffer not the witch to live,’ ~ Holy Bible [Exodus or Leviticus?]
‘Till shade is gone, till water is gone,
into the Shadow with teeth bared,
screaming defiance with the last breath,
to spit in Sightblinder's eye on the last Day.’ ~ Aiel Oath
‘We rode on the winds of the rising storm
We ran to the sounds of the thunder
We danced among the lightning bolts
And tore the world asunder.’ ~ Attributed to the Dragon Reborn
‘He's human, so it could mean anything.’ Loial
‘Slip out the back before they know you were there
And at the worst you'll see nobody cares
Cos you dont wana be around when it all goes down
Even heroes know when to be scared
Slip out the back before they know you were there
And at the worst you'll see nobody cares
Cos you dont wana be around when it all goes down
Even heroes know when to be scared'
~ Fort Minor
+ Six years ago +
Seraphim hadn’t cried often, but even at nine he’d known what was going on. His mother was ill, obsessed with alcohol, and constantly depressed. His father had left for a younger woman, and now this stranger was moving in. Seraphim was angry at him, angry at father, angry at mother for not waiting longer before pulling a new man into the house.
And he was sitting on the roof, his legs crossed under him, his eyes wet with tears and water. Rain poured down out of the sky, cool and clean. Seraphim looked blankly over the streets, rain plastering his hair to his face.
+ Almost five years ago +
“You are in deep trouble, Mr. Ashadar.”
Seraphim, ten at the time, ignored his teacher. His switchblade barely quivered, pressed against the throat of one of his classmates. There was blood on both their faces; Seraphim was missing a molar and the other boy had a broken nose. Seraphim’s expression was terrifying – the rest of the class had backed away through the maze of desks and was now watching in wide-eyed amazement.
“Drop the knife, Seraphim. Drop it now.” Headmaster Morris grated from the door to the class. He was a big man, beefy from hours spent in the gym. His silver hair was the only sign that he was older than he looked. He took a step out of the doorway, his heavy boots thumping on the linoleum floor. Seraphim threw him a heated glare and pressed the switchblade closer to the other boy’s throat. Morris stopped dead in his tracks.
It had started when they were supposed to be dissecting a worm. Almost without thinking, Seraphim had drawn his switch instead of waiting for the tray of knives to come past. His partner had almost had a seizure – toppling backwards off her chair at the audible ‘click’. Their teacher had come over with the intent to disarm Seraphim, but he blinked at the startled girl before flicking the knife shut and putting it back in his pocket.
“Sorry,” He drawled, his tone somehow malevolent. The teacher opened her mouth to speak, but it was at this point that someone behind Seraphim grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.
“What are you thinking, bringing a knife in – ” the other boy had said, spiting the words at Seraphim, who wasted no time in raising his fist and dealing the offending boy a punch in the nose, his switchblade remerging from his pocket. The other boy recovered quickly and struck Seraphim on the chin. They ruff-housed, despite the shouting of their teacher, until Seraph’s switchblade tickled the other’s throat.
Now, Morris lowered his voice and began almost-pleading, almost-threatening. “Seraphim, let Andrew go. Put the knife down, and we can negotiate. You could go to prison for this, kid. Suspension or expulsion are more likely. What would your father say about you going to prison?”
Seraphim lowered the switchblade. The other child scrambled away to cower at Morris’ feet. Seraphim heaved the knife at the blackboard, where it stuck.
+ Several hours later +
“Andrew Timer’s parents have decided not too prosecute because they don’t want to disable the church, Reverent. However, they have requested that you do something about your son’s behavior.”
Reverent Michael Simons nodded, pointedly not looking at the boy, handcuffed, in the corner of the room. Seraphim, however, was staring at his step-father’s back with hate in his dark brown eyes. His wrists were chained together, one hand on his raised knee and the other dangling in space. His pockets had been searched, a lighter and some matches confiscated. The switchblade, as far as he knew, was still in the wall.
“Of course, sergeant. God go with you.”
Seraphim knew that voice, if the police officer didn’t.
+ Three weeks later +
Seraphim was sick of this routine. He sidestepped the six-pack of beer next to the door and glided into the lounge, where his mother lay draped over the couch. An empty teacup that smelt of ginger and rum dangled from her hand, leaving a stain of the dirty carpet. A bottle of something alcoholic balanced on the edge of the coffee table. Seraphim slid his bag off this shoulder into a corner of the room and took his mother’s cup and the bottle back to the kitchen. He cleaned the cup and filled it with hot tea from a thermos on the bench before putting the bottle in a new hiding place somewhere vague, behind a saucepan.
He returned to the lounge and did his best to remove the stain form the carpet, then grabbed his bag and headed upstairs into his room, using several keys for several locks. He locked the door again behind him and stared at the roof. He’d have to skip class again tomorrow to go gather groceries. Sitting down on the bed, he opened the drawer beside his bed and flicked pressed a corner. The bottom of the drawer sprang upwards, revealing a hidden compartment. He pulled out a wallet, from which he extracted a credit card. He put this inside his bag and closed the drawer again.
Downstairs, the door jingled and closed as Maacha returned from school. Seraphim smiled at the soft hum of voices as Maacha woke their mother. He heard glasses clink and the old fridge ease open. He breathed out through a gap in his teeth as he counted off what was still left in the goddamn fridge to begin with. Bread, milk, jam, onions, broccoli, a tin of tuna, tinned fruit, ham and cheese, lettuce, chutney, atjar, ginger and garlic spices ground.
He glared at the skylight in the roof and rolled off the bed, unlocking the door and gliding downstairs, his family’s voices slowly becoming clearer and easier to understand. Maacha’s voice was sweet and soft, his mother’s haggard and slurred. She was pouring water, probably taking an aspirin for the hangover she’d have soon. He avoided the hanging charms suspended from the roof.
“Is Seraph home yet?” Maacha asked.
“I don’t know – why don’t you go check?”
Seraphim spared his younger sister the trouble and emerged from the hallway. He lent back against the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. Maacha offered him a slice of bread, which he declined. She shrugged and swallowed it almost in one go, washing it down with a glass of milk.
“How was your day, angel of my heart?”
“Fine.”
Mother blinked, then returned to boiling water and brewing up some herbal tea with altogether too much honey. Seraphim added honey to the shopping list.
“School’s always fine with you,” Maacha pointed out. Seraphim raised an eyebrow at her.
“It’s always terrible with you,” he said pointedly. She hid her face in her glass. Mother laughed and stirred her tea with a battered tin spoon that displayed a collection of anti-poison wards.
“Maacha, put your bag down and we’ll see if there’s a movie on TV. Seraph, have you seen the remote? I’m sure I cleansed it yesterday but, I can’t remember where I put the damn thing.”
Seraphim prodded one of the cupboards with the steel tip of his boots. Mother snapped her fingers and opened the closet, rummaging through bric-a-brac and sundry charms or amulets that she wasn’t using. She pulled a remote out of this rubble and took her tea in the other hand, gliding back to the lounge. Maacha and Seraph followed, meeting each other’s eyes behind their mother’s back.
There was another bottle of vodka in the charms closet.
+ Two hours later +
The door tinkled, the bells strung along the top and bottom ringing. It eased open, and the Reverent Simons stepped inside. Seraphim disappeared out of the lounge and into the hallway. Michael hung his cap and coat on the hangers next to the door, then swept past his adopted family into the kitchen. Seraphim moved further down the hallway.
Michael poured a glass of coke and rum, then joined Maacha and mother in the lounge, taking up the place Seraphim had abdicated previously. Seraphim trudged back up to his room and started on his homework. A small fire sat contained in a jar, glowing brightly on his desk.
+ Half a year later +
Seraphim padded into the lounge. His dark eyes scanned the room – something was wrong. His mother wasn’t on the couch, and there was no sign of her accursed drink. Seraphim went into high alert. Maacha trailed in behind him, clutching the remains of her popcorn. Seraphim crouched down so he was at her height and handed her the keys to his room, telling her to go inside and look for a box he’d left there. She accepted the keys and put the popcorn down, going to find a box that didn’t exist.
Seraphim scoured the house. It was a Saturday, and he’d just taken his sister to see a film. Mother should have been home. The door was unlocked. He knew Michael had left while they were out – he had some religious talk show to go guest-star on.
Seraphim completed his search of downstairs. Nothing. He followed Maacha upstairs, his trench coat trailing on the floor. One hand was in his pocket, tight around a lighter he had stolen a few months ago. He breathed slowly, knowing exactly where to stand on the stairs to minimize noise. He looked down the passages to either side. One led to his room, the other to mother and Michael’s, a bathroom, and Maacha’s bedroom.
He checked the bathroom – no blood in the bath, sink or toilet. Maacha’s room was empty. He stared at the closed door of Michael’s room. Neither he or Maacha was allowed inside, but Michael wasn’t home and Seraph needed to know where his mother was. Not to mention that he didn’t actually care that the room was out of bounds.
He set a hand against the door and pushed it open. Inside his pocket, he flicked his lighter open. Anger played over his face and it took most of his self control to avoid throwing the lighter, lit, at the wall, as the door opened slowly to its full extent. He strode into the room, dropping to a crouch beside his mother’s body, his lighter forgotten in his pocket.
She was still breathing, but her face was covered in blood and her ripped shirt revealed bruised skin. Seraphim stood up and uttered a stream of swearwords before rushing back downstairs for the first aid kit. He returned to the bed room, only to find Maacha wide eyed in the doorway. It wasn’t that neither of them had seen blood – they both had, their own and each others, but Michael had never dared touch their mother.
“Maach? Maach, can you go make mom some tea?” Seraphim asked, holding a wad of gauze to his mother’s face. She was unconscious, but she moved as she heard his voice. He flinched. Maacha nodded mutely and left the room. Seraphim tended to their mother, then lifted her off the floor and moved her to his room. He laid her on the bed, arranging the blankets over her and putting a cup of tea on the bedside table. He and Maacha waited for her to wake up, the door to the room locked with three locks and two chains.
+ Several hours later +
Seraphim looked up from the pans on the stove, but quickly looked down again. Maacha hovered near him, as though afraid to go through the house alone. The smell of cigars and dinner floated through the house, despite the valiant efforts of the fan over the stove. Standing on the other side of the counter, Michael watched his step-son cook.
Seraphim checked the microwave, where rice was trying to steam. He paused the timer, opened the door and spun the pot around a little before closing the door and resuming the low-wattage steaming. Michael watched, his dull grey eyes on Seraphim’s expressionless face.
“I heard you almost set the school on fire – again.” Michael drawled. Seraphim stirred. Michael tried harder to ignite Seraph’s fury. “That’s the third time in as many weeks. You’re going to kill someone, one day.”
“You, hopefully.” Seraphim snapped back. He removed a stack of plates from the cupboard and started dishing out rice and from-the-pack chicken-2-nite without the chicken.
“We were both drunk,” Michael said stolidly. Seraphim tried hard not to throw the ladle at the man’s head.
“You’re not supposed to drink.”
“You’re not supposed to talk back to a priest.”
Seraphim snorted. Maacha reached up to take the plate he handed her and dawdled into the dining room. Seraph put a plate in the microwave for his mother when she woke. He took one of the remaining plates, moving past Michael without acknowledging him.
+ Twenty Minutes Later +
Seraphim put the last plate away. Maacha clutched the end of his shirt, feeling safer around him. Michael lounged in front of the TV, but he got up as soon as he heard the stairs creaking. Mother came down the stairs, her face and chest bandaged. She made a warding symbol against evil. Maacha rushed to hug her legs, and she staggered. Seraphim turned the microwave on and watched from the entrance to the kitchen.
Michael avoided looking at his wife, and she avoided looking at him. Maacha hung around her mother’s legs, obviously still shaken. Seraphim ran his eyes methodically over the bandages, checking that they weren’t loose or unraveled. Michael kissed mother, and for the next few minutes, everything was as thought mother had just returned home late.
+ Three and a half years ago +
Seraphim was on the roof, having climbed out through the skylight in his room. His lighter flicked on and off, on and off. The small flame illuminated his face as he stared out over the streets. His brown eyes were dark, his expression unreadable. Maacha was asleep underneath him in his room, the door locked. He breathed slowly, the smell of smoke comforting his raging emotions.
There was blood still dribbling from the corner of his mouth and he’d already spat out three small fragments of tooth. He ran his tongue over his teeth, checking to see if any were loose. Anger boiled in his blood, but he ignored it, even though he knew doing do would only make it worse. He got up and trailed to the edge of the roof. He pocketed his lighter and swung down onto the balcony, from which he dropped to the floor. He hit the ground running.
+ Four Hours Later +
Seraphim stared up at the column of fire that billowed wildly around the church. His eyes reflected the raging flames, not only because he was staring at them. Blood still trickled down his chin, but his expression was calmer, now. The church was burning, burning, burning. Consumed by fire, exploding beams sending sparks into the air. All the little holy bibles in the chair backs burning, their words unreadable. Glorious fire.
Then the sirens, fire, ambulance and police. Seraphim was running again, his coat flaring behind him. He was fast out of sight, but someone might have recognized him. He was a recognizable silhouette; tall and thin in a trench coat that almost brushed the ground, his long hair framing his face and a lighter in one hand.
One of the police cars peeled away from the rest, Seraphim ran harder. He could loose it. He’d lost the police at school, too, when he’d set that on fire just an hour before. He’d lost them then and he could loose them again. Get back home, loose the lighter. Fake sleep – no one knew he’d left, right?
+ Thirty minutes later +
Seraphim hit the floor hard. Michael had hold of his wrist and was twisting it while Seraphim tried to break loose. Neither of them was in a good mood at all. Seraphim had been ambushed by his step father a few moments after he’d managed to get home, and now he was on his knees in the living room. Mother and Maacha stared wildly from their corner.
Something made a horrible noise and Seraphim went limp, crying out. Michael let him go, and the eleven-year-old curled up on the floor, cradling his right hand in his left. It looked wrong, as though the hand wasn’t attached to his wrist anymore, not with bone, anyway. Michael kicked Seraph while he was down, then went to get the phone. The ringtone murmured nine-one-one.
+ One Year Ago +
Seraphim was thirteen, taller than many sixteen-year-olds, and dangerous to match. He had a cell to himself, partly because he got into fights with anyone who he had to share space with too long. Although he was much too young to contend with the mayor players in the juvenile detention center, he’d made a name for himself. He never smoked, but there was always something burning in his cell, until the wardens found his latest stash of matches.
He fought often, and he fought hard – many of those he fought, he lost against, but he never went down without a hell of a fight. Soon people stopped even bothering. The new kid is a good target, but when he hits back it sort of looses all its charm. He spent half his time there in solitary, beating up the padded white walls.
He was still full of anger, probably more of it. Although he had people he’d talk with or spend time with without freaking, he didn’t have friends. He’d put half of his ‘friends’ in hospital, and made enemies of the other half.
And now they were sending him home; on bail. He didn’t know where he’d hated life most – home, or here. At least at home he could run. Run hard.
+ Thirteen Months Ago +
Turned out he never did have to go home. He was on the plane when the Black Plague struck, and on his way to New Pork when the white Plague started. With Serenity and the rest of the Cigarettes, he was one of the first people in New Pork since the original inhabitants had died.
For the first time in a long while, he was happy.
+ Four Months Ago +
Seraphim looked terrible these days. His face was haggard, his expression either painfully blank or full of uncompromising anger. He avoided eye contact, lashed out at people the moment they looked at him sideways. His sleeves were singed, his fingers covered in bandages. Either he was getting careless, or he really was setting fire to himself again.
Reason was struggling to bring Seraphim back from the dead. He’d died with Serenity, it seemed, and he didn’t want to come back.
+ Now +
Seraphim rushed through the streets, Alpha Flight struggling to keep up with him. The darkness of the night didn’t bother him, or the children running behind him. They were hunting for someone, and they had yet to find him. Someone had killed Serenity, and despite everybody’s warnings, Seraphim was still out to bring her murderer to justice. He wanted vengeance.
And the rest, as they say, is History.
[Reputation >> for setting things or fire, having a temper, and disliking people in general.
[Age >> 14
[Gender >> male
[Tribe >> Cigarettes
[Rank >> Alpha
[Nationality >> American
[Politics >> Democracy
[Romantic orientation >> Straight
[Appearance >> Seraphim’s appearance is mild at first glance – not out of the ordinary. His hair is coal-black, reaching down to his shoulders in slightly curly waves. His face is feline, his eyes slightly almond shaped and brown. His nose is sharp, but not overly so. His build is actually rather scrawny, but his lean muscles are stronger than their appearance suggests. His legs are long, with well turned calves.
If you were to peer closer, you’d see the nervous, restless anger in his eyes and the bird-like jerkiness of his movements. Come even closer and you’ll notice the scars up his left arm and part of his neck, the unfading bruise around his right wrist where it was severely dislocated a year or so ago.
On closer inspection, the features on his face become sharper, and the white face-paint of his tribe stands out more, and his character emerges from his expression. His nervous, darting eyes suddenly seem watchful and alert, scanning the perimeter. His tendency to twitch when something unnerves him becomes a pre-emptive dodge for a blow that doesn’t end up coming; the way he flinches when something surprises him is a backlash of having to duck every time his stepfather was in half a bad mood.
[Attitude >> Seraphim is cold, usually, in the emotional sense. He sometimes forgets to care about what’s going on around him. He’s intelligent enough – but he doesn’t think his actions through enough. He’s headstrong and stubborn and has a tendency towards a temper; he can sit through a storm of insults some days, and will ignite if someone throws a friendly jibe. Some days he’ll be very quiet and calm, but it’s usually a sign that something has surprised or hurt him, and can be considered the calm before the storm.
Despite his many character faults, Seraph has an aura of something that might be power or danger – or a splicing of both. His enemies tend to fear him and his peers tend to admire him, although they often don’t admit it. He can seem rash and uncaring, but as soon as someone or something he cares about is threatened, he’ll suddenly adopt leadership skills no-one knew he had. He swears frequently, but it seems as though he only does so to uphold his reputation for being a hard-ass-son-of-a-bitch, because swearwords fall away as soon as he decides to be serious.
Seraphim likes to set stuff on fire. He’s been to prison for arson, if only for a year. He collects lighters, and has raided almost every corner shop and mr. mint for both cheap plastic lighters and expensive-looking silver Zippos. His tendency towards pyromania has given rise to the belief that he uses fire to torture prisoners of the Cigarettes Tribe. This isn’t true – although he’d sometimes like to.
[Notable History >>
‘Its so scary in a house that allows no swearing
To see him walking around with his headphones blaring
Alone in his own zone, cold and he don’t care
He's a problem child, what bothers him all comes out
When he talks about his f**kin' dad walkin’ out
‘cause he hates him so bad that he blocks him out
But if he ever saw him again, he'd probably knock him out
His thoughts are whacked, he's mad so he's talkin' back
Talkin’ black, brainwashed from rock and rap
He sags his pants, 2 rags and a stocking cap
His stepfather hit him so he socked him back
And broke his nose, this house is a broken home
There's no control, he just lets his emotions go
Come on... ’ ~ Eminem
‘If only the wolves would howl less loudly
we wouldn't have to explain the way they sing
if only they wouldn't scare lonely people at night
we wouldn't have to proclaim how harmless they are
if only they wouldn't worry children after school
we wouldn't have to declare them an endangered species
if only they wouldn't attack and devour our domestic pets
we wouldn't have to demonstrate their ecological necessity
if only they wouldn't scrape their claws against our windows
we wouldn't have to dilate on the loneliness of being a wolf
if only they could be persuaded not to collect in packs
we could show more easily how each is really a loner
if only they weren't so snappish
we could invite them onto our committees
we might even invite them into our homes
if only they acted less hostile
we could even promote a "dialogue with the wolves"
if only they showed an interest in conversation
we could really prove how we and the wolves are one
if only the wolves would agree
if only they'd stop that eternal unnerving prowling
we could all sit down at the same table
if only their ears were less sharp
they might hear our side of the argument
if only their eyes were different
perhaps they could see things as we do.’ ~ Anon
‘Suffer not the witch to live,’ ~ Holy Bible [Exodus or Leviticus?]
‘Till shade is gone, till water is gone,
into the Shadow with teeth bared,
screaming defiance with the last breath,
to spit in Sightblinder's eye on the last Day.’ ~ Aiel Oath
‘We rode on the winds of the rising storm
We ran to the sounds of the thunder
We danced among the lightning bolts
And tore the world asunder.’ ~ Attributed to the Dragon Reborn
‘He's human, so it could mean anything.’ Loial
‘Slip out the back before they know you were there
And at the worst you'll see nobody cares
Cos you dont wana be around when it all goes down
Even heroes know when to be scared
Slip out the back before they know you were there
And at the worst you'll see nobody cares
Cos you dont wana be around when it all goes down
Even heroes know when to be scared'
~ Fort Minor
+ Six years ago +
Seraphim hadn’t cried often, but even at nine he’d known what was going on. His mother was ill, obsessed with alcohol, and constantly depressed. His father had left for a younger woman, and now this stranger was moving in. Seraphim was angry at him, angry at father, angry at mother for not waiting longer before pulling a new man into the house.
And he was sitting on the roof, his legs crossed under him, his eyes wet with tears and water. Rain poured down out of the sky, cool and clean. Seraphim looked blankly over the streets, rain plastering his hair to his face.
+ Almost five years ago +
“You are in deep trouble, Mr. Ashadar.”
Seraphim, ten at the time, ignored his teacher. His switchblade barely quivered, pressed against the throat of one of his classmates. There was blood on both their faces; Seraphim was missing a molar and the other boy had a broken nose. Seraphim’s expression was terrifying – the rest of the class had backed away through the maze of desks and was now watching in wide-eyed amazement.
“Drop the knife, Seraphim. Drop it now.” Headmaster Morris grated from the door to the class. He was a big man, beefy from hours spent in the gym. His silver hair was the only sign that he was older than he looked. He took a step out of the doorway, his heavy boots thumping on the linoleum floor. Seraphim threw him a heated glare and pressed the switchblade closer to the other boy’s throat. Morris stopped dead in his tracks.
It had started when they were supposed to be dissecting a worm. Almost without thinking, Seraphim had drawn his switch instead of waiting for the tray of knives to come past. His partner had almost had a seizure – toppling backwards off her chair at the audible ‘click’. Their teacher had come over with the intent to disarm Seraphim, but he blinked at the startled girl before flicking the knife shut and putting it back in his pocket.
“Sorry,” He drawled, his tone somehow malevolent. The teacher opened her mouth to speak, but it was at this point that someone behind Seraphim grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.
“What are you thinking, bringing a knife in – ” the other boy had said, spiting the words at Seraphim, who wasted no time in raising his fist and dealing the offending boy a punch in the nose, his switchblade remerging from his pocket. The other boy recovered quickly and struck Seraphim on the chin. They ruff-housed, despite the shouting of their teacher, until Seraph’s switchblade tickled the other’s throat.
Now, Morris lowered his voice and began almost-pleading, almost-threatening. “Seraphim, let Andrew go. Put the knife down, and we can negotiate. You could go to prison for this, kid. Suspension or expulsion are more likely. What would your father say about you going to prison?”
Seraphim lowered the switchblade. The other child scrambled away to cower at Morris’ feet. Seraphim heaved the knife at the blackboard, where it stuck.
+ Several hours later +
“Andrew Timer’s parents have decided not too prosecute because they don’t want to disable the church, Reverent. However, they have requested that you do something about your son’s behavior.”
Reverent Michael Simons nodded, pointedly not looking at the boy, handcuffed, in the corner of the room. Seraphim, however, was staring at his step-father’s back with hate in his dark brown eyes. His wrists were chained together, one hand on his raised knee and the other dangling in space. His pockets had been searched, a lighter and some matches confiscated. The switchblade, as far as he knew, was still in the wall.
“Of course, sergeant. God go with you.”
Seraphim knew that voice, if the police officer didn’t.
+ Three weeks later +
Seraphim was sick of this routine. He sidestepped the six-pack of beer next to the door and glided into the lounge, where his mother lay draped over the couch. An empty teacup that smelt of ginger and rum dangled from her hand, leaving a stain of the dirty carpet. A bottle of something alcoholic balanced on the edge of the coffee table. Seraphim slid his bag off this shoulder into a corner of the room and took his mother’s cup and the bottle back to the kitchen. He cleaned the cup and filled it with hot tea from a thermos on the bench before putting the bottle in a new hiding place somewhere vague, behind a saucepan.
He returned to the lounge and did his best to remove the stain form the carpet, then grabbed his bag and headed upstairs into his room, using several keys for several locks. He locked the door again behind him and stared at the roof. He’d have to skip class again tomorrow to go gather groceries. Sitting down on the bed, he opened the drawer beside his bed and flicked pressed a corner. The bottom of the drawer sprang upwards, revealing a hidden compartment. He pulled out a wallet, from which he extracted a credit card. He put this inside his bag and closed the drawer again.
Downstairs, the door jingled and closed as Maacha returned from school. Seraphim smiled at the soft hum of voices as Maacha woke their mother. He heard glasses clink and the old fridge ease open. He breathed out through a gap in his teeth as he counted off what was still left in the goddamn fridge to begin with. Bread, milk, jam, onions, broccoli, a tin of tuna, tinned fruit, ham and cheese, lettuce, chutney, atjar, ginger and garlic spices ground.
He glared at the skylight in the roof and rolled off the bed, unlocking the door and gliding downstairs, his family’s voices slowly becoming clearer and easier to understand. Maacha’s voice was sweet and soft, his mother’s haggard and slurred. She was pouring water, probably taking an aspirin for the hangover she’d have soon. He avoided the hanging charms suspended from the roof.
“Is Seraph home yet?” Maacha asked.
“I don’t know – why don’t you go check?”
Seraphim spared his younger sister the trouble and emerged from the hallway. He lent back against the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. Maacha offered him a slice of bread, which he declined. She shrugged and swallowed it almost in one go, washing it down with a glass of milk.
“How was your day, angel of my heart?”
“Fine.”
Mother blinked, then returned to boiling water and brewing up some herbal tea with altogether too much honey. Seraphim added honey to the shopping list.
“School’s always fine with you,” Maacha pointed out. Seraphim raised an eyebrow at her.
“It’s always terrible with you,” he said pointedly. She hid her face in her glass. Mother laughed and stirred her tea with a battered tin spoon that displayed a collection of anti-poison wards.
“Maacha, put your bag down and we’ll see if there’s a movie on TV. Seraph, have you seen the remote? I’m sure I cleansed it yesterday but, I can’t remember where I put the damn thing.”
Seraphim prodded one of the cupboards with the steel tip of his boots. Mother snapped her fingers and opened the closet, rummaging through bric-a-brac and sundry charms or amulets that she wasn’t using. She pulled a remote out of this rubble and took her tea in the other hand, gliding back to the lounge. Maacha and Seraph followed, meeting each other’s eyes behind their mother’s back.
There was another bottle of vodka in the charms closet.
+ Two hours later +
The door tinkled, the bells strung along the top and bottom ringing. It eased open, and the Reverent Simons stepped inside. Seraphim disappeared out of the lounge and into the hallway. Michael hung his cap and coat on the hangers next to the door, then swept past his adopted family into the kitchen. Seraphim moved further down the hallway.
Michael poured a glass of coke and rum, then joined Maacha and mother in the lounge, taking up the place Seraphim had abdicated previously. Seraphim trudged back up to his room and started on his homework. A small fire sat contained in a jar, glowing brightly on his desk.
+ Half a year later +
Seraphim padded into the lounge. His dark eyes scanned the room – something was wrong. His mother wasn’t on the couch, and there was no sign of her accursed drink. Seraphim went into high alert. Maacha trailed in behind him, clutching the remains of her popcorn. Seraphim crouched down so he was at her height and handed her the keys to his room, telling her to go inside and look for a box he’d left there. She accepted the keys and put the popcorn down, going to find a box that didn’t exist.
Seraphim scoured the house. It was a Saturday, and he’d just taken his sister to see a film. Mother should have been home. The door was unlocked. He knew Michael had left while they were out – he had some religious talk show to go guest-star on.
Seraphim completed his search of downstairs. Nothing. He followed Maacha upstairs, his trench coat trailing on the floor. One hand was in his pocket, tight around a lighter he had stolen a few months ago. He breathed slowly, knowing exactly where to stand on the stairs to minimize noise. He looked down the passages to either side. One led to his room, the other to mother and Michael’s, a bathroom, and Maacha’s bedroom.
He checked the bathroom – no blood in the bath, sink or toilet. Maacha’s room was empty. He stared at the closed door of Michael’s room. Neither he or Maacha was allowed inside, but Michael wasn’t home and Seraph needed to know where his mother was. Not to mention that he didn’t actually care that the room was out of bounds.
He set a hand against the door and pushed it open. Inside his pocket, he flicked his lighter open. Anger played over his face and it took most of his self control to avoid throwing the lighter, lit, at the wall, as the door opened slowly to its full extent. He strode into the room, dropping to a crouch beside his mother’s body, his lighter forgotten in his pocket.
She was still breathing, but her face was covered in blood and her ripped shirt revealed bruised skin. Seraphim stood up and uttered a stream of swearwords before rushing back downstairs for the first aid kit. He returned to the bed room, only to find Maacha wide eyed in the doorway. It wasn’t that neither of them had seen blood – they both had, their own and each others, but Michael had never dared touch their mother.
“Maach? Maach, can you go make mom some tea?” Seraphim asked, holding a wad of gauze to his mother’s face. She was unconscious, but she moved as she heard his voice. He flinched. Maacha nodded mutely and left the room. Seraphim tended to their mother, then lifted her off the floor and moved her to his room. He laid her on the bed, arranging the blankets over her and putting a cup of tea on the bedside table. He and Maacha waited for her to wake up, the door to the room locked with three locks and two chains.
+ Several hours later +
Seraphim looked up from the pans on the stove, but quickly looked down again. Maacha hovered near him, as though afraid to go through the house alone. The smell of cigars and dinner floated through the house, despite the valiant efforts of the fan over the stove. Standing on the other side of the counter, Michael watched his step-son cook.
Seraphim checked the microwave, where rice was trying to steam. He paused the timer, opened the door and spun the pot around a little before closing the door and resuming the low-wattage steaming. Michael watched, his dull grey eyes on Seraphim’s expressionless face.
“I heard you almost set the school on fire – again.” Michael drawled. Seraphim stirred. Michael tried harder to ignite Seraph’s fury. “That’s the third time in as many weeks. You’re going to kill someone, one day.”
“You, hopefully.” Seraphim snapped back. He removed a stack of plates from the cupboard and started dishing out rice and from-the-pack chicken-2-nite without the chicken.
“We were both drunk,” Michael said stolidly. Seraphim tried hard not to throw the ladle at the man’s head.
“You’re not supposed to drink.”
“You’re not supposed to talk back to a priest.”
Seraphim snorted. Maacha reached up to take the plate he handed her and dawdled into the dining room. Seraph put a plate in the microwave for his mother when she woke. He took one of the remaining plates, moving past Michael without acknowledging him.
+ Twenty Minutes Later +
Seraphim put the last plate away. Maacha clutched the end of his shirt, feeling safer around him. Michael lounged in front of the TV, but he got up as soon as he heard the stairs creaking. Mother came down the stairs, her face and chest bandaged. She made a warding symbol against evil. Maacha rushed to hug her legs, and she staggered. Seraphim turned the microwave on and watched from the entrance to the kitchen.
Michael avoided looking at his wife, and she avoided looking at him. Maacha hung around her mother’s legs, obviously still shaken. Seraphim ran his eyes methodically over the bandages, checking that they weren’t loose or unraveled. Michael kissed mother, and for the next few minutes, everything was as thought mother had just returned home late.
+ Three and a half years ago +
Seraphim was on the roof, having climbed out through the skylight in his room. His lighter flicked on and off, on and off. The small flame illuminated his face as he stared out over the streets. His brown eyes were dark, his expression unreadable. Maacha was asleep underneath him in his room, the door locked. He breathed slowly, the smell of smoke comforting his raging emotions.
There was blood still dribbling from the corner of his mouth and he’d already spat out three small fragments of tooth. He ran his tongue over his teeth, checking to see if any were loose. Anger boiled in his blood, but he ignored it, even though he knew doing do would only make it worse. He got up and trailed to the edge of the roof. He pocketed his lighter and swung down onto the balcony, from which he dropped to the floor. He hit the ground running.
+ Four Hours Later +
Seraphim stared up at the column of fire that billowed wildly around the church. His eyes reflected the raging flames, not only because he was staring at them. Blood still trickled down his chin, but his expression was calmer, now. The church was burning, burning, burning. Consumed by fire, exploding beams sending sparks into the air. All the little holy bibles in the chair backs burning, their words unreadable. Glorious fire.
Then the sirens, fire, ambulance and police. Seraphim was running again, his coat flaring behind him. He was fast out of sight, but someone might have recognized him. He was a recognizable silhouette; tall and thin in a trench coat that almost brushed the ground, his long hair framing his face and a lighter in one hand.
One of the police cars peeled away from the rest, Seraphim ran harder. He could loose it. He’d lost the police at school, too, when he’d set that on fire just an hour before. He’d lost them then and he could loose them again. Get back home, loose the lighter. Fake sleep – no one knew he’d left, right?
+ Thirty minutes later +
Seraphim hit the floor hard. Michael had hold of his wrist and was twisting it while Seraphim tried to break loose. Neither of them was in a good mood at all. Seraphim had been ambushed by his step father a few moments after he’d managed to get home, and now he was on his knees in the living room. Mother and Maacha stared wildly from their corner.
Something made a horrible noise and Seraphim went limp, crying out. Michael let him go, and the eleven-year-old curled up on the floor, cradling his right hand in his left. It looked wrong, as though the hand wasn’t attached to his wrist anymore, not with bone, anyway. Michael kicked Seraph while he was down, then went to get the phone. The ringtone murmured nine-one-one.
+ One Year Ago +
Seraphim was thirteen, taller than many sixteen-year-olds, and dangerous to match. He had a cell to himself, partly because he got into fights with anyone who he had to share space with too long. Although he was much too young to contend with the mayor players in the juvenile detention center, he’d made a name for himself. He never smoked, but there was always something burning in his cell, until the wardens found his latest stash of matches.
He fought often, and he fought hard – many of those he fought, he lost against, but he never went down without a hell of a fight. Soon people stopped even bothering. The new kid is a good target, but when he hits back it sort of looses all its charm. He spent half his time there in solitary, beating up the padded white walls.
He was still full of anger, probably more of it. Although he had people he’d talk with or spend time with without freaking, he didn’t have friends. He’d put half of his ‘friends’ in hospital, and made enemies of the other half.
And now they were sending him home; on bail. He didn’t know where he’d hated life most – home, or here. At least at home he could run. Run hard.
+ Thirteen Months Ago +
Turned out he never did have to go home. He was on the plane when the Black Plague struck, and on his way to New Pork when the white Plague started. With Serenity and the rest of the Cigarettes, he was one of the first people in New Pork since the original inhabitants had died.
For the first time in a long while, he was happy.
+ Four Months Ago +
Seraphim looked terrible these days. His face was haggard, his expression either painfully blank or full of uncompromising anger. He avoided eye contact, lashed out at people the moment they looked at him sideways. His sleeves were singed, his fingers covered in bandages. Either he was getting careless, or he really was setting fire to himself again.
Reason was struggling to bring Seraphim back from the dead. He’d died with Serenity, it seemed, and he didn’t want to come back.
+ Now +
Seraphim rushed through the streets, Alpha Flight struggling to keep up with him. The darkness of the night didn’t bother him, or the children running behind him. They were hunting for someone, and they had yet to find him. Someone had killed Serenity, and despite everybody’s warnings, Seraphim was still out to bring her murderer to justice. He wanted vengeance.
And the rest, as they say, is History.
[Reputation >> for setting things or fire, having a temper, and disliking people in general.
