The Gatsby Project. (War Paint and FightFlight.)

[War Paint]

THE GATSBY PROJECT

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War Paint and FightFlight

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SOPHIA LAKE

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Name: Lilith Sophia Lake


Age: Twenty-three.


Hair: Rose Petal Red.


Eyes: Blue-Green.


Skin: Porcelain Fair.


Height: 5'6".


Weight: 116 lbs.


Biography: Sophia was once the girl who believed in fairy tales, and in the magnificent mystery that was love itself. She was a wild child, always wanting to run before she could walk and leap into an age she was years from. As a child, all she wanted to do was grow up so she could experience life and take hold of it like a ripe peach, ready to be bitten into. She was careless and reckless, wanting to experience everything fresh and for all it's glory - whether good or bad. She dreamed of the knight in shining armor coming to whisk her away into a fairy tale romance filled with roses and twittering birds chirping away as they rode into the sunset. Perhaps that's why Mikey was such a treasure to behold when she was at the innocent age of seventeen, enchanted by his fast cars and expensive haircut.


He smelled of the roses she dreamed about, and had the very glory and riches princes were written to have in those magical books she read as a child. He had the charm that could make any girl swoon, and she luckily had the wild hair and sparkling eyes that caught his attention. It wasn't long before the couple caught fire, leading into a life that burned red hot. She even remembered the night she lost more than just a first kiss to this charming boy destined to be a king during one summer night. Everything was right about their relationship, from their chemistry to the background of their family names. It was as if their destiny was written in the stars before God and everyone, announced to the world that this was the couple to make it until the end. But Sophia's viewing on the relationship quickly took a turn from the twittering birds to a bitter reality.


After high school, the couple had attended separate colleges. And as the relationship still stood, rumors came flying from the winds of whispers. It was said that when Sophia first connected eye contact to one of these affairs, she was accused as the other woman. In order to save their relationship, empty promises were made and a glitter ring was placed on Sophia's finger in attempts to cover the ugly crack on a broken pavement of trust. The wedding held the largest photograph in the entire newspaper, a proud moment her family holds as well as the photo frame on their fireplace.


Not long after their wedding, the rumors returned, but Sophia would constantly block them out with a glass of champagne and a new piece she was working on for the fashion magazine she was now employed with. But as the rumors grew, Sophia began taking on the oddest of pieces. Instead of working on the latest shade of lipstick to make men slip a ring on your finger, Sophia started taking interest in the darker issues in relationships. "Is He Cheating? How to Know 101," and such. When the company of GATSBY arose, Sophia instantly clung to the story and agreed to write an article on the issue. As females rebelled, Sophia highlighted the positives of the situation. When the owner of the company personally invited her to thank her for the article, they began to take note of each other on a more personal note.


The owner suggested that Sophia take a vacation, to get away from both her husband and work. Following the suggestion, Sophia took refuge in a little cottage near a lake that her family owned and since has been staying at the little house, working from home and drinking herself silly every night.

 

[Fightflight]

Name: Walter Hobbes


Age: 26


Hair: Chestnut-Brown


Eyes: Reddish-Brown (Cordovan)


Skin: Pale


Height: 6'2"


Weight: 140lbs (underweight)

Biography: Walter Hobbes, born in Britain, treated like garbage, ran away from his abusive parents at the young age of 10 (after years of practice sneaking and avoiding their eyes). Once he escaped, Walt did all he could to survive on his own, from stealing food to pocketing the few pounds needed for a coat to learning street smarts from hookers.

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Eventually, a librarian discovered Walter and took pity on him, giving him a home in her library. She taught him how to read and write, and Walter would do so non-stop, enjoying this new world that has opened up to him in the form of literature. Walter read countless books about absolutely everything, from fishing to lockpicking. He did this for sixteen years, helping his librarian friend and her assistant around the building.

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During one summer, Walter's librarian took him to the Lyric Theater to see "A Midsummer's Night Dream". Walter was utterly enthralled by the performance. He wanted to perform for people and entertain them like those people on stage could. Walter wanted to become a stage actor. He wanted to make an audience laugh, or move them to tears. He wanted to help tell a story in ways that all those books in the library could not.

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He finally had a goal in life, that young Walter Hobbes. He finally had a dream.


At the age of twenty, Walter stole a katana from a thrift shop. He hadn't stolen anything in years, but upon entering the shop, among all the grubby clothes and broken instruments, that weapon stood out to him. He liked the beauty of the hilt, the elegance in the blade's design (apparent even within its sheathe), and so he stole it -- masterfully done, too. He didn't know why he did, but the deed was done, and he couldn't just give the thing back. Walt carried it back to the library and hid it away, only taking it out to look once the building closed and his friends went home. He read books and books, reread them, did all he could to understand this beautiful piece of art he had stolen. He learned how to use it, how to clean it, its history -- He learned everything he could, practiced with it, and his friends were none the wiser.

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Eventually, Walter moved to America to become a stage actor. He didn't have much; He only carried a few outfits, including the clothes he wore on the plane trip, as well as his extremely well-hidden katana. It was his one and only prized possession, and he certainly couldn't part with it, no. Any money he had was for the plane ticket. The rest he'd have to earn in America.

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About a year after moving to New York, Walter started hearing a dark, hissing voice in his head. It told him to do horrible things. Murder -- use that blade of his and cause the mayhem he craved. Set things alight with blazing fire. Steal from people -- The only way he could pay rent for his tiny, dingy apartment. One that had him next to an incredibly obnoxious neighbor who would invade his home and "borrow" his groceries.


The flashbacks from his time with his abusive parents plagued him, and his own newly-developed psychosis kept him from reaching his dream job. He never had enough money and always had to sweet-talk the landlord into accepting his "I OWE YOU" notes most of the times rent was due. All the stress on him kept piling up, and Walter would find himself sobbing on his bed some nights. What made it worse was his compulsive need to hurt people. Ideas that he didn't even want would get wormed into his head, and in order to prevent himself from completely snapping, he would go out and kill pigeons, stray cats, rats -- Anything that wasn't human.


If it was truly this hard for him to live, however, what was the point of trying anymore?

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[War Paint]

This was the article to return her name to it's former glory and her last chance to restore the faith within the editor for her talents. As she trotted up the steps, she felt a familiar feeling of excitement returning to her chest as she rushed to make her appointment with the owner of the infamous Gatsby & Co. Glancing at her side as she made her way up the stairs to the entrance, she noticed the workers sweeping up what remained of the shattered glass from the previous boycott to the company's productions. Bulletproof glass was their new installment and as she watched them check for it's stability, she smirked at the wonder as to why they didn't assume a little extra protection to be appropriate. At least they received the notion then.


Gatsby & Co. had been the world's latest subject of shame. It was a company that once specialized in virtual reality, the type used to help promote the training of military officials and even for entertainment value. As the market in technology grew in the likes of virtual reality, Gatsby took an unexpected turn towards entertainment. When the owner was interviewed by the puzzled press, all that was released as a remark was that the owner would rather promote the opposite of war and destruction: love. A notable cause, but still the media responded in a gasp at Gatsby "refusing the education of our country's safety." Even still, Gatsby stood as a teacher to the world of virtual reality. When the first virtual reality game was released, that was the second chime to the bell of shock, but connected Gatsby's hints in his responses of leaving the world of war. The game was that of a dating simulation, following with foreign interest in a virtual lover. It released the player into a world where they could live their lives but be approached with beautiful creatures created by Gatsby and able to be used as lovers.


At first this new age approach was targeted towards the male market, but as the female outrage grew of this virtual reality home wrecker, Gatsby even attempted to appeal to them by creating a female version of this simulation. Where it appealed to some, the rage seemed to grow in the female media, branding the game as "an insult to the natural ways." It was true, the game was absorbing the attention of males, often breaking apart already broken marriages and taking boyfriends away from girlfriends. Loners, or males who could never seem to find a female partner, deemed the game as a blessing, and a "relief from the female control over a male's happiness." Something about the game was noted as so real and refreshing from console based dating simulations. It was the Gatsby's signature, and as merchandise grew, the market grew even more. Which also meant that the temper of the religious and female riot continued to skyrocket.


When it was revealed that Gatsby's featured characters within the game were not from Gatsby's creations but instead from the minds of their client's, that's when the press and media responded like an angry hurricane focusing it's eye on Gatsby. Gatsby had never created the characters, but the system secured on the client's head to focus them into the virtual world was what had built the characters. The system would analyze the client's mind, discovering their attractions and interests during the beginning process of the game, creating a significant other for them to naturally be drawn to. This is often why most of the clients would fall completely and totally in love with their simulation, causing the game to no longer be in fact a game, but instead an obsession -- a reality to them.


But this didn't seem to satisfy Gatsby. They continued to wish to push the envelope. About two years after the release of the game and when the media began to simmer down, Gatsby announced a new project. Curiosity rose and the press pushed to discover what this secret project was. It was later announced that the project was the creation of androids, realistic robots available to purchase to replace this dating simulation. That was when the first real riot approached Gatsby's main office. It was completely and totally against the natural law, claimed the media. "It will soon replace our reproduction values, and the ways of the natural world. This blasphemy against human kind must be stopped," Sophia could remember reading as she researched the company.


Gatsby refused all interviews for the project, but instead contacted Sophia's magazine to be interviewed. When Sophia was approached with the article, she found herself baffled by the fact that her editor had told her she was specially requested by the owner. What on earth would Gatsby want with a female's fashion magazine? Sophia assumed that perhaps it was to appeal to the female media, to ease into their opinions and perhaps sway the rage. She immediately accepted the offer and found a wave of relief wash over her. Finally, an article about something other than which shade of lipstick would catch a man's attention. Ravish Me Red or Blushing Bride no more. This was an article that someone would actually pay attention to and the moment it hit the shelves, everyone would pay attention to her story.


As she entered the building, she heard the sound of her heels echo across the building as she approached the front desk. Sophia nervously adjusted her skirt before reaching up to flip her curls over her shoulder.


"Hello, I'm here to see-," Sophia began but stopped when the woman at the front desk greeted her with perhaps the largest smile she had ever seen plastered on someone's face.


"Mrs. Lake, it's wonderful to have you. Mr. Gatsby will be beyond pleased to hear that you've arrived. He's been looking forward to this interview for quite some time," the brunette cheesed. Sophia's face twisted into a confused expression. She had only gotten the request a few days ago, how could he have been anticipating it for "quite some time?" Sophia watched as the woman name platted as Diane dialed for Mr. Gatsby to allow Sophia to press on. As she watched the almost ungodly beautiful woman speak into the phone, she noticed her painted lips. Ravish Me Red. Sophia almost found herself rolling her eyes, but stopped herself as soon as she smiled at her once more.


"Mr. Gatsby is in his office. It's on the sixth floor. No left or right. The elevator will lead you directly into his office," she informed Sophia. Sophia thanked her, and nodded her head, continuing off to the elevator. The bell dinged almost instantly as Sophia brushed her finger tip across the button. As the doors opened, Sophia was greeted by the insides that were decorated in bright golds and an ominous black, along with a mirror placed against the wall. Taking hold of the bar under the mirror, she felt like she was more in an elaborate ballet dance studio than an elevator. The young woman exhaled as the elevator pulled up, chiming as the floors disappeared under her.


When the doors parted, she felt as if the gates of heaven were opening just before her from how nervous she found herself. The moment her eyes adjusted to the light of the room, she could see him grinning at her from across the way. He was almost beautiful for a man. His green eyes lit up the moment he saw her and she followed his hand as he reached to adjust his white suit and baby blue tie. His hands then both raised in a welcoming greet, outstretched for her to approach him.


"Mrs. Lake! It's wonderful to finally see you!" He exclaimed with a voice that just dripped in a gentleman's tone. Sophia found herself staring. This was Gatsby, the man that had America flipped over and rolling around on the ground, a man almost as rich as Bill Gates himself, the man who was claimed to have been playing God. As Sophia searched for the words to start her first impression, the elevator doors squeezed against her shoulders, causing her to jump. She had forgotten to move and the doors had begone to close on her, causing her to cry out in surprise them stumble her way away. Gatsby laughed, but in a warm hearted way that made her feel even more welcome rather than making her flush in embarrassment.


It wasn't long before the two were laughing in their chairs, a cup of tea in Sophia's lap and a cup pressed against his lips. He was so pleasant, so classic, in a way describe in the old books about southern gentlemen and dashing bachelors. Sophia even found herself blushing like a school girl as he smiled at her, but just as the casuals were established, Sophia cleared her throat and grabbed her notepad.


"So, Mr. Gatsby, you have become a worldwide sensation and have taken a turn that no one has expected to approach in life. What has given you the ambition to achieve such a goal?" Sophia questioned, watching as his almost emerald green eyes flashed at her. He folded his hands in his lap as he laid back in his chair.


"I think people have expected this, or at least something similar to this occasion. They just never assumed that they would see it within their lifetime, or that it would be such a groundbreaking occasion or cause such a cultural turn in their lives. As for what's given me the ambition, it's simply that I want to achieve greatness and that I want to see all the lonely hearts in this world happy," Gatsby answered with a satisfied grin. "Now, Mrs. Lake-"


"Sophia, please," Sophia almost spat out, without paying any mind to her quickness.


"Sophia, let's get to the question you really want to ask," Gatsby replied, arching his brows at her as if he was allowing her to spill out everything she's wanted to without the formality or the warming up to questions.


"Androids. Cyborgs. Robots. Whatever you want to call them, why? Why do you wish to create an alternative being to satisfy the greatest gift in life? Aren't you worried that this might suppress reproduction and men might honestly choose an android over a woman?"


Gatsby took a deep breath.


"I am at an understanding that this may be 'defeating the natural law,' and I have in fact taken that into factor. This idea was not one made to take away children, or take away marriages, but in fact give satisfaction to those who will never know this. There are men who no absolutely no way to approach a woman and never will because of their own fear. There are women who have been beaten and bruised by men and will never trust a real one again. There are some who do not want children, nor the want to put themselves into a relationship where you could find yourself broken hearted, because we all know the worst pain in this world is no flesh wound but that of a broken heart's ache," Gatsby recited, almost has if he had been interviewed for this before. Sophia found herself almost blown away by his answer. It was true and she could see the reasons.


"I can understand this," Sophia mentioned.


"And if one's husband, or significant other, is leaving you for an alternative being, then perhaps there were more problems at hand before than anyone wanted to take note of. If one's significant other leaves them, it's not because of my creations but instead because a problem closer to home that perhaps no one wants to accept."


He was right. Sophia could see that completely.


"But as far as reproduction, what will happen if they do wish to have children?"


"We have taken that into consideration and arrangements will be made."


"What do you mean?"


"Sperm donations and host parents are not an alien thing to this time."


There was a moment of silence as Sophia attempted to search herself for the questions she had planned to ask, but with how well explained this man was, she found herself speechless. As she wrote down all she had noted, Gatsby lifted himself from his seat and walked to her side of his desk.


"Think about it. I would be reducing insecurities, because androids know no judgment. I would be reducing rape because men can have their women. I would be reducing accidental pregnancies that lead to child abandonment and abuse as well as abortion, there would be a lower risk of sexual disease, and trust would never be an issue," Gatsby breathed and Sophia looked up at him, but his eyes were not on her but her hand.


"That's a beautiful ring, Mrs. Lake," he noted. She shyly looked down and fiddled with her wedding ring.


"Thank you."


"How long have you been married?"


"About two years, when I was old enough to drink our wedding champagne."


"And how many times has he cheated on you?"


"Excuse me?" Sophia was baffled. She looked up at him in a startled manner. This was in no way acceptable or a subject for discussion and as soon as she heard the words creep from his lips, she found herself insulted. "Mr. Gatsby, I'm afraid that's in no way a subject available for discussion. Mine and my husband's lives are our own."


Gatsby didn't seem amused with her answer, and instead just stared down at her quietly. Moving his hand, he tapped her shoulder. "Ask me what my secret is."


"... What's your secret?" Sophia asked hesitantly.


"Flaws. That's what's so human about my creations, unlike in Japan where everything is, 'Oh, yes, master. Thank you for allowing me to drink milk off of the floor,' and every simulation is as bland and boring as the last. Flaws are what makes humans, as much as attributes. Flaws and arguments make the heart fonder, because it shows us we can build and move past things for someone. We love the interest and the opposites in other people. The mystery is what attracts us, and it's what makes them attractive and interesting. Some people want the simple thrill of a flaw or a disagreement, while some want some as elaborate as a sparkling vampire with teenage angst. But even still, it's the flaws that attract us, not the perfection."


"I do believe you have a point there, Mr. Gatsby."


Gatsby grinned at her.


"I've always loved your writing. You have a certain wit about you that is ever-so honest, and never as sugarcoated as people expect. That's why I picked you, you know? Come, why don't you try out some of my products so you can feature that in your article."


Gatsby escorted Sophia into the other floors that featured some of his best selling products, from his virtual reality to even some of his add-ons to his virtual reality. As he settled the cap over her head meant to transfer her into the virtual world, she found herself nervous as the computer analyzed her appearance and brain to create herself, as well as her match. Entering into the game, it was as if she was living an every day life. She was walking down a busy street with other people, some she had even recognized. It wasn't laid out as a game, but instead a whole world that was a real as the one she was living. But as she walked down the street, she noticed a man smoking a cigarette against the wall. His hair was a shaggy brown and his body was lean while he was attired in a long black coat that gripped at his arms, along with his slightly tattered pants. She could tell he was a musician of sorts with his stubble and brooding brown eyes. He lifted his head and glanced at her, suddenly pushing off the wall to crush his cigarette under his boot.


Walking towards her, she began to find her heart speed up and pound at her chest. There was something so attractive about him, she couldn't disguise the fact that she couldn't keep her eyes off of him. As he grew closer to her, she grew bashful and looked away. Thinking about it, she thought of herself as silly but as she went to look back at him, she felt him suddenly pound against her shoulder.


"S'cuse me," he muttered, but as she looked back at him, he saw him tuck her wallet away in his coat.


"W-wait! Hey! Wait a minute! He's got my wallet!" She called out, seeing eyes wander to her and him smirk as he made his way away from her. "Wait! Gatsby, I don't under-"


Suddenly the helmet was off and she saw Gatsby's grin greeting her. He raised a finger to her as she prattled on about how on earth could he be her match after robbing her.


"You see, you didn't play the game through, but that's the flaw. The story could have continued on in multiple ways. You could have perhaps chased him in attempts to get your wallet back -- which I could see in your personality -- and when you turned to an alleyway, he could have cornered you, slammed you up against a brick wall and put that beautiful face in front of yours. After that, it's up to the computer's creativity and the attractions of your brain," Gatsby explained and Sophia couldn't find the words. She was amazed, simply amazed by the computer's creativity and how it made her feel his bump, and created such an elaborate character for her attractions to run with.


As Gatsby escorted her from the building to ensure her to arrive safely at her car, she looked up at him as if she was losing a new friend she had just made. This man was a genius, and the article was going to perhaps raise some rage she was going to have to deal with.


"I've enjoyed your company, Mrs. Lake. You are just as enjoyable as I assumed. I have a feeling we're going to be great friends. But before you go, may I ask you something?"


"Sure."


"What do you personally think about my new project?"


Sophia sat still in her car for a while and thought. Looking back up at him, she tossed her hair over her shoulder. "As much as I appreciate the genius in the idea and admire the work and creativity, as well as the brilliance, there's something about humans you can't replace: the fact that they are human and they are real. As beautiful as they'd be and as special as they'd make me feel, I could still never escape the fact that they are not real, and that Id always want them to be."


Gatsby gazed at her for a while, silent. He stared at her for a good while before raising himself back up and adjusting his tie again. "I appreciate your answer, and I do hope to see you again. I look forward to reading your story. Goodbye, Sophia."


"Goodbye, Gatsby."


And that was it as Sophia glanced in her rear view to see Gatsby waving with that gentleman's smile and the green light of Gatsby & Co. illuminating the background. The article was printed the following month and the moment it printed, there few hate press, for her neutral attitude towards the company and it's projects, but whenever the mail was received, it was always over Sophia's note at the end of her article claiming Gatsby as being one of the most charming and intelligent men she had ever met in her entire life. Shortly afterwards, Sophia took her personal leave to run the magazine's online blog in her summer cottage by the lake, refusing to write any more articles on the shades of lipsticks and blushes.

 

[Fightflight]

Walter’s day started mostly like all the rest, though with one difference. He had woken up with a cold. An annoyance like this was hardly acceptable to him. His life was right at the bottom on the scale of success. Grumbling, the young man forced himself out of bed anyway. He had to keep looking for a job, after all, not lie in bed like a lazy bum.


His feet gently touched the cold wood floor of his apartment, checking for any new splinters that may have magically appeared overnight. The place was old, and it creaked in a way that sounded, without failing, like a dog’s whine every time, and no matter which floor he was on. The place had no charm, and most of his lights were busted or flickering, always threatening to go out, but never going through with it. Walter was surprised he still had power in the dingy little place, considering his inability to pay for anything. Perhaps it was just the landlord feeling bad for him.


Mr. Gruber was either that, or he was utterly terrified by Walter and didn’t have the guts to simply kick him out on the street. It was he who had smelled the death coming from Walt’s garbage bags. It was he who noticed all the little hints when inspecting the younger man’s apartment. Walter Hobbes was, without a doubt, a twenty-six-year-old nutcase.


So make the madman happy, he did. Give him the light he needed, don’t boot him out of the apartment, don’t call the nearest asylum and have him taken away. Let him keep living that dreadfully hermit-like life of his.


Walter, shaking away these thoughts, went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth. The voice was back. It wanted much from him, oh so much.


Mr. Gruber suspects what you’ve been doing. He’s seen all those dead animals you stuffed in the garbage. Kill him, Walter, he knows what you are. Kill him before he kills you, or locks you up somewhere -- Do it!


Walter winced as the voice carried on in his head. It was a hissing thing. Exactly what one would think a snake sounded like if it talked. He pounded on his sink a few times to get it to shut up, but when that didn’t work, he hummed The Muppets’s theme song quietly to distract himself from it. He knew it wasn’t real. He knew it was all in his head and he just honestly needed help -- But how could he afford anything like antipsychotics or even a good psychiatrist to prescribe such a thing?


He still needed to look for that job. He needed to find an open spot for someone who, well, wasn’t even a graduate of elementary school, much less a college of any sort. These days, it seemed, anyone without a diploma wouldn’t be able to find a job anywhere. Not even the local dump of a fast food place would take Walt seriously -- Though was that really because of the lack of education, or because of his accent? Either way, he was still unemployed -- It didn’t matter at that point whichever one offended the manager.


Walter finished doing what he could to clean himself in the bathroom, then opened the cupboard to see if he had anything for breakfast. Complimentary crackers and tea from the local hotel. Right. That will have to do. He took what he could and boiled some water with a teapot he stole and a stove that he bought with money that he also stole. Then he looked outside and groaned. It wasn’t morning! He managed to sleep until five in the afternoon, it seemed! He was supposed to fix that sleeping schedule of his, not make it worse! He bitterly stared out the window, sniffling from his runny nose. When the teapot eventually whistled, he flinched. That was when the voice decided to show up again.


You’re never going to get a job. You’re going to be stuck in this same soulless routine for the rest of your life. You will die an impoverished, lonely, loony of a man.


“Why don’t you ever go away?” Walter asked, his voice strained. Those words were true, as much as he wanted to deny them.


You can end it now.


It was all the voice said. All it needed to say. It was right. Walter was done. He was completely and utterly done. He didn’t want to stay this way, and he didn’t want to keep hopelessly repressing his violent urges. Walt was tired. He was tired of it all. The young man, alone in his apartment, felt it was finally time to kill himself. He looked over at his katana, which was mounted on the wall. There, that’s how he’ll do it. That’s how he’ll stop the pain. He’ll do it with his most prized possession.


It was an hour later when Walter’s obnoxious neighbor barged into his apartment to borrow some stolen pillow mints for an “emergency”. With a startled scream and a 911 call, Walter Hobbes, who had slit his wrists with his katana and let himself bleed out, was sent to the nearest hospital at 6:26pm to recover.

 

[War Paint]

Time ticked and the clock echoed in the silent room, reminding the man that seated himself across from the bared bed that time was still passing. Pressing his lips together, he looked over at his side, extended out his arm and gazed at his watch. Even though it had been a few weeks and this had been planned, he couldn't help but admit to himself that he was in fact nervous. It was a quarter until eight and there he was, still bouncing his knee with his legs crossed as he would constantly gaze back at the sleeping man with his bandaged wrists. He had been sleeping for a while, the poor fool. But as the man in the chair rose to get another good look at him, he couldn't help but feel as if he was gazing down a helpless child. He was a helpless child lost in a helpless world and there he was to act the part as the helping hand to offer him a new life.


He dared to reach down and brush his fingertips across the bandages wrapped around his wrists. He could still see some of the blood browning as the stitches clutched his life together. The poor boy had apparently attempted to off his life with some Japanese steel. How a boy of his wealth afforded a katana, he could guess how. He smelled of a hard life, the hospital scent unable to mask the fragrance. His face was thin, also hinting to his ill experiences in this world. In a way, he felt like he was looking at his own child. Perhaps this boy, this Walter Hobbes, with no real name or meaning could be his future child. He could be his son in a way, a son that he gifted a whole new life to.


As he reached to place his hand on Walter's shoulder, he went to shake him awake but heard the tapping of a nurse's footsteps entering the room.


"Mr. Gatsby," she called. Gatsby turned, his green eyes directed to the nurse in the purple scrubs. He could see the distaste in her eyes for him as she gave him a look of disgust. "Please don't wake him. We do need you to come sign some paperwork for your nephew."


"Ah, yes. I'll be there in a second. It's just been so long since I've seen him. I just want to get a better look at his face," Gatsby replied in a calm tone. The moment his office had noted him that a few of the poorly afforded individuals he had been watching had come to the hospital, he ran to claim the quickest one he could. And that was Walter. Walter had been specially selected. For someone living in such poor conditions and seen on the streets in a not so admirable health, he was the perfect test subject for his project. Gatsby had claimed him as his long lost nephew and he was the only one who claimed him.


The nurse nodded and walked off almost as quickly as she could. Gatsby turned back to the suicidal -- now homeless -- boy. Resuming his previous attempt, Gatsby gave Walter a brief shake.


"Mr. Hobbes, it's time to wake up. We've got many matters to discuss here, old sport."

 

[Fightflight]

Walter was shaken from, to him seemed like, an endless nightmare. It wasn’t the normal things that people were afraid of, getting in their faces and going “aboogedy boogy boo”. No, it was not a nightmare like that. It seemed that, for an infinite amount of time, he was trapped in an endless, blank white hallway with many many doors. Of course, he could open these doors, but the rooms were always the same. Just as white, just as blank. Just as empty and bland. Worst of all was the silence of this place. There wasn’t even a bit of noise from his own footsteps. He couldn’t speak -- Whenever he tried, something seemed to stop him.


It was terrifying.


And then, just when he thought it would never end, he was shaken out of it all. There was someone there, someone with a lightgrip on his shoulder. Was it even a person, or was it a clamp? Who was waking him up? That obnoxious neighbor of his? Did he even know that guy’s name? Phil? Was it Phil? Again he had to stop his mind from wandering. His eyes fluttered open, but only briefly before the bright lights forced him to squint. He looked around. This was not his apartment. This was far too clean and tidy to be his apartment. Was he in a hospital? Why would he be in a --?


And then he remembered. Right. He slit his wrists. He wasn’t dead? No, no, that Phil guy. He must have --


Shit. Shit, shit, shit.


No, he wasn’t supposed to be alive! He was supposed to be dead! He was supposed to be free from --


There was a man there. A man he didn’t recognize. Walter let out a small, surprised gasp. He turned one of his hands over to grip the hospital bed sheets. Who was he and what was he doing here? He wasn’t dressed like a doctor or a nurse. In fact, he looked like a business man of sorts.


“Who are you?” He attempted to ask, but the words came out slurred. He must have been put on something.


He looked the man over. He was a handsome fellow, wasn’t he? He certainly had the movie star quality good looks and sparkling green eyes. Were they sparkling, or was it just a trick of the light? Still, if Walter’s privacy was going to be invaded, he didn’t mind this man doing the invading.

 

[War Paint]

"Ah, you're awake!" Gatsby exclaimed, already making a cup of water in a simple plastic cup. Leaning against the stand next to Walter's bed, he looked down at him with that fond smile as he raised a cup to him, pressing it against his lips before taking a sip. He immediately placed the cup back down, shaking his head as he let out a soft noise at the taste of the water. "Certainly tap water, my boy. I'll have to see if they can bring us something bottled."


He brushed his hands together before giving them a quick clap as he looked down at Walter. He nodded to him with that beyond joyous grin then turned to snatch up the chair he was once seated in. Picking up the chair, he waltzed it back over to the side of Walter's bed to seat himself down. Reaching up, he slicked some of his fair brown hair back and nodded once again at Walter as he cleared his throat. Folding his hands into his lap, he searched for the words to begin his proposal but found himself caught on exactly how to present himself. Opening his mouth, he assumed an opening statement but his mouth shut once again as he pondered on himself.


"Walter," he began as he exhaled. "My name is Gatsby. You can just call me that. No need for formalities, just Gatsby. Have you ever heard of me before, my boy? I am the owner and founder of Gatsby & Co. You see, I am in the virtual reality simulation and am a good reason why this country still remains free to this day. But no, I can tell by your accent you're not quite from here, are you, my boy? So you may or may not have heard of me, but that's no matter."


Gatsby paused, leaning forward and grabbing hold of his chin as he thought. He breathed in once more, his suit seeming to grip at his chest. He was wearing white again this day, but his tie was a pale yellow. His light brown hair was slightly styled in a slick, but appeared untouched by any gel or oils. He smelled of a rich man's fragrance and even had a few nurses blushing in his direction as he grinned at them before approaching Walter's room. He was dressed for this occasion and dressed to certainly impress.


"Walter, my boy, I'm not sure if you can remember this right now, but you tried to off yourself today. Now, I know you may not know me but I have taken a special interest in you. Now, don't go panicking before I have a moment to explain myself," Gatsby spoke, rising from his seat as his hands assumed half the job of expressing himself. He pranced himself around the edge of Walter's bed. "We took a toll of all the lower wealth single men in the city and even some homeless caps, and I mean this as no offense, we played the waiting game. Men like you, you've had a hard life. You've seen it all from the greatest dirt and scum this world has to offer but you've also seen the greatest glory we have to offer, haven't you, my boy? I know you have. When you have nothing to look at, where do you look? At nothing, or at the something you want?


"I'm sure you've gazed at the greatest golds and glory ever seen by man, and I'm sure you've wanted it, lusted after it. Am I right, my boy? Of course I am. Now, I want to give you that world. I want to give you all the gold and all the glory, Walter Hobbes. I know this may sound like a scam or maybe like I'm wanting something from you and I'm going to tell you the truth: I do want something from you. But, my boy, what do you have to lose, if I may ask? Nothing. What do you have to gain? Everything."


Gatsby cleared his throat again, walking back over to swallow another sip of the water to ease his vocal chords. He laughed as he forced himself to down more of the ill tasting water. "I talk too much, I know."


Resuming his position in the chair, he looked at Walter. He gazed at him with such a hard expression that could rattle any man's soul. There was a glimmer in his eyes that gave every expression of belief but as stern a scolding father.


"I want to give you a new life, Walter. One where you can re-create yourself and be the greatest man you've ever dreamed you could be. I have a dear friend, you see. The poor girl's had a hard life just like you. I need you to do something for her and I need you to do something for me. I'll give you the house, I'll give you the wealth, and I'll give you a name and a history you can be proud to call your own. All I want from you is her heart. Can you do this for me, old sport?"

 

[Fightflight]

Walter listened to the man prattle on about himself and his company, as well as his plans and what he knew of Walter -- And of his attempted suicide. He couldn’t help but smirk at the man’s name. What a coincidence. A wealthy-looking and gentlemanly sort, which certainly tied in well with his virtual reality programs. Indeed, a thing he’s heard of. It was hard not to, what with the news and the rioting and the talking on and on and on about it. And all about false love. My, that was a fitting subject for a man named “Gatsby” indeed, wasn’t it?


Walter would have asked the man if that was his real name, or if his first name was “Jay”, but put the question away, for he feared it may come off as rude. Not that he could say anything anyway, for Gatsby kept talking, and talking and talking. Not that the things he spoke of weren’t true. He was right on the money with everything -- Including his own claims that it sounded like a scam.


How was he to trust Gatsby? He had only just met the man.


You can’t.


Walt’s grip on the bedsheets tightened when the voice came back. Don’t listen, don’t listen, don’t listen. It sounded like a scam, yes, but that was where Gatsby was right again. What did he have to lose?


It seemed as though, for this, whatever this may be, Gatsby was willing to pay quite the price. That meant he’d finally be out of that old routine of his -- of poverty altogether! He’d be given a house as well? After he had seemingly lost his own? This sounded like a dream come true.


But wait, he thought, what of this girl and this heart business?


Walter looked away from Gatsby for a second to examine the clock resting on puke-green hospital wall. The clock ticked away at its steady pace, and for Walter, it was distracting. Deafening, even. The clock was like a giant eye, staring down at him and reminding him that his time on Earth was limited. He had to live every day as best as he could. While that was normally a nice and sweet message written by children in their little “life lesson” sorts of essays, to him it was nothing more than mockery. As it turned out, nobody can live life to the fullest without a decent job.


He turned back to Gatsby, and in his white suit, he seemed almost like an angel. He even had a little halo, what with the hospital lights beating down on him like that. This man was going to save him. He couldn’t pass up a chance like this.


“I’ll change myself for you, Gatsby, if that’s really what you want me to do, but I’d like to know what for. I’d also like to know what you mean, exactly, by wanting her heart.”

 

[War Paint]

Gatsby paused as he summoned the words to explain himself further. His ears seemed to perk and a glimmer of light reflected in his eyes of surprise. His grin turned into a full toothed smile, the dimples of his cheeks reaching ear to ear. Reaching his hand out, he scooped up Walters and gave it a gentle shake. As he placed it back down, he tapped the back of his wrist. "I'm sorry if I rattled your wrist there, Walt. I just had to give a wise gentleman like yourself a good gentleman's shake."


Gatsby crossed his legs, leaning back into his chair. His body seemed to relax now that he had a firm answer out of Walter. This project was swimming into the tide perfectly and everything seemed to be falling into place. Gatsby felt himself grow rather excited, feeling that jitter of inspiration he felt when he had first birthed the idea. Walter was going to be a start of something great. He was going to be an evolution to the ways of Gatsby & Co. and little did Walter know that he would play such a staring role in the growth of Gatsby's name.


"That's just splendid, my boy. We're going to make you a new man -- a proud man. A man with true meaning to his name that you can have pride in, just like I know you've always wanted," Gatsby breathed out. His emerald eyes glittered at Walter. He honestly did feel like he was looking at his now son of sorts. He cleared his throat, giving a quick tug to his suit's coat as he readjusted himself in his seat. Leaning forward to Walter, he let out another exhale.


"When I mean her heart, Walter. I mean I want you to take this girl's trust. Now, perhaps a simple kiss would be fine enough, and not just any kiss. I want a kiss where you know deep down this woman honestly cares for you as a whole. We're not letting a drunken night's passion play the part of that important role. There is something about a woman's trust, my boy. Some women deliver it rather easily, but some are so skeptical from being bruised and beaten by their trust that it's difficult for them to honestly attach themselves to someone so deeply. That's my friend, you see. She has had everyone she's ever trusted defy her on such levels that I'm positive she's seen it as a fool's game," Gatsby informed. He looked away from Walter, his eyes drifting into a thoughtful distance.


"She's a beautiful girl, my boy. Trust from a woman is such a precious gift that is often abused and taken for granted. I want to see her trust rewarded. I want to see you rewarded. And if you earn her trust and she allows you in for that one kiss, your life is set. I will see to it that you are properly taken care of for the rest of your days."


Gatsby rose from his chair, placing his hand on Walter's shoulder.


"I'm trusting you with this task, Walter. Naturally, you will be remade into a new person. You'll no longer be Walter Hobbes. You'll be of a new family name, and the start of a new line. What type of person have you always wanted to be?"

 

[Fightflight]

When Gatsby shook his hand, he was forced into wincing from the pain it caused. He couldn’t help but do that, as much as he would have normally attempted to suppress it. The stitches pulled on his flesh, and the sensitive edges of broken skin were strained. This strain only caused an appropriate response; A sort of pain that burned his wrist. As stated before, the result of that was the previously mentioned uncontrolled wince.


He continued speaking of what he was going to make Walter, and how he was going to be proud and be what he’s always wanted to be, and whatnot. Walter, of course, had to listen. He’s already practically agreed for the job. He had to pay close attention to what he had to do now. And then Gatsby explained exactly what he meant by “wanting her heart”, as well as what he had to do to gain it.


A kiss. That was it? That seemed relatively easy, didn’t it? But then, of course, came the “but” part of things. It had to be a real true-love wuvy-dovey bullroar sort of kiss, and the woman he had to do the deed with was, according to Gatsby, a shelled turtle-ice-queen. He had his doubts, of course, what, with the poor girl having already suffered enough. Why should he tease her like that with fake love? It seemed rather cruel.


It’s a challenge.


Walter ended up smirking. A challenge, eh? Perhaps this time the voice was right for once. Why should he look at this through some weak sod’s point of view? This was a chance of a lifetime, and surely there were so many other girls out there suffering all the same as little-miss-ice-queen, right? This was a challenge. A challenge. This was all a little game that Mr. Gatsby put together -- And the prize? Wealth. A ticket out of his miserable life, a catapult into a great and golden new one.


The suited man moved his hand to Walter’s shoulder, and this time the younger man was able to keep a twitch down. Gatsby asked Walter what type of person he’s always wanted to be. What type of person? Was this the “what do you want to be when you grow up” question, only this time they were discussing it like the successful business-owner and grubby thief that they were? He had been asked to share his broken dreams. Walter figured that he may as well just share.


“... I’ve always wanted to be a stage performer. An actor.” Walter admitted, “I never really cared for a life in commercials or movies or the telly. I’ve dreamed, since I was little, to move an audience. I’ve wanted to shock them, to make them laugh, make them cry -- I wanted to be able to convincingly take on the role of any character I’ve been set as. No one ever even gave me a shot.”


He sighed.


“I’ll agree to do anything you want me to do, Mr. Gatsby. I’m tired of living in garbage.”

 

[War Paint]

Gatsby's eyes glittered as Walter spoke and even the wave of his sigh made Gatsby feel the excitement of this project falling perfectly in place. He gave him a gentle pat to reassure him of Gatsby's confidence in his reply. Nestling himself down in his seat, he crossed his legs once again and grinned that classic Gatsby grin that just spoke words beyond their conversation itself. Within his smile, his answer and plans for this project seemed to shine as bright as the sun behind the clouds cluttering the sky outside. There didn't need to be a sun due to his smile. Even though rain threatened the ground with the roar of a coming storm thundering across the sky, his smile lit up the room and all that surrounded him.


"Incredible," he continued to grin. "Simply incredible. An actor! I knew I liked you from the moment I saw you on the street. The moment I saw you making your way through the crowd, something about you just told me that you were meant to be greatness. The whole world is your stage now, Walter. You are an actor, and you will be the greatest."


Drifting his hand into his pocket, he pulled out a notepad and pen he had lodged in his white suit. Jotting down what seemed to be notes, his lips moved in a quick vibration to show him muttering to himself. Every moment or so, his pen would dash across the paper to scribble out whatever he had just printed onto the paper. His eyes would occasionally raise to Walter to gift him with the reassuring smile before going back to whatever he was inking onto the notepad.


"Now, you'll be living next to our dear Mrs. Lake's summer cottage next to the beachfront. Charming little cottage. It's painted a sort of teal color, I believe. Now, I do believe there's a wonderful house built next to cottage that's been for sale for some time now. We'll be sure you take care of that, for you. Your name will now be Mr. Walter-," Gatsby paused and looked up to Walter, his brows furrowed in wonder. "Actually, what name would you like to go by?"


"After this you will be briefly educated for a few weeks are so at our company building. We'll find you a fine lodging at this wonderful hotel just built nearby -- very new, very large. Omni, I believe. You'll be a well-known stage actor from England, from a fine wealth family where your mother still lives in London and your father perhaps dead, perhaps alive. No, we'll say he's passed. Mrs. Lake never did have a fine relationship with her father. Perhaps you'll dabble in some writing. Novels, maybe. She's a writer, you see," he babbled on, barely taking time to find a breath. It was almost as if he didn't even need to inhale in order to breathe, because once he caught even just a breeze of air, he was back to rattling on about Walter's future plans. As he painted this picture of a beautiful future for this man, his words grew larger and even more extravagant than the previous sentence. The future was lined with glitter and gold. It sounded almost like a fairy tale. He was a mysterious prince from a foreign land of charm and elegance, coming to whisk this tragic heroine off her tragic feet.

 

[Fightflight]

Walter listened to Gatsby, showered with his radiance and excitement and utter passion for, quite plainly, toying with a woman's feelings. In fact, the man was a bit too excited about finding Walt, having mentioned seeing him on the street. How creepy. Mr. Gatsby creeped him out, yes, that was it. Such a jovial, passionate man creeped him, someone who has broken the necks of many an animal, completely and totally out. Had that been a thought spoken from someone else, Walter would have laughed at the ridiculousness of it. Was he supposed to like this man? Gatsby was certainly acting like someone many would like. To Walter, Gatsby just felt... Fake. Like plastic. And he was quite certain that both plastic and Mr. Gatsby were burnable. Walter's mind got sidetracked when he wondered, at what temperature would Gatsby begin to melt?


And after some scribbling, Gatsby was suddenly talking again, snapping Walter out of his daydream. Apparently, he was to live next to this girl. The man, with his large, unique sort of smile, began babbling on about all the little details, what his character was supposed to be like, yadda yadda yadda. And then...


"Your name will now be Mr. Walter- Actually, what name would you like to go by?"


What a question. Would he, could he, even go by any other name? He was so used to, so very liked this name of his, this Walter Hobbes. Would he really want to change it? No. No, if he was going to do this, he would go all-in.


"... I'll simply go by my name, Walter Hobbes. No one here knows me, anyway. I'm not too easy to get records of either, since I haven't been able to hold down a job ever and I never really talked to anyone. So that's it. I'll be myself -- But not really myself, I suppose."


He was ready -- Or rather, he would be, once he was released from the hospital.


~


The training lasted nearly a month. What Walter went through was some intense, hardcore training in all ways of being the perfectly proper gentleman that Mrs. Lake so clearly deserved, instead of (woe) her fiancé. By the end of it all Walter felt that he had it all down. It was a bit like memorizing lines, in a way. Memorizing lines, no, whole scenes, actions -- But it was also a bit of improv. A lot of improv. A lot of trickery, as well.


When Walter was settled into his new house - Which he spent a lot of the time being impressed by - He set out on his mission, dressed in a suit with a tie bearing little duck patterns. It was to be dressed up and impressive, but also casual. Silly and fun. If there was one thing this girl seemed to need, based on what he has heard of her, it was more fun in her life. Walter rang the doorbell. It was a lovely place, this girl lived. A nice spot of land among the trees, within the safe and welcoming embrace of nature. It was far from the city, far, far more relaxing. He couldn't help but smile a bit when he heard birds chirping -- Not an ugly old pigeon to be found here. And yet it was this beauty that he felt an urge to ruin. Walter grabbed for his katana, but remembered that it was no longer there. Right.

 

[War Paint]

The sun beamed high that day, causing little droplets of sweat to creep down the side of her neck as she inhaled the coming fall of autumn air. The summer heat still stuck to the air like the feeling of dry sweat still clinging to her skin. Even still, there she was, propped up on the roof of her little cottage she now called home. She liked to come up onto her roof when not making use of her beach front. She'd sit there, dressed in her tattered jean shorts and loose fitting crop top she hung over her bathing suit top so when she did decide to make use of her beach, her clothes didn't press much of an argument. Whatever she did during the day, she made sure it was outside. Inside of her cottage was too dark. It made her feel anxious, looking at all the photos she had tilted over so she didn't have to see her dearly beloved's face grinning at her from across the room. She hadn't even had a cup of coffee since leaving her home for her little vacation. She had tried a sip one morning, but the taste of the french vanilla caffeine just made her feel like the typical mornings she lead before reporting back to her office were back to haunt her. The coffee pot was quickly unplugged and shoved into a closet where she didn't even have to see the glowing lights of it's time clock.


Now the days consisted of green tea with honey and ginseng, something she had taken a liking to after helplessly searching for a quick substitute to coffee. It was a new pattern that she had grown quite accustomed to. Tea, beach, tea, beach, dinner, and then the bed. There were some nights she didn't even undress from her bathing suit. She just flopped out onto her bed, drunk off of whatever she had collected the weekend before, if she even made it to the house from her beach.


Embracing the heat as it warmed her skin, she stretched, letting out a ridiculous yawn to join in with the birds' chirping and singing. But just as her mouth opened up to release the rest of her yawn, she heard a very odd sound of a chiming bell warning her that someone was at her door. Pushing herself up, Sophia reached for her fiery hair, twisting it around her fingers. It was something she did when she was nervous -- a sort of habit.


"Oh dear lord, don't let it be him," she muttered to herself. The last person she wanted to see was her husband. It had been about three days since they had spoken last and he mentioned visiting her, but she just hoped it was a mere gesture of kindness and not an actual act he planned on executing. Gathering up her collection of hair, she tied it up in a messy attempt of a ponytail, tying a yellow bandanna around her head. She reached to her feet, walking across the grey tiled roof to peach over the porch of her cottage. But as she saw the shoulder of her visitor, she twisted her face in confusion. Why would he ring the doorbell if he was her husband?


"Hello?" Sophia called out, falling to her knees then peeking over the edge of her porch. Letting herself forward, her stomach folded over the side of the porch, greeting her into an upside down world as she examined her visitor. She had never seen him before. Were those ducks on his tie?


"I'm not interested in buying anything and if you're collecting donations for your church, come back tomorrow and I'll write you a check."

 

[Fightflight]

Walter waited for some time, there on the porch, counting the seconds while looking and listening for some sign - any sign - that Mrs. Lake was home. It would have been quite the waste of time, getting all dressed up in these tight-fitting, stiff clothes for nothing. After a bit of time passed, the young man shrugged. Perhaps that was it, then. The lady of the house was out and about, no doubt. He turned around only a few seconds earlier than he had planned, all because he had heard the "Hello?" from behind him. He whirled around, a bit started by Sophia Lake's - if this was really her - sudden appearance. Was she on the roof? She was looking at him upside-down like that, but what was she even doing up there in the first place.


She thought of him as some salesperson, or religious figure! Well, he supposed that was a decent conclusion to jump to, what with him all dressed up as he was and flat-out knocking on a "stranger"'s door.


"Oh, no, no -- I'm no one like that!" Walter insisted, putting his hands up defensively, "I just wanted to see who my neighbors might be, is all! I just moved here from London, you see." He smiled at her before holding one of his hands out and up in an attempted offer to shake hands with her, "Walter Hobbes, that being me, and me being very pleased to meet you -- If that makes any sense. It should. That seemed full of enough sense to pass as a sentence, right? Oh, there I go rambling, sorry about that, uh... May I ask who you may be?"


He held his smile, and he kept that hand out. Not quite the meeting he expected, no. This would certainly be an interesting job, wouldn't it? Far more interesting that what he usually did -- Which was, to say, nothing but sit and rot in his apartment. Hah, good riddance to that life, he thought. And really, this job might be on the somewhat stranger side, but it certainly would be a fun one, wouldn't it? This Sophia Lake person (if this was really her and he had the right address) was beautiful. Yes, she had attractive features, this one, and his eyes couldn't help but get drawn into that. In a way, it was a bit like meeting Gatsby for the first time -- Only that time, he was dazed and strapped to a hospital bed.


Being fully conscious now, Walter could appreciate the wonderful features that made up - supposedly - Sophia Lake. Her eyes were really something, Walter thought, them being almost like an ocean, or, more fittingly, like two tiny lakes shimmering there near either side of her nose, and her snowy-white face, nicely shaped, soft-looking - cuttable, sliceable - was framed by her fiery-red hair. Well, how about that? Two tiny lakes, surrounded by snow, which was surrounded by fire. Sophia Lake was, in that way, like nature itself.


And being a city-boy, Walter was in awe of the pure and powerful beauty of nature.

 

[War Paint]

Sophia examined this man, dressed in his oh-so formal attire for just meeting his neighbors. His accent made her ear chime. He was English. Perhaps that's why the duck tie was acceptable to him. She took in his voice. It was so different. She had met some English before, but his voice seemed to seep out from between his lips like smooth honey. She'd be a liar to say that she wasn't the typical type to find a foreign accent appealing. There was just something so exotic about accents, even though it was just the voice. She furrowed her brows as she looked at every curve of his features. It almost seemed rude as she stared at him, but after working for a fashion magazine, staring was something she had learned best. He seemed so cool, but something about him came off as stiff. His hair was so long for a man who dressed in a suit, especially with it being so hot outside. But his eyes were what dragged her into him. They were brown, just like his chestnut hair, but the swirling tint of what seemed to be red within his eyes made her so interested in him.


What a strange color. She had never seen anything quite like it.


As he extended his arm, Sophia came back to the realization of her position. But without even thinking of the matter, she outstretched her arm. At first, she found her hand hesitant to grip onto his. Her fingertips gently grazed against his own, but as soon as she felt the contact to his skin, she could notice that his hands were so dry. They seemed rough compared to hers, like a man who had a lot of hard labor in his life. Suddenly, she found herself so interested with him. Walter Hobbes, the mysterious, duck-tied Englishman with worker's hands.


"Sophia Lake," she informed him as she finally took his hand, giving it a shake. Pulling her hand away from his, she adjusted herself from the pressure pushed onto her stomach. Making a face, she looked back at Walter with a smile. "Excuse me. I seem to be a tad... out of sorts. I'll be down in a second."


She pushed herself back up onto the porch's roof, waltzing herself over to the side of the cottage where a drain pipe curved around the side of the house. Tossing down her yellow flip flops, she shimmied down the drain pipe as fast as she could to greet her new neighbor. She had watched as the movers brought in his furniture a few days ago but it seemed just as soon as the house raised the "sold" sign, he was there within a week's time. Perhaps he was enjoying what was left of the summer heat before the fall weather crept it's way in. As her feet touched the ground, she bent over and gathered her flip flops, walking bare foot towards her porch.


"I'm sorry about saying that stuff earlier. There's not many people who live around here and I completely forgot about the house being sold," she stated as she walked under the shadows of the porch. She looked over him again. Despite that duck tie that screamed for her constant attention, she couldn't help but let her eyes wander to his face. He wasn't bad looking at all. In fact, he was quite pleasant. He had a sort of look in his eyes that oozed with the mysterious look in romance novels that Sophia used to pour herself into. Even still, he seemed to have a beaten puppy gleam whenever he let his eyes stray for even a moment. It was sort of... precious.


"If I was you, I would have taken the check and told me to have a blessed day," she joked, but cleared her throat quickly afterwards. Religious jokes were not quite the way to start off a conversation. She nervously gripped onto her arms. "English, huh? Welcome to the US. Here on vacation? It's a pleasant little lake. Not much people here, if you were looking for a party place. If you're here for peace and quiet, you've come to the right place. I'm not very loud."

 

[Fightflight]

Walter was pleased to hear that this was, indeed, Sophia Lake. Excellent, that meant he wouldn't have to waste any time looking for her, or risk the job's success by asking directly for her and sounding like some sort of stalker. He laughed a bit at her little joke, though, on the inside, he wished he had thought of doing that when he was still struggling in New York. That certainly would have gotten the landlord off his back, wouldn't it? Well, no more of that, no, certainly not. No scams and theft for him -- He never had to worry about money troubles again. That is, if he could win this poor girl's heart.


Mrs. Lake welcomed him and asked if he was on vacation. She described the area nicely, which won a soft, honest smile out of Walter. What a pleasant place to live, what, being by a lake and all that. Again, it was so very different than what he was used to, not that Walt minded in the slightest.


"Actually," He began to explain to Sophia, "I've moved myself in to the house nearest to yours. This was why I wanted to see you, you see. Well, not specifically you, but whatever neighbors I may have. You, err, Miss Lake, being my neighbor, is an all-too-pleasant surprise, I'd think -- A most welcome one. It's not every day that your new neighbor is a lovely lady like yourself."


He grinned, still, hoping he wasn't coming off too forward -- If that could be considered forward at all. Charming, sure, but hopefully not on a creepy level. No, Walt had to stay confident. Confidence is what will get the job done, surely. This felt like he was Ariel, and Sophia was bloody Prince Eric! Only he had more time, did not truly love this woman, and he was certain that Gatsby didn't have villainous intentions. At least, he hoped he didn't.


"I'd love to get to know you better, Miss Lake." Walter spoke again after a few seconds of pause, "Or would you prefer Sophia? Either way, I'd hate for us to be the sort of neighbors that don't speak to each other ever. I... Am new here, after all. What, with this whole America thing. I'm a bit desperate to make friends, you see. New country, and all that. Cultural differences. Hah. But I mean, what I'm saying is, I'd love to get to know you better, as I stated before, yes, but only if you don't mind. Only if."


He stumbled. Why did he stumble? Christ, if he screwed up this early, Walter was as good as dead!