Realistic or Modern 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐃𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐀𝐝𝐚𝐦 ﹥𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘏𝘈𝘙𝘉𝘙𝘐𝘕𝘎𝘌𝘙𝘚

[mother of sorrows]

╰┈➤ 𝘫𝘰𝘪𝘯 𝘶𝘴. 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥.

Hi, hi and welcome to the character sheets! Some stuff to note before jumping into the sheets themselves;

✦ LGBT+ and diverse characters are very much welcome.
✦ Please be reasonable with your characters! While some cop/veteran characters will be allowed, most of these characters will be everyday people with maybe some gun knowledge, but not superheroes.
✦ Keeping some secrets for yourself is welcome. Each character should have something taken from them by the cult - whether it's their farm, a family member...
✦ Codes are not necessary! I would love to see characters with their own issues, ambitions, goals and flaws.
✦ Once again, this will not be first come first serve.

There will not be a traditional character sheet. Instead, you give some basic info about your character and a 'concept'! Basically, introduce who they are as a person, their personality, but more in a prose way than just information.

This code has a hidden scroll, with the sheet below!

FULL NAME:
AGE:
SEXUALITY:
ETHNICITY:
OCCUPATION:
SACRIFICE: (what has the cult taken from them?)

 

[mother of sorrows]

DEIANIRA 'DANNY' LOVING.

a bartender that's got her life going all wrong.

♡coded by uxie♡

╰┈➤ the unexpiated sin that stains the the present.

Age: 26.
Sexuality: Lesbian.
Ethnicity: White.
Sacrifice: Her goddamn bar.

Danny is a woman that, unfortunately for everyone else, really wants to live.

If there's an inkling of a party (and the bar is dancing in hell, here) then Danny is the source of it. Growing up in the revolutionary embrace of emerging rock music and on the passenger seat of a long-haul truck, Danny cultivated a flagrant taste for short skirts, motorcycles and smoking in public. Like any child, she reflects her father - a disenfranchised servicemen that returned from WWII to a real bunch of nothing. And like many men who tried to return to a life before grenades ringing in their ears, he had to distract himself. Talk to other people that aren't so keen on grabbing a piece of the pie they were promised.

Motorcycles and the gatherings they brought made Scott J. Loving settle back into Michigan, and he always brought little Danny along; held her thin hand or carried her above the startled dust clogging the air, blotching out the great, boiling sun. There were not so many of the men with overgrown beards and leather jackets and toothless smiles in Ward County, but there were a few; Danny grew used to the stench of cigarettes and stale beer, and she grew up chasing fireflies and crickets out in the fields behind the gatherings, yowling with the other kids like a pack of wild dogs let loose.

Some of the more stricter folks usher their kids along and give her long, sticky looks, or cross themselves when she passes. Nobody can say Danny is a particularily malovelent type, but she does have snake tattoo and if she's really daring (or it's too hot to humanely survive), she wears shorts to show it off. It doesn't take a lot for Ward County to go up in a scandal - all she has to do is forego Sunday clothes and half the concerned mothers give her blanching stares. In reality, the wildest thing Danny has ever done is jump out of John M. Evergile's window during the night and land in a stack of fermenting hay.

And her infamous bar isn't even really a bar. It's a renovated store room attached to a tractor supply store and there is far less drunken misbehavor happens there than gossip goes. Actually, it's technically not even a bar - she also serves soft drinks and Goobie Peter dishes out greasy hamburgers and hot dogs out from his ''clean'' (the patrons place bets on when it was last cleaned) kitchen.

Mostly, it's just long haul truckers and grizzled farmers that sit a hole in her chairs. But the money's fair and even with those damn Adam Whatever guys lurking around lately, she's really proud of the place.

 

[demonology]

Arlene “Arakiel” Sylvian

reformation camp escapee .

♡coded by uxie♡

╰┈➤ i love you and a little blood won't stop that.

FULL NAME: Arlene Hollace "Arakiel" or "Ara"* Sylvian
AGE: Twenty-one
GENDER: trans woman
SEXUALITY: Pansexual
ETHNICITY: African-American
OCCUPATION: Camp Counselor
SACRIFICE: Sam, their closest friend and confidant.

APPEARANCE: Approximately 5'10''. 3B curls of ebony hair that has been cropped short, but since her days of wandering the woods, it now fluffs out at a length she far prefers. Prior to entering the Reformation Camp, her curls would cloud around her face, and despite her current predicament, she is determined to bring her hair back to this state. Her elbows are bony, but her biceps and dimpled cheeks are soft with baby fat she never lost. A singular mole, her natural Marilyn, dots the corner of the left side of her face. Dark brown skin the color of molasses, Ara's smile is formed from stark white teeth that have yellowed some with the lack of proper nutrition and toothpaste. Still, Samael will say it is her best feature.
Some visual reference taken from Taylor Russell, though she will not be used as a faceclaim.
EXTRA: aesthetics.

*a note on her nickname: many of the people in Adam's troubled teen camps adopted nicknames after the Watcher angels who lusted after humans.

---

may edit soon, but I tried to keep some things a secret :3

"What's it like bein' a city rat out in the country?" Their father brushed past them gruffly, shining up a piece of the tractor's internal mechanism with a bit of oil on a blood-red rag. They were sitting in the dilapidated, faded barn on his property. The radio played softly off to the side, kept to the station Arlene preferred as opposed to the more pious stations available.

"You were once a city rat," Arlene countered. She plopped down on the stool and fiddled with the radio's knob, trying to get the static to cut out. To her left sat the dead tractor, along with a myriad of other broken things that all stood in a line with her forming one end and the broken, sawed-off shotgun on the other. In his time "recovering" in the woods of Ward County, their father had taken to collecting broken bits. A hoarding habit. Guess city rats don't know what to do with all that freedom.

The more likely answer was that her father had replaced one addiction for another.

"That may be true," Abel answered. He leaned over the hood of the machine, and his clanking sounds overtook Jimi's cover of "All Along The Watchtower." The tractor suddenly roared to life, and he turned to his child with a split-face smile. "But I've been reborn, and so will you."

Arlene took this notion lightly, still holding onto hope that she'd return to Detroit within the year. Abel hadn't seen her since she was seven, a number that felt further than a decade away but was, in fact, a little less than that. At sixteen, she had carved out a life for herself in the city with Aunt Dorothea. At nine, she marched in the Walk to Freedom on Dorothea's shoulders. She walked all along Woodward selling her Girl Scout cookies with her cousins, Jerrod and Jenny, to men just getting off work from the plants. She stood with the writers when they striked from the newspaper. Her and Jenny grew old enough to want to ride in cars with boys (or girls, for Arlene), though Arlene understood very little of what that meant, and after a long talk with Dorothea's husband, she realized this was perhaps not a goal she shared with Jenny, who died in the 12th Street Riots in '67.

After that, Arlene quietly rode the bus from M.M. Rose, her elementary school in Hamtramck, to the DIA and the Detroit Library. They sat for an hour in one, then they'd carefully cross the street over to the other. Arlene picked up brainteasers from one of the librarians, and she continued with these sorts of puzzles under the Rivera mural, where men were ever-working. She would look up from her yellow legalpad from time to time, imagining that the men turning the cogs and stoking the fires with fresh coal were moving. They were puzzle pieces in motion, despite their frigidity. If she looked too long, she would see Jen's hands in a white, satin-lined coffin that was too tiny, so she was quick to bend her head back low. If she looked up too long, she'd see the faces of the men she was supposed to embody, so she stuck to Sudoku and ciphers she could figure out.

When their dad announced on the telephone triumphantly that Arlene'd be coming back with him, a peach pit settled on the nether-most part of her stomach lining. Dorothea thought it was a good idea, as much as she distrusted the man her sister married. "It'll do you some good to be a country mouse for awhile."

Truth be told, Arlene had done more than just her daily sessions at the library and art museum. The older she grew, the more the night called out to her, and she started dressing in Dorothea's trim-cut slacks that she wore to her job at the Public Works office and a babydoll top and heading out to the Palladium or the Grande Ballroom. Motown had her heart, but Dorothea had grown weary of her work pants coming home smelling of cigarettes and cheap beer.

"What do you even do when you're out all night?" she asked Arlene one time. Arlene had expected her to say something else, but when she looked up to Dorothea's gaze, all the judgement that went unsaid filled Arlene up and made her sick.

More than seeing Aretha or the Ronettes, Arlene was oft in corners of the city where few gandered a look at, but Arlene was desperate. She dressed in her aunt's smart slacks because she wanted to seem intelligent — more mature. She was looking for an explanation, and she spent enough nights at Gigi's, where grown men looked at her in confusion, even those dressed in drag, but she found that small sect who were more concerned why she was out so late at night. I'm one of you, she wanted to hear the gazelle-like girl with nails impossibly long, the brutish boy with a scowl, and their myriad of friends who hung along the back wall of the gay bars say. More than wanting to seem adult, Arlene wanted to be believed.

Finally, she told Dorothea, "Oh nothing special. Just listening to music."

Dorothea shook her head. "Just stop wearing my pants, okay?"

Arlene shipped out for Ward County, and they arrived to find their father remarried to a born-again Evangelical. He told her later, in the privacy of the barn, that he didn't put much creedance into the whole business, but Arlene should watch her mouth all the same.

So she did. But that didn't stop her from rooting into trouble.

"Your auntie warned me that you'd been a bit wild," he told Arlene when he found her in the barn. It smelled of weed, which wasn't terribly hard to come by when you knew the right old fella with a large plot of land and a deal with the sheriff. Irony had it that Arlene didn't smoke until she came to Ward. She didn't have nightmares until she came to Ward. She also hadn't kissed a boy, either.

"I wasn't expecting this, though." Arlene put out the joint. Abel was still out of their line of sight. She pushed Sam onto his feet and whispered, "Go."

Before Sam could run, Abel rounded the corner of the dead pickup truck and found the two together in the cab.

The next day, June 21st, 1971, Arlene would join Adam's Branch's Reformation Camp for Troubled Teens.

She would not leave until September 14th, 1974.

 

[Archie.]

/*top banner*/

A teenager with a secret harrased by the cult.

/*left middle*/

heather white

/*left bottom*/

pray for me

/*right bottom -- picture with grayscale filter*/

/*DO NOT REMOVE CREDIT*/

© weldherwings.

FULL NAME: Heather Bethany White.
AGE: 17 years old.
SEXUALITY: Heterosexual. It is after all the only thing she has ever known. Still, doubts about her identity creep up on her sometimes.
ETHNICITY: White.
OCCUPATION: High school student, junior year. She works as a house cleaner after school and a babysitter on the weekends.
SACRIFICE: Her father's job. She knows they did it, the termination letter was unexpected and uncalled-for and only added to Heather's ruination.

Heather White is an unassuming presence, just one more teenager among the flock. Passersby look at her pretty face with those particular green eyes flickering sparks of gold against the sunlight, soft hair that you can easily card your fingers through as a clear indication of the close care she takes of it and the modest, pastel-colored dresses she wraps around herself and think, "what a nice girl!", and go on with their days. You know this because your kids grew up playing in the same playground where she would spend her time, seated at the edge of the slide with a piece of charcoal in hand and a sketchbook placed in her lap, seemingly at peace in such an ordinary setting. Not once was she accompanied by anyone. You would approach, concerned by the lack of adult supervision.

"My mommy is busy and I'm a burden. I came here so I'm not a burden anymore. It's a nice place." She candidly explained that first time, wiping her smeared fingers against a raggedy handkerchief, and left it at that. Heather was four years old when this happened and you watch her, to this day, perform the same routine. There is contentment found in monotony, she swears. You begin to suspect she's afraid of change, or her mother. Or both.

Every afternoon you see her come out of a different house with a glimmering sheet of sweat covering her skin, telling of the hard work she has performed in exchange for a, no doubt, small payment, and the girl sends a pleasant smile your way while swiftly undoing her messy ponytail to reveal an even messier hair. Heather appears tired but satisfied. There is an air of composure that surrounds her every action, decorating her guarded words and kind gestures, like wishing you a happy day as she avoids talking about her own and gifting your six year old a bit of a chocolate bar she carries everywhere, "to satisfy my sweet tooth!" she justifies with a laugh when you look at her, puzzled. The girl is great with kids, if only because she treats them like such.

Heather proceeds to carefully store the money in her purse and you become aware that she might be saving up. For what? She didn't use to do that until very recently, what changed? You're not exactly sure and you won't pry, but it must be a valuable cause if she's not wasting it in pretentious clothing, magazines and lip smackers like her fellow teenagers. She's not flashy or superfluous, you reflect, surely she will use the money on something that she truly cares about. Heather is full of mysteries and this is simply one more to add to the list, along with why she flees as soon as people start smoking around her.

But because your oldest daughter goes to the same class as her, you understand Heather's not well liked by her peers. Unaware of the latest trends, out of the social loop and labeled a prude, it is no surprise she doesn't have any friends, your daughter expresses. Whether it be her humble background, her infamously vile mother with whom you have fought before —everyone and their mothers have argued with Prudence White at least once, that woman is mad— or Heather's content nature that thrives in the countryside scenario in a place filled with youngsters thirsty for liberation, well, no one wishes to associate themselves with the girl. Heather insists she's fine with this isolation, you pretend to believe her.

Yet perhaps the biggest reason people steer clear of her, is the shadow looming over her life. You've witnessed it, the members of that ever-growing congregation following her around, visiting her house at least once a day, ringing her doorbell like one plays the drums. The girl says it's nothing, usual calm demeanor faltering and her grin becoming strained at the corners of her mouth. With each passing day, the bags under Heather's eyes darken and her beloved routine is further perturbed. She is breaking.

This is not something you would know, but all Heather wants is for everything to go back to the way it used to be. To before she met him.

The secret she hides is something she can't run from.

 

[erzulie]

As if anger could be a kind of vocation for some women. It is a chilly thought.

FULL NAME: Idumea Lynette Noirwood
AGE: Thirty-one
SEXUALITY: Demisexual
ETHNICITY: African-American
OCCUPATION: Business Owner | Handpicked is a market that has been in the town since forever. Fresh, homegrown produce is its main form of goods, but it also plants, seeds, and things for all gardening and crop growing needs.
SACRIFICE: She knows that they killed Bastion. His growls were a good deterrent against them. How else would they have gotten close enough to snatch her farmland right from under her?

WORDBANK: sunlight peeking through linen curtains, rising with the sun, picking out individual calls in the birdsong that starts in the forest every morning, river water flowing gently around ankles, soft grass beneath bare feet, the smell of fresh bread, spread with butter and drizzled with honey, hand sewn clothes and blankets, chopping wood for the fireplace, the bittersweet taste of blackberries sprinkled with sugar, falling asleep amongst rows of apple trees, hunting trips, traps not made for animals, calloused hands and delicate dresses, sun dried clothing, arms strong enough to wield an ax, the smell of vanilla perfume, ugly emotions hidden behind soft smiles, the feminine urge to scream into the open air

The Deep Sea Anglerfish uses its light to trap their prey. That light draws them close, leaving the victim unaware of the gaping maw that looms just out of the light’s reach. “Idumea Noirwood, you’re such a doll! You’re such a light in these dark times!” Her smile of all pearly white teeth and deep dimples. Her light shines over the community, drawing them further into her grasp. Gentlemen tip their hats and women offer kind smiles to her. It’s almost sad how her light blinds them.

It wasn’t so long ago that she was introduced to the town. It was a spectacle in every sense of the word. No one had known that Mary Noirwood had been pregnant. As far as anyone knew, there had been no change. She was still seen carrying firewood under each arm and on her back, hauling fresh game to her truck, and performing feats that were surely too straining for a pregnant woman. Imagine the shock when she suddenly came through town with a toddler on her hip.

Idumea grew into a model young woman. Her curiosity drew her to life beyond the woods and her mother did not stop her. Instead she was quite blunt with the ways of the world and society as a whole. A woman who has been shaped by her environment and careful teachings. A sense of hesitancy surrounds her. It seems as if she’s always holding…something back. Make no mistake, she is sincere in the way that she sends warm meals to the poor and helps her elders across the street. Idumea is a kind woman indeed, but there lay some else behind that pretty smile of hers.

“You remind me of myself…had I not been raised like I was.” Her mother had told her more than once, in one way or another. Her words are met with a loving smile, a flash of teeth. Mary speaks of freedom not gained until later in life, strength and ferocity that had been smothered for the longest of times. Her words are met with a smile, as bright and sharp as the blade of a knife. Idumea knows the truth in those words. She is everything that her mother could have been and far worse at the very same time. Some gaze into her eyes and are able to catch a glimpse of the being just out of the reach of her light. But most brush it off, thinking themselves foolish for being unnerved by such sweet eyes and fluttering lashes.

The light shines brighter and they pull forth warm memories. They remember the nurturing way that she ruffles the hair of the kids that flock around her, the care in which she looks after her customers, and the carefree way that she carries herself while donning such feminine clothing and perfume. Idumea merely smiles when they note how different she is from her mother. And unfortunately for them, they’re right.

IDUMEA

code by birth of venus.

 

[ravensunset]

Lucy Hannah Martin

semi-newcomer, hospital intern

♡coded by uxie♡

Age: Twenty-seven.
Sexuality: Sapphic.
Ethnicity: Jewish.
Sacrifice: Her job, safety & security, her favorite after-work bar

Lucy grew up in a small family, in a small town. She was barely old enough to remember the war, but old enough to always remember understanding it. As is the case is with many first-borns, her parents had tried a policy of speaking to her like a grown adult.

Lucy believed in God, maybe. Her family did, in any case, and she wasn't sure there was much difference. That was where He'd be, she figured, in-between their lit candles.

She lived just outside of Ward County, in the next county over, like they were neighbors. Still, she was familiar with it. Her family would drive there on certain farmer's market days, and she grew to recognize farmer's faces, joke with the children and then the teens. Lucy wasn't quite the same as the others, something she knew, something ingrained in her too deeply to rip out, and also she loved being a part of them. She was friendly, and bright, and sometimes too forward, and absorbed wherever she was right into herself, or perhaps herself into it.

When Lucy left for the city, her parents encouraged it. The tiny schoolroom she and all the other kids attended was too small to be of use, always supplemented by readings and explanations at home, but even that had its limits. The years seemed to blur together; she missed home, and she loved the lights. It wasn't easy, and Lucy quickly realized she had a much weaker foundation than many others there, but she found her footing. She tried to, anyways.

She got used to living with people she didn't know, and to buildings so tall they were impossible to see all-at-once, and to all sorts of things being missing. She wasn't the most studious, or the smartest, but she scraped by. She filled journals with sketches of hearts and lungs, and she loved at least the idea of doing good. There were certain things she was quite good at, like sleeping too little, or looking like she was paying attention, or being friendly but not too close.

A girl who was either Lucy's close friend or academic rival, like many of the medical student were, told her she no longer sounded all country.

Lucy did alright in her exams. Sort of, anyways, looking at it optimistically. She was far from perfect, far from the top group. There wasn't a chance of an internship somewhere fancy and renowned, but she didn't quite want that, anyways. Lucy might not have been a country girl anymore, really, but she wasn't a city one either.

The hospital she matched with wasn't quite home, but it was a town over, a county line over. It was a name she was familiar with, with half-promises of faces she was familiar with. It was something she thought of as the start of things, forgetting already that medical school had been the start, or that moving away the first time had been the start, or any of the countless other ones.

She hadn't remembered the Adam's Branch being there. The word cult didn't come to her, even though she'd hear of the concept. Only the word Christian, which, if not fully safe, was at least familiar. She hadn't thought much of it, though she'd refused to join their sermons. Politely, she'd thought. She didn't tell them why.

It wasn't too long after that point anonymous complaints about her started filing in.

 

[sox]

nikhil "nik" moss​

38​

bisexual​

half-indian half-irish​

father of one​

sacrifice​

1972.
"sir, i need you to speak slowly, alright? deep breaths— now tell me what happened from the beginning." ​

"o-okay, um, my wife, lissa— she, she's been missing work. just kind of... disappearing for a few days on end, and then she comes home like it's, like it's fine. like nothing even happened. and she won't tell me anything at all about where she's been, or what she's been doing. i tried to ignore it at first, give her some space, y'know, or get her to at least talk to me, but she wouldn't. she just wouldn't say a goddamn word other than some nonsense about the end of days—"

"so what's the emergency, sir?"​

"um, this morning, i— i woke up and she was on top of me with the... the emptiest smile i've ever seen. she's never smiled like that before. and she, um, she pulled a knife on me—" a pained, shuddering breath, "and when i managed to get her off, she tried to— she pointed the knife at our baby girl, maari. she's just a few years old, just barely starting elementary. i— i didn't know what to do, so i, i—" another pause, disturbingly silent, "i just tackled her, straight to the bed to try and restrain her, and she took the knife and—"

"deep breaths, sir. take your time. is your wife okay? what did she do with the knife?"​

"... she— she took the knife and— and she slit her own throat." nothing more than a strained whisper, barely audible over the line. "she's dead. i— i couldn't save her, i—"

"okay, alright. you said your name was nik? i'll send someone over to collect the body."​

"wha— that... that's it?! you're gonna bury her and... and then what? no investigation?! no... nothing?!"

"if she took her own life, there's not much to investigate—"​

"are you fucking serious? my wife is dead—"

"was she prone to hallucinations, or have any sort of drug related ailments?"​

"what? no! she was perfectly fine! it's that— that fucking cult! adam branch! she started acting like this after inviting one of those freaks over for dinner. i know it— i just know that they have something to do with this if you just investigate—"

"sorry for your loss, sir. someone will come by for your wife soon." ​

a single click. silence.

occupation​

while nik spent his youth training to compete in mma matches across the country, one irreversible spinal injury ended that career before it could even begin. heartbroken but not yet defeated, he then shifted to the culinary arts, providing for his new family while lissa finished her masters program.

when maari reached just about the age to enter kindergarten, the family migrated south from toronto to michigan to accomodate lissa's new role with the united states air force research team. tasked with fleshing out their new base half an hour south of ward county, she spent most of the daylight hours outside the house. the young father did not mind, however; he adapted to their new life rather quickly, finding work as a chef in one of the few restaurants in the area. with their savings and a newfound determination, he was able to build a new restaurant a bit farther from the central hub— 'maa's,' he named it. though they no longer got nearly as much foot traffic as they did in the main strip, fairly priced entrees and widespread acclaim of nikhil's skills as a chef brought plenty of patrons to his doorstep regardless.

© pasta

Spoiler: mobile friendly <3

NAME.
nikhil "nik" moss

AGE.
38

SEXUALITY.
bisexual

ETHNICITY.
half-indian half-irish

OCCUPATION.
while nik spent his youth training to compete in mma matches across the country, one irreversible spinal injury ended that career before it could even begin. heartbroken but not yet defeated, he then shifted to the culinary arts, providing for his new family while lissa finished her masters program.

when maari reached just about the age to enter kindergarten, the family migrated south from toronto to michigan to accomodate lissa's new role with the united states air force research team. tasked with fleshing out their new base half an hour south of ward county, she spent most of the daylight hours outside the house. the young father did not mind, however; he adapted to their new life rather quickly, finding work as a chef in one of the few restaurants in the area. with their savings and a newfound determination, he was able to build a new restaurant a bit farther from the central hub— 'maari's,' he named it. though they no longer got nearly as much foot traffic as they did in the main strip, fairly priced entrees and widespread acclaim of nikhil's skills as a chef brought plenty of patrons to his doorstep regardless.

SACRIFICE.

1972.
"sir, i need you to speak slowly, alright? deep breaths— now tell me what happened from the beginning." ​

"o-okay, um, my wife, lissa— she, she's been missing work. just kind of... disappearing for a few days on end, and then she comes home like it's, like it's fine. like nothing even happened. and she won't tell me anything at all about where she's been, or what she's been doing. i tried to ignore it at first, give her some space, y'know, or get her to at least talk to me, but she wouldn't. she just wouldn't say a goddamn word other than some nonsense about the end of days—"
]

"so what's the emergency, sir?"​

"um, this morning, i— i woke up and she was on top of me with the... the emptiest smile i've ever seen. she's never smiled like that before. and she, um, she pulled a knife on me—" a pained, shuddering breath, "and when i managed to get her off, she tried to— she pointed the knife at our baby girl, maari. she's just a few years old, just barely starting elementary. i— i didn't know what to do, so i, i—" another pause, disturbingly silent, "i just tackled her, straight to the bed to try and restrain her, and she took the knife and—"

"deep breaths, sir. take your time. is your wife okay? what did she do with the knife?"​

"... she— she took the knife and— and she slit her own throat." nothing more than a strained whisper, barely audible over the line. "she's dead. i— i couldn't save her, i—"

"okay, alright. you said your name was nik? i'll send someone over to collect the body."​

"wha— that... that's it?! you're gonna bury her and... and then what? no investigation?! no... nothing?!"

"if she took her own life, there's not much to investigate—"​

"are you fucking serious? my wife is dead—"

"was she prone to hallucinations, or have any sort of drug related ailments?"​

"what? no! she was perfectly fine! it's that— that fucking cult! adam branch! she started acting like this after inviting one of those freaks over for dinner. i know it— i just know that they have something to do with this if you just investigate—"

"sorry for your loss, sir. someone will come by for your wife soon." ​

a single click. silence.

 

[PinkChiffon]

Maura June Reed

A woman trying to put her family back together

♡coded by uxie♡

╰┈➤ What cannot be said will be wept.


AGE: 35
SEXUALITY: Lesbian
ETHNICITY: Caucasian
OCCUPATION: Surgeon
SACRIFICE: Her wife.

There's a deep sadness lurking in every room in their home, but none more than the bright yellow room once destined to be a nursery.

Dozens of unorthodox methods, ending in three "almost"s. Three rose bushes in their backyard. Julie was so strong, so much stronger than Maura, but each "almost" nearly cost her everything. Maura wanted to give up, watching her love sink deeper and deeper into darkness after an almost was too much to bare. She wanted to grow their family, but not at the expense of what they already had.

She was so happy, they both were. Life is hard, and at least half terrible, but it looked like things were finally working. It was finally their turn to have what everyone around them seemed to take for granted. "The fourth time's the charm." Maura would remind her, with a comforting hand placed on her belly, a soft kiss placed on her forehead. She was so happy, they both were.

A fourth rose bush.

 

[miyabi]

DABI "CAP" HONG.

the detective who lost it all.

♡coded by uxie♡

╰┈➤ The world inside and outside a door are different.

FULL NAME: Dabi Hong
AGE: 28 years old
SEXUALITY: Pansexual
ETHNICITY: Korean-American
OCCUPATION: Former Police Detective, current Private Investigator
SACRIFICE: Her fucking sanity. Was her investigative partner not enough? Her job? No. They had to take what she had fucking left.

FEAR IS YOUR ONLY GOD.

"In September of this year, the patient has been admitted for reports of aggressive, almost primitive behavior..."

Her thumbs run over the dirty, coffee-stained page, corners crumpled and folded -- a cigarette between chapped lips, shaky fingers pluck them away with a puff of smoke.

"Emotionally, the patient seems to have guarded herself with various defense-mechanisms; bouts of obsessive-compulsion have been..."

She rips the page apart, concluding that they'd written the diagnosis in order to keep her there -- a tingle runs up the spine, bumps form on the skin with a burst of cold, Dabi scoffs. Paint her as crazy, as unstable as could be, but that will not stop her from the truth. Deep, muddy, brown eyes squint at the pieces -- a dot of red marker on the back of one of them, as if red ink had bled into it. Or was that blood? Investigative tendencies, maybe she'd read too deeply into it. Her head tilts, feeling the texture of the paper - how it had changed, it felt... wet.

Look up. Look up for a gift. Look up! Look up! Look up!

Blotches of crimson stained the ceiling, drip, drip, dripping -- onto the floor, the pages, her clothing. Her bottom lip quivers and eyes widen as what seems to be faces push up against the damp surface, as if it had turned to cloth; with weak legs, she crumbles to the ground, catching herself with the palms of her hands. A burning pain writhes beneath the skin. She shuts her eyes, lids turning the same shade of red, brows furrowed in despair. The sloshing, the light moans of anguish, vanished within a second. You're not fucking real.

You killed them! You killed them! You did it! You! You! You!

"Shut up! Shut the fuck up! I--" she hesitates to speak, bringing her hands to her ears. Did she? No. No, that isn't something she'd do, they're lying to her. Who is "They?" The questioning doesn't matter, nor does the screaming, the arguing, the attempts to shut whatever it is away. They speak to her, scream; they taunt her. "What more do you want from me?!" An outburst left unanswered, the voices come to an abrupt halt. Was she crying? The woman feels hot tears run down her cheek as her eyes open, vision returning in a haze -- the blood is gone.

ON MY HONOR.

Bright eyes and a fresh face never dwindled so quickly; how her despair had washed over in mere moments. How she'd realized that her partner had disappeared, how he'd been gone with the wind, perhaps perished into the heat of the sun. He was gone and with all of the will that she had, Dabi was determined to find an answer. Though, the precinct never believed her -- the puzzle pieces she'd put together thrown into the garbage, the beast's belly filled with the missing persons flyers and the morsel of hope she had left. The loss of a friend -- perceived family -- never leaves gracefully.

"Look, if there ain't a body, we can't investigate this case as a murder. He's a grown man, maybe this job was too much for him." Blatant disregard towards the concern boiling within each crevice. "He ain't never seemed the type to survive this-"

"Sir. If you could just listen to me. Once. Please. He wouldn't run off like that--" Her eyes fall to another missing person's flyer: it is riddled with filth, no care taken to it, as if they'd forgotten about it already. "Something's not right here--" Cut off by a yawn, she bites her tongue, a growing anger rumbling in her teeth.

"'Yer losin' it, Hong. You been at this for a while now."

"Why the fuck wouldn't I be? Someone is missing and we're not gonna do any fucking thing about it?"

"Watch 'yer language, kid. Go 'head and waste 'yer time on that investigation of yours and tell us what 'ya find. We already been pretty damn generous with you, even with them damn outbursts. You fuck this up, it's on you," the chief responds, a sharp tone she'd heard before -- one that'll last centuries. Her stomach drops, the knot in her throat overtaking -- she'd bitten her tongue for too long, let it all out in one go, and now her career could be gone in an instant. Just like her partner. "And last time I checked, you were investigated for his lil' "disappearance, were you not? You were the last person with him."

FEAR OF FAILURE, SCARED OF SUCCESS.

"Y'know, stake outs with me ain't so bad," a light chuckle fills the air, it is warm -- the type to bring life back into the mundane. It's paired with a friendly smile, one that Dabi turns away from. She slouches back in her seat, arms folded lazily with a stare down the alley before them. "C'mon. I even got'cha a sandwich. C'mon..." He nudges her, prompting a soft smile before it drops against her tired cheeks.

Francis sucks his teeth as he leans against the heavily worn leather seats, arms crossed much like her. Mimicry: in the most flattering of senses, something that she'd find more humorous than anything with the smallest inkling of offence without much affect.

"I don't look like that," she pauses. "Do I?"

"'Ya do, Cap," he leans over, cellophane-wrapped sandwiched coated in a thick layer of condensation. It's soggy, but enough to satiate her hunger. Matter of fact, it was more than enough -- a sleepless night filled with hastily torn-out newspaper clippings and red yarn will do that to you. Coffee wasn't enough; stale, bitter coffee from the lounge still lingered in the back of her throat. This offered sustenance.

She hesitantly takes it, eyes glossing over her partner as his eyes fill with a joy that she couldn't comprehend, "there 'ya go! I knew your hungry ass would give in at some point!"

wip

 

[idiot]

Sarthak "Art" Chahal.

the journalist on a mission to save himself...and his boyfriend.

♡coded by uxie♡

╰┈➤ Through pride the devil became the devil.

FULL NAME: Sarthak "Art" Chahal.
AGE: Thirty-three.
SEXUALITY: Bisexual — lean towards men.
ETHNICITY: Indian Hindu.
OCCUPATION: Writer and editor for The Washington Post, Art worked hard to get where he is today and damned if some hillbillies will take that away from him.
SACRIFICE: His credibility — oh, and his father and boyfriend but credibility above all else is what drove him back to Ward County.

“Just drop it, Art…a few stories—“

“Stories? Are you kidding me?” Art’s nostrils flared, anger seething to the surface, “I don’t write fucking storybooks for kids—I report the truth, Ian. The real truth—not that garbage you find in magazines.” The pacing started, an Art speciality, fingers smoothing his moustache in an attempt to self-soothe. It wasn’t the first time they had argued about the Adam Branch articles he had written and had published over the recent months.

“You know that’s not what I meant.” A defeatist tone laced Ian’s words, sinking further into the couch of Art’s apartment. “I just…I don’t know—I’m scared, okay? I don’t know how else to put it.”

“Oh please, because of a few hillbilly, bible-bashers following you around?” Art couldn’t help but laugh. He actually laughed. Looking back he felt like an asshole. Not that it wasn’t far from the truth, Art could be dismissive and blunt to say the least. Pragmatic and factual above all, he wasn’t exactly the best to turn to for comfort.

“They follow me to work, Art…” Ian’s muscular arms folded over his bare chest—still dressed in those little, red shorts of his. The whistle and sunglasses were discarded by his side. For a brief second he was taken back to the embarrassing moment they met:

He never liked the water—in fact he hated it. A deep-seated phobia of the watery abyss. It was the unknown that truly frightened him, with it’s secrets even hidden by the experts. Art liked to pull something apart and see how its innards clicked and whirred but that wasn’t possible with the ocean. However, Art decided on a sunny day in D.C. to drive over to Sandy Point State Park and face this stupid fear once and for all. Cue Art flaying in the salty water, gulping it by the mouthful. Thankfully, his hero came in the form of some stereotypical Californian mirage; blonde, sweeping bangs, tan and those goddamn soft, blue eyes that Art loved so much. Art was just grateful their first kiss wasn’t mouth-to-mouth on the beach.

“It’s a common scare tactic—trust me, I’ve dealt with my fair share of disgruntled people who were pissed about what I wrote.” Art attempted to quell Ian’s concerns as best as he knew how. He wouldn’t admit it but he was alike his father in that regard, maybe that was why they didn’t get along? No, you know why—the same reason he joined the Adam’s Branch, thinking he could pray away the guilt he felt for what he subjected Art to growing up.

“Art, you aren’t listening to me!” Ian pleaded.

“I am, I get it. I am just trying to tell you to think rationally here, Ian. You are in a public place at work with people all around you—they’re not going to try anything.” Art’s voice lowered, yet it was lost on him how inconsiderate he was being; a true marvel that his relationship with Ian had lasted as long as it has was a mystery to him. Sure, it had only been eight months but that was the longest someone had put up with him. Art was not good with relationships—namely from his commitment issues but also with the fact he struggled to be vulnerable which led to him being “realistic” instead. Major daddy issues, Ian would tell him.

“They fucking stare at me, Art, like I wronged them or some shit. They just sit there…mocking me. Those articles you wrote…” Ian lowered his head, fingers carding through his sandy, blonde hair. Art didn’t realise how much they had got under his skin, planting seeds of paranoia and letting himself come undone. Well, not until after what happened.

“We’ve talked about this. I’m not withdrawing or apologising to them. Those articles are the truest form of journalism. If anything, we should be talking about how they got to the chief. He believes they are telling the truth—that I made all of that evidence up. I called victims—people from town, I did so much groundwork for it to be thrown back in my face.” Art didn’t stop there, as he spun around on his heels in Ian’s direction and put the final nail in the coffin. His father would be proud.

“My credibility is on the line. People think I made it all up—me! That is what we should be talking about—not some mild stalking that has made you paranoid.”

Art had enough awareness to know he had gone too far as the the silence hung awkwardly in the air. You fucked it up again, Art thought as Ian’s eyes were wet with tears. Art wanted to wrap his arms around him and apologise but…he didn’t. Instead he just stood there like an idiot, as he had so many times when his father yelled at him. He froze…

Eventually Ian spoke.

“You know, Art…you can be such a dick. You only care about yourself, you and your pride…it’ll be the death of you.”

“Ian…I didn’t mean—“ It was too late, Ian was up from the couch, shuffling into his flip-flops and grabbing his belongings.

“Bye, Art…” Ian shut the door behind him.

All that was left was Ian’s whistle—still waiting for his return on the couch. Yet, Ian never came back.

He was reported missing a week later.

 

[aeneas.]

bowen graham.

golden boy has-been turned motel front desk clerk.

♡coded by uxie♡

╰┈➤ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐊𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊 𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄.

FULL NAME: Bowen Chesney Graham.
AGE: Twenty.
SEXUALITY: Pansexual.
ETHNICITY: White.
OCCUPATION: Front desk at the Lone Ranger Motor Inn.
SACRIFICE: His reputation, his scholarship, his life. Also—has anyone seen his mom?
MISCELLANEOUS: Aesthetics.

—

[ TW ; mentions of alcohol and drug addiction ]​

"I know you."

The stain of the man's teeth matched the jaundice in his eyes, pit stains bled through the palm leaves and sailboats on his musky Hawaiin print shirt, and his hairline receded all the way back to Timbuktu. Rancid. Since he landed the job, he learned of the tradition among motel staff to put a name to their clientele. Most of the vagabonds who came through the Lone Ranger's doors were the same; carnal men desperate for a night's worth of satiation—the familiar rogue smile of the lovely Daisy around the man's hairy arm proved him to be just like the rest. He's heard the housekeeping name the clients all sorts of things, Bowen settled on McSweaty.

Fingers idly flicked between the pages of the dated magazine before he offered a noncommittal shrug. "You gotta be more specific, sir. As pretty as I am, I'm afraid I just have one of those familiar faces." Looking up, his nose threatened to twitch at the nubby finger in his face.

"You're that all-star quarterback from the trophy cabinet—Rowen Grayskull. They've got your framed headline collecting dust." Probably a new janitor or a weird substitute teacher. It would be just his luck that McSweaty across the desk was a new deadbeat staff at his old deadbeat high school and stumbled upon the burial site of Bowen's remains right before a quickie at the Lone Ranger.

All-star Quarterback Bowen Graham Wins It All. An old girlfriend wrote the headline and it spread like a forest fire till the whole town knew his name. The content was mush in his recollection, but the gist was the same as any other rags-to-riches tale: A little hometown hero putting his name on the map, destined to go on a path to greatness that goes nowhere else but up. Much like Bowen, the storyline was long after its expiration date—past its prime and tacky.

"You got me.” He rose his hands up like a crook caught red-handed by cops. The gesture only made McSweaty's crooked smile double in size. "No shit." If Bowen didn't know any better, he'd think he gave the man the winning numbers to the lottery or at least gave him a Big Mac to gnaw his mishappen teeth into. As it turned out, failure and humiliation were just as good of a treat. "Even the young bigshots tank it, huh? How the mighty fall."

A fall would be an understatement. Bowen Chesney Graham's life plummeted. Nosedived into territories no explorer has charted, sunk into an abyss the sun couldn't touch. In one fell swoop, everything he had worked for was gone and he was left nothing but the shell of the champion he once was.

It was partially his fault as much as he hated to admit it. One second he was Golden Boy Graham, Patron Saint of sobriety and designated drivers, the next he was the hot mess plastered on a no-name's bathroom floor. And if he wasn't shitfaced, he was pocketing pain meds from the pill cabinets of unsuspecting house party hosts. He kept up the class acts and continued to parade himself around Ward County as the award-winning show cow. And for the most part, he kept his vices well hidden beneath layers of performance.

Until the day he got sloppy and got sent away for it.

His coach and parents called it a sports clinic to those who asked. "Extra training for the kid before college." He fled by his fifth month. It was only when he was back home did he realize the worst was yet to come.

Piles of fees, demands, and threats, all wrapped beautifully under the guise of God. Hell followed him far outside the program and ate him from the inside till he had nothing left to give. And when he had nothing, they shared everything. His scholarship had been revoked the same day his name became the center of scandal. Missing posters of his mom's face had been stapled into every electric post in town. Bowen Graham was as good as dead.

How the mighty fall.

He ignored the sympathetic gaze of Daisy and the smug one of McSweaty. He had already gotten his final warning after punching the last guy and McSweaty wasn’t worth his job as awful as it was. Instead he picked off a key from the hook rack and slamming it onto the front desk. He smiled pretty at the other man’s flinch. "Enjoy your stay sir."

 

[miyabi]

CHARLIE LAM.

my god, i’m so lonely.

♡coded by uxie♡

╰┈➤ the child of oath.

FULL NAME: Charlie Lam
AGE: 22 years old
SEXUALITY: Questioning
ETHNICITY: Chinese-American
OCCUPATION: Unemployed, Adam Branch recent Runaway
SACRIFICE: Living a normal life, following hopes and dreams.

"Dear Lord Jesus, I know that I am a sinner, and I ask for Your forgiveness. I believe You died for my sins and rose from the dead. I turn from my sins and invite You to come into my heart and life. I want to trust and follow You as my Lord and Savior." A snow-white veil cascades past the shoulders of a woman crouched; hands clasped around a worn rosary; eyes shut, brows furrowed. She feels the sensation of the air around her, breathlessly, she continues: "Our father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven."

There is no response, no follow-up; neither a creak in the floorboards, nor an echo of the prayer. And even in prayer, she feels vexation: an uncontrollable rage unrivalled. Her eyes open, widened, a mixture of disappointment and anger as her daughter is kneeled behind her. She is in the same position, though her veil has been removed, her clothing is impure -- pigmented; fingers ornate with rings, a singular earring left behind as she'd shoddily taken off a few strokes of jewelry before entering. "I don't ask much of you, Charlie."

"I know, mama. I'm sorry I'm late. I was--" Swiftly cut off, Charlie purses her lips, a stirring of belittlement inching into her chest cavity.

"Sorry?" The woman turns her head, neck craned -- twisted; her jaw tight. "You're filthy." Charlie feels her gaze cascade, a quip of judgment met with a sensation of eyes burning into her clothing. She knew what she meant, how the garments she'd donned were 'unholy' and 'impure'; it was neither crisp nor modest, at least, not to the degree of her mother. There was neither a stain, mark, nor mass amount of wrinkles. It was just that: clothing she'd envisioned a 'harlot' would wear. Despite her awareness, Charlie's eyes fall to her clothing, a hand anxiously playing with the charm around her neck. "Where did you get that? Any of that?"

"I saved up."

"I didn't ask how. I asked where." Her mother's words were sharp, much like the gaze bestowed upon her. It seethes.

"It doesn't matter." Of course, it did -- to her mother, that was. Whatever she was thinking, Charlie could feel it. The rage, the vexation; she could feel every inkling of it trickle further into the room, her mother would've ran down to wherever she'd gotten her clothing from and torn the place apart. "有用知道吗? [Does knowing do you any good?]," the young woman responds nevertheless, a small act of defiance against strong house rules.

Stinging eyes narrow, a look of annoyance now painted upon full red cheeks -- her mother's hint of rosacea mixed with sheer inner panic. "We don't speak that anymore. It's not our language," the bible thumps to a close, an aroma of old papers wafting in her general direction, loose strands of hair pushed back by the force. "In English."

"But that's where we came from; mama, you raised me in it until I was seven. What makes this any different?"

"In. English." She speaks with a stern tone, one that Charlie found unfavorable.

Charlie pauses for a moment, racking her brain, thinking of a way to save herself; though her mother knows Mandarin, translated it in her head before continuing on about how they spoke English now. Their language, forgotten -- forcefully. Shunned. "Does knowing do you any good? I've already worn them. I can't return them," her lip is bitten, the slight taste of iron tinging her tongue -- a nervous reaction that she cannot help, "Jesus, Mama. I'm old enough to--" Cut off again, Charlie holds her breath.

"Do not use the Lord's name in vain!" Her mother crawls to her, never minding the dirty floor as she inches closer with the rosary tucked between her fingers; there is the look of desperation, fear that perhaps her child will go to Hell like everyone else. She needs saving or her soul will never be guided to the beyond. "Pray with me. That will fix this, your sins can be cleansed. It's not too late, Charlie. Pray with me. Our father who art in heaven..." Words flood from her mouth, manic and intertwining with one another. She reaches for Charlie's arm, shakes her head as she repeats the prayer under her breath, a slow rock back and forth while Charlie sits in silence -- bewildered by her mother's actions.

This is Charlie's way to salvation.

"You cannot be like your father -- he is unholy. Pray with me, child. Your ailment will be washed away, this clothing -- this isn't you, this is the Devil," the words uttered sting more than her mother's gaze; how dare she bring him up? As if he wasn't a good man?

"Like Baba? He didn't do anything wrong--"

"He is a sinner! He left us, Charlie. You know this, he is not a good man! He is insolent, a thief, a sinner! He lies! He lies!" She is frantic again, rubbing her hands together as the prayer lifts from her tongue, thickening the air.

"He left because of you!" The heat of tears and anguish invade her eyes, vision blurred by the bundle of emotion boiling within.

"Father God of compassion and mercy, I come to You, broken by sin and strangled by my guilt..."

Charlie brings her hands to her ears, kicking herself away as she makes an attempt to block her mother out; her heart may leap out of her chest, a pain like no other as it pounds against flesh. She can't take this anymore, can't take seeing her mother this way. "Stop it! Stop!" Her voice echoes within the near-empty room only filled by candlelight and crosses, but her mother doesn't stop the prayer -- with each passing moment she is louder, crawls closer to Charlie as the young woman inches towards the door as a means of escape. Anything to get away from her. Anything to get away from this Hell.

 

[riddle .]

Vann Bracken.

local stray and self-proclaimed outlaw

♡coded by uxie♡

╰┈➤ more passionate than hope, much deeper than despair...love.

FULL NAME: Vann Lewis Bracken
AGE: Twenty-two.
SEXUALITY: Homosexual.
ETHNICITY: White.
OCCUPATION: "Accountant".
SACRIFICE: Choice, self, freedom. To be kept can be a warm and dreamy thing - but a cage is still a cage once you care to look beyond the comfort.

◺ TW: implied drug use and prostitution ◿​

"On the prowl again?"

Vann rolls his head to the side to see Marge's trademark lifted brow and smirk giving him the once over. He rolls to the other side in a languid motion, a grin overtaking him. "It's prime pickin' hour."

Marge merely rolls her eyes, but she's still wearing that knowing smirk as she returns to service an elderly woman who just came into the diner, leaving him to his hunting. It's Thursday evening, and he's been swiveling on the same stool for half an hour, looking much the part of a loiterer if not for the coffee cup behind his back as he leans against the counter, surveying the space. It's not his usual spot, but bars can get cramped and draw the wrong attention, plus he hates to entertain the same crowd constantly. He likes the types that are drawn to the dreariness only a place like this can offer on a weekday at an hour when most are at home with families.

He's edged up still from the previous night, not quite at the split to completely lucid from the muddy haze he finds himself in most days. The morning started rotten with his newest friend not appreciating him pocketing a few extra twenties for cigarettes and Schiltz, prompting Vann to pull an infamous Bracken escape from the awful accusatory looks and words he'd been given, especially after they'd 'had such a good night together'. Gag. He had the cigarettes and beer in his car, so not all was lost, but he disliked the idea of spending a night in his car when it was already so hot out.

If he has no luck here, he figured he could try Tina's and see if she's gotten over the John (or was it Jack?) thing yet. Thankfully, there is a God when a tall, lean, and studious man walks in. He carries a stack of folders and a few books to the far end of the counter but lacks the pallor of someone who spends time indoors often. He looks well-read, sporting the typical tell-tale glasses without the awkwardness of one who gets self-conscious about it. He smiles widely, very politely at Marge when she greets him, already pouring a cup for him, but his eyes remain steady on her face even as she leans over, returning to his papers when she turns away. Vann's eyes crinkle upward, pleased.

Not his usual mix of brash, messy, and married, but Vann is nothing if not curious. He slides off his seat as smoothly as he walks to him to take up the seat right next to him, giving the man a startle when he leans in, a palm holding up his chin wearing a curved smile. "Quite a pile you got there."

Glasses blinks rapidly before an equally saccharine expression replaces his surprise, which is most definitely something Vann doesn't expect. The man looks to counter, grimacing then.

"I've been putting off, had to get out of the house or else it'd just get bigger."

Vann cranes his head over, acting interested even as he unfocuses his eyes to avoid any actual words. "You a teacher or something?"

The man puffs out a laugh. "No, nothing so honorable. I'm a writer - trying to be, but it's not been going great."

Vann finally notices the books that had been placed to the side of Glasses. He reaches for Jane Eyre atop Pride and Prejudice and flippantly moves it back and forth in front of them, tilting his head up at Glasses. "Writing a love story?"

The other ducks his head, a nice tinge of red overcoming him, but he doesn't appear caught or embarrassed. "More like a tragedy at this point," But that oddly endearing smile returns, and any further teasing Vann has planned empties from his throat. Very honest. His mouth dries up more when the man meets his eyes. "You're a fan of the classics? The romance ones, anyway?"

No, not anymore. "Most ardently," Vann croons, liking the way the man lights up and edges closer, the excitement palpable that even Vann gets a surge without any extra assistance that's all but gone from his body at that point.

Before Vann realizes it, nearly two hours have passed since he and Glasses - Andy, he learned - started talking. The sun has long gone down, and Marge keeps refilling their coffees (when did his cup move down?) with the most thrilled smile he's ever seen on her. There's barely any discomfort in him like normal at her when she starts to get her hopes up for him this time, too wrapped up in the conversation that has somehow moved onto a critical examination of Fyodor Dostoevsky's genius syntax. Andy talks with his hands Vann notices, like he can't contain himself. He puts his hand on Vann's thigh when Vann thinks he says something particularly witty, to steady his balance as he laughs and laughs until Vann's face feels like it's burning.

It's nice. It's so nice to speak freely as he is now. There's no worry over how he comes across like he's playing a game. He's even forgotten the main reason he took a seat next to Andy, and it's a blissful sort of detachment he hasn't ever experienced outside of his head. Then there's talk about a cafe Andy knows, how their donuts are to die for, and Vann's mood plummets like the short-lived daydream he envisioned of meeting Andy there on Saturday during the early morning to talk about books and the weather. Instead, Vann sees his barely functioning Ford with everything he owns and the things he doesn't. Andy is looking at him expectantly, and it's not in wait for Vann to give him something. It's something new but also known, and it has Vann standing, making the excuse of needing a smoke break which Andy believes with a cherry 'I'll be right here' before Vann books it.

He'll feel guilty for not paying Marge for the coffee once he's gotten far enough away to think about it. He'll feel guilty for running away from Andy. He'll feel guilty for taking that guy's money that morning. He'll feel guilty for going to his regular place to wait for a hand that's held him before guiding him to the nearest motel to bury their woes in together. He'll feel guilty when he sneaks out with more borrowed things to travel back to his car, stopping to look down at an innocent piece of paper on the ground that's been placed by his driver's side door that he recognizes belonging to some church group. He'll start to feel something other than guilt as they keep popping up until they cover the entire frame, and his skin chills at the presence of invisible eyes watching him as he moves through the night, and he swears he hears someone whispering behind him.

For now, he keeps moving forward.

 

[demonology]

Hero "Samael" Tuccillo

WCA attendee .

♡coded by uxie♡

╰┈➤ you could have cracked open his chest and read gospels in his entrails.

FULL NAME: Hero "Samael" Tuccillo
AGE: Twenty-two
GENDER: trans man
SEXUALITY: Queer; will identify as lesbian if asked
ETHNICITY: Italian
OCCUPATION: N/A
SACRIFICE: Ara — the tear that hangs inside his soul.

APPEARANCE: Approximately 5'6''. Built a bit too much like a ragdoll puppet, Sam's brown hair flops in his face like yarn. His arms are built too thin, despite the time spent in the weight room at WCA — Ward County Asylum, the more legitimate-seeming of Adam's enterprises in the mental health world. Dark, coffee-ring-stain eyes with heavy lids that she used to kiss tenderly. There's something wanton in his glance with a slack face and pale, bloodless lips. His hair has grown long as the nurses won't cut it any shorter than where his neck fuses with his spine. On occasion, they let him have nail clippers, and he gives himself a quick trim.
Visual reference taken from a youthful Al Pacino, though he will not be used as a faceclaim.
EXTRA: aesthetics.

*a note on his nickname: many of the people in Adam's troubled teen camps adopted nicknames after the Watcher angels who lusted after humans.

---

The Tuccillos were on par with the Ilitches, the same family who pioneered Little Caesar's and funded a shocking number of other Michigan businesses. The two families attended the Beverly Hills Club and played golf together on the prim greens of Troy. Meanwhile, Hero grew up on 7 Mile with a father who didn't quite know what to do with him.

It was a riot when he first met his Arlene — the two had seen each other around. He was that brutish boy against the wall, chatting with Jubilee, his best friend of the time. Arlene and Hero came to Ward at roughly the same time, both intended to meet with their nonexistent parentage. His father, not quite sure what to make of his tomboy child outfitted with erratic behavior and episodes of dark solitude, said, "The fresh air might do you some good."

So Hero arrived on the Tuccillo estate, finding it filled with traditionally-dressed members of Adam's Branch. Lottie Tuccillo was not the steel-hearted woman who rivaled Ford, who stuck her finger in the pie of mass migration to the 'burbs following the riots. She never acknowledged these sins, but she clearly weighed down with guilt of some kind and a hope for God to save them all.

It was his siblings, Ana and Reggie, who seemed the most sane. It would be because of them that he wasn't sent to jail for his actions in 1973 but instead placed in the WCA or "Wicca", as it is so ironically named. This was their payment for the missed opportunity of 1971, when Hero was caught and would not reemerge until he was Sam and she was Ara:

"Your auntie warned me that you'd been a bit wild," he told Arlene when he found them together in the barn. Sam gathered himself up, sputtering and choking on a recent inhale of smoke. Ara quivered beside him — his Arlene. It was a compulsion so unlike her, he stared for a beat too long.

"I wasn't expecting this, though." Her father was still out of their line of sight. She pushed Sam out of the cab and whispered, "Go." Her eyes were wild.

Before Sam could run, Abel rounded the corner of the dead pickup truck and found the two together in the cab.

The next day, June 21st, 1971, Sam would join Adam's Branch's Reformation Camp for Troubled Teens.

On December 30th, 1973, Sam would be removed from the Camp and sent to Ward County Asylum for symptoms of bipolar disorder and gender inversion. This would be after he burned half an acre with a fire, claiming to see God in the flames.

It is unknown, even to him, if this was a true act of mania or an attempt at escape. Only Ara knows, and he has not seen her in almost a year.