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 Posted: Fri Apr 22, 2011 12:03 am
"I guess I just can't listen
to this one-sided conversation again,
'Cause I don't care, if I don't care,
Well, no one ever said that life was fair."
If the air suddenly reeks with the smell of desperation, it's more than likely Milton Bates is around. Who is he? He's that weird kid that just doesn't really fit in anywhere. He may have his parents' money but it doesn't seem enough for people to put up with his eccentricities. Oh he tries. And tries. And tries. And tries. And he fails. Each. Time.
His first attempt was to be a jock. Find a sport, stick with it, practice, his parents pay for the trainers and the equipment, but they hold no expectation that he'll ever make the team. They know his lack of hand-eye coordination, his tendency to freeze like a deer in headlights, and he's always distracted by something in the corner of his eye. Milton claims in his defense, "I'm only worried about the blood-drenched cheerleader lurking by the bleachers."
His next attempt has him donning coke-bottle glasses, pocket protectors, and pinning his underwear to his pants. The armloads of books he borrows from the library range from quantum physics to the theory of relativity to calculus. His parents hire him tutors of the highest caliber, and he already does well in school (maybe not that well but he's at least above average). He ends up falling asleep on page one of chapter one in each book and dreams instead of kids younger than him getting drowned by accident and then being buried on campus.
He doesn't give up. As Frank Sinatra sings, Milton knows he ought to "Pick yourself up, dust off, start all over again." And this time he set his sights on the Drama Club. He thinks his wild flailing and over the top reactions make him a shoe-in for comedic roles. Except he's rejected, on the grounds that they're looking for actors not hams. Milton reasons, "I'm no ham, I'm prosciutto!" But he's told expensive, fancy, foreign ham is still ham at the end of the day. They suggest instead he joins the production crew or at least help sponsor some of the plays. Dejected as he stalks out alone, he's comforted by a whisper in the shell of his ear that for whatever it's worth, she thought he was funny.
So having ruled out his physical and mental skills, perhaps he could do better with his image instead. He tries the side-swept bangs to cover half his face, wears steel-toed boots, and sneaks into his mom's vanity. Only he runs smack into doorways because the bangs ******** up his depth perception, he trips over his own feet because the boots weigh a ********, and he's grounded for a month because he spilled mom's limited edition Mac mascara. By the way, said mascara stings something fierce (and he probably should have been using eyeliner). Only reason he stopped was because he didn't want to go to the extremes of putting on fake scars (for fakes, they looked hella fresh to him) running the length of his forearm the way some of the others did.
Then came the glow sticks, the neon lights, the bright, eye-searing colors. The hyperactive motions they call dancing has him happily flailing his limbs and for a few weeks, Milton thinks THIS IS IT! Except whenever the club lights dim low, he's compelled to run screaming from the flashing strobelights, he's filled with this undeniable need to get the ******** out because he just saw something menacing lurking in the shadows, ready to reach out and grab the dancers. And it is always, always staring at him.
He tries the grunge look, the whole anarchy schtick, sticking it to the man and all that. He doesn't last long. Mostly because he doesn't dare risk making his parents mad at him. He knows he puts them through enough as it is with his constant change in fashion and all the expenses they have to pay to deal with his nonsense. It's probably guilt that they're never around, too busy attending to the affairs of their work or charity dinners to spend time with him personally. Not that they want him around whenever they have the public's attention, probably worrying that he'll turn things into a spectacle.
In some ways, his life feels like one big joke the universe is playing on him and he's just waiting for the punchline. Sometimes he thinks he is the punchline and that with him still around makes it one stale gag that everyone's already heard of and never found funny the first time around.
Which is probably why when he sees a trend, he jumps into it headfirst without researching or understanding what it's supposed to be about, fearing that if he didn't act now he'd lose his chance. And he'd be alone. Forever. Alone forever. With no one to distract him from the chill he feels whenever he peers into darkened alleyways, or to block out the sound of multiple legs skittering along the walls, or that hair-raising tingle that shoots up his spine when all is quiet.
But even Milton gets lucky sometimes. When it was time for him to go to college, he was given a second chance. He lives on his own, surviving on a generous monthly allowance, as well as a part-time job. He's found some friends, or at least people who tolerate his presence. They tell him he amuses them with his stories of that shadow standing nearby, the one that's been following them since they left the bookstore while he hefts the bags of hardbound novels he offered to pay for them. They laugh when he says he can hear someone's grandmother scolding them for not wearing that lovely sweater she knitted on her deathbed, and then ask if he didn't mind springing for lattes. And they don't give him weird looks when he asks if he can go ahead because he's supposed to meet someone to talk about energy.
They wish him good luck, how they hope his meeting will help fix the energy crisis. Milton laughs and promises he'll do his best, even though he knows the sort of energy he's talking about isn't what they're talking about. But he doesn't want to lose his "in" with his new friends. He finds being with them makes the scary things less scary, being with them makes him feel sane, and liked, and normal. Rather than the weird loser kid he was all his life and never managed to shake off even after college. Except he realized he left his umbrella with his friends and heads back, arriving in time to hear the snide sneers and the mocking mimicry of his words.
Milton sharply does an about face, the balls of his shoes grinding harshly against the pavement before bolting ahead to get away from his so-called friends. He knew they were only interested in what he could buy for them. It was the only thing he could bring to the table if he wanted friends. But to hear them express their relief at his absence, how they couldn't wait to be rid of him, and discussing what they should get him to buy them next? It hurt.
A lot.
It makes his chest ache, makes him see red, makes him wish the shadows stalking them would devour them all. Or him. Preferably him because ******** it all, he's sick of trying to fit in. So when the hooded figure gave him the opportunity to get away from it all, to be with others like him, Milton misinterprets the word Hunters to mean a group of outcasts who have no idea how big of a loser he was. Desperately, Milton asks "When do I sign up for this, Hoods?"
He sloughs off his identity, his memories, his regrets, and takes on a clean slate. Where he's liable to make the same mistakes.
Just like Before.
"Everybody loves a joke but no one likes a fool,
And you're always cracking the same old lines again.
You're well rehearsed on every verse and that was stated clear.
But no one understands your verity."
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Posted: Sun May 01, 2011 12:40 am
"Well...you were halfway useful, weren't you? A dangerous kind of useful to anyone unfortunate enough to be nearby but..." The voice that suddenly crept into Milton's death trailed off in thought. It was dark, yet not. An emptiness that held a lifetime that held...yet more emptiness. It wasn't the nicest place, but as Beta 4, he had undoubtedly experienced worse.
"Hmm...my records indicate a life of joining and adapting, poorly, to your peers and surroundings. But a willingness to move on. To try again. It's not a bad mindset, really. But the real question is: do you want to? Do you want to move on and try again? Or would you rather stay and ah...enjoy the memories?"
An outline of light appeared, a door closed to the harsh brightness of life and the living. "I'm afraid you'll need to summon something much stronger than a boot to open it."
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Posted: Sun May 01, 2011 2:58 am
Milton? That was his name? Really? Really?!!?
...
He liked being Before better. Oh sure, there was the whole kill-or-be-killed, seeing someone's head blow the ******** up right in front of him, people punching and kicking and biting (he wasn't sure how that works but it must have happened somewhere at some point) thank God he's no dentist, and what was he thinking before his train of thought got derailed?
Oh! Right! A choice! One he had to make. Move on and try again or wallow in his memories of "the good old days"? Yes, with quotes. Yes, with complete and utter sarcasm. Kind of an obvious decision, don't you think?
"Okay, voice-I-can-hear-but-cannot-see (uh duh self, you can't see sound), dunno if your records say that I like Frank Sinatra. But I don't think I'm a grade-A a*****e like him, or a wife-beater, but uh Diner and Tree and some other guys might disagree, but they're not my wife! So it doesn't count! And and and-" he cut himself off, realizing he was rambling again, and breathed deep. Wow. No annoying gas mask making breathing harder? Milton likey. (Okay so he didn't quite like his name, maybe he could get everyone to keep calling him Before? Please? Can he?) "I was just trying to quote old Blue Eyes when I say I'm gonna "Start all over again", but you might be more of a Bing Crosby kind of voice, so, uh, I think I just said yes to moving on?"
He would scratch his head if he could, but he didn't want to make any sudden movements. Who knew what awaited him behind the door that just appeared. Now he needed to summon a weapon. However the ******** he was supposed to do that didn't seem to be the main cause of distress to Milton. After his experience on the island and in the Gym, he had no clue what the ******** was stronger than a booterang. Fine. No harm in trying.
Focus. Focus. Fooooocusssssss, He told himself as his hands clenched into tight fists. Not-booterang, not-booterang, not-booterang... he mentally chanted. Unfortunately he hasn't figured out you can't tell yourself not to think of something. Maybe that's why the idea of the weapon returning to him has Milton thinking of something round. Not a ball, though, more like a wheel.
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Posted: Sun May 01, 2011 3:26 am
In his inept, yet surprisingly deadly hands, the wheel quickly developed some satisfying bulk and heft. It should have been a struggle to hold it up. It should have been hitting his toes or flying off into the darkness to hit some other comatose dreamer. But somehow, Milton finally found something that fit him, rather than the other way around. "Not a bad choice..." Then the door burst in, and light invaded. ((Please head over to THE COVE thread HERE, READ THE PROMPT CLOSELY, and post a response to it thank you and congratulations!! ))
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