Lost track of myself. [[OPEN]]
[ WHO ] : Death the Kid, anyone who wants to run into him
[ WHERE ]: Apartments - floor 1 hallway
[ WHEN ]: Evening of May 9
[ RATING ]: PG for now
[ WARNINGS ]: Possibly scary stuff or OCD spazzing
It was day two, and Death the Kid was ready to research. There had to be some way out of his situation, of course. There was no such thing as impossible -- only improbable, and he was willing to face any level of improbability. There had to be some kind of way out, or loophole, or simply a way to contact home. 42-42-564 -- the number that would turn any reflective surface into a video conference with his Father -- didn't work. His own powers of communication didn't work. And the beings here broke the laws of his home world with blatant disregard. Souls were supposed to be little balloon-shaped pockets of energy, easily cleansed and released to the afterlife. They weren't supposed to follow him in human form, staring and creeping around in the corner of his vision only to flit away into nothingness when he turned to touch them. For that matter, they were supposedly not supposed to run away even in this world. He could suspect that his being special was the fault of shinigami blood, but he couldn't prove that and wasn't about to bet his life on it. Therefore, he was determined to find out why things were the way they were, and how to fix them.
He stepped out into the hallway cautiously, but again it seemed empty besides the lingering feeling of being stared at from someplace he couldn't see. He brushed a bit of dust from his jacket, steeled himself against the nervousness of being in a dangerous place without Liz & Patty, and summoned his skateboard with a flourish of black-and-purple energy from his hand. If there was nothing good to be found in the building, he'd just have to look outside of it.
[ WHERE ]: Apartments - floor 1 hallway
[ WHEN ]: Evening of May 9
[ RATING ]: PG for now
[ WARNINGS ]: Possibly scary stuff or OCD spazzing
It was day two, and Death the Kid was ready to research. There had to be some way out of his situation, of course. There was no such thing as impossible -- only improbable, and he was willing to face any level of improbability. There had to be some kind of way out, or loophole, or simply a way to contact home. 42-42-564 -- the number that would turn any reflective surface into a video conference with his Father -- didn't work. His own powers of communication didn't work. And the beings here broke the laws of his home world with blatant disregard. Souls were supposed to be little balloon-shaped pockets of energy, easily cleansed and released to the afterlife. They weren't supposed to follow him in human form, staring and creeping around in the corner of his vision only to flit away into nothingness when he turned to touch them. For that matter, they were supposedly not supposed to run away even in this world. He could suspect that his being special was the fault of shinigami blood, but he couldn't prove that and wasn't about to bet his life on it. Therefore, he was determined to find out why things were the way they were, and how to fix them.
He stepped out into the hallway cautiously, but again it seemed empty besides the lingering feeling of being stared at from someplace he couldn't see. He brushed a bit of dust from his jacket, steeled himself against the nervousness of being in a dangerous place without Liz & Patty, and summoned his skateboard with a flourish of black-and-purple energy from his hand. If there was nothing good to be found in the building, he'd just have to look outside of it.