Mirror, Mirror
Characters: Truth, and an NPC
Date/Time: Backdated to 8/13
Location: Wilderness, Wax Museum
Rating: G
Summary: (Truth goes to the wax museum to see who he can find...and ends up finding himself.)
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He'd found a girl in the market that wanted to come down and see the wax figures, and after hearing from Justice, he was ready to see them himself. What would he find down there? Would he see the same things Justice had? And how would he recognize Justice's father, except from the ghastly vision he'd seen in his dream.
Well, he figured, there was only one way to find out.
He and the girl had parted ways after passing a row of figures that neither of them recognized- a man with messy hair, a woman in yellow wearing too little, a gruff-looking man with a metal arm, and a kid with bright orange hair that was smiling brightly and messing with some sort of computer. A dog finished out the group, but he neither recognized them nor felt any pull by them.
He wandered for some time before he saw the three figures- children, all of them, all crouched around a simulated hole in the floor. One was dirty, grinning and holding a shovel- a young boy with spiky brown hair who looked close to someone that he knew. Guilty? The other two figures were immediately identifiable- one was holding a box in one hand and a shiny pin in the other, his knees dirty from the digging. His face looked like a younger version of his own, and the hair was exactly the same. The other child was holding a hand out, as if lecturing the other two, and crouched down. His hair matched Justice's, and he could see the resemblance in their faces. Who were these, younger versions of themselves? Or their children? ...but that didn't make sense. He couldn't see them looking this exactly alike, and nor could he imagine Justice having children, not with what he knew about him. So was this him as a child? He crouched down to get a good look at them before standing, shaking his head in amusement. This place had a funny way of working.
The next figure stopped him nearly dead in his tracks. He knew his face, but it was younger, as if he had all the hope of spring in his eyes. There was an almost-shy smile on his lips, and he was pulling down his scarf from his face with his left hand, the other one half-covered by an oversized sweatshirt. There was a bright red heart over his chest, with a yellow "P" in the middle. For a moment he thought about it, before it was obvious. His first initial. He was so used to "Truth" by now that his real name was a second behind it when he thought about what he was called. The statue had on jeans, worn and tattered around the cuffs, and well broken-in sneakers on his feet. He moved on to the second statue.
This one was a bit older, and he stood confident in a bright blue suit. The badge from his dream was pinned on his lapel and his hair was gelled back into orderly spikes. The suit looked a little worn-in, like it had been washed one too many times and he knew, somehow, that the blue had faded slightly from being laundered. There was a shine around his elbows, and the cuffs of the pants were almost a bit darker- a product of a stray puddle of mud, he guessed. The shoes were scuffed and worn, but still shone in places where the polish hadn't been worn off yet. He smiled, recalling the blue suit he had picked up in Vegas. So, it must have been out of habit, out of remembering this in some odd and distant way.
The last statue was older, he could tell, judging by the lines around his eyes and the fact that the slight smile had left his face. There was stubble on his face, and this one wore a hat over his hair, with a badge on it and the word "Papa" knitted in. He wore a gray jacket, a faint grease-stain on his chest, and black paints that ended with sandals, of all things. Well, he had never considered himself to be the most fashionable creature alive. But all of this, out of all of these, this wasn't the most important thing.
This version, this older vision of himself, was holding hands with a smaller statue- a small girl with brown hair and bright blue eyes. She was smiling, resting one hand on her hip. She wore a pinkish-red cape with card suits printed on it, and a matching top hat. A black dress finished her ensemble, and she wore knee-high boots. Everything about her spoke of the stage, somehow, and if he had to guess what she was, he'd say "magician", judging by the almost oversized top hat. But who was she? His cousin? His kid sister? His kid?
He stood there for a few minutes, just studying the way his older-self held onto her gloved hand, trying to take some meaning from it, but when he looked at the small sign below the pair, it all dissolved into symbols that meant nothing.
Eventually, he turned, frustrated, and walked back to find the girl he'd come down here with. Maybe she'd had more luck.
Date/Time: Backdated to 8/13
Location: Wilderness, Wax Museum
Rating: G
Summary: (Truth goes to the wax museum to see who he can find...and ends up finding himself.)
------
He'd found a girl in the market that wanted to come down and see the wax figures, and after hearing from Justice, he was ready to see them himself. What would he find down there? Would he see the same things Justice had? And how would he recognize Justice's father, except from the ghastly vision he'd seen in his dream.
Well, he figured, there was only one way to find out.
He and the girl had parted ways after passing a row of figures that neither of them recognized- a man with messy hair, a woman in yellow wearing too little, a gruff-looking man with a metal arm, and a kid with bright orange hair that was smiling brightly and messing with some sort of computer. A dog finished out the group, but he neither recognized them nor felt any pull by them.
He wandered for some time before he saw the three figures- children, all of them, all crouched around a simulated hole in the floor. One was dirty, grinning and holding a shovel- a young boy with spiky brown hair who looked close to someone that he knew. Guilty? The other two figures were immediately identifiable- one was holding a box in one hand and a shiny pin in the other, his knees dirty from the digging. His face looked like a younger version of his own, and the hair was exactly the same. The other child was holding a hand out, as if lecturing the other two, and crouched down. His hair matched Justice's, and he could see the resemblance in their faces. Who were these, younger versions of themselves? Or their children? ...but that didn't make sense. He couldn't see them looking this exactly alike, and nor could he imagine Justice having children, not with what he knew about him. So was this him as a child? He crouched down to get a good look at them before standing, shaking his head in amusement. This place had a funny way of working.
The next figure stopped him nearly dead in his tracks. He knew his face, but it was younger, as if he had all the hope of spring in his eyes. There was an almost-shy smile on his lips, and he was pulling down his scarf from his face with his left hand, the other one half-covered by an oversized sweatshirt. There was a bright red heart over his chest, with a yellow "P" in the middle. For a moment he thought about it, before it was obvious. His first initial. He was so used to "Truth" by now that his real name was a second behind it when he thought about what he was called. The statue had on jeans, worn and tattered around the cuffs, and well broken-in sneakers on his feet. He moved on to the second statue.
This one was a bit older, and he stood confident in a bright blue suit. The badge from his dream was pinned on his lapel and his hair was gelled back into orderly spikes. The suit looked a little worn-in, like it had been washed one too many times and he knew, somehow, that the blue had faded slightly from being laundered. There was a shine around his elbows, and the cuffs of the pants were almost a bit darker- a product of a stray puddle of mud, he guessed. The shoes were scuffed and worn, but still shone in places where the polish hadn't been worn off yet. He smiled, recalling the blue suit he had picked up in Vegas. So, it must have been out of habit, out of remembering this in some odd and distant way.
The last statue was older, he could tell, judging by the lines around his eyes and the fact that the slight smile had left his face. There was stubble on his face, and this one wore a hat over his hair, with a badge on it and the word "Papa" knitted in. He wore a gray jacket, a faint grease-stain on his chest, and black paints that ended with sandals, of all things. Well, he had never considered himself to be the most fashionable creature alive. But all of this, out of all of these, this wasn't the most important thing.
This version, this older vision of himself, was holding hands with a smaller statue- a small girl with brown hair and bright blue eyes. She was smiling, resting one hand on her hip. She wore a pinkish-red cape with card suits printed on it, and a matching top hat. A black dress finished her ensemble, and she wore knee-high boots. Everything about her spoke of the stage, somehow, and if he had to guess what she was, he'd say "magician", judging by the almost oversized top hat. But who was she? His cousin? His kid sister? His kid?
He stood there for a few minutes, just studying the way his older-self held onto her gloved hand, trying to take some meaning from it, but when he looked at the small sign below the pair, it all dissolved into symbols that meant nothing.
Eventually, he turned, frustrated, and walked back to find the girl he'd come down here with. Maybe she'd had more luck.