Chronicles of The Omniverse Archived Lutetia City: Vargeras

Street wise he might have been, but despite his outward show of relaxation, Seri didn't really know the meaning of letting his guard down. An observant enough eye might pick up on the way his eyes flicked subconsciously towards every alleyway they passed, or that his focus never seemed to lapse into daydreaming even when his mind was on other matters. He was far from tense, but his subconscious was trained never to dismiss the possibility of danger - even on turf that was supposedly 'his'. Not that he could quite consider Bloodstone turf that just yet.

"Hopefully," Seri repeated when Antoine spoke of the pack violence, though he didn't sound confident in his hope. From what he knew of Ragenard's plans, the pack war had only just begun. Neither side was going to let their losses go unanswered. "I should think you'll be fine, though. Wolves aren't exactly subtle." He rolled his eyes. "You can usually hear their brand of trouble from a block away. So as long as you're smart enough to run away from the gunshots and angry growling..."

He smirked as they rounded the corner, eyes habitually tracing the rooftops and fire escapes overhead. Antoine's question prompted him to look back down, one eyebrow raised. "As it happens, yeah," he answered. He'd picked one up after being told by the pack that he needed to be contactable, but before then, had never bothered. "Why?"
 
Antoine rolled his eyes and shook his head. He wondered if Seri was that alien to flirtation or just didn't put two and two together well enough. He stuck his hand out, opening and closing it in a "give me" motion. "What do you think I want it for Pussy Cat, I'm going to put my phone number in it, you " he explained with a light chuckle punctuated by small hiccup.

"Come on, my apartment's right there," he added, tossing his head back towards the building on the corner behind him as he walked slightly cockeyed.
 
In truth, Seri simply was that oblivious. Having grown up amongst vagrants, the connotations of exchanging phone-numbers were entirely lost on him, having no experience to relate it to - and little enough viewing of media like television that he hadn't come across the implication through other means, either. "Alright," Seri smirked, fishing around in his pocket for a moment before pulling out a small and clearly incredibly cheap brick phone, placing it in Antoine's outstretched hand. "But if you're expecting to call on me to be your personal escort home every night, I might have to disappoint you."

He tilted his head to one side and grinned with amusement at the other boy's unsteady gait, quickening his pace a touch to take the lead and turn back to face his companion, settling into walking backwards with his hands in his pockets for the final stretch. "After all, if I start coming whenever people call, I might end up being mistaken for one of the mutts."
 
Antoine plucked the phone from the young man's hands and almost flung it doing so. Thankfully his grip was tight enough that it didn't slip and hit the stone pavement below. Though by the look of it the brick like device probably would have survived well enough anyways, a feat his own phone could never replicate.

He slowed down in pace and focused on the number pad and small display at the top, fumbling with the buttons until he figured out how to pull up the menu. "What if I bribed you with tuna fish," he remarked, still distracted, "the strays always seem to come when I start opening cans." After a few moments he was satisfied that he'd gotten his info to save and hit the call button. A whirring noise came from his pocket, only getting louder as he fished the now glowing device from his pocket and kicked it to voice mail. The rectangle was nearly half has thin, and a centimeter wider on each side. It also lacked the rubbery buttons Seri's phone sported in lieu of an actual touch screen.

"And there we go," he added with a satisfied grin and hung up the brick as his recorded voice started to play over the speaker. He offered the phone back to Seri. "One more contact in a very pitifully small list of contacts."
 
Seri just rolled his eyes at the tuna remark. "Have I already mentioned that you're lucky I'm not easily offended?" he said dryly, taking his phone back with a smirk. "And it if makes you feel better, you're the only person in here I wouldn't count as 'work'." He rolled his eyes. "They're certainly a chore, at least." The pack weren't his friends, not by a long stretch. They were a temporary necessity... probably. He just hadn't figured out what came next.

"So what are you going to call me for, hmm?" Seri tilted his head at the other boy with an analysing look. "I'm sure it's not just for the delight of my company."
 
"Yeah, you mentioned that I think," Antoine replied nearly as dryly, though betraying any sort of apathy by the up turned corner of his lips. He'd come to a stop a moment ago in front of a three story building, red bricks turned brown from exposure and grime. It wasn't the most pleasing looking structure on the block, but it had a sense of quaintness about it. Specially upon closer inspection through any of the lit windows that weren't obscured by thick fabric curtains.

"And it does make me feel better." He almost added that a lack of competition was always good to hear, but even he felt a bit too forward making that remark. The night was already long, and the drinks imbibed earlier were starting to slowly wear off, leaving any lack of inhibition muted as restraint returned to the boy.

"Maybe, or I might just need someone to help me with a rodent problem," he teased, crossing his arms lightly over his abdomen, hands holding onto his elbows. He cocked his head to one side, and gestured to the building. "This is my stop," he added, pausing, "Always welcome to stop by, if you ever feel like it, the porch on the roof is always open."

He gave his companion for the night a gentle smile as he sauntered backwards towards the entrance of the building, turning around to climb the steps only to call out as he reached to top. "And call me some time."
 
"I might take you up on that offer at some point," Seri said with a nonchalant shrug, returning the soft smile with a smirk that was almost coy. Inwardly, he mused over the thought. If nothing else, the invitation represented a possible escape from sleeping in a den of wolves for the foreseeable future. He'd never turned down an offer of hospitality before, albeit that most had been extended to him on the presumption that he was nothing more than a simple cat.

"Till then, o' enlightened one," he teased at Antoine's retreating back, before turning and slinking away into the night.
 
Another time ...

The fading light of late evening saw a light snowfall drifting down onto the streets of Vargeras. There was already a murky, muddy layer of compacted and slushy snow covering the roads and the sidewalks, footprints and tire-marks trailing haphazardly through it where the district's denizens had continued to go about their business. A little early for such heavy snow, some said - hadn't even passed Yule yet - but most in this part of the city paid the chill and the ice little mind, far more concerned with making ends meet and surviving through the ongoing pack war than unusual weather patterns.

Bellevue Street was all-but deserted at this time. Located on the bad side of Cascastel, most made a point of avoiding the neighbourhood's streets after dark, for fear of running afoul of the local gangs and thugs - human or wolf. No doubt there was shady business being conducted somewhere on the block, but as long as it didn't get in his way, Ghast didn't much care.

Apparently entirely unphased by the cold - clad in nothing warmer than a hoodie and jeans - the 'teen' stood alone on the street, directing a spray-can of silver paint at the wall of an apartment complex. The beginnings of a sprayed-on hooded skull with a pair of skeletal wings was taking shape on the bricks, a tag that had been cropping up with some frequency across the Phantom Quarter and some parts of Vargeras of late. Ghast had been getting pretty good with the graffiti art over the last few years, if he was any judge of it. It was certainly a lot better than the crap that most people plastered on the walls.

Still, he doubted the locals would appreciate it. This was pack territory. Few people had the balls to spray gang signs in pack territory, especially Scion turf.

Let the dogs come if they wanted to. They weren't any better than the church. They'd all come tumbling down one day soon, so Ghast didn't much care if he pissed them off now.
 
It wasn't a dog that came running, however. Today, someone who also didn't belong in werewolf territory was poking his nose around.

Something had been bugging the young necromancer for a while. He had been walking so aimlessly for so long that he didn't even know where he was when he picked up on it and started to follow it. It was just barely unlike anything he had encountered before. Familiar, yet strange.

He was terribly out of place in this part of town. The rich kid look was evident: a black peacoat with a fur collar, slacks and shiny shoes. Even his hair, combed to the side and slick with gel, screamed privalege.

But that didn't cross the necromancer's mind as he made his way into Ballevue Street, his eyes resting on the source of the power that pulled and itched at him so hungrily.

He looked at the scrawny pale kid and frowned. "You? Just... you?"
 
Something had started nagging at the back of Ghast's mind not long before the new arrival rounded the corner. A persistent tugging, like something imperceptible trying to catch his attention from the depths of his subconscious. He'd lowered the spraycan, turning with a frown to scan the street behind him, but found nothing. Just when he was about to go back to his tagging, he'd heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

When Reuban stepped into view, Ghast's hollow grey eyes were already fixed on him, his brow furrowed in a scowl. The scowl deepened when the kid spoke.

"The fuck's that supposed to mean?"
 
"Well-" Ruben started, holding his hand out to gesture to the pale boy in front of him. "You know, I was expecting... I don't know, something mysterious and spooky, like a horrible cloaked lich, but you're just a... what are you?"
 
Ghast stared at Ruben like he'd just sprouted an extra head, disbelief painted across his face. "I'm a fucking stranger in a shit part of town, and you're asking to get mugged and left for dead in an alley. Almost feels like I have to rob you at this point, rich boy."

The ghoul dropped the spray can into a rucksack at his feet, and stuffed his hands into his pockets, closing the distance between him and Ruben in a few strides and getting up in his personal space with a menacing grin. "You the reason behind the weird tug in the back of my head, kid? Huh?" The ghoul gave Ruben a small shove to accentuate his question, dead eyes locked onto the necromancer's with a disconcerting lack of emotion behind them.
 
Ruben put his hands up immediately and started to back away. "Hey... hey! I'm warning you. You don't want to do that."

The young man felt a flutter of fear in his belly. With that flutter, a monocrum of control fell through his grip like sand in his fist. The tugging in Ghast's mind became a grab, a stroke, a caress.

"S-stop that. Okay? Stop. P-please."
 
Ghast recoiled as Ruben's power touched at his mind, letting out a freaked out yell and shoving him again - this time with both hands, hard enough to knock him from his feet. The ghoul took a step back, shuddering and glaring at the boy. "What the fuck are you doing to me? Get out of my head! Fuck!"
 
A spike of this power washed over Ghast as Ruben hit the ground, head bouncing against the cement. With his anguished yell, hundreds of screams echoed from the sewers below.

Ruben swiftly rolled onto his knees in his haze, one hand gripping his head, the other groping the air in front of him. "Box, box, box..." he mumbled, searching for something in his mind's eye.

Only a scant few seconds passed before he found what he was looking for and closed an imaginary lid on a very dangerous imaginary box. At once, the invasion into Ghast's mind ceased. Ruben looked up at the young man with a shaky breath.

"I wasn't pleading for me. I was trying to save you the bother. Little shit."
 
Ghast leered at Ruben angrily, one hand still clutching at his head in a fitting mirror of Ruben's own. "I'm the shit? The fuck is wrong with you?" he hissed. "What was that screaming? What was... all of that?"

He shuddered again, still reeling from the onslaught of that presence, washing over his mind in a tide that had threatened to erode his will... and had felt fucking weird irrespective of its lack of success.
 
"A barely contained gag gift from the universe," explained Ruben, wobbling onto his feet. Smashing his head had egged on a throbbing headache. "I'm a necromancer, but not by choice. I don't use the craft; rather, it uses me. I'd be overrun with the armies of the catacombs of I don't keep it contained. So... You're welcome."

He rubbed the back of his head gently, grimacing. "This also allows me to feel out the dead around me. Unfortunate, but that lead me to you. You're different than anything I've encountered before. After the vanishing soul days ago... I was stupid enough to be curious about it."
 
"Great," Ghast grimaced, snorting at Ruben disdainfully. "As if a necromancer wasn't bad enough, you don't know what you're doing either. Recipe for fucking disaster if I ever saw one. Glad to be a spectacle for your curiosity, but do me a favour and keep your fucking necromagic dick in your pants and out of my head."

He spread his arms wide, then, gesturing down at himself. "So yeah, I'm dead, what's the big deal? Can't be the only dead guy out there who remembers how to talk, can I?"
 
"No. There's... others. Just like you. Part of you." The young man looked into the distance, toward the Phantom Quarter. He could almost see the line connecting them.

He gazed back at Ghast, slightly pale. This guy was just a kid, younger than he was. Ruben's voice cracked with pity. "What are you? What... happened to you?"
 
Ghast's eyes narrowed at Ruben's words. "Why's that any of your business, kid? Just 'cause you can ..." he waved a hand vaguely at the necromancer "... do whatever freaky mojo you can do, and see shit you shouldn't, don't mean it's your right to stick your nose into it."

He scowled. "That's the problem with you necromancers. Think you've got a right to fuck with shit that shouldn't be fucked with, consequences be damned."
 
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