This sucks. This sucks so badly. Normally you could lose yourself in the chemical compounds and scribble of notes and messing around with the weirdness of this world you call... A place you're currently at.
But it wasn't working. It wasn't distracting. It wasn't doing anything!
You rip the page you're working on, full of scribbles and black and wrong, wrong, WRONG! You fight the urge to stuff the damn thing in your mouth and chew through your rage. At least John wasn't here to witness your temporary intellectual downfall.
Ever since that wish happened- You don't want to think about it, but it's been distracting you from your WORK. There's sort of no choice now, is there? But ever since that wish you...
Alex Miller ruined you, moreso than a fucked up double lifetime in your head. You're loath to admit it, and you NEVER FUCKING WILL. Not out loud to another soul. Ever.
That being said, you get to work on a different kind of research. Numbers, timeframes... Chemistry like nerves and fear of your biological system... Gross.
It takes you a while, but, taking a breath and gripping the life out of your notebook, you put on the most ambivalent face you can muster and knock on the door.
Three knocks in, it creaks open ominously. You glance down the hallway, wondering if there's still a chance to bail. What kind of batshit leaves their apartment door unlocked? There was a click before but maybe that was-
"Are you coming in or not, asshole?" A mess of blond hair and stormy gray eyes glare at you from the doorframe and stare you down as you slowly enter. This guy wasn't tall. He wasn't tall when you "knew him" either, but right now he's... Kind of imposing.
You open your mouth to speak, and he points you further into this dark Den of Disaster. Maybe that was unfair, the clutter wasn't worse than your own workspace, but the main difference was the abundance of children's toys instead of toxic chemicals. And so "Den of Disaster" it remains.
A plush swivel desk chair, tragically out of place in this comfy living room, turns around and the same guy sits in a stereotypical "evil villainy trap pose" complete with a fluffy white cat happily getting pets in his lap. You glance behind you just in time to see the guy who let you in the door vanish in a vaguely red haze. What the FUCK did you just walk in to...
Just to complete his bit, he laughs in a clunky way, which you GUESS could come across as SOMEWHAT imposing... If you were scared of him... Or it was genuinely chilling and he was cracking himself up with his own scene that he ruined his "evil" laugh with genuine shit.
"I've been expecting you, Gwen..." Zack looked up and smirked.
Your blood was boiling just as badly as this brew. It took a considerable amount of effort to slowly blend the ingredients rather than whip them into a frenzy. How dare he. Who the fuck did he think he was, or who you were for that matter? Gwen Walker, the young version of your tutor from years before, always- somehow- had a way to get under your skin. Perhaps in another life you two would be good friends, bonding over the feeling of being misplaced and unwanted, or over your shared excitement for the unknown in each of your professions. But instead he was a lousy, no good, piece of shit who pushed people away an—
Some would consider it wrong- tacky even- to say “I told you so” or rub a victory in another’s face. But you, Gwen Miller, were raised better than that, obviously. You were “raised” at all, with a family and a brother and a babysitter. They all sucked and were horrible, but it was a sort of stability you didn’t have a “Walker.” Hell, “Walker” probably wasn’t even a real name, just something that sounded catchy to write on adoption slips.
You wonder if “Alex Walker” was a catchier, more adoptable name.
A day in the life of one Alex Walker was guaranteed to come with stress. Anxiety. Paranoia. Almost instantly you wanted to be Alex Miller again. You wanted your magic back. Your Frenchie back. Your goddamned freedom back!
The light faded. You press your palms roughly into your eyes and rub them clear, and adjust your glasses afterwards. There’s a loud, rough cawing echoing in your ears. You look over at a baby Skink who just stretched his little hands in the air before cuddling his mom again. You look in front of you and Alex Miller is giving you a look that’s hard to read.
You want to call it pity. Or more accurately, you want to call it regret.
“I’m…”
You glare, arms folded, but let them finish. They don’t.
With a huff through your nose, you walk away. About halfway across the room you pause and turn on your heels, marching back towards them.
“Gwen, I’m sorry, that I put you through that. I thought th—“
This time you cut them off. Not with words. The only reason you came back was to shove your hand into their chest. The hard sphere of the pearl, now a faded yellow color, hurt your palm probably as much as it hurt their collarbone.
“Fuck you. Don’t you ever…” The threat fades. Don’t what, do magic? Don’t come near you? Don’t trick you? They aren’t going to stop, they’re going to keep visiting as long as this is John’s place, and… They didn’t trick you. They pushed your buttons, but you were willing to go along with it out of morbid curiosity. Curse your scientific mind.
You huff again and walk out of the room, twice as fast. You pretend you don’t hear Alex sniffing back emotions of their own. You pretend you don’t humanize them.
Your blood was boiling just as badly as this brew. It took a considerable amount of effort to slowly blend the ingredients rather than whip them into a frenzy. How dare he. Who the fuck did he think he was, or who you were for that matter? Gwen Walker, the young version of your tutor from years before, always- somehow- had a way to get under your skin. Perhaps in another life you two would be good friends, bonding over the feeling of being misplaced and unwanted, or over your shared excitement for the unknown in each of your professions. But instead he was a lousy, no good, piece of shit who pushed people away an—
Some would consider it wrong- tacky even- to say “I told you so” or rub a victory in another’s face. But you, Gwen Miller, were raised better than that, obviously. You were “raised” at all, with a family and a brother and a babysitter. They all sucked and were horrible, but it was a sort of stability you didn’t have a “Walker.” Hell, “Walker” probably wasn’t even a real name, just something that sounded catchy to write on adoption slips.
You wonder if “Alex Walker” was a catchier, more adoptable name.
Magic was weird and you hated it. You can’t tell if you had lived another 22 years of life or if you were just smacked with that many years’ worth of hyper realistic memories to give you the idea. You know who you were before, it just felt… Fainter. The idea of spending your life jumping between foster homes and orphanages and shitty schools wasn’t… It wasn’t you. It was like a book you had read. But you KNOW that’s what your life was before… All that happened.
Ugh, you feel queasy just thinking about it.
You grew up with an older brother who was comfortable being an asshole, and you were comfortable following his example, more or less. But, also, you liked school, so you didn’t get in as MUCH trouble as Zack did. Sharon was your babysitter and she gave you the strangest, sickly sense of Déjà vu that you kind of resented her for it, even if it wasn’t her fault.
Zack gave you a lab coat and a journal for your birthday one year. You traded out the lab coat for a different one that fit better, and the journal was traded out in favor of a more practical notebook. The only reason the memory stuck out was because of the crestfallen expression and the weeks of silent treatment Zack gave you. That and the journal was eerily familiar…
Mother had a business trip up on Oregon and took the rest of the family with her. That was your first, horrific run-in with the Supernatural. One of the bastard business men turned out to be some kind of wolf monster that set your house on fire. Lucky for you, Zack came back to help you escape. Unlucky for him, he received a few burn scars on his arms and back while pushing through the rubble, and he was traumatized by fire after that (which made keeping warm at night for a while really awkward.)
Other than that, your life was pretty uneventful. You and Zack bounced from town to town, taking money and opportunity where you could and staying in hotels for a night or two. It was miserable. And boring. Most of what you stole was books that you’d have to leave behind when Zack decided to move again. At least you were good at convincing him what direction to head towards- places with more books, someplace in the middle of Oregon, someplace with a library or wifi access where he could meet the love of his life online in a fight, someplace where you could steal a laptop and play a game.
Oh god, that game. Yeah, you hated it. Well, no, you loved the lack of supervision, and that even when you had to run the space was kind of small, and you kind of craved the control you had over the client/player dynamic. At some point you were set up in your fractured room with 3 computers in one corner, setting up defenses around points of interest and using the harvested resources the boys gathered to dick around the alchemization process. The only reason the three of you survived is because of your direction and some of the weapons you could make for them.
You all made it out alive, of course. Or sort of, you think that Zack and the other guy might have actually died at some point? But they got over it?? Yeah, you’re not going to question that too much. At all.
Anyway, those two continued making their lovely little life for themselves, making new friends, starting a new apocalypse with those friends. You went along, but begrudgingly. After all, this is what you wanted right? A family?
You liked when they left you alone, though. After the games and the apocalypses and all that bullshit, you could actually sit down and get back to doing what you loved… You were embarrassingly out of practice, and most of your time was spent in One place doing One thing, especially on this new planet with new items, away from your old life…
For 5 years you have been feeling physically sick with Déjà vu, which lead to long spiraling accounts of memories like this…
As I said before, and you can see above for the fucking reference, this website is no fun otherwise. So maybe it’s not me and it’s a shitty platform design
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