It's Christmas or Something

[Demi Smith]

Andrew Wylen

So Demi had started researching the whole Christmas thing, which she didn't really get in the biggest sense, but she did get at least one detail: You were supposed to give people presents. Demi didn't exactly have a lot of people that she owed presents to or anything like that, and she didn't exactly have a lot in the way of money. She did, however, know how to make some stuff, so she figured she could do that for the handful of people she felt deserved it. That basically amounted to Aurora, the only decent person here; Roxana, the girl who kept stalking her; and Andrew.

Who was technically the last person to get her gift, despite the fact that Demi technically lived with him. it had taken her a bit longer to actually get his finished, and it technically was a bit past Christmas now, but she figured that he could get some use out of it anyway.

So Demi lugged the oblong, wobbly package onto her shoulder and walked over to where Andrew sat at a desk, probably doing homework. She slapped it down, the newspaper ripping slightly, showing the strangely stitched cloth belt beneath. It was technically an adjustable belt holster, one that you could sling either around your shoulder or waist, and had strings and stuff to tighten as much as possible. Demi knew that Andrew turned into a dog, and she was betting that it sucked to try and carry stuff in a normal backpack, so she'd cobbled this together out of some cloth in the home-ec room and stuffing and various odds and ends. She'd even stitched his name into it. Not that you could see it through the newspaper.

"Happy Christmas or something," she mumbled, folding her arms over her chest. The "this holiday is stupid" was very much implied.

[Andrew Wylen]

Andrew ran in terror through the apparently endless corridors; taking a left, then a right, then left again, yet, it seemed that no matter how fast he was, no matter how many twisting paths he took, he could never escape what charged behind him in bestial rage. The creature, whatever it was, gave a screeching roar which echoed into an all but unbearably din among those formless halls, the noise was like metal screeching against metal or- or- music, broken and twisted into an all but unrecognizable form, however, never the less, painful. Andrew stumbled to the floor, throwing his hands up for protection just as something crashed and the dull bulbs overhead flickering for a moment, before, finally, going out.

He panted, forearms crying in sharp pain as he, slowly, pushed himself back to his feet, staring into the thick, unyielding, darkness with the sudden, sickening realization, that he was alone, completely and utterly alone. in a way, this was worse than before, indeed, this sense of solitude was more frightening then any beast of the night, for here, it was not simply that no one would ever find him, rather, Andrew knew that not a person on the world cared, that not a person in the world heard. The darkness seemed to condense, suffocating, pressing, choking, as the boy fell back against the wall, its undefined form rising up to meet him and landing on a cold, flat bench, hands gripped about his sides with tears leaking, unseen, to the lightless floor. Andrew remembered the light in his parent’s eyes, he remembered their horror, their disgust, their terror; he could recall his sisters terrible cry, he remembered a knife that swung towards his form, the memories; of blood, of hate, of fear. Salted droplets of sorrow dripped in an endless river, he imagined a flood, he imagined a torrent as it crashed into the hall, sweeping the boy from his resting place and slamming him against a side wall like drift wood. The corridor condensed into a narrow room, the air was being driven from his lungs, as the black liquid swirled in every direction, he knew this was how he would die, but he could not fight against it… no, he would not fight against it; after all, he had been fighting for so, so long, yet this was all that had become of that ceaseless struggle. The feeling of drowning over took him, his lungs burst, they tore at his chest, they needed to breath, and so he did, water tickling gleefully as it entered him, retching, crying, screaming-

Andrew awoke suddenly at the dorm room table, phone buzzing incessantly not a few inches away, its surface announcing the text as he fumbled for it with one hand.

Devyn, he read the inquiring message quickly, then pushed the device away, unable to muster the courage to reply. Andrew knew he had been avoiding his only friend since thanksgiving, he knew it was unfair to the only person who had been vaguely kind to him, the only person who had been able to even stand him, yet- he simply could not- not yet- not now. he was aware that he was avoiding a problem which would only grow worse with time, but, to look into those eyes again, and to have to recount the events that had led to him standing, half unclothed and covered with blood a mile or so from his parent’s house… no, that was to much, not when he had to relive the events every night anyways.

Andrew shook his head, glancing towards his slightly ajar room door, and -for half a moment- he thought about digging into the drawers to retrieving the pills he had been prescribed. However, something held him back, perhaps it was the capsules continued degradation in usefulness, or perhaps, deep within himself, he thought he deserved the dreams, yet, either way, the boy remained motionless, phone continuing to buzz in a perpetual loop. After a minute or so had passed, he turned, shutting off the device and slumping back against the desk, hoping in vain to perhaps catch the slightest inklinct of sleep before the following day’s science examination, at least then he might have a chance...

Andrew jumped back, nearly falling from his chair as a package was slammed down upon the table before him, words leaving the boy likewise disoriented as though he was still caught in some otherworldly dream.

Demi? He wondered, blinking as the girl came into focus, the fierce glare confirming his suspicions faster than any form of physical depiction. In all truth, Andrew was still terrified of the slightly cultist/ mutant supremacist/ teenager, before him, yet, given that she had forced him to teach her chemistry the previous year and that they had been roommates since then without an incident resulting in his own premature demise, that fear had dulled, somewhat. Of course, this was not to say that they were what anyone could ever mistake as friends, especially when she seemed to find glee in making the stuttering, fretful boy as uncomfortable as possible, however, he at least managed to refrain from sprinting out the door at her very sight… that could be seen as progress.

As such, it was on this account, that, when Demi declared it a merry Christmas as though she were a tyrant presiding over the filthy squalor of her subjects, and then continued to throw the newspaper wrapped present before him; that, the boy sat, somewhat confused, managing merely in a weak voice, thinking he had miss heard.

“er- uhm- e- excuse me?

[Demi Smith]

Only an idiot took a nap on a desk, and Demi was tempted to point that out. It didn't even matter that she'd done that a few times before herself: she'd made sure to do it during class, which made it an act of defiance (much like pretty well everything Demi did, really). For now, she settle with a snort.

Which turned into an eye-roll as Andrew asked his question. "It's a present. Because that's apparently what you do for Christmas or whatever," she said, folding her arms over her chest. Clearly she still didn't care about the fact that it wasn't really anywhere close to Christmas and that Andrew quite obviously didn't expect a gift from her. This was what you did, and this was Demi at least trying.

She did feel like she should try explaining too: "You're one of the few people who I kinda know around here and all," she added a shrug, "so I figured I should get you something." she tapped the present. "I made it myself."

Those last few words probably filled Andrew with something like terror. They just made Demi step back and fold her arms while looking at him expectantly.

[Andrew Wylen]

Demi gave a snide puff, then –eyes set rolling by Andrew’s comment- began to explain in that pompous, condescending, conceited and slightly sarcastic way of hers. For a second, though, even this merely left the boy further within the realms of befuddlement, mind scrambling to return to the present after his somber reminiscences as they wreathed about him, cold and tangled like the web of some cruel beast.

Christmas? In truth, Andrew had not exactly celebrated that day this year, as such, neither had he given or received anything in particular; except, in a way, to and from Devyn. In regards to any recognition of the holiday on his family’s part, these remained conspicuously absent.

Perhaps there was a part of the boy who thought that the card had gotten lost in the mail, that something happened and they were simply too busy, that anything had occurred, anything at all; but he knew that these justifications were in vain, after all, he understood why they were avoiding him, besides, who could really blame them? He had nearly mauled there son in law to death after all…

Andrew shook his head in a dog like manner, sending the sudden and terrifying images of blood fleeing in all directions, mind grasping for something else to think of, no, something to escape to.

Demi’s voice.

He clung to that rope like a drowning puppy to a piece of splintered flotsam, just managing to bob above the surface of a great storming sea; lightning flashing overhead and monsters of the deep tickling his paws with their sleek eel like bodies. The moment passed and Andrew, blinked, staring down at the package held tentatively in each hand, the portion of the boy’s mind that had remained alert causing him to bite his lower lip nervously, the words “I made it myself” leaving him, vaguely, uncertain.

Knowing Demi, or, at least, having a somewhat defined conception of her, he had not the slightest idea as to what he would find upon opening the package; a shirt? A back pack? A bracelet of severed rabbit heads? Honestly, Andrew would not have been terribly surprised at any of those three outcomes, but, nonetheless, she was now looking upon him expectantly, which, on this account, he at least knew what would happen if he declined her most gracious gift, and, that –the boy determined with a gulp- was all the motivation he required.

He reached out, taking one hand –eyes squinted somewhat lest he loose his lunch- before tearing open the package, blinking, to find-

A pack of some form, it appeared that one of his guesses had been correct; though, despite this, the article was unlike any Andrew had ever seen. The straps were there, yes, however as were a myriad of other loose ropes and buckles, hanging exposed as though to form an unnecessarily rigid fit against its holder.

Andrew glanced up towards the Demi, wondering for half a second what to say before managing with a hesitant air.

“I- I- uhm- t- thank you” the statement lingered for a moment, before siphoning away into silence, his unspoken inquiry ringing within the words, uncertain, as to what exactly the device was meant to do.

((OOC Note: It seems as though every week something new arises, however, my terrible apologies Fate, for how gradual my posts have been these last few days; the end of the semester has finally come upon my classes like some ferocious beast and now it seems as though every day I am having a final, or a unit test, et cetra. Nonetheless, please forgive my tardiness and I hope you have a wonderful day, bye.))

[Demi Smith]

Demi waited impatiently, arms still crossed, as Andrew unwrapped his present. She waited to see his reaction, waiting for a bit for him to say something. In point of fact, Demi readied herself to attack, figuring that Andrew would say something stupid and therefore earn it. Surely he'd say something like "what is it" or "I didn't get you anything" or...

or thank you, she guessed. Demi snorted, looking away for a moment, a touch of color not related to her usual anger and frustration rising to her cheeks for a moment before being beaten right back down. "It's a pack," she explained, moving closer. She tapped it, nodding. "I put it together with stuff, because that's what they taught us," and what Demi believed everyone should do, of course, especially if they were a mutant, at least until they got machines to do it.

"I figured you needed something for when you turned into a dog, and this should work for that pretty good," she nodded and tapped it again, before folding her arms and looking at him again, challenging him to suggest that it was a bad idea or say anything that could be remotely construed as being negative toward the gesture.

{seriously; no worries. RL before RP, and I'm not gonna stress if it takes you a bit to respond}

[Andrew Wylen]

Demi was unique in many aspects, as, indeed, gift giving seemed to be no exception; the girl standing, taught of back and wielding an expression that would have chilled Hannibal to the bone as Andrew attempted to give his stuttered thanks. Upon their first meeting, the two had argued over her cultist ideals, or, perhaps more accurately, the boy had stammered as the girl told him, quite assertively, that he was woefully incorrect on all accounts. Nevertheless, even then, it had surprised Andrew how entirely certain Demi was of her own nature; indeed, the boy was taken aback by how the girl could be so seemingly naïve, yet -at the same time- remain entirely arrogant. Was it a lack of understanding? Or was it rather the lack of a yearning for understanding?

Andrew shook his head, maybe everyone was then ignorant to some degree, however, at the moment Demi had begun to speak once more in explanation; drawing his mind from the wandering realms of thought, and back to reality’s cold, callous, grip.

It was true: backpacks were not entirely helpful as a Labrador, yet, nonetheless, the form was also somewhat impractical as a manner of reaching his classes due to the small matter that he generally lost his clothes and inhibitions during the process. indeed, it was just as likely that Andrew would make it to his intended destination in such a state as it was that he would find himself ripping pillows to shreds or snapping a piece of chicken from someone’s outstretched hand; neither of which were incidents he was terribly inclined to repeat.

Not to say that he that he would utter such things within a mile radius of Demi’s hearing; his skin was, after all, quite dear to him. Yet, on such an acount, this left Andrew stammering out his appreciation in a vaguely incoherent manner, tongue darting to an uncertain tune as nervous eyes flit between the rumpled gift and the girl’s cold glare.

[Demi Smith]

Okay, so Demi was really trying here. Everyone kept telling her that she needed to make friends and Andrew was pretty much the only person she knew here who wasn't a few years older than her (or a lot in some cases). Plus, they technically lived together, which made them sort of family or something. But he just kept doing stupid stuff like this.

Stuff that led to Demi rolling her eyes. "Oh come on!" she said, gesturing. "it's just a dumb gift I made. Stop stuttering already," she stepped forward and prodded the gift. "I sewed it myself and it's just made out of stuff that I could get a hold of. Don't worry," she rolled her eyes again: "I didn't steal anything. So you don't have to make a big deal out of it."

Demi snorted again before moving back a few steps. She folded her arms over her chest, then unfolded them, shifting her stance a few times before looking away. "It's just a Christmas present," she reiterated. "You know," she gestured, "because that's what you do. So, yeah," she shrugged and turned away, even walking as if to leave.

[Andrew Wylen]

It seemed that his stammering did little to improve Demi’s mood as she professed her annoyance, then turned and stormed off towards to the door; motes of dust seeming to billow up behind the girl like a swirling cloak, however, that could have merely been his imagination. Andrew glanced down at the gift, then up towards demi- blinking.

A knife jabbed inches from the boy’s face, metal rebounding off of the wooden floor as he yelped and scrambled to his feet. Andrew backed away, shirtless and plastered with gravy; a state that would likely have left him relatively embarrassed had it not been for the man now rounding the toppled table after him.

“John! He is just a boy!” a muffled voice pleaded from behind the room’s far door, a single chair barring it from being opened.

The figure glanced towards the words, distracted for a moment before turning back upon Andrew, a pained look upon his wide face.

“I have to do this.” he said through clenched teeth, as though attempting to convince himself of such a notion. John approached Andrew tenuously, the quivering boy retreating until he found his back against the wall. “They’ll understand” he muttered, his short stumps of fingers growing firm about the weapon’s hilt “after i- after i-“

“John Please-!” the voice called.

“STOP JENNIFFIER!” he roared suddenly, pausing to look back once more, his stance unyielding. “I AM DOING THIS FOR YOU, FOR ALL OF US!”

“Please if we just talk about this- I am certain this is all just a misunderstanding-!” it was Andrew’s father, the door knob clicking as someone attempted to pull at it.

The John ignored this, shaking his head –almost as though in emulation of Andrew’s nervous tick- and continued his approach, blade held aloft, whispering. “Come here, I swear it will be quick kid, there’s no reason for you to- ulgh!”

The man sputtered as he was hit by the chair Andrew kicked towards him, sprinting towards the door, towards life-

The man caught his shoulder.

No, the boy thought, no, it cannot end this way. Yet, it was. He could see the knife, he watched as John closed his eyes, unwilling to meet the his terrified gaze.

Then Andrew changed.

He found himself back in that room, months later, staring blankly as Demi strode away from him in a huff. Andrew’s thoughts were muddled, confused, as though he were looking at the world through an all but palpable fog of- of what? Regret? Terror? Sorrow? Could such an emotion even be expressed? He shook his head, no, he could not ponder such things, or, at least, not now.

“I- I am sorry” Andrew finally said simply, tone somber. “I- I-“ he searched for the right words, not entirely certain as to why he was apologizing in the first place. “It truly is a nice gift, thank you…” he paused for a moment, adding after half a second’s consideration “Demi.”

[Demi Smith]

Weird, but Demi could have sworn that Andrew spaced out for a bit there. She'd turned back to look at him, and her face crinkled in confusion as whatever was going through his head went through it. Demi's power didn't have anything to do with reading thoughts (thank Those That Came Before), so she didn't know what was really going on there. He seemed a lot more somber when he actually spoke again, seeming to struggle to find the right words.

"Uh, okay," Demi said, she looked away. "You're just... you're the only one here that, like, I actually spend time with," Demi shrugged. "Well, besides people I train with," another pause, "The only person my age, I guess." She looked back to Andrew, staring at him. "You still suck though," she said. Another pause, and she studied him, then she frowned. "What's with your face though? You said it was good, right?"

Demi took a few steps forward, frowning and looking at it. She'd really tried with this, as best she could. He had all those books and stuff, so she figured he'd like something to carry them in. It wasn't like she knew much more... mostly because she spent most of her time barking at him. But like she said: he was the only one close to her age that she spent that much time with. She studied with people years younger because of her obvious lack of knowledge, and she trained with people years older because of her skill. So really Andrew was the only person she had.

Which just sucked so much. Especially right now.