MALIN, Armand

[armand]

ARMAND MALIN !?
'a line of lyrics to describe your character'

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”You want to know more about me, hmn? Right. Then read the damn paper. I don’t have time for this.” –Armand Malin
FULL NAME Armand Malin
NICKNAMES “Mandy” – From Calli. Other than that? Absolutely none. He doesn’t like nicknames. Use them at your own risk.
AGE Armand died when he was nineteen on October 2, 1998. He’s existed for thirty three years, but still looks to be the age he was when he died.
GENDER Most definitely male.
BIRTHDAY December 13, 1979
SPECIES Fallen Angel.
ALLIANCE Darkl.
SEXUALITY Pansexual.

PLAY-BY Kyo of Dir en Grey. (Tooru Nishimura )
EYES Almond shaped – deep amber.
HAIR Dark roots (he had them when he died, and curses the fact that he’ll never be able to get rid of them) and bleached hair. It’s thick and coarse, the back barely long enough to brush over the base of his neck. His bangs, shaggy and purposefully cut uneven, cover one eye. At times, you’ll find him with tousled, teased hair. Touch it and suffer his wrath.
BODY TYPE Slim and lean.
HEIGHT Five foot, two inches.
WEIGHT One hundred and twenty three pounds.
DISTINGUISHING FEATURES Two large, angular scars trail alongside his spine. They tell of wings which once stood proudly behind him.
STYLE Pure, hard core visual kei. Visual kei is a sort of subculture in Japan, influenced heavily by music and visual bands. These bands usually wear make-up, dye their hair and wear eccentric sorts of clothing. Armand fits into the category of “kotevi kei”, or “classic visual kei”. He wears mainly dark, tight fitting clothes, but has quite the liking for white button-down shirts with sleeves that are too long for him, black blazers and ties with obscure writing. His shoes usually add about five inches, sometimes six, to his height and his makeup is always experimental, and dark.

LIKES At least 10.

• Nighttime is one of Armand’s favorite things. The sunlight of day time reminds him of his old home, beyond the pearled gates and winding golden paths in the clouds, and his heart falls heavily to his stomach when he sets eyes upon that familiar hue of Prussian blue behind streaks of clouds. And so, he avoids it completely. Armand is – in the most simple of terms – nocturnal. He treats his nights as a human would treat days. The brilliant, bright moon is his sun, and the stars are his companions. He finds hope in darkness, and does not fear it as he once did.
  
• Music – Any kind will do. He’s a particular fan of classical music, though it would be hard to guess it from just looking at him. He also, of course, likes anything that could successfully make him feel emotion. Make him feel… alive again.
  
• Finding something lost – that is, something that someone else has lost. “Finders-keepers” is one of Armand’s favorite mottos to live by. As a result, he’s accumulated all kinds of knick-knacks and artifacts over the years. And he never returns them. Oh, and, Armand’s definition of lost could mean that you’ve simply set your phone down for a moment to retrieve a glass of water. Upon arriving to where you’ve left it, you’ll find that it’s gone. And probably ended up in Armand’s pocket.
  
• Sea shells are his favorite knick-knack. He has dozens of them. They remind him of the ocean and of the beach, which he has not seen since his last mission as a guardian angel. He loves to listen to them, hear that roaring and lapping of waves as he once used to, each and every day.
  
• Imperfection. Flaws are what makes someone (or something) beautiful. Too bad that even his own God can’t see that.
  
• Armand is drawn to innocence. But it’s more complicated than you might think. Though he becomes annoyed by those who are too innocent, he still feels a pull toward them and a desire to protect them. This is probably left over from his experience as a guardian.
  
• Clubs are full of the greatest evils that humans know: drugs, alcohol and sex. While those three things don’t necessarily appeal to Armand (definitely not the drugs, but the alcohol was his vice in life), he does like the loudness of it all. The flashing lights and the pulsating dancing of the crowds inside of clubs are the best distractions he could hope for. He’s careful to stay on the outskirts of the crowds, so he won’t be touched. Just watching and drinking is enough.
  
• Armand is a masochist. Plain and simple, it means that he enjoys pain. He likes to be bruised, to bleed, and to be beaten. Now, hold on, don’t look like that! Some people may think its sick, but it’s one of the only ways he knows how to feel alive. And to know that perhaps there is a purpose to living. He was this way when he lived, and the perks of having fallen from the heavens means that he’s able to return to this foul habit.
  
• There is only one instrument that Armand owns – a piano – and it’s older than he is. By many, many years. A couple left it outside after moving, deciding that it was too hefty to endure a long move, and he immediately snatched it up for himself. As a child, he took lessons under order of his mother. She hoped that it would keep him from getting into brawls. While it did provide a nice distraction, he still got into fights.
  
• It was a bad habit, but he loved it. Armand would start fights purposefully. Brawling is something that stuck with him through childhood. He tries not to let it happen anymore, as he doesn’t want to go around handing out his memories like candy. The desire still stands strong in him.
  
• A small music box that belonged to his younger sister. He’s held onto it, even past death. And it took him forever to find it.
  

DISLIKES At least 10.

• Daytime – As stated before, Armand cannot stand the gleam of sunlight or blues of the day sky. He sleeps through it to avoid it completely, and goes to bed upon sunrise.
  
• For obvious reasons, Armand doesn’t like to be touched. He doesn’t want anyone having easy access to his memories. That makes him vulnerable to criticism and relentless cruelty. Never, if he can help it, will he allow anyone to touch him.
  
• Aviated creatures strike unreasonable fury inside of Armand’s heart. Upon seeing a winged, flying creature, he loses sight of his logic. He misses his own wings dearly, and it is painful for him to remember that he will never fly again, as he once did. Birds, in particular, infuriate him. If he’s close enough, he’ll throw something at them.
  
• Though Armand is drawn to innocence, and often desires to protect it, it still bothers him. He’s annoyed by those who are untainted by even the least serious of evils. It’s definitely something about him that is complicated.
  
• The black and white concept of good and evils seems outdated to Armand. He has no desire to label people so that way, not even if life did he feel the need. When his wings were ripped from him, he felt this more strongly than ever. Everyone is corrupt in Armand’s eyes, and everyone is a gradation of what is evil. God is the most corrupt of us all, he says. This is also one of the very reasons that he has no alliance and remains to be neutral.
  
• Perfection. He simply doesn’t believe in it and detests that it is what society must strive for to please their God.
  
• Confrontation that isn’t physical really rubs Armand the wrong way. If someone is angry with him, he shuts down and immediately becomes defensive. He would rather throw a punch than answer any questions or talk things out, but he’ll probably just run away.
  
• Religious die-hards. Armand doesn’t understand why they waste their time with fussing with bibles or crosses. Just live while you can live, you’ll be dead soon anyways. Then you can devote all of your time to God. He’ll probably just reject you anyways.
  
• Crying children. He can’t stand the sound. Like brittle nails raking over a chalkboard. Make it stop… Make it stop…
  
• Cherubs, angels, and all things heavenly. He doesn’t hate them, but he hates what they stand for. Seeing images of them, statues of them, it reminds him of his home and where he was forever banned from. Resentment for them swells in the caverns of his heart.
  
• Armand detests graveyards and everything that comes with them. The smell of dirt smothering decaying flesh, and the dying flowers abandoned in moss-covered vases. Neglected grass and foliage. He will always stay as far away from them as he possibly can. This is likely due to the death that he suffered.
  
• Armand is claustrophobic. Small spaces can really put him on edge, and can sometimes cause him to go into a panic attack.

STRENGTHS At least 4.

• Need a skilled fist-fighter? Armand’s been doing it for years and is very, very good at it.
  
• Listening is something he does selectively, but can pay particular attention to detail if he wishes to. So, he’s a good listener when he wishes to be.
  
• While he doesn’t like being around small children who are crying, Armand is very good with kids. He had practice with raising his younger sister, who happens to be about ten years younger than himself.
  
• Armand isn’t judgmental of other people; in fact, he’s very accepting of flaws or differences he has with other people. Evil or good, lying or genuine, he’s blind to that.
  

WEAKNESSES At least 4.

• Drinking and smoking happen to be his standing vices. He picked up again upon falling from heaven.
  
• He lives as a human, though he knows he can never be one again. When this is pointed out by others of his kind, he refuses to acknowledge it. Armand wishes very dearly to live like a human. And if someone were to offer him the opportunity at a hefty price, he would take it. To be able to touch other humans without worrying about his memories, to dine with them and dance with them. To be intimate with them. This is, perhaps, his greatest weakness.
  
• Armand has quite the tendency to sulk, brood, and dwell on things quietly. He comes across as cold. And people will often dislike him for it.
  
• It’s very easy to get under Armand’s skin. One word out of line will have his temper soaring through the sky. He does his best to control himself, but when he’s pissed off he finds it difficult not to throw punches.
  
• Young children. Armand can’t resist a sweet face. He loves them (most of them, anyhow), and would do anything to keep them safe.
  

HABITS At least 3.

• Swearing. Armand swears quite a bit.
  
• Smoking and drinking, yet again, are his vices.
  
• Self-mutilation.
  
• Nail-biting.
  

FEARS At least 3.

• The very nature of what he is. He hates that he has no place in the world. No natural home. And he’s terrified that it will be that way forever, drifting between the worlds of what is living and what serves to help or destroy the living. Drifting as if he’s not living and feeling like he’s not alive.
  
• His deepest, most secret memories being viewed like a picture-show in the mind of another.
  
• The death of his little sister, as well as her discovery of what has become of him. He doesn’t want to disappoint her, nor does he want her to feel pain.
  
• Closed spaces.
  

DESIRES At least 1.

• To feel alive as he once did. That’s all.
  

SECRETS At least 1.

• His very identity is a secret. As he’s already “died”, he can’t run around giving out his real name.
  

OVERALL
Armand is complex. He has the ability to be either good or evil, but chooses to do neither. He sees himself as a gradation between black and white, and doesn’t believe it’s possible to fall directly on one or the other. As a result, many of the things he’s done could be considered to be “evil” and many of the things he’s done could be considered to be “good”. This is the very reason that he has no place in this war between what is “dark” and what is “light”. He chooses to live as though he’s oblivious to it all. As though he’s human.
He might as well be, with how he lives. Just as he was as a human, he’s a masochist, addicted to the pleasure of self-mutilation, alcohol and smoking. Very little makes him happy, outside of those things. He enjoys hunting for new treasures, artifacts to add to his collection of odds and ends, and still plays his piano to calm his nerves, and prevent himself from seeking trouble or brawls.
Typical of others of his kind, he looks upon the gates of heaven with disdain. Anything that reminds him of those pearly gates or the set of wings that were torn from him shakes him incredibly badly; he becomes furious at the sight of wings or portraits of angels. And he harbors a thick fury toward God and all that follow him. His feelings toward Satan are the same. He renounces all kind of religion, finding it to be corrupt, and lives as though he knows nothing of it.
The love for his sister is the one good thing he managed to hold onto throughout the burden of time. He continues to care for her from afar, and he keeps a close watch on her, though never presenting himself to her.

MOTHER Anastasie Malin (alive).
FATHER Hiroki Malin (deceased – I should note that he took her last name. Why? Because he liked it more).
SIBLINGS Callisto “Calli” Malin.
OTHER PERSONS OF IMPORTANCE Mortimer Slutzky – his boss. He was kind enough to give him a job working as bus boy at a restaurant without asking too many questions. Because of this man – “Mister Slutzky” – Armand was able to get a new apartment under his name. They’re somewhat close.
ETHNICITY Half Japanese, half American (French heritage).
WEALTH STATUS Lower class.
OVERALL
“I just don’t know what you were thinking, Armand! You’re smarter than this! Better than this!”

Streaks of crimson and orange lingered in the sky, the giant, burning sun slowly falling down beyond the dying autumn leaves. This time of year was the most dreaded for elementary students; summer had finally dwindled away to nothing more than a faint, fleeting memory and had been replaced with the unfolding of another school year. Another nine months of life to be chained to text books too heavy to carry and augmenting piles of homework. But for Armand Malin, a young, dark haired boy barely turned ten years old, it meant another year of endless torture and bullying. He was short and tiny, and very, very quiet. For whatever reason this didn’t set well with the other children.

But this year, he’d decided, was going to be different. If he was teased again he would teach them a lesson, and no one would ever mess with him again.

“Armand!” His mother called to him again, elegant fingers tucking chocolaty tendrils behind an ear. She was round, and glowing beneath the warm light of the fading sun. Pregnant with another baby. “Armand, answer me! What were you thinking?”

The boy was silent. He’d not dared to move from the stone bench, where a very angry principal had left him to wait. “I don’t know.” He lied softly. “I’m sorry, Mother.” His gaze wandered up to her face.

“Sorry? One of those boys went home with a broken nose! The other lost his front teeth!” His mother hissed, and in her eyes stood something that Armand couldn’t ever remember having seen before: tears. He squirmed at the sight of them. But his mother went on, getting down to her knees in front of him. Each of her hands rest upon his own. “I just… I didn’t know that you were this upset about the baby, Armand. I know it’s difficult… and things are going to change, but—“

“The baby? But Mother, I don’t –“

“—We can’t have you doing things like this with her around! I don’t want you two to fight when she’s older.” Her eyes lingered over the dark stains on his shirt. Blood of one of the boys.

Armand only watched his mother with an empty gaze, a finger stuck between his lips and his teeth biting down on a ragged nail. For weeks, there had been talk of nothing but the baby sister Armand would be receiving. Truthfully, he didn’t care that he was losing his ‘only child status,’ but he did mind that everyone seemed to think that he was so jealous of her. Or that he might possibly harm her.

In the following weeks, Armand was enrolled in piano classes – and private lessons for it. He took to it quickly and, while he loathed the lessons and instructors, loved to play. But it didn’t provide the distraction his mother had hoped it to. He continued to throw punches and get into brawls with other boys, and the seriousness of these scuffles only escalated with time. From time to time, he’d come home with a black eye or a sprained wrist, and it seemed he was always getting into trouble. By the time his younger sister, Callisto (“Calli”), was born, he’d been in more fights than he could count on his fingers and toes.

Despite what his family had thought, Calli’s birth hadn’t really bothered Armand much. If anything, life was much more pleasant after she came into the world. Their parents were busy fussing over her and tending to her needs while Armand kept to his room, only coming out to play the piano and venture off to school. He didn’t love her, nor did he hate her: she was just something that happened, like the progression of days or the turning of clock hands. And he didn’t care enough to spend time with her.

Life went on after her birth, and life was good for each member of the Malin family. Anastasie, mother of both children, cared for Calli and Armand as any devoted mother would. And Hiroki, father, worked hard to ensure that they would never go without. For many, many years, the family knew nothing but happiness, love and good fortune. It’s a shame that it wasn’t too last.
***
Years passed like the turning of tattered pages of a diary, and Armand grew from boy into young man rapidly. And life had taken a drastic turn for the very worst for him. News of a car crash had come in the form of a somber phone call. The phone was ringing, late one evening. Armand and Calli sat across from each other whilst chewing on thick bites of pasta. In another room, there was a loud crash and the most horrible cry of agony.
It was their father, Armand had learned from his aunt (she’d come to care for their mother, who was too distraught to move from bed). He’d been in a fatal car accident, and he wouldn’t be coming home. To each of them, Hiroki’s death had been numbing. It was such a shock, everyone kept saying. “So sad, he was so young. Can you imagine? A sixteen year old and a six year old without a father, and poor Anastasie without a husband.”
Armand couldn’t stand to hear another word. He stole away to his room without finishing his meal, feeling very sick and very empty. All evening, he stayed perched in his sagging bed with his flannel sheets pulled around his strong, quivering shoulders, until his beloved sun outside had abandoned him. All that was left was smooth, pale face of the moon which shed beams of silver light through the panes of his window, decanting freely over rolling grey carpet and discarded clothing.
“That’s it then, isn’t it?” Armand heard his own voice, felt it rumble in his chest. It didn’t feel like his. It was too distant, though familiar. His arm were winding tightly around his waist, cradling him. Tears stood in his eyes, but he couldn’t make them fall. “You’re gone… you’re really gone.”
There was a timid knock on the door.
“Go away.”
A pause. Then another knock, bolder than the first.
Armand chose to it ignore it this time, his eyes closing. Shut it out, he told himself. Don’t let it in. Don’t let it in. He thought of his mother, standing outside. She would have her hands on her hips, her lips would be pursed. Her voice would be sharp as she ordered him to open the door, her curling tendrils of brown tucked behind her ears and her nostrils flaring.
The door opened with a quiet squeak, and tiny footsteps pattered to his bedside. Armand frowned. Too tiny to be his mother’s.
“Mandy…?” Callisto’s voice was small. Thin. Worn. Too worn to belong to a six-year-old.
Armand opened his eyes and sure enough, there she was. Her round cheeks stained with tears and her nose was running. In her tiny, chubby hands, she was clutching onto a tattered teddy bear that Armand didn’t recognize. “Callisto…” He said, heaving an exhausted sigh. “What are you doing out of bed? If mom sees you here—“ He stopped short. She wouldn’t be seeing anyone, he reminded himself, no in the state she was in. “—Well, uh. You’re not supposed to be up. It’s passed your bedtime.”
“I know…” She stepped into the light, half of her face hidden in shadows. She hiccupped and sputtered slightly. Armand felt a pang of annoyance. It was absolutely pitiful, the way she was acting. “I’m j-just worried about M-mommy. I w-wanted to sleep in her room but the door w-was locked.”
“So you came here?”
“C-can’t I stay here with you tonight, Mandy? P-please?”
“… You’ve got to be kidding.” Until now, Armand and Calli had not shared space together. He doubted that he’d even exchanged more than a few hellos and goodbyes with her. And perhaps the occasional, empty ‘I love you’. “You really want to stay in here? With me?”
“You’re m-my older brother, aren’t you?” She whimpered, still hugging onto her bear.
Without thinking, he snapped at her, “What difference does that make?”
Callisto winced and fresh tears glistened on his cheeks. “I-I… I want… p-please... I won’t bother you.” She looked defeated.

“… Ngh.”

It seemed that he didn’t have any choice, did he? If she cried too loudly, it would mean trouble. He didn’t know his aunt that well but if he had to guess, he was sure that she wasn’t the kind of woman who would have taken kindly to midnight wake up calls. And so, she climbed into his bed happily, right into his lap, her head upon his chest.

Armand had never realized how small she was, how fragile and warm, until he’d held her. Should he squeeze too hard, would she shatter like the tiny doll that she resembled? How was it that he’d never noticed how the color of her hair matched their mothers so perfectly? And why hadn’t he seen it, her innocence, so clearly like he saw now?

“I love you, Mandy. Don’t be sad. Daddy’s in heaven.” She said, her fingers curling in his hair and her arms around his neck. Her eyelashes, long like thick, black fern leaves, fluttered when she glanced up at him. The light of the moon caught the deep amber shade of one eye and the brilliant, shimmering preternatural hue of the other. Armand could hardly believe what he saw. The iris of her eye was a color like lavender petals. He blinked a few times, but it didn’t change.

Armand’s grip tightened her on and his breath bated. With the utmost of care, his lips found the top of her small head and rested idly against her hair as he murmured. “Of course he is, Callisto… I won’t worry about him.”

“I said I love you.” Calli whispered back, but she was already drifting into sleep. Hours went by and she stayed like that in Armand’s arms, with him holding her close and protectively. It was when the sun was rising again and morning had come that he finally fell back into the mattress, she with her cheek still resting over his tired heart.

Before his own drowsiness took him, he spoke to her, “I love you, too, Calli. I’ll protect you forever. I swear I will. Until the day I die. And after. I will do anything for you.”

***

After Hiroki’s death, Anastasie was never the same again. Her eyes were always tired. And she didn’t speak unless prompted to appropriately and took no real interest in her children. Armand, who didn’t care for his mother’s behavior, tended to most of Calli’s needs day by day. He fed her in the morning and at night, packed a lunch for her to take to school (though he never could make anything much more impressive than a bologna sandwich), dressed her and tucked her in at night. When she was too afraid of the monsters in her closet to stay in her bed, she’d come sleep in his. And when he was lonely, he would ask her to.
Ana hardly noticed that her son was acting as father and mother to her daughter, and he thought that she had yet to notice the bruises and cuts that were so common over his body these days. If she did, she never mentioned it.
But seven-year-old Callisto did.
She pointed it out one November, Thursday afternoon. Armand was busy with his messenger bag on the marble countertop of the kitchen, and she was standing at his side, gazing up at him with large, wondering eyes as she usually did. “Mandy?” She asked.
“Hmn?” He kept pawing.
“Where’d that cut on your lip come from? And those burns on your arm?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you been hitting people again? Mandy, I don’t like it when you do that.” Her tiny hand clasped his sleeve and tugged.
Armand had found what he’d been looking for. Without answering, he presented her with a brand-new Barbie doll. Distracted, she hugged Armand then ran off to play with it. And for a day, he was in the clear – free to kick back and enjoy the wine box his mother neglected, and to be free from worrying about his sister knowing the truth. He’d been fighting again – and this time, it was intentional. He’d liked the pain. So he’d started provoking people to get a few punches from them. It was working flawlessly.
But while Armand was getting more and more comfortable with his own lifestyle, Anastasie was growing more bored with her own. Determined to find a change of scenery, she called up a friend in New York City and made arrangements to move there at once. Armand begged and pleaded with her once she told him of her plan.
“Calli is happy here,” He said stubbornly, “Do you really want to drag her all the way to New York, kicking and screaming?!”
Ana, unable to argue, agreed to let Calli and Armand stay while she went to scout out New York. It would be decided later on if they were to actually move. Armand was pleased.
For a while, life went on without giving them troubles. Armand took care of her as he always had, and they were both very, very happy. Until Calli fell ill.
No matter what he did, she didn’t get better. He wrapped her tightly in blankets, propped her head up on dozens of fluffy pillows and brought her soup. She wouldn’t eat and she coughed. Dear God, that cough. Her sweet little cheeks were flushed and damp, practically sweltering with heat. And her shoulders would shudder each time she tried to draw a wheezy breath. From time to time she would try to get out of bed, but Armand would refuse. “I want to play.” She’d cry. “I want to play!” But he wouldn’t budge.
Days went by and her condition only worsened. Armand was beginning to panic. He found himself envisioning her in a small, doll-sized coffin, with a pale face and no warmth of life. Her tiny hands full with daisies and her teddy bear resting over cheap silk that she would be buried in. His mother would be crying at his side, asking why he’d demanded they stay there. Why couldn’t they have just gone along with her? None of this would have happened if he’d just listened to her.
Infuriated with himself, Armand took to the kitchen one night while Callisto was sleeping. He dug through drawers and cabinets, searching hard for something that may give her some relief from her sickness. But there was nothing. Not a drop of medicine, not a tablet in sight. His heart beat was thudding and pounding against his eardrums and his mind was screaming with guilt. What could he do? He needed to calm down!
Armand thought vaguely of the fights he’d been in over the years. How the pain of a fist against his jaw stung so deliciously, the way the burn of a cigarette’s lit end against his skin could tame his nerves. Perhaps… if he could just feel a little bit of pain, he wouldn’t be so on edge.
It was then that he spotted it: that beautiful, gleaming blade of the steak-knife.
“Just one cut… not too deep.” He was telling himself and he grabbed it by the hilt. “Just one.”
One cut became two, and two became three. The feeling was just so intoxicating. Over and over and over again. Blood, long, winding crimson rivers, trickled down to his palm and dripped from his fingertips to the linoleum floor. He felt relief and joy, like he’d never felt it before. As he sunk down to his knees, wide eyes fixed on those wide gashes, a fit of euphoric laughter erupted from deep inside of his chest. It grew louder and louder. His arms were shaking in ecstasy.
But it all went very, very wrong quickly. Linoleum met his forehead and darkness peeled into the edges of his vision. His consciousness was fading. And time was movingly at an unnatural pace. He blinked and he had the feeling that he was being lifted into a white room, loud sirens only distant cries behind white noise. He heard Calli’s voice. Frantic, thick, faint. “He’s very sick. Help him first, please! He’s my brother! He’s hurting, please make him happy! Don’t let him die!”
All fell quiet. Armand submerged into darkness.
***
When Armand awoke, he was alive. Sore, tired and cranky, but alive. And he was thrilled to find that his mother had flown home upon receiving word of his condition, and that Calli was in much better shape. She would be well in no time. He was more than ready to make the journey home and put all of this in the past. They could all forget about the little stunt that he’d pulled and go back to being a real family, like they used to be.
Or, so he’d hoped.
It wasn’t to be. It had been decided – by both doctors and his mother – that he needed to be further evaluated in order to determine whether or not he was still a danger to himself.
- Ana returns immediately while Armand is held in the hospital. The doctors feel that it is best that he receives professional treatment, and it is recommended that he spend time in a mental institution to be further evaluated and determine whether or not he is a danger to himself.
- While in the institution, Ana brings him a number of things from home. Books to read, a bible, clean socks, and a music box with a letter stowed inside from Calli. He wasn’t allowed to keep the music box, should he shatter it and use the pieces to cut himself, but he was allowed to view it and toy with it under close supervision. The letter, however, he was allowed to keep.

- He was released a full month later, declared bipolar by the professionals. So he didn’t leave without a thick prescription. When he returned home, his mother doted on him as she did before. And his sister seemed happy enough. Most of his time was spent in the house, playing with Calli and playing a lullaby he’d written for her. He thought that maybe things would go back to the way they’d been.
- -But it wasn’t to last; Ana found another man and went out frequently. She didn’t notice his smoking, or his drinking, and though did mention from time to time that he shouldn’t wear so much makeup, or any at all. Again, Armand was tending to Calli, though it was something he was much better at now. Keeping her happy was no challenge, as long as he hid new bruises from fighting and burns from his bad habit. Calli started sleeping in his room again, too. And they were closer than ever. He even built a tree house for her from scraps of wood he and his friends stole. Upon her ninth birthday, he presented it to her.
- But the fights were getting worse. He’d been out one evening and happened upon a dark alleyway. A large, greasy man inhabited it. He catcalled at Armand, and reached out, saying, “Whassa’ pretty lit’le thing like yerself doin’ out here? So alone…? C’mere pret’y boy. I’ll give you a good time.” And so, they struggled. Armand lost his temper, and wailed on the guy, one fist after the other sinking into the other’s slick, oily flabs of skin. By the time he escapes the alley, he’s done some damage. But not without getting messed up, too.
- A week later, Armand goes out at night. Ana happens to be home that evening. It’s October and the leaves and rustling in the wind. It’s near eleven PM. A few times he stops short, swearing that he could hear voices following him. He begins to wonder if he is going crazy. Make a note to mention that he hates the night time and much prefers day.
- He’s jumped. A bag is thrown over his head and he’s out unnumbered. “You shouldn’t have messed with us” familiar voice says. The sound of a shovel. The smell of wet dirt. Laughter. Cruel laughter. Soon, he’s shoved and he falls into what he thinks is a ditch. The taste of dirt. He’s told to lie down but tries to scramble away. The sound of a gun makes him freeze and obey. With a lurch in his stomach, he realizes as he feels load upon load of dirt cover him what’s happening. He screams loudly, but no one comes to help him. He suffocates to death under a mound of dirt, among corpses.

- Then, there was nothing but light. It poured over him and his vision slowly cleared. He saw pearly gates and a man with large, feathery wings dressed in white robes before him. His own clothes gone. The man had a list. He checks for his name, and he’s allowed in – by the skin of his teeth. But on one condition – he has to successful guard over a young human male.
- Things go smoothly for a while. He lives beyond the pearled gates, adorned with a pair of his own wings. He spends most of his time flying, invisible to the eyes of humans, watching his own. He admired the beach on which he lived, and watch the boy spend time on the shores sketching out the horizon and humming while he did it. There were many evenings that he sat there next to him, the boy never seeing him. Daniel was his name.
- But he failed. Daniel received word that his girlfriend, who he’d loved for years from afar, had died in a car accident. Terribly upset by it, he went to kill himself. Armand appeared before him and went to tell him not to, but it was too late. Daniel shot himself in a drunken stupor.
- So, his wings were ripped away and he was stripped of his angelic title. He became a fallen angel, drifting among the humans with no home. A man by the name of Mortimer Slutzky took pity on him, when he found him on the streets, and offered him a job. Armand explained to him that he had no ID to offer, and but Mister Slutzky didn’t listen. He gave Armand the job and helped him to rent an apartment, allowing him to use it under his own name. He doesn’t ask questions.
- Over time, he grew comfortable in the city that used to be home. Years go by and he happens upon his old home, despite the risk. And then he sees her: his sister, Calli. Grown now, leaving the house. Perhaps she had been visiting their mother, or maybe she would have been living there still. He sneaks inside through an open window, steals across the house to Calii’s old room. There, he finds it: the music box. He takes it.
- Ever since then, he’s taken to watching over her. He trails her often, makes that she’s safe. When he’s not doing that, he’s working or hunting for new treasures.

NAME/ALIAS Louis.
AGE Nineteen – Twenty in September. On the twentieth.
TIME ZONE Alaskan Standard Time.
HOW YOU FOUND US Kai. <3
OTHER CHARACTERS --
RP SAMPLE

Embers drifted upwards from golden, wispy flames and hung in the air. Like minuscule, illuminated insects they would flutter from the fireplace in small flocks only to fade into the empty night. But there was no one to take notice of the cozy fire, nor to the large cat curled up next to it’s dancing waves of light. Save for one mere Gryffindor sixth year, with hair more red than even upholstery of the number of house-spirited decorations and pillows that were strewn about. The color of it was a shock for most students that saw him: though he had been attending Hogwarts for five years (now steadily plowing into his sixth), it was as though he’d been ignored for all of that time. His hair had never changed, nor had his style, and yet he still received stares and pointing, vulgar comments as he pushed his way through corridors.

Childish lot, really. Sometimes he wondered if they even knew that he his name was Benji, not “Hey Faggot”. At least he’d learned to counter it with a hearty, “Thank you! I was going for faggotry today - just so I could attract a sexy man like you! Do me in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom?” Though the mention of Myrtle and a sexy man in the same breathe often made Benji feel uncomfortable. Dead or alive, that was one woman no man should ever have to bang. He’d rather tango with Lucius Malfoy in the midst of soul-hungry dementors.

But despite his feeling of insignificance within the school, whispered rumors and hushed bigotry generally followed this fellow, practically surrounded him day-to-day. About his hair, his clothes, the odd makeup that caked over his face even now - dark liner, white power, smoky shadow, lined, colored lips, and a single, crimson gem that was the shape of a tear glistening between his drawn-on brows.

But usually, suspicious arose sometime after Benji ever opened his mouth. If he wasn’t careful enough - say, yawned too widely and spoke too frequently - other students, as well as teachers, would find a pair of sharp fangs. And then it would begin.

Vampire. Half-breed. Leach. Blood-sucker. Beast. Animal. Monster.

Benji had heard all of it before. And he was certain that he would hear each again. Though Dumbledore had advised against flapping his lips about his “condition”, he felt no desire to hide it. He didn’t want the old Dumbles to give him the boot, but, he certainly didn’t want to pretend to be something he wasn’t. Especially since being half-vampire was a difficult thing to hide from anyone. Fangs couldn’t be shrunk or altered by magic (unless someone yanked them out from your body), and they were noticeable from the moment he were to utter a greeting.

Existence at this school, for Benji, was very lonely. He made few friends - none of them close - and many enemies. That’s not to say that he didn’t go out or do anything. He did. But it was only in passing. He had a number of flings, with a number of people, and each of them had forgotten him by now. Too afraid of the big bad vampire to stick around for a cup of tea the morning after. It was likely that this fear was what kept other students away from him. Even though he played for his house’s Quidditch team, he was left to sit alone during the nights. Heads ducked in and out of the room. But they never stayed: they only drifted away, like quick counterparts of the embers that darted through the air.

A large, elegant hand rose to bury itself in the red nest of hair and Benji sighed. His eyes fell upon the sleeping feline before the fire. Times like this, when he remembered how alone he was, he was glad for her friendship. True, she may not have been the greatest conversationalist. But she was always with him, no matter where he went. While the rest of the school was tucked safely in slumbering dormitories and hiding in the shadows, her silver pelt was always in sight. And it made Benji feel safe. Perhaps even loved. Something that no one else had ever achieved.

“Dumb cat. How are you supposed to keep me company, snoozing away the night?” A genuine smile laid comfortably upon his dark lips. She didn’t even lift her head. “You know how the night treats me, Jasmine. I can’t resist staying awake for it. Why would you sleep when you know I can’t?” Again, there was nothing. Determined to get some sort of response from his friend, Benji heaved himself off of the couch, slouching as he stood. His boots thudded against the carpet as he drew closer to the glow of the fire. “Just like you, sleeping through what I want you to hear.” He crouched next to her, hand resting over her head before following the swooping direction of her long, furry ears. It took a few moments for her to move, but she finally peered up at him with sleepy, ember eyes. Benji gave a meek laugh. “So pathetic that I’m relying on you like that, huh, Jazzie? Just so I don’t...” He cut short and his head fell, hair falling like a thick curtain over his features. “Well anyways. Fuck this place, fuck this house. Why don’t we go out somewhere, huh? Dumbledore can kiss my ass. I’m not followin’ that stupid curfew. I’m not a kid.”

Jasmine’s tasseled tail flicked behind her and after a moment, she got to her feet. As if she understood what it was that Benji wanted, she slunk toward the exit of the common room without a sound. Only a soft mew, calling her friend to her side. Benji moved after her. “We’ll just be gone for a little while, I promise. Then after we get back, you can take all the naps you want, okay?” Her head bobbed, similliar to the way a person might nod. “Good. Let’s go.”

[JURATE]