The Banished

Ethenia


She walked back to the coffee area to begin to read her book while drinking her coffee there. She opened her book and took a sip of coffee and began the first chapter. She liked the series, but hated the names the books had. She got up from her book and walked to the register.
"Hi, can I get a cinnamon scone?" Ethenia asked.
"Yep, just a moment please." The girl responded as she walked away. She came back with a small bag that had the scone. Ethenia already had the money out, she handed the money, got her receipt, and walked back to continue reading her book.

Dhani-

After she read the paper Dhani pulled out her text book and started reading through the chapter on different cultural mythology, as she finished her coffee. Dhani was smart, and since she was a senior she was allowed to take some college courses. Being fascinated with her country's history Ancient Civ. had been a natural choice.

Turning the page, she rubbed the back of her hand absently. Her birthmark had been hurting on and off for days now. Suddenly she glanced down at her hand and for a minute, could have sworn the mark was glowing gold, then she blinked and it was once again black, looking like any other tattoo.

"Great, if I'm starting to hallucinate, I need sleep more then I thought.

Day 1. 8:25am Chelsea

Chelsea yawned and looked at the clock behind her. 8:25. She let her eyes pan across the book store. Only a few people were shopping at this hour. She wasn't surprised to see the coffee shop almost full, though. From the two weeks she had been working the counter, she had gotten a feel for the unspoken and unwritten schedule of things. So she knew that she wouldn't be doing much until noon.

She yawned again. She vowed for the third time that week to sell her computer. Ever since she had discovered the magic of online games, she hadn't been able to tear herself away. She often stayed up into the wee hours of the morning playing them, which she often paid for the next day. Last night had been one of those nights, leaving her with three hours of sleep and an eight hour shift. She had slammed the snooze button three times, putting her fifteen minutes behind schedule. She had all but sprinted to her job, not bothering with a taxie.

And she needed caffeine.

She looked at the clock again. 8:27. She looked around again. Still no one. Her only customer so far was sitting in the coffee shop reading her book, and it didn't look like more were on their way. She sighed and made her way over to the shop.

She slammed her hands down on the counter, startling Joanne, who was working there today.

"Good morning to you, too, sugar." Joanne said when she recovered, crossing her arms.
Chelsea closed her eyes.
"Joanne… coffee. Please. I'm dieing."
"Got a preference?"
"Java."
"Chocolate caramel mocha?" Joanne asked, already moving to make it.
Chelsea collapsed in a nearby chair.
"That works." She said, resting her head on her arms. She had almost dozed off when Joanne nudged her. Chelsea sat up, smiling as the woman in front of her put the cup down on the table.
"Still working on selling that computer?" she asked, frowning and raising an eyebrow, cocking a hip. Chelsea smiled again. It was a typical Joanne pose.
She made a noncommittal sound and bent to sip her coffee.
"Uh-huh. That's what I thought. Sugar, you better watch it, or you're gonna end up like Mozart."
Chelsea looked up in question to meet Joanne's no-nonsense-and-I-mean-it face.
"Dead. From sleep deprivation." She said, looking down at Chelsea.
Few could smirk when being given such a look from Joanne, but Chelsea did it regardless.
"Mozart died from sleep deprivation?"
Joanne was unfazed by the sarcasm in Chelsea's voice, but turned to go to back to the counter, where someone was waiting to order.
"You just look it up, sugar. You'll see."

Chelsea took another drink from her cup, eyes roaming the crowd in the café. They all looked fuzzy, and she felt dizzy. She sat back for a moment, waiting for it to pass. She had been feeling this way a lot recently, probably because of her lack of sleep. That did it. She was selling her computer. She nodded to herself to get it solid in her mind before taking another drink.

-addressed in discussion thread-

Booker wasn't feeling so bad anymore.

After walking a half-mile or so, his mind had cleared and his heart had calmed. The sprinkling of rain felt refreshing and cool on his face and – smiling slightly – he tilted his head back to look at the bastardized sky: a hybrid of black and blue. Bruises, peering down at him.

He closed his eyes as he walked and straightened up. There was nothing to worry about. He just had an overactive imagination and a cynical outlook on life. Nothing dangerous and nothing that needed any sort of professional help. Besides, he needed to remain in the public shadows, out of sight and out of mind. He was sure that the law – the detectives and forensic authorities and police officers - weren't going to give too easily on him. They were tracking him. Day and night, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Revealing himself to a psychologist would attract them to Philly like sharks to a blood spill.

And the long arm of the law had teeth.

Thunder in the distance. A deep, vibrato bass straight from an opera house. Booker turned his face back down and crossed a street, waving to the car he passed in front of. The city streets were congested already and a chorus of honking horns and voices – laughing, crying, singing, talking – played in time to the sky-based percussion, striking once again, closer this time. Stepping back onto the sidewalk, Booker checked his watch.

Eight o'clock.

Breakfast. He was hungry, but he only had a couple of bucks left over from the stereo system he'd unloaded at the pawn shop a week ago. And he had to save it. Breaking fast wasn't a necessity, after all, and he wasn't starving either. Conservation.

Still, the walk-in restaurants and coffee shops he was passing to his right looked terribly appealing. A cup of Joe and a donut; he'd kill for either of them. He toyed with the idea of doing another job that night – maybe a convenience store – but he decided it was too dangerous. Stay small, something told him. Stay small, stay random, stay alive.

Ten feet further down the street he saw a familiar face ducking into a coffee shop. Jillien Miller. A social worker he'd visited a few times in search of counseling and a job, but hadn't stayed in touch with. He'd visited her at the low points of his life. The insecure times. The nightmares.

The guilt.

It was nice to see her though, and he was suddenly reminded of how stunning she looked. The way her body was shaped – lithe and graceful – fashioned by the hands of some divine sculptor that could have surpassed any Michaelangelo, past or present. The way her eyes stole light from the sun and transformed it into sparkling ocean water and the way she moved her sculpted hips. One foot in front of the other, straight down the runway.

Give 'er a ten, boys.

So talk to her.

But she barely knows me.

That can change, you know.

It would be awkward. And she wouldn't be interested. I'm a criminal, for God's sake.

Doesn't matter. Follow her. Watch her.

Stalk her?

Blood, my friend. Boiling.

Get out.

Blood.

He stopped at the door of the coffee shop and looked inside

Day 1. 8:15AM.

Jillien slid into the coffee shop and took in a breathe of cocoa beans and java; it brought a smile to her soft lips for the first time today. She glanced around at the others in the cafe, the smile not leaving her. She loved the atmosphere of coffee houses...so quiet, serene, peaceful--people just having their own private conversations, reconnecting with each other over a hot cup of delicious caffeine.

She sighed and as the door opened behind her she thought it best to move on from the doorway and to the counter.

"What can I get for you?" The kid behind the counter asked. Jillien had to chuckle to herself a bit inaudibly. He must have just been a highschool kid; freakle face and all it reminded her of one of her friends back in New York. Always the most awkward kid in social situations but really a sweetheart in the end.

As Jill realized she was staring, she shook her laugh away and ordered, "Regular chai, please."

She whipped out her credit card and paid the awkward boy, then stepped aside waiting for her order to arrive. In the meantime, she grabbed a short article about the coffee bean fields in Ethiopia and started reading.

Day 1. 8:35am. Tiernan.

Tiernan sat alone in the corner of the cafe, sipping a too-hot Caramel Machiatto and staring at the occupants from under his brow. Something was not right in this place. He brought the cup to his lips, ignoring the searing pain, and took a swallow. Normally he would have enjoyed such an atmosphere-- at this hour, people of all sizes, shapes and colors bustled in and out of the coffee shop, paying far too much for over-processed, ground up beans in a paper cup and corrugated cardboard "heatshield" (recycled, of course). Businessmen took seventy five seconds to order a single drink, cops strutted around with their guns and guts hanging over their belt, and college students, perhaps the most human of them all, held conversations on every topic imaginable, from Voltaire to Voltron, Clinton to Crayons.

But Tiernan was not interested in society, this day--His Watcher's Pendant throbbed softly against his flesh, as though he has not one, but two hearts in his chest. And yet, the mere fact that it was doing anything at all disturbed Tiernan greatly. Banished magic was afoot, and the rift that Oracle had detected was centered on the cafe. He peered around the coffee shop, but nothing struck him as out of the ordinary.

It's there, Oracle assured him silently, probably reading his doubt as easily as the pile of scrolls that no doubt sat around her back in her home. Tiernan spotted no fewer than five other Watchers in the cafe, but he didn't know any of them by name. As was customary none of them acknoledged each other--in fact, it was doubtful any of them even knew the others were there. As Enforcer, Tiernan could pick Watchers out of a crowd as easily as a human might pick a dog out of a group of cats. Their pendants, simple trinkets unique to their owner, glowed softly from under their clothes. Each aura was slightly different, varying in intensity and color from person to person. More often than not, the aura reflected the nature of the Watcher's magic, but occasionally the aura seemed completely random in nature.

He glanced at a Watcher with a particularly deep blue aura, and briefly entertained the notion that one day he would grow to be as powerful as Tiernan. The thought brought a smirk to his face, and he took another sip of his Machiatto.

The world wasn't ready for a human that powerful.

Name: Unknown; referred to as "Brutus"
Gender: Assumed Male
Age: Unknown
Occupation: Renegade
Physical Description/Appearance: Unknown
Background: Used to be a Watcher before he grew upset with the hierarchy and impatient with the system. After murdering three high-ranking Watchers in cold blood, he went into hiding, laying low while he formed his plan and worked his magic to ensure the victory of the Banished at war's end.

Full Name: Joshua Ives
Gender: Male
Age: 18
Birthplace: Sydney, Australia
Occupation: Student
Eyes: Green
Hair: Dark brown
Height: 5'11"
Weight: 170 lbs.
Social Class: Middle

Appearance: Joshua tends to be relaxed and quietly confident. He wears whatever is comfortable, whether it's in fashion or not. He's well built, but tries to avoid violence where possible, preferring to talk his way out of things.
-White t-shirt
-Dark jacket
-Jeans
-Watchers pendant
-Soprano saxophone

Manifestation: Music. Josh can trigger his magic whenever he is playing his saxophone.

Brief History: Josh was born and grew up in Sydney, but moved with his mother to Philadelphia after his father died when he was seven. He began learning the saxophone there at age nine, and quickly showed a talent for it, enjoying it far more than anything else in his life. He found that teachers came and went, however, until one arrived when he was fourteen and began teaching him how to channel magic through his music.

8:33

"James, wake up."
"I don't want to it, hurts and I cant move."
"James, wake up!"
A voice in your head can't really shout at you, but it sure felt like it.

He peekedout through squinted eyelids, no-one else was in his room, or rather, in his cell.

"It's going to happen soon James, you need to get out of here."
He moved his arms slightly, just to assure himself that the leather manacles were still there. How could they know? How could doctors know to inhibit the manifestation of a Watcher?

He wiggled his fingers vigorouslyin tiny circles to loosen them up. As he did so, the tatooes on his arm seemed to wake up, glittering with light. In terror he stopped, and looked around the room guiltily. There were no doctors, but one of the walls was a mirror, probably a one way. Nevertheless, he had to take a chance. He moved his fingers, slightly and softly so that the glow that came from his tattoes wouldn't shine past the manacles.

The bindings began to loosen.

Day 1. 8:35am. Cara.

Cara looked around the room slowly, she could feel her pendent burning softly on her skin, her dad said most didn't do that, but she didn't care. She covered the glow of it up by turning it around backwards. Her eyes were alert looking everywhere. She didn't know what was there that made the pendent glow, but she wasn't about to let it sneak up on her. She spotted a goth looking kid, and inwardly frowned, could he be one. She kept her eyes moving, never staring, never giving in to any sign of her knowledge. Her father had said many people were watchers, so even the goth looking kid could be a friend, or enemy. She wouldn't mark him down as either yet. She kept scanning slowly sipping her drink.

She next spotted another guy, he held himself with confidence as he typed on his computer. She noticed a scar on the side of his head.

Anyone can be one of the Banished. Even a woman. Her father's voice rang in her ear. She mentally kicked herself and quickly started taking in the other women too. She finished her drink and kicked her feet back leaning the back of her chair against the wall. Where was this stupid Banished.

Full Name: Prosper (goes by one name)

Gender: Female

Age: 21

Birthplace: New Orleans, LA

Occupation: Street Performer

Speech: Light New Orleans accent. (Note, to those of you unfamiliar; a New Orleans accent is not at all a Southern drawl or a Texas twang, but actually sounds like a cross between a Boston accent and the soft drawl from the Mid-Atlantic states like the Carolinas.)

Eyes: Gray

Hair: Long, dark brown, wavy.

Height: 5’4”

Weight: 110 lbs.

Social Class: Born into the middle class, now effectively homeless (see History).

Appearance: She’s pretty in a scrawny way and never wears makeup; her face is thin and her complexion pale in a way that Victorians would find beautiful. She generally wears jeans, sneakers, and mismatched, brightly colored things, and if it’s not tearingly bright, it’s charcoal gray. She wears a ton of braided bracelets and a red-and-orange pashmina scarf, and always carries a gray military bag with her (and usually her guitar case). Rather “New Age” in appearance.

Manifestation: Sound. Her magic manifests through sound waves—sharp and metallic sounds being better offensively, organic sounds (voice, footsteps, etc) better for defensive or simply practical use.

Brief History: Prosper’s family life as a child, from what little her friends have been able to piece together, was relatively happy; there didn’t seem to be many parts to that family, though, and whatever happened prior to it, after the hurricane season of ’05 Prosper left Louisiana for good, and shows no inclination to return. Since then she’s been living as a street performer, and when she isn’t in shelters or bunking down in churches, her charm serves her well. People are attracted to her airy, quirky ways, and she’s rarely had trouble finding a newfound friend who’ll let her sleep on the futon. Her way of life doesn’t seem to be rooted in financial troubles; though no one ever sees her with anything material, she never has trouble replacing clothes when necessary or purchasing food. Her guitar is her baby; its name is Ariel (after the Shakespearean sprite, NOT the Disney mermaid). She’s travelled all over the country, and just recently hitched a ride into Philadelphia with a hankering to see the Liberty Bell.

Prosper's fingers moved from one position to another, landing surely in their positions on the strings; the guitar's strap scraped across the nape of her neck. "The road gets cold--there's no spring in the middle this year," she sang. Her voice wouldn't win any awards; there was certainly no chance of her being plucked by some producer from the street corner and plopped down in the middle of a studio. That was how she liked it. She'd rather be outside this cafe, with just her husky, sort of jazzy voice, and her guitar, the lovely, silk-stringed Ariel.

"I'm a spring chicken pluckin' open hearts and ears..."

A passing businessman slowed, paused for a few moments, and after some thought dropped a few coins into Ariel's open case. Without breaking the tune, Prosper smiled and dipped her head gratefully. He hesitated again and smiled somewhat awkwardly.

"Oh, what a primadonna..."

She smiled again at the businessman, who flushed and hurried onward. After the verse ended she grinned a little and shook her head, amused. Why was it that the straight-laced fellows were always the ones with the quirky itinerant street performer fetishes?

She strummed through the end of the song and fooled around with a few more chords, then slid Ariel around to her back and crouched to peer into the guitar case. Nearly ten dollars--not bad for two hours' work.

"Wha'dya say, old girl?" Prosper said then, bringing Ariel back into position. "A little Simon and Garfunkel for the good folk?"

Day 1, 7:30 a.m. - Lamiaferox

Lamia woke to the ringing and vibrating of two cell phones, two of the five that she now claimed as her own. She stretched lightly, and looked around. The sky looked ill-tempered today, so she'd have to do her work indoors. She had gotten to a local homeless shelter last night for a nice shower, the one things she missed most about living like a normal person. At least she had crazy old Sarah to visit sometimes, she could shower at her house too, if she could stand the smell of 12 litter boxes.

Lamia let her shining golden locks out of it's confining braid. she always worked better when her hair was free to roam. She thought it was because of how much her hair distracted people. At the moment she had random blue streaks in it, which for some reason caused her eyes to seem bluish.

She walked out of the park carrying her large overstuffed green backpack, and away from the bench she spent the night on. She rubbed her arms lightly, it was getting cold, she needed to steal a new jacket. She side-stepped into a decent looking clothes shop, and smiled at the clerk. "Poor woman, she'll get in trouble for this" thought Lamia as she took two coats off of the racks.

The first was lovely, black and soft, and knee length. It would have been wondrously warm, but she couldn't fit that into her bag. The second was a lovely tan sued. It would do. As she hung up the first coat, she looked behind her. The clerk was on the phone. Lamia pulled down a third coat, the same as the tan sued, she pulled it right on top of her bag, which was unzipped. She quickly reached down, stuffed the coat in, and re-hung up the first tan coat, all in one fluid, trained motion. She then proceeded to finger a few other coats, try on just one more, before smiling at the clerk, and leaving.

Lamia searched the street for a coffee shop, because those were busiest in the morning, so she could work very easily without being noticed. She passed by a couple of them, they were too close to the store. She turned a corner and spotted a Starbucks, attached to a Barnes and Noble. "Perfect." she said smiling. She slipped inside, and slipped the wallet right out of the pocket of the guy passing her on his way out. "Thank you," she said internally, "you have just bought me my breakfast."

Day 1; 8:37 AM

Booker:

As if a pair of rose colored glasses had been slipped over his eyes, the world was blood-stained.

Crimson, pumping through veins – unseen, but undeniably present – throbbed under the skin of the people in the coffee shop, radiating warm and sumptuous heat. It pulsed in Jillien's neck like good wine, sweet and bright and glistening when the sun hit it just right. It pulsed under the cashier's shirt and flowed lazily in the wrists of the dark, brooding kid in the corner of the shop. Booker suddenly wanted it. He was an avid oenophile, after all, and something told him a sip of this stuff – the unseen stuff – would put any kind of Chardonnay or Merlot or Burgundy miles behind him.

Something tugged at his heart, but he pushed it aside. His thirst was unbearable. Good wine, good blood. Rich, coppery, warm.

Slowly, feeling elevated somehow, detached from his body, Booker placed his hand on the doorknob and stepped inside the coffee shop. His mind was humming. Palpitating. And everything seemed focused and narrow, like he was seeing the cafe through a pipe.

Ring around the roses, a voice hissed at him.

A bouquet of roses. Neatly arranged on the floor. Now they were melting, converging, liquefying themselves into a puddle of viscous red-honey syrup.

Pocket full of posies.

His pocket. His gun. The cashier was staring at him now, but he didn't care. He smiled a little and felt a tremor, a sigh, pass through his body like an electric current as he wrapped his hand around his Beretta. Icy to the touch

In the distance, as if someone was calling him from the opposite side of the street, he heard a voice pleading with him. He paused. The voice was sobbing. Crying. Telling him to stop.

It was his own voice.

A weak voice. That part of him was dead. He had to indulge now. He was a man of action. Carpe diem, throttle the hell out of it and then swallow it whole. That was who he was now. No more hiding for this new man, in this brave new world.

Ashes, ashes.

He lifted the gun, pointed it at the cashier, flicked the safety, and pulled the trigger.

As the cartridge fell to the ground, tinkling like the bell above the door, the woman's eyes widened – like two gibbous moons – and she gagged. Immediately, her hands flew to her chest where blood was blooming like roses and posies, spun gracefully around, and started to fall.

Her head slammed against the cash register.

She disappeared behind the counter.

We all fall down.

Screams erupted throughout the coffee shop; Booker could almost taste the blood. Sweet and gratifying, with a subtle flavor he just couldn't place hiding behind the hemoglobin and the platelets.