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Reincarnation isn’t something that often occurs. Some individuals have the misfortune to be reborn over and over, the gift of eternal life that brings with it the memories of each one, if able. Nothing quite like falling in love over and over again, doomed to watch your lover die as you live on. It’s a touchy subject within certain areas, some too afraid of losing someone else that they shut themselves away, others too afraid to lose those they already had, clinging to those memories.
In his first and somehow last life, he is Guy de Vere, lover to one rapturous Lenore. She is wealthy, beautiful, fashionable, but he cares only for her heart. Though he was celebrated for marrying so rich, he could not care less, and confesses such feelings to Lenore when they lay, when they sup, any moment he thinks she thinks unwell of his intentions. She is the love of his life, his everything. The day of their joyous union arrives, and he cannot tary a moment longer without her.
And so he surprises her with a bouquet of freshly cut flowers, gentle shades that he knows she adores. Superstition unheeded, he has no care for the doom that may befoul him, only longs for her in his arms again. Bequeathing them to her with a gentle smile, his heart pounding ever faster, he almost misses the flush to her skin, the clammy feel of her arms. He frets, worries, lifting a hand to her forehead and discovers it hot. The physician he calls is none too helpful, only concurring that she was suffering from an unknown malady, and he was fortunate to not.
It’s a tragedy most grieved. Every passing day he can only watch her grow more faint, only stand by and bear witness to the fair lady departing the mortal coil with such little haste. He wishes for death too, that she would not die if a life would be taken, but his fervent prayers remain unanswered. When she finally passes through the veil, he lingers by his love, eyes sweeping through her enrapturing locks of silken hair and over skin stiller than a lake none dare disturb. Slowly, he lifts a hand weighed down by the world, faintly trembling, and as lightly as he could be, closes her eyes. Once beyond, none should need to see what torments those still alive.
His grief is without bound, Lenore encompassing his every movement, moment, matter at hand. He wanders the grounds, steps sinking deep into the soft soil, hoping that another shape would form in those prints. He does not waste his time with trifles, does not wish to speak, words obscured by mourning; when he does, they are hollow, supplemented by non-existent phrases. Numbness blankets his thoughts, his motions, he tastes only a fraction of what she would. His dear brother Edward tries his best to rouse him from the shadowy maelstrom of suffering, but his attempts are for naught. His support has been dragged below the waves of a storm, and he has only heartbeats before he follows.
He sees the tail end of her wedding dress at the end of hallways, dragging along the carpet floor, the white a spectre that he chases to no fruition. Her chest-heaving laugh that could always lift his spirits, no matter the circumstance, echoes around the halls from dusk to dawn, his ears ringing from the length it would happen. Or, if he were to risk a venture into her rooms, a tantalising whiff of her floral perfume, strong but with taste. It becomes an addiction, doing whatever he can and must, to have her again, drowning in madness and insanity. Perchance it was madness, as his brother queries, but he is far past a stable mind, not when Lenore is forever from his love.
**************
One fateful night, he makes his decision, makes his way to the room he dare not enter since that dreaded day. Sees the sheets untouched and pristine, where her body once lay. A knife he draws from his pocket, the blade flashing in the flickering firelight with flare found nary. Lies upon the bed, no smell of decay and rot that lingered on the cloth. He readies the blade, closes his eyes. In the moments before he acts, he believes he can hear her voice one last time, calling his name.
Then nothing.
***************
Then something. A strangling hold on himself, dragged back into the living by forces unknown. He reawakens in a form most curious, see-through and as tangible as the wind. When he first opens his eyes, he beholds Lenore, upright and with nary a trace of illness in her form. Love rushes through his heart, and nothing would keep him from her a moment longer.
Yet the rules of the realm he now resides in do not allow him to touch, to entwine himself into her side. Instead, he may only observe from afar, watch the world pass in fragmented wonder and strife; he sees the world shift and expand, and yet shrink and remain unchanged. Lenore appears in vague glimpses, the only hint being her biting but loving remarks to a man sludged by disdain and spewing cold-hearted retorts.
One day the pale man receives a visit by a woman with hair that burns like torchlight in a pitch black night, and the manner in which they conduct themselves seems more like a dance of courting than of a friendly nature. Plans are made for an evening of revelry, or as much as the man appears to have, and he is curious as to whom all they would invite. With a select number sent out, he watches the two part, seeing the ways in which the man lingers in her touch, does his best to make her feel adored. It’s akin to his own courting of Lenore, much more reserved and yet bolder.
When the night comes, he walks the dreary halls of the man’s house, not a home by any standards, and yet assuredly not abandoned. His love may be the ghost that haunts the manor, but he is the one who appears in the edge of sight, the faintest squeak of a floorboard in another room. His brother making an appearance is a shock, and to so greatly conceal his identity is more of a question than the murderous rampage that follows. He witnesses each death, every body fall and each new spirit that now lives a life on a plane neither living nor dead.
The woman Lenore speaks so fondly of, a psychic whom all the spirits await with bated breath. When they all have the opportune to manifest, he urges the others on before, ensuring they get their time to speak, to recite words that so eloquently tumble from their lips. Upon his appearance, the choice to warn the living of the less-honourable hurts more than the pain of losing his love again, and so he foregoes the realm that holds him.
He graces them with the warning, and so when he catches the flash of panic in the murderess' eyes, he knows that he would be on this plane for little more. He only cares for Lenore, giving her one final heartbroken glance, knowing she had fallen enraptured with the inventor, but understanding that he had to let her go. And he fades away with the smoke of the freshly extinguished flame.
/|\
His next life is a secret agent. Someone who should slip through crowds unseen, snatch key information with no one the wiser, and drive away without a scratch. Curt Mega is his name, and spying is his game, working for the American Secret Service.
He’s reckless, brash, horrible at picking up clues practically thrown in his face. And yet, somehow, despite all odds, he’s one of the best damn agents in the field. Even if the mission gets a little sidetracked, mildly derailed, he still gets it done.
Works alone, or alone as one can be when you’ve got a team behind your back. His supervisor and overall head of A.S.S., a Cynthia Houston who both hates his guts and loves him like a second mother. The nerd Barb Larvernor who always acts so weird around him whenever he comes to visit; he chalks it up to nerves. The only two people that he needs to know, besides his mother, and that’s how it stays.
Until Owen Carvour shows up in his life.
It was a standard mission: get in, get the files, make sure no one else got the files, and then get out. Retreat back to a safehouse and wait for transport. He only scans the briefing he gets, duly noting that it would be taking place in Texas. A slight groan drops when he further learns that he’d have to seduce someone in order to get access to the files. More specifically, a woman.
He’d certainly done it before, but pretending to be interested in someone you’re not is grating. Particularly if they would talk his ear off about everything wrong with exactly what he is. Thankfully, the only person who knows about him is Cynthia, and despite initial distrust on his end, she’s kept his secret locked up tight. Well, Susan knew too, but there was almost no way to keep anything from Susan.
So here he is, dressed in a formal white tuxedo and barely listening to the vapid woman hanging off his arm. She’s dressed in a smoky orange dress, a glass of champagne in her hand and her purse in the other, drunkenly rambling on about her husband and how much of a bore he was. He’s only slightly tipsy, having held himself back from drinking too much before acquiring the files. She sways, nearly falling, and he tries to catch her before another pair of arms encircle her.
“Are you alright Miss?” The man has slicked back hair and the faintest hint of a moustache above his lip. He wears a white tuxedo also, helping the woman stand back up. “I hope you didn’t hurt yourself, that would’ve been quite the fall.”
His suspicion rises. There’s the faintest hint of an English accent under the smooth Midwestern accent, and the man certainly doesn’t quite look like he fits into the surrounding environment. Not in a way that would make him immediately stand out, but the slight brace to his jaw and ever so raised shoulders seemed to indicate he was uncomfortable. He comes back to the woman’s side, raising a questioning brow.
“Oh, I’m delighted to meet you. My name’s Delilah.” She offers a hand, and the man takes it.
“Owen.” He leaves a kiss.
“Well, Curt, Owen, it was lovely talking to you,” Delilah hiccups, “but I think I’m all tuckered out. I think I’d best be retiring to my room.” Another sway, this time nearly falling onto a passing server, and he quickly gets her back on her feet. “I’ll see y’all another night, perhaps.” Her flirtatious tone wobbles as she does, traipsing away. He watches her go, then realises that her purse is now gone from one hand. Snapping his attention quickly back across the room, he sees Owen easily moving through the crowd, purse in hand. So he follows as quick as possible with as little suspicion as possible. He loses him as Owen turns the corner, and speeds up to try and catch up.
That backfires when a hand reaches out from behind the corner, dragging him into the empty room and shutting the door. A small light flickers on, and he realises Owen dragged him in here. “Look, Curt, I’m terribly sorry about this, but we need those files.” The English accent is strong now, and he guesses that he no longer needs the pretence. “Who are you working for anyways? MI6 didn’t say anything about another agent coming out here.”
He doesn’t explain, only instead fumbling a story that Owen clearly doesn’t believe, if the raised eyebrow is any indication. In those moments of stalling, he inches closer, and is able to grab ahold of the purse too, trying to tug it from Owen’s hands.
Of course, it doesn’t work, Owen only tugging him in close enough to whisper, “Sorry about this,” before he drives an elbow into his sternum. He’s left wheezing on the floor as Owen flees the room, purse in hand. He uncurls his hand, and within is the key to the safe. Her purse had a slight tear and that was what he was first banking on. Triumphant, he leaves the room with the key firmly secured in a pocket just under his arm.
The first time he met Owen was confusing, and yet full of success. Over the next few years, he’d find the other spy again and again, always clashing with the other. Then he’s given a partner assignment. A.S.S. and MI6 were teaming up in order to find some sort of technology that had the potential to take down their agencies. Both agencies would be sending the best of the best, and he found himself in a position to take the job.
He certainly wasn’t expecting to walk into the debrief room and find Owen sitting in the chair across the table, reading the debrief. And based off the look that he gets back, clearly Owen didn’t expect it either.
The job goes stunningly well, even for the both of them. The two agencies find that they can come to rely on him and Owen, and if the job goes sour, it’s almost never their fault. Only once was it him, three or four times it had been Owen’s bloodthirst that nearly got them caught.
He takes lead if languages or accents are involved, torture less so. Owen takes the lead on the more nasty missions, patching him up if any incidents ever occur. It’s something that he could’ve almost never seen coming, and he’s not expecting to lean forward and kiss him straight on the lips.
Owen gives him the same confused, panicked look, but a second later, his face softens, and he leans back in. Their kiss is something that he could never forget, that night ingrained in his memory for all the right reasons. They didn’t need to make love, already full of it, simply willing to take their bond one more step.
Then the accident happens.
A careless mistake left by him, the banana peel he threw on the ground because he couldn’t be bothered to properly dispose of it. Owen slipping, falling two stories, the look of pain and betrayal as he fled the compound, terrified.
He doesn’t work for a long time after that. Doesn’t quite hand in a letter of resignation, since he knew what A.S.S. did to spies who quit, but doesn’t come in, doesn’t answer any calls. Instead, he finds solace in the bottom of a bottle, the bitter and hard taste of alcohol as it floods his veins.
In moments of true drunken stupor, when he lies awake in bed at night, he has visions of things that never happened, of places he’s never been and people he both knows and doesn’t. There’s a woman sometimes, and he thinks he’s losing his mind when she appears, because he’s so smitten that he can hardly do anything but try to whisper her name. Unfortunately, it dies on his lips as he wakes, and soon becomes nothing more than a passing thought in the day.
Four years after the event, when he discovers that Owen was still alive and had been plotting to take down everything that the two ever cared for… it’s disheartening. It’s callous, it’s cruel, and yet it’s nowhere near out of character for Owen. While he had been a little bit more soft despite his reckless behaviour, Owen never quite held his punches in the same way.
He chases after him, because that’s what he’s always done: chase the person he’s loved until one of them dies. And somehow, Owen brings them right back to that same staircase, that same horrible night where he had to leave him to suffer. Nothing he says convinces the other that everything would be alright. Nothing he does seems to get through to the killer that his lover had become. Watching the person you thought you knew betray you, do everything they could to ruin you, it’s almost too much for him to bear.
Almost.
When he shoots the gun from Owen’s hand, there’s a hint of fear in the man’s voice and eyes. “What are you doing, Curt?”
He tightens his grip, locking his jaw. The gun is perfectly aligned. “Taking your advice.”
Bang.
It takes years for CHIMERA to track him down. They spend resources that he sabotages, sends people he easily takes out, do everything in their power to stop him from destroying their organisation. In the end, he’s sitting content in a small apartment, letters written to Barb, to Cynthia, to Tatiana, to his mother. There’s a single shot of whiskey on the table, and he watches the liquid flex and shiver as footsteps clomp up the stairs.
When they break in, he makes no move to stop them. He’s already done everything he can, and there’s nothing more that he wants to do. When one of the soldiers raises his gun, he only lifts the glass in return, taking a sip.
Bang.
/|\
His next life is a social worker in a city called Hatchetfield, located in Michigan. It’s a relatively small town for the number of attractions in it, though the island setting may have turned people away. Despite this, he’s quite thrilled to be able to help the kids of the town, and there are always plenty of cases to keep his hands full. His first kid, a young girl named Hannah Foster, living with her older sister Alexandria, or Lex, and their abusive mother Pamela, didn’t quite know what to make of him whenever he first rolled up. “You Douglas Keane?” Pamela groans, flicking the end of her cigarette.
“You can call me Duke.” He returns, smiling gently at Hannah. “I’ll only take a few moments of your time, I promise.”
True to his word, he manages to depart the trailer within 10 minutes, though not before leaving Hannah with a few hopeful words. Watching the trailer disappear in his rearview mirror, he can only hope that the girls would be alright without them. The slight patter of rain against his station wagon’s roof makes him refocus on the dark clouds overhead. As if on cue, thunder rumbles, and the rain begins to splatter against his windshield.
Thankfully, there’s a building faintly illuminated by the streetlights, and he pulls into the parking lot. The rain begins to come down thicker, and he tugs on his jacket, prays for mercy, and darts out. His efforts are futile, he still gets decently soaked, but opening the door to the building is almost like walking into a dream.
The inside is a diner, a very 80’s themed kind. A jukebox hums merrily in the corner, the air filled with the scent of fries and burgers. “I’ll be with you in a moment!” Someone calls, and he takes a seat with a wet squelch at the main counter. He eyes the pies rotating in the display, stomach suddenly gurgling in hunger. Thankfully, no one else is around to hear the embarrassing sound, but that doesn’t stop a blush from forming on his cheeks. A second later, he hears a dish clatter.
“Sorry for the wait!” The voice twangs. “Got a little caught up in the kitchen.” The person steps out from behind the wall, and he sees a woman with bright red, slightly poofy hair step out, wiping clean her hands. “Welcome to Miss Retro’s! How can I help you?”
“Uh, what all you got?” He politely asks. “Didn’t see a menu or anything.”
The woman blushes. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” She slides him a menu with colourful text, a few items pictured. “I can give you a few minutes if you need.”
“Oh, it’s no worry.” He glances over it. “I think I’ll just have a cup of coffee and a slice of pie. Cherry, if you would.”
“It’s no problem.” She opens the display, plating a slice of cherry pie and places it in front of him. “I’ll get your coffee in just a minute.”
He smiles, and digs in. The woman disappears back into the kitchen, and he hums appreciatively around the pie. It’s got a rich flavour, like mini cherry fireworks on his tongue. She quickly returns with a cup of coffee that’s steaming, carefully setting it down next to his plate. “So… mighty big storm out there. Is that what drove you in?” He nods. “Yeah, haven’t quite seen a storm like that, especially in a town like this. I’m Miss Holloway. You?”
“Duke Keane. I’m a social worker, just got off of a case.” He extends a hand, quickly wiping off any crumbs on his face. Miss Holloway takes it and shakes it gently.
“Well, it certainly was nice to meet you.” At that moment, thunder booms and the lights flicker off, plunging the entire diner into darkness. Miss Holloway sighs. “I’ll go get some candles.” She disappears from what visible light remains, and he tucks away the rest of the pie. Some clattering noises come from the back, and he makes an inquisitive sound. "I'm fine! Just not used to the darkness."
He nods in understanding, even though she couldn't possibly see him. The dark had a way of creeping up on you, slowly invading your thoughts and mind until there was nothing but void. He shivers, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling suddenly lingering.
He hears a match being struck and the small flame illuminates the two of them. Somehow she'd managed to sneak up on him while he was lost in thought. She touches it to a candle and the wick bursts into flame. "There! Not a lot of light, but it'll certainly do." Miss Holloway sets the candle on the bar, letting the light flicker over the two of them. "I'm not sure if that storm's going to let up anytime soon. Do you want to stay for a little longer, keep me company? I won't charge ya."
He shrugs noncommittally. There wasn't much for him waiting back at home, and he could always go for another slice of cherry pie. He takes a slow sip of coffee, and she watches, a faint smile on her face. "You sure are one mysterious man, Duke Keane." She pushes off the counter. "I'll be right back. Coulda sworn I had more candles."
She returns into the darkness, and he only stares after her. Then, he sits and muses. It's not often that someone offers to keep you company on a dark and stormy night, and gives you free food to boot. He looks at the candle, then notices weird symbols drawn on the wax. He leans closer, and suddenly the flame spews upward several feet in the air.
He's knocked back by the force of the fire, sprawled across the ground. And yet, he can't move, can't scramble away to escape or to find something to extinguish it, it's too alluring. He stares deeper into the flame, ignoring the burning in his retinas. There's a shape in there, someone tall and lanky, slicked back hair. He catches a glimpse of green where there should be none, the traces of a smile near invisible in the black and white.
"Duke?" Miss Holloway's voice brings him out of it, and he glances in her direction. She looks nervous, holding a candle defensively. He looks back and the flame is completely normal. "Goodness, you scared me! I thought something had broken in here from the ruckus you made!" He points at the candle, and she follows his finger. "Oh, I didn't mean to light that one. No wonder you got so spooked. Here," she touches the tip of the candle in her hands to the already lit one and sets it down, "I'll go put this one back."
He watches her go, and as she disappears once again into the darkness, the power comes back on. The lights outside illuminate a very damp parking lot, the rain appearing to have let up by quite a significant amount. Miss Holloway re-emerges, shaking her head. "And here I coulda sworn that storm was set to pour until the next morning." She gives him an odd look.
He only shrugs, wriggling slightly under her scrutinous gaze. She must not find anything, and it softens. "Well, you didn't quite need to stay the night, but I'll stick to my word and not charge you." He thanks her profusely, complementing the pie, and a faint blush forms on her face. "Well, there's no need for flattery. You'd best be going, unless you want the rain to catch you again."
And so he leaves, a bounce in his step and a smile on his face. Miss Holloway. Curious name, but he doesn't think he can judge. The entire drive home he thinks of her, thinks about the person in the flame. It puzzles him until he falls asleep, falls into the void.
He's alone for only moments before another person joins him, as if walking out from behind a curtain. He recognises the slicked back hair, the sharp grin, the faintest hint of green in the man's eyes. By the looks of it, the other seems to know him beyond appearance.
"We meet again, Curt. Or is it Duke in this timeline? I could never quite keep track." The man says, slinking closer to him. He only steps back slightly, lowering into a cautious stance. "I'm Wilbur Cross. But I'm sure you know me as Owen." He shakes his head in confusion, and something in Wilbur / Owen changes. "Wait, seriously? But Wiggly said…"
"First rule of the Black and White, Wilbur. Never trust anything Wiggly says." Miss Holloway's voice rings out clearly. He watches Wilbur immediately close back up, gaze turning steely and a dangerous smirk tugging at his lips. "Duke, what are you doing here?"
"Leave us alone, Holly. I've got personal business with him." Wilbur calls back, stepping between him and her. "None of your concern."
"I think it is, considering how you attacked him in my diner earlier. Did you have Wiggly send a storm just to make sure he'd be in the right place at the right time?" Miss Holloway fires back, and he can only watch as the two bristle and trade retorts.
Eventually, he gets so fed up with their bickering that he steps between them and pushes the two apart. Both snag a wrist, Holloway in desperation and Wilbur… Owen(?) with some unfamiliar emotion. His skin glows where they touch, colours exploding vibrantly against his skin. Miss Holloway seems confused by the occurrence, but Owen traces the lines up his hand just behind their formation.
"Well, seeing as how you've now also bonded to him, I suppose you could stay." Wilbur, or Owen, drawls, sickly sweet. "But do anything to hurt him and you'll regret it."
She returns it with a sarcastic smile and tilt of the head. "And I hold you to the same standard. Now talk."
His head swivels between the two, so confused at how quickly she backed down, but Owen drags his attention back with hands clutching his face. "Do you remember me?" Owen practically begs, desperation in his eyes, and he can only shake his head. The other groans, and pulls away, muttering curses under his breath. "Right. Holly, the man you know as Duke is a reincarnator. I met him in the mid 1900's, and his name was Curt then."
"An actual reincarnator?" She gasps, looking at him with new intrigue. It's a bit frightening, and he pulls away for only a moment before she reassures him. "How did you know?"
"I'm one too. One of the more fortunate, or less, depending on who you ask." Owen gestures to his head. "I always remember the past, even if it takes a bit to properly filter into a new mind."
Something rumbles then, a deep groan that slowly rises into a high-pitched giggle, and Holloway swears under her breath. "Wiggly's coming." The two of them surround him, looking every which way. The giggling gets louder and louder, eventually to the point where he has to clutch his ears in pain, the sound deafening.
Look who we have here!
The pain amplifies, and he sees Miss Holloway bend down over him, lips moving, but the sheer force of the laughter deafens her speech.
Someone who doesn't qwite belong?
It's too much. He passes out, and wakes up in his bed to his alarm. It's morning, and he rubs his eyes tiredly. A slight chill sweeps through him when he sits up, and the dream he just had fades all too rapidly for him to remember. By the time he's dressed and in the station wagon, every part of it is completely gone.
Months pass, and he's busy in his work. When he accepts the call about Rose, stops by her house in order to try and understand what she had been dealing with, he never expected to be caught up in a song that killed people. In Miss Retro's, the sight of Miss Holloway writhing on the floor in pain feels familiar.
Losing her is painful. Going home numbly, feeding his cat and making sure she's okay before laying down on his bed. Finding the letter in his pocket and rushing down to the morgue. Sprinting in and seeing her sitting upright.
Sitting with her in one of the booths of the restaurant, all he can really do is demand answers. They sit there for hours, and she talks on and on, telling him all about her story. Then he blinks and the memories are gone, but he somehow knows that they are. Miss Holloway seemed to be expecting it, based off the sad look on her face.
He may still be a little strained, but that's not going to stop him from helping her and Rose make sure the Killer Track isn't played at the Honey Festival. When it first begins playing, the dissonant shrieking, even though it isn't the loudest, causes him to instinctively clutch his head. He scans the buildings quickly, locating the tent with the sound system.
Just shy of entering, the loud riff of a guitar catches his ear, so different from the Killer Track that he turns to try and find the source. Eventually, he spots fiery hair atop the stage, Miss Holloway behind the microphone. When she begins singing, he can't take his eyes off the stage. The song is full of longing, desperate and hopeful.
She finishes playing and the Killer Track fades away with it. He blinks, and the entire festival does too, losing their memories of the song. But the memory doesn't fade, for once in his three lives. It stays right by his heart.
He charges into the tent to find Rose on the ground, Kale about to play the song again. In a way that surprises him as well, he punches the kid across the face, getting him away from the phone. He reaches for it and smashes it, and Rose watches on with horror as Kale crumbles into pieces along with the phone.
That night, he sits in a boat with Miss Holloway, the two quietly looking out over the water. Not many other people are, and so the silence is only broken by the water lapping against the side of the boat. He appreciates it, being able to think about the song she played, though knowing full well he could never bring it up.
They joke, trade warm complements, before a firework booms softly in the background. Her face turns apologetic, and she tells him that she'd be leaving, and he wouldn't remember her. He tells her that it'd be impossible for him to forget her, and she only smiles regretfully.
"Duke. Relax. I'm trying to say goodbye. Can I?" She asks, and without waiting for an answer, leans in. Her lips on his feels ever so familiar, soulmates for this life and beyond. Something washes over him, and when he opens his eyes, she's gone.
For a second, he can feel the spell trying to wipe away his memories of her, try to make him forget so he wouldn't need to feel so abandoned by her. The only way he'll ever forget is the day he dies. The spell can only suppress them, keep a majority below the surface until the day she decides to remove it.
He blinks. He doesn't quite remember why he's out here on this boat, on the lake. Something about a woman, he thinks. Then a firework booms overhead, and he looks up just in time to catch the start of the show. Oh yeah. He was watching the fireworks.
Months pass, and he's been folded back into his work. It's strange, this semi-annual occurrence that always distracts him from his work. He pulls into the parking lot of Hatchetfield High, sighing as he grabs Hannah's file from the passenger seat and hopping out. At this point, given all the things that had occurred at the school, they really needed to be investigated, though the HFPD weren't quite as up to standards as he wished.
His thoughts are interrupted by the roar of an engine, and he watches a 1987 Pontiac Firebird pull into a space nearby. A woman with poofy, fiery red hair steps out, taking off sunglasses and resting them on her head. She’s familiar in a way that makes his heart aches. They exchange greetings, him learning of her being the newest Hatchetfield High counsellor.
The weird thing, he feels like she already knows who he is, and introduces himself as Doug, still too uncomfortable with using Douglas. She introduces herself as one Miss Holiday. It’s weird, this… pull he feels to her. Something almost supernatural, though nothing quite like magic, since he knows the feel of that all too well. Maybe, he thinks, as he follows her inside, he could get to know her. Move on from Miss Holloway, and try to open back up.
The universe, however, never likes to play fair, and he will come to learn that. One way, or another. His story is all too simple: he dies, he lives, and he forgets.