Information



Iria


The Blacklight Montre
Owner: Librarian

Age: 10 months, 4 weeks

Born: June 26th, 2012

Adopted: 10 months, 4 weeks ago

Adopted: June 26th, 2012

Statistics


  • Level: 36
     
  • Strength: 25
     
  • Defense: 10
     
  • Speed: 10
     
  • Health: 59
     
  • HP: 10/59
     
  • Intelligence: 22
     
  • Books Read: 22
  • Food Eaten: 1
  • Job: Kennel Cleaner




It was cold, wet, the air smelled slightly of metal and exhaust fumes, but then again I could never remember a night when it didn't. The black pavement glistened under the electric lamps that lit the city, shining their unnatural white light on the good and the bad, the rich and the poor. I'd grown up here, in this world of black and white, but I'd never really been a part of it. I guess you could say my dad trained me well.

I moved quick, dodging the circles of light. I never really realized I did it until one day when I missed one light. It was natural to me. The light was my enemy. Or at least, the white was. I pulled my black hood tighter over my bright red hair. Hair like mine was a death sentence, and I wore it proudly. When in the right part of town, anyways. I adjusted the gauzy white scarf across my nose and mouth and pulled a small bag out of my pocket. Dry pigment and Phenyl Oxalate, this particular batch was a nice shade of translucent orange, though, knowing Rigoberto, it could be any color in the spectrum. I took a small vial of Hydrogen Peroxide out from under my shirt and loaded it into the small nozzle Rigo had installed in the palm of my glove. A small sprinkle of the Phenyl Oxalate pigment mix and I was set to go. You see, I was a Defiler. A graffitist. They had lived in a world of black and white all their life, well now it was time to show them some color.

I sprayed the wall with the substance, watching the light blues and greens Rigo had worked into the orange compound bond with the wall. It was specially made to never come off, and trust me it never did. Our work would last until the building was torn down. Maybe that's why they hated us so much. We wrecked their “perfect” little world. I backed up, observing my handiwork. Suddenly a hand clamped around my mouth. I tried to scream, kick, punch, anything to get away from it. I felt a gloved hand pull back my hood. Warm breath tickled my ear for a moment before the assailant spoke.

"I'm surprised you've lived this long,” it said, and I let out a sigh of relief as he let go of his hold on my mouth. “ Y' can't tell the difference between people who want to kill you and people who are trying to save your butt."

“Caden,” I said, exasperated. “Really? Was that necessary?” I pulled my hood back over my hair and wrapped my scarf tight again.

“Mayb'.” He said, looking past me at the wall. Recognition hit like a hammer. His face paled several shades. “Is Rigo crazy?”

“Rigo didn't give me this assignment.”

“Well then you're damn well out of you're mind!” He hissed, grabbing my shoulder as I tried to walk back down the street, “they'll kill you if they find out!” He yelled after me.

“What if I want to die?” I said, walking back down the street, avoiding the rings of light. Caden ran after me, skirting the rim of the sidewalk.

“Iria,” he said, and I stopped. He always had this weird way of saying my name that made my blood curdle. Yet at the same time it made me warm, like a nice fresh cup of coffee. He looked at me a long time before pulling his own scarf tight around his face. “Don't die any time soon.” I nodded, smiling a little, and he walked off. I turned to run down the street, dancing past the light that blinded them to the truth. The truth that I carried in a bag in my pocket.

~

I slipped down into the old worn chair in Rigo's place. He always found such interesting tidbits to shove in odd corners of the sprawling round office. He lined the walls with old news paper clippings he'd found from years long gone, and he covered the floor with an intricate tessellation of different textured clippings of carpet, dyed to his preferences of course. What wasn't covered in paper or carpet was filled with large full-length glass windows, looking out over the underground water works. He seemed to have a strange fascination with the weaving of the old gray pipelines and the newer white ones. I pealed my white face scarf off and let my hood fall back. This was the closest thing to my home, the only place left where I could really “let my hair down” as Penelope would have said in her tittering way. Penelope was Rigo's younger sister. At least, I think she was. He never talked about her and kept the small flat hard drive that contained the recordings of her voice around his neck. He still didn't know I'd taken it one night when he fell asleep with his face on his desk that one time. I had thought it was his diary. Instead I’d stumbled on a brother's last memory of his little sister. Some of the memory was just her talking about nothing, nothing that would have interested people when she was alive. Her school day, the boy who carried her books for her, the test in period three, the announcement from the head of directors about extended class time, but it was a record. A record of things that made her up. That made Penelope, Penelope, and not Tina or Lilly. The other part was shorter. It was her singing. Part of it was obviously taped without her knowing, but other parts seemed to have a different color to it, like she knew she had an audience. I'd always wanted to ask him what happened to her, but I didn't have the heart to bring it up.

Rigo was sitting at his desk near the big window, his crop of blond hair the only thing visible above his stacks of books and bags of chemicals and pigments. That desk seemed to be an extension of him. He knew his way around every curl of its hard wood top, every divot, every slope. He knew just where to set his pen so it wouldn't roll into his ink well and he knew when something was missing just by glancing at it for a moment. Rigo never did fall in love with a girl, but if you asked me his desk was the only woman for him. The way he watched over that thing was close to obsessive. And every so often he would run his hand over the top and just sigh contented like with this weird look in his eyes. Caden still doesn't believe me, but I seriously believe he had a crush on that desk.

It was around one in the morning by the look of the clock above Rigo's head. For some reason it ticked backwards instead of forwards. And if that wasn't hard enough it was hung upside down. So anyone who wanted to know the time would have to look in the full length mirror on the back of the door and tilt their head to a ninety degree angle. Or just get good at reading the clock upside down and backwards. Rigo hadn't looked up at me since I entered the room. He seemed annoyed, and that annoyance transferred into the silence making the usually comfortable room awkward and unsocial.

Credits

Story by Librarian

Layout by Librarian with loads of thanks to here for coding help.

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