*Preliminary Draft, quite open to correction and suggestion! Will develop later.=
Name: Please w'Ait (His vocal cords have difficulty with "W" and he sounds like he's hiccuping whenever he says it. Most call him Ait.)
Gender: Male
Race: Backstager (Though he fervently denies this at times, swearing he's human)
Age: 82 days, looks young (he tries to remember to mark his cell every day, though sometimes he forgets and puts down extra marks to try to make up for it)
Height: 5'6"
Weight: 140
Eyes: Pure White
Hair: Black
Skin: Fair
Please picked up the name as it was the first thing he can remember being called after popping into existence at the front of a very long line with a filled form in hand. Upon being called up he had the paper grabbed away and a small box quickly shoved across to him by the bored secretary. Others in the line, many of whom had been waiting for years, trading many a craft from their makeshift camps and growing small farms in the areas in which sunlight came through a window, rightly saw this behavior as cutting. Ait was nearly stoned to death with various detritus before he could make it to the safety of the outside world. He unfortunately suffered quite a head injury in the process of this escape.
Ait woke up several days later in a corpse cart, still holding onto the box, but this wasn't to last as he'd lost it within a week. Whatever thoughts were bouncing around in the poor amnesiac Eladrin's head beforehand still can't be remembered consciously, but whatever was in there seems to have been scrambled. Nowadays he has a nasty tendency to become confused about his own identity, rushing up to hug children as their dear departed granny. On this account he spends most of his free time in a guarded cell along with his friend Bonaparte. His most recent release was on account of the reason and intimidation offered by a personality which cited various city regulations in between threats to bury a 40-year old supervisor in red tape and to beat his whippersnapper hide into shape for this injustice. Though currently free, the voice in his head is quite insistent that one of the orderlies must have stolen his magic staff and that their next matter of business should be hunting the man down. Please is more concerned with remembering where he put the box as he thinks it must have been important and is pretty sure one of the people in his head hid it while he was asleep.
--
Ait rustled from a very vivid, lengthy, and happy dream of being a mailman only slowly. He heard hushed tones and they sounded closer than they should as he'd booked the room alone.
A gritty voice chewed out "I say we just throw him through that there window. That should do the job."
Ait's eyes sprang open in an instant, looking all about the room for signs of intruders. He turned on the light, searching the shadows, then slowly coming to the realization that the words must have come from the other room. He pressed his ear to the wall, listening intently.
A weasel-y voice picked up "Uh, what my friend means to say is that the poor deceased rodent which we have found under our bed should probably be disposed of before the smell begins to accumulate, though perhaps we should take it down the stairs and manually deposit it into the trash bin."
The gritty voice: "That's what I said?"
The weasel-y one: "Yeah. It is."
"Oh... okay. Sorry, I'm a bit slow sometimes."
"It's alright my friend, it's alright *pat *pat* Let us now leave our room to dispose of the rodent. *squeak of door opening* *squeak of door shutting*"
His worries at ease, Please started to drift back to sleep.
He barely heard the first whisper of "I think he bought it."
Ait stayed very still, filled with a sense of his dread as his ears perked up again.
"Of course he is. He couldn't help it against my wit. I took a summer class in improv-ision-ational theater. I'm practically a bona-fide actor I am."
"Is that where you learned to pretend to be a door?"
"Absolutely." Ait heard another creaking sound, now finding it's claimed oaken origin entirely suspect.
"Ah. I should try that some time. Nobody ever suspects the doors."
Please tried to keep his breathing steady, waiting in terror for the murderers in the room next door to leave rather than risking their alertness by making any sudden noise, as their voices and alertness to his own shuffling suggested the slum wall to be near paper-thin.
"So should I toss him?" the gritty voice proposed with less courage in his beliefs than previous.
"Nah, he left a knife on the table. That'll do the job real quiet-like."
Ait realized to his dismay that he'd left a blade on the table while peeling an apple with his evening meal. They almost seemed to be talking about him.
A third voice with all the sweetness and kindness of an old lady who loved to bake cookies chimed in "Now now, boys. Let's not be reckless. My son is a first class agent in the department of Waste Management and Torture. We don't want there to be any mistakes. His office is only a mile out and he should still be working at this hour. My Petey, always the overachiever. I'm sure he can get this matter all straightened out with just a hand-drill and an hour with his head. It's the best way to make sure none of us are hurt."
Weasel: "You've got a point."
Gritty: "I ain't never seen nobody get a drill in there head. *a slow chuckle* Okay, lady, we'll do it like that."
Weasel: "Okay, let's move him, I think I've got the legs" Ait felt his leg shift under the sheets, but it seemed only a twitch.
Gritty: "I got his arm." His right arm shot out and he felt himself moving towards the edge of the bed. Please, startled as could be, started screaming and thrashing every which way, feeling nothing but air. He put his back to the wall, checking for silhouettes, then slowly shifting his way over to the candle and lighting it. The room was empty but for the bits of bedding savaged across the room.
Ait stayed up the rest of the night with his back in a corner, staring at the shadows and holding a candle.
Home 
Wed Jul 09, 2008 8:49 pm
