Wayward Minds Project: Khione

[08] Quixote - The Last Among Them

Today was awfully peculiar to Quixote. He was uncertain what to make of it, but from what he has deduced, he might be in some sort of trouble, alongside these known troublemakers of Everhill City. According to what he could recall, Quixote had produced a sufficient amount of distance between him and trouble, enabling him to elude the touches of crime. Even traveled to a certain point where he refused to approach any of the members of the gang he currently was in, willing himself to at least not be tainted by them for the week, despite knowing that he already was.

So what was it that brought him here, into this moment, into this room, accompanied by none other than some of the city's well-known juveniles?

When Quixote was coerced by the police to enter their car, which served as his transportation towards the police station, none of them spared him a glance nor a word once they drove off from his neighborhood, his kind neighbors emerging into their porches and lawns, curiosity evident upon their morning faces, questioning as to what was currently transpiring before the house of the Nandrins. The police officers were blanketed in silence, eyes focusing on the road ahead of them, and not one of the two dared to look behind him even when Quixote yelled out inquires and furiously banged his tightly closed fist against the barrier that divided the occupants of the vehicle.

The only realization that had dawned upon Quixote a little too late was that he never should've chosen that bush as means to conceal himself from his pursuers. Before he had been captured and forced into a police car, Quixote ordered Stacey to walk towards the opposite direction of both their houses in order to avoid being questioned by the authorities that patrolled his home, and with a large amount of assurances through whispers and a hushed voice, Quixote was successful in coaxing Stacey to just leave him then and there. Mayhap Quixote should have taken the safer route and followed Stacey's footsteps soon after she left, but in hindsight, it would've offered little benefit upon his side, because a few moments since Stacey's leave, one of the officers, who had apparently wandered too close to where he had been situated, caught sight of him and yelled at his comrades to inform them of Quixote's presence.

What option was there left for Quixote to take? Run.

And so run he did. Not to the direction of where he last saw his friend hurriedly walk away, her eyes possessing the undeniable fright and concern for Quixote playing within his mind as if to constantly remind him of the conundrum in which he found himself entangled with, but rather towards the tall, thick trees that decorated the back of the line of houses of the neighborhood. Fortunately, the forest was not dense, but it did not brought Quixote comfort either as it wasn't thin as well. Sufficient for an individual to get lost, but not for many passing weeks and months. A few days after Quixoted moved into his grandmother's residence, he had visited the aforementioned forest behind their houses, which aided in the ebbing of his escalating disquietude as he knew his way. But in spite of such knowledge, it was quite difficult for him to make usage of this advantage, the sound of multiple footsteps belonging to the police officers intermixing with his own ragged breaths.

Quixote arrived at a conclusion that he could not outrun them, and so he opted to shroud himself with the help of nature once more. Only if he had known it would lead to a steep hole behind him, then Quixote would not have fallen, produce a scream of surprise, and get captured by the police officers.

Misfortune by his side. But in complete honesty, when did it ever leave?

Now, Quixote encountered the individual known as Asphodel, whose appearance wholly differs from the picture he had painted within his mind of the individual, his thought of the forger Asphodel a con man of some sort and yet turned out to be a sickly-looking, young boy, so innocent that none would choose to assume that he'd commit a crime.

Quixote had already been taken aback at the true identity of Asphodel, but it seemed the day had more surprises in store for him, unveiled one after another, as though observing which of them all would shock him the most to an unimaginable degree, because a girl with profound beauty had followed Asphodel not too long. She looked like a daughter of a goddess, whose elegance enraptured the myriad of lovers that lined behind her in waiting, her smile a beacon of light, regal and unchallenged. Whose fury clouded the rays of the sun, cracked the surface of the earth, and made the fires cackle and burst into the skies. The girl, who had informed Quixote of her name to be Avada and was a schoolmate of his, was empowered by her own womanhood.

It may be a mistake on his part, but he could not help but immediately feel attracted to her.

Quentin arrived afterwards, and Quixote knew the guy, as they went to the same school as well, but both of them barely sparked a friendship, only exchanging a few words of greetings whenever they ran into each other. Quentin scarcely cared about his education and majority of his school days were spent with him being absent. Quixote, although going to school most of the time with not much of a soul and heart placed into it, barely interacted with anyone, excluding Stacey, and the instant the sound of the bells reverberated throughout the halls and corridors of the school, signaling the end of the day's classes, Quixote would rush out of the building with either two options circling his mind: to head home or to meet up with his gang.

Him, Asphodel, a girl with the name Avada, and Quentin; what could they possibly have done in order to find themselves in such a strange circumstance, alongside each other despite their lack of connection?

And to make the state of perplexity escalate even further than necessary, another individual arrived, and Quixote knew that she was far worse than any of them who had entered through the doors before her.

Way worse. And dangerous.

"Honestly, I have suppressed my urges to commit various of crimes for this week," the girl said, forcefully pushed into the room by the police officer behind her. "Do elucidate for me as to why my captivity has become a precedent when it is to be a corollary?"

The police officer offered nothing in exchange, save for silence and a look of pure bafflement at the words of the girl who had recently just arrived, her back turned to the four of them in order to properly address the man, and as he swiftly yet cautiously brought the door to a close, anticipating some sort of behavior expressing resistance from her, the room fell to the hands of silence after the lock clicked. The only individuals who had explicitly declared their opposition of being brought into the room were Quixote, who had screamed and banged at the door repeatedly, and Avada, who, without much of a thought, kicked it to have it slam shut right after her arrival. Quixote was uncertain whether or not Asphodel and Quentin actually resorted to the actions of complete defiance. The frail-looking Asphodel had been munching on a snack the moment Quixote was shoved right past the doorway of the room, and Quentin's visage did not imply that he was troubled of the situation he currently was found in, but Quixote assumed that they must've been more than reluctant to go with the police officers at the very least.

After all, they were delinquents of the city, and any unwanted inconvenience poured straight over their heads could direct them towards imminent predicament.

But this girl right in front of them, petite yet seemingly capable of such extraordinary, perilous events, a subtle formation of sinister delight emanated from her, as though enjoyment could be found in the midst of a situation where probability of jail was at high. Quixote knew not her name, but there was a perturbing sense within that hinted he should have, incessantly pecking him in order to bring him into creating the action of shuffling through the memories of his own mind, seeking whether or not he had encountered this strange girl somewhere in the borders of Everhill City prior to now.

"I guess I don't come across as friendly enough in order to successfully befriend police officers." She turned around, small lips curled upwards in underlying bitterness.

The girl stood at such a short height that when brought and positioned at a proximity beside Quentin, she was comparable to that of a child, diminutive and presumably easily exposed to the touches of the world's augmenting menace. Her eyes glinted, but not in an identical manner as Avada's, whose orbs are possessors of ardent flames that allowed one to espy the intense, fiery soul that could be discovered in the depths of her conspicuous entity. No, the girl's eyes flashed suchlike the illumination of the sun bouncing off the pristine steel of a pernicious knife, a glint suggesting ill to befall following the blinding light. She was svelte, the hue of her skin bright and lacking in color with the absence of soft reds dotted upon her cheeks, her complexion in stark contrast to the darkness of her short, jet black hair, barely exceeding the level of her chin. Encircling her was not an aura of intimidation or charm, not even friendliness, just as she had stated earlier in regards to the befriending of police officers.

Rather, it was childish glee of a wicked villain unhinged and unbounded by the truth of reality.

"I shouldn't be surprised to see you here, but I am," Quentin spoke up, and the complete attention of everyone within the room, which had been previously fixed on the sudden arrival of the girl, was now directed towards him, a layer of confusion settling upon their visages. For Quixote, however, there was wonder present, mingling with perplexity. Was he feeling that sense as though he had encountered this girl before, somewhere in Everhill City, some time in the past, because there was a probability that she could've been Quixote's schoolmate as well? Just as Avada and Quentin were, despite his obliviousness to Avada's existence until now and dearth of connection to Quentin?

"Oh, how I significantly enjoy surprising you, Quentin!" She didn't, of course, Quixote deduced. Rather it seemed as though she found much more delight in expressing her structured thoughts through a filter of sarcasm than constantly shocking Quentin.

"You guys know each other?" Avada inquired with a raised eyebrow. Both of her arms were crossed against her chest, leaning her body on the chair where Asphodel was currently seated, on his way to finish the same snack that he wasn't able to due to Quixote's interruption when he was inconsiderately shoved through the lone door of the dull room.

"Just acquaintances," the girl responded. "I would dare not go out of my way to make friends with a bruiser. How helpless would I appear, so effortlessly broken, next to a man like him."

A coat of drama covered multiple words that flew out of her lips, deliberately exaggerated, as if it's intentions were to purely mock Quentin, his size, and his character labeled as a bruiser, which, to Quixote, came off as a d**k move, but they were all delinquents leading a life of misfortune and dejection, and a slim amount of bitchiness(if that ever was a word) was to be expected, alongside twisted personalities and crumbling souls.

"Don't play the victim here," Quentin countered, though nothing suggested annoyance was bubbling in him. "You stole a hundred from me."

"I have a faint heart. Your accusations vex and simultaneously nauseate me." The girl smirked, still in the state of proceeding to mock Quentin, challenging him how far would he allow her to stretch his patience thin as his acquaintance.

Never had Quixote heard of Quentin throw a fist against a girl, as if there was an unwritten code engraved into his mind stating that a man should not bring forth harm upon a woman, but if Quentin were to deem such unspoken law as irrelevant or just simply attempted to discharge himself from its chains which had enclosed itself around him, then Quixote had come to a conclusion that he would pay little to no mind if ever drops of blood were to be shed here and there as of this moment. He had never actually witnessed Quentin at the peak of fury, where nothing could be discerned but the rage that circulated within his dark brown eyes, his fists tightly closed, nails digging deep into the palms of his hands, but despite Quixote never being able to beheld such a sight, he was certain it would be an indubitably unpleasant experience.

Fortunately, Quentin only sighed, a man with a heart of gold tolerating an individual who possesses one in the shade of black. He gestured to the girl. "This is Soul."

Soul... does it ring a bell?

"You seem very familiar," Quixote remarked.

"I might've stole a few items from you." Soul shrugged, albeit it was evident she hardly gave a second thought to her words. "Or pushed you against a canal. I mean, you wouldn't complain if I were to reunite you with your hometown, now would you?"

"Wow." There was bitterness in Avada's exclamation. "Aren't you a shitty person to talk to."

"Do you not consider yourself as one, too?"

Avada seethed in instant irritation.

"Okaaay," Quentin drawled out, disseminating the tightness of the air, the tension that had eagerly begun to wrap itself around them within the room. "Let's just focus on why we're here, guys."

The suffocating awkwardness evaporated all thanks to Quentin. The girl, whose name Quixote was informed of was Soul, appeared quite familiar towards him and he was finally able to successfully pinpoint as to why. Not because she was one of the uncountable students that went to his school, therefore automatically making her Quixote's schoolmate, but because someone had narrated to him her existence some time in the past.

A few weeks ago, his memory incapable of recalling the exact time and date thus causing it to be unknown to him, one of the members of his gang mentioned an eccentric individual who he had unexpectedly encountered at the police station during the previous hours. According to the words of the member, he was by the front desk, conversing with the woman who was in charge, and at the exact same moment he was about to turn around and take his leave, a petite girl with a wicked and mischievous grin, handcuffs still locked around her wrists, the item biting into her bright skin, pushed one of the doors in the station open, showcasing a hallway behind her. The door banged against the dull walls, the sound layered atop a myriad of rushed footsteps, and before anyone at the front desk could even a utter a word, she dashed past in a blur, a second later three police officers arriving. The member of Quixote's gang had inquired the woman at the front desk anent the identity of the pursued girl, and she answered, "that's Soul. Troublesome and always ready to stir up some inconvenience," as though a depleted mother in constant disappointment.

This was the individual who he had been referring to Quixote and the gang. There was a minuscule detail Quixote had failed to come to notice earlier in regards to Soul's appearance; below the corner of her left lip was a dot, a tiny mole to distinguish her from the many, and its hue popped against the lack of color of her complexion.

"I just can't wait to get out of this s**t hole," Avada mumbled and Quixote glanced at her, removing his gaze from Asphodel, who was offering an unopened Fudgee Bar to Soul, Quentin fumbling through the plastic of snacks on the table.

"It's too early to end your life, you know," he said.

There was a sudden sharpness that arose in her eyes. "I was talking about this f*****g place."

"Oh." Quixote's fingers involuntarily gripped one of the sleeves of his jacket, pulling it afterwards. "Well, a pretty thing like you don't fit in a drab ass place like this anyways."

"How majestic of your flirting skills."

"Would you like to see it in full glory then?" His lips formed a mischievous grin, earning him a scowl from her. "But I wouldn't want you to swoon."

"Believe me, the only reaction you'll get from me is cringe."

Quixote snickered. Her fiery soul and feisty character vastly reminded him of Stacey, except Avada, with no hesitation and remorse, would most likely send the bottom of her heel boots against his face. The only violent action Stacey could ever coerce herself into committing is mayhap a slap. Quixote's attention suddenly directed itself towards her, the only individual remaining to be his friend right after his drastic change in personality. Where could she possibly be as of this moment? Was she fine? Is she conjuring a sufficient amount of courage to even dare to rush to the police station and attempt to inquire at the front desk concerning the captivity of Quixote? He sure so hope not, as he did not want to drag her into all of this bewildering chaos.

Quixote was momentarily separated from his myriad of thoughts expressing worry for his friend Stacey, for the knob of the door, which had been previously locked not too long ago after the arrival of Soul, now began to rattle, disturbed in the midst of its ongoing immobility. Everyone waited, but their impatience for answers were in complete clarity, prepared to burst any second now, as if suppressing the eruption and hot flow of a volcano and its lava. The door was unlocked, and a man stepped inside, his visage showcasing solemnity and, not to mention, frustration.

Quixote knew this man all too well, had encountered him numerous of times throughout the months he joined a gang. And he was a man that everyone in this room had espied at least once, for he was a familiar name and face that circulated the community of the city's juveniles and troublemakers.

"I'm surprised none of you had started a fight yet."

Gomez.