DenNor: Purpose [BxB]

Chapter 1

[Lukas]

Our world revolves around words. Simple orders that pop up on our inner wrists, usually during our teenage years, that tell us what our real purpose of life is.
It is fascinating. Everyone has their own words, like a tattoo, constantly telling them that they will succeed in that determined thing.
It's also kind of uplifting, if you think about it. Imagine being in a dark period of your life, when nothing seems to be going the right way and you feel alone and abandoned in a sea of happenings and misunderstandings that just make everything worse. But then... you take a look at your life purpose and remember that there is at least one thing you succeed at.
Yes, it's truly brilliant.

Our story begins during a cold January afternoon, in a plain, grey town, along one of its main roads. I just got out of the library where I have a part-time job at, which helps me paying my tuition and the rent for my flat, and I am finally ready to go home, make myself a cup of coffee and study for the next exam session.
As I sit on a bench, waiting for the bus to come, I observe what other people's purposes are.
Sitting next to me there's a pretty girl with black hair which has violet strands in it, she has her headphones on and she's drawing. On her right inner wrist, half hidden by her leather jacket, I can see the word Invent written in black.
On my left, leaning against the pole that marks the bus stop, there is a short-haired, androgynous-looking person whose scarf is pulled up to their nose, probably not to inhale the cigarette smoke that comes from the group of teenagers behind them. They're reading a thick book with a black, white and red cover in a language I do not know. It's probably Japanese, judging by the characters it is written in. It takes me a while to notice the word Speak that looks like it has been sewn on their skin.
I look at a group of girls, they're chatting. They all have different words on their wrists: Entertain, Heal, Learn, Lead, Compose.

Then, I look at my own wrists, and the harsh truck of truth hits me.

There is nothing.

No words, not even a spot that is different from my skin colour.
I, Lukas Bondevik, a twenty-year-old university student, am without a purpose in the world.
Well, thank you, Mother Nature. Apparently having to go through my mother divorcing twice and becoming slave to a mental illness, which became physical and eventually took her life and so forcing a fifteen-year-old me to take my half-brothers, Emil and Kristin, and live on my own while maintaining them too was not enough.
But still, I try to stay positive and work hard, not only to be a strong role model for my brother and sister, but also because I still like to think I'm not a "defective product" and my life purpose will pop up someday.

Eventually, my bus arrives and I get onto it, the silly thought of my purpose popping out in a matter of moments still lingering in my mind.
After a fourty-minute ride, I finally get home, in a small flat on the last floor of a rather small and old building.
As I enter the flat, my brothers are cooking dinner and chatting in Icelandic (their father is Icelandic, mine is Norwegian), everything is normal.
We dine with some fish and a bowl of salad, then we watch some tv together, until they go to bed and I start studying.
But why am I even doing this?

[Matthias]

A group of seven sits around a table in the university canteen. It consists of Alfred, a noisy blonde dude who is chattering non-stop with everyone who passes by and laughing so loudly he can be heard from across the room; Gilbert, an albino with a slight German accent who is eating and talking with the group together with his best friends, a gorgeous blonde, Francis, and a cheerful Hispanic, Antonio; a couple of almost identical, tanned, green-eyed twins, a young man and a girl named Jack and Kylie, who are also talking while they tidy up pages and pages of notes; and finally, me, Matthias. I am probably one of the loudest in the group, since I'm trying to keep up with eating, talking and piling my books all at the same time.
Suddenly, Alfred stops chatting with the girl at the table behind ours and leans across the table to poke Kylie's arm. She looks at him, knowing he is about to do or say something stupid.
«Kylie, Kylie, what do you call a wingless fly?»
«Don't know, Al.»
«A walk! Did you get it? A wingless fly... a walk...!»
«Get out.»