Archaic ||Peterick||

CopyCat

You don't just do that.

You don't just get into a car with a guy you barely know and drive off into the sunrise with him.

It's just not right.

But Pete Wentz did it.

And he had no regrets.

As he was asleep.

Patrick, his companion, on the other hand, was trying his best to get to sleep, but it was proving difficult. He lay on a bed that was either uncomfortable or far too comfortable to be comfortable. A sketchbook lay open on his bedside locker, on which he'd drawn a picture of Pete, sprawled out on his bed as he was at that moment. The only difference was the knife in the chest of the drawn Pete.

Kill him or die.

Kill him.

Kill him.

You probably should....

Patrick sighed heavily, and played with the knife. Death had always followed him, everywhere he went. It was what he did. He killed things. It was only recently that he'd started to develop a conscience. Guilt crept in, spread tendrils of seething self hatred across his mindscape like ivy on the asylum walls. He took Pete with him because he was guilty, and he needed to clear his newly created conscience.

It was proving harder than expected to hold back from the teachings drummed into him by his father. Kill the darkness, spread the light. It was all too easy to kill the darkness. Spreading the light, he'd always thought was a proxy of that, and he was quite sure that was how his father had meant it. Now, though, he looked at it a bit differently. He looked at it correctly. The darkness was the evil things that would kill you with no hesitation. The light was acceptance and truth.

That's a load of bullshit.

"I'm sorry?" Patrick said to the ghost in the mirror, still playing with his knife.

The darkness, that's the monsters. The light is the human species, adaptable, resilient always. That's what dad always said.

"Well maybe he was wrong."

In what way was he wrong?

"Not all of the Inhumans are necessarily bad. They do what they have to to live."

They don't deserve to live.

"That's just rude."

I don't understand why we're keeping the vampire.

"Because. I like him. He's a good person."

He's a dead serial killer.

Patrick tutted, and poured himself a cup of coffee. There was no milk. He sat on the bed and put the coffee down on the coffee table, onto the map.

"He didn't kill me."

No, but he would've.

"What makes you say that?"

Oh, I don't know, maybe the fact that he was about to bite you.

Patrick plucked his fedora off the bedside locker, and flipped it onto his head.

"Maybe. Look, I'm only doing this so I can study him. The more I know about them the better."

What is with your vampire obsession, Patrick?

Patrick didn't answer immediately. Instead, he picked up the cup of coffee, took a sip and placed it back down again.

"They're petty. They're not like demons, trying to enslave all humanity, or shapeshifters, trying to inflict misery upon thousands. They just do what they do."