The World's Not Waiting [Open]

[HOLDEN ANDREW MOORE]

Maine in spring time was something that Holden revelled in; while he and his parents had visited the state once in his youth - they found it important that their son be versed in the way of travel - the last time he'd seen Maine had been over summer break when he was seven. Most of the time he spent exploring the ocean-side, digging up seashells and out on the ocean with his father while his mother took up lighthouse tours. Now though, Holden was traveling on his own, no more than a dufflebag of personal belongings, a bank account that seemed trivial for a tiny town so tucked away from the world around it, and a letter that claimed him to be something he didn't quite understand.

Through his life, Holden had dreams. They were the sort of reoccurring things that he just chalked up to a vivid imagination of a child who spent too much time in the woods of his uncle's land outside of the 'big city'. The dreams never scared him, aside from that one time when he'd been little and had gotten lost in the woods, separated from his uncle on one of their normal hiking trips; but even then, he'd found his parents and they never spoke of it again. It was strange sometimes, the looks they gave him, and Holden never quite understood why he had to stay home particular weekends or why his parents locked his bedroom door on certain nights. Again, it was something he'd lived with his whole life, so it was something that Holden only found normal in his realm of things.

This though, this pilgrimage to the wilderness, was unlike anything he'd ever really experienced in his life. He was giving up his way of life that he'd grown so content with (wireless internet hot spots and porn) and he was 'roughing it', or so he had led himself to believe. Recently, his art had taken a turn for the humdrum and Holden fully believed that if he detached from the world around him, there was potential for it to turn back into that awe-inspiring bullshit he had been feeding the masses back in his high school days. Metal was almost stereotypical, given he came from 'steel country', but it was a median that Holden found overlooked most times; unless someone was trying to pull the steam-punk card. Industrial art was unappreciated in his modest opinion.

Holden's parents weren't fond of him taking off in the midst of his art degree, but being an adult man of age to make his own way in the world, they didn't have much of a say. With the promise of checking in from time to time, he began the trip into the great unknown with a bit of pep in his step.

Getting there was never a problem. Holden's sense of direction had always been stellar, having spent a bunch of his weekends on his own in the woods with his uncle; navigating through the forests of Maine were a gentle reminder of his youth that he smiled back on with a sense of nostalgia.

Once he'd reached Memory though - or what he assumed was the right place - Holden was the equivalence of a fish out of water. He didn't know which way to go first, or who he should even talk to about finding a place to toss off his bags or get a hot shower. He wandered down the road of the main town, taking in the area and making mental notes of where each building was in relation to the last.

Seeing a few people moving about here and there, Holden kept to himself for the time being. If he was going to live here for awhile, there was no reason to rush into meet and greets just yet. After awhile though, the lanky man found himself tiring more and more of carrying around his overly-packed bag. His feet found themselves carrying him to the gather hall for a lack of anywhere better to go.

Who knew, maybe he'd find someone to point him in the right direction. God. Holden hoped that the locals were polite enough; he didn't know if he had the energy, or patience for that matter, to deal with any unfriendly folk.

[Archibald Edwin Slight]

Four months now. Arch had been living in Memory for four whole months now, and he still couldn't decide who his spirit was. The biggest hints he'd gotten had only occurred over the last week, when Arch met a girl named Sophie who told him the true nature of the citizens here, and a boy named Patrick whose laugh and imagination were jarringly familiar. Tinkerbell and Peter Pan. Arch couldn't those two out of his head, and the mere thought of them sent something in his head scampering in delight. A rapid-fire chuckle and an imagination that wouldn't quit, plus the connection to Tink and Peter, made it clear enough that Arch was definitely hosting someone from Peter Pan, but whoever it could be was certainly taking their sweet time making himself known.

Arch found himself feeling particularly human today, though. He wasn't nearly as overcome with the drive to adventure and explore like he normally was, and for once in the four months Arch had been here, he finally felt tired. Beat. Exhausted. It was something to keep up the energy of a Neverland native, and Arch was twenty years old now. At the moment, he felt about a hundred.

Lost Boy? That felt like the most obvious answer, Arch mused, leaning his back against the wall of the Gathering Hall where he sat on the floor. With his temporary regression into sanity--or at least, reality sans Neverlander--Arch had the time to consider his options here. As far as he could remember, there were, what, five or six Lost Boys in the movie. A bear, a rabbit, a fox, a couple raccoons, and ugh, that one other animal/boy thing he always forgot. The one that didn't talk. It would be his luck that Arch ended up being the silent one, but the laugh that echoed in his head at the thought--all high pitches and delight--quickly negated that idea. Which one laughed like that? Arch wished he could get his hands on a copy of the movie or something, try to pick out which one he was. He was hoping it was the fox kid, whatever his name was. He seemed like Pan's go-to guy, sneaky as shit, and up to no good, which sounded like a good time. Playing with the sleeves of the fox-eared hoodie Arch had tied around his waist, he figured that this was likely the case, but every time he felt he was getting closer to catching the Spirit, the little bugged would slip just out of his grasp.

It was all a game to this kid. Definitely Lost Boy.

Arch dropped the sleeves and rubbed at his face tiredly, yawning. He'd been up half the night checking out a small outlet from the Willow River which for reasons he could only chalk up to his latent Spirit, fascinated him. Moonlight and silver water and fishes that glinted in the reeds--it was all so cool. Whether Arch actually thought so or not. But now his head rattled suspiciously empty, like the Spirit thing was tired after a hard night of playing was curling up in the recesses of his conscience for a well-earned nap. Arch wouldn't have minded some sleep himself, but he figured it was about time he start pulling his weight around the town, begin helping out. He'd been an unashamed free loader for the last four months, and the part that was still human in him was beginning to think this a bit unfair.

So Arch was at the gathering hall, waiting for the promised "seminar" or intro session or whatever it could be called, to begin. He was stupidly early for it because he honestly had nothing better to do, and as Arch dropped his hands back into his lap, he looked around at the empty room. There were about twenty or so chairs set up in rows facing a smallish table at the front of the hall, but no one had yet arrived. A sign on the table simply read QUESTERS, HUNTERS, & APOTHECARIES: ANY INTERESTED PARTIES PLEASE SIGN UP HERE, and next to it was a ratty old notebook that read Registrar in nearly worn off gold letters. Arch figured he may as well start somewhere, and these jobs didn't sound so boring. In fact, the idea of "questing" appealed to the Spirit in him immensely, but due to its sleeping status, Arch didn't feel its excitement.

Picking himself up off the ground, Arch brushed the dust off the back of his hoodie and crossed the room to peek inside the Registrar. He'd only gotten a page in (this handwriting looked like it belonged to someone ancient), when he heard one of the wide barn style doors slide open. In walked a man who looked around Arch's age (he assumed--Arch really looked like he was about twelve years old sometimes and acted about that age as well), so going on what he assumed a twenty year old should look like, this guy fit the bill. He dropped the book and smiled at the man. "Hey there," he said casually enough, smiling. "You here for the info session, too?"