NameJoseph Wakefield
Age16
PersonalityIndustrious and caring, yet at times taciturn and vindictive, Joseph is the sort of person who finds it easy to make friends, but hard to make companions. Though he is usually calm and down to earth, he finds difficult in expressing his emotions, and his stubbornness has often lead him astray.
He has long since stopped caring about trying to remember who he was, and instead acting out according to who his dream tells him he is, leading to him often deviate significantly from the expected behaviors of someone his age.
DescriptionBroad-shouldered with his brown hair cut short, and grey eyes ever alert, Joseph
would look youthful, if ever-so slightly bookish were it not for the fact that he has the general posture of a man thrice his age.
MementoJoseph's Memento resembles a knightly figure in shining armor with vaguely mechanical and insectoid trappings. It has a flat screen for a head, hovering above it is a silvery halo, its metallic shine traveling clockwise around it, regardless of lighting not unlike a loading icon. Cables, wires, and intravenous tubes connect from various parts to one another with the occasional handheld screen attached to them which at times, flicker between stylized characters no one present will recognize. A torn flag is draped over its right shoulder, the hand wielding a slick and angular gatling gun, its surface scorched black save for a plate bearing a peace symbol attached to the side. The other arm is sparsely wrapped in bandages and bears an oversized police badge as a shield. A hazy, dream-like scarf wraps around its neck, the designs at the ends and the way it is worn making it resemble a pair of arms hugging it from behind, sitting and fused upon each pauldron, facing away from their head, are two stylized and minimalistic angelic figurines. There is gash along its back, no unlike that you'd find on a discarded cicada shell.
BackstoryIt's morning, early morning, early by your standards at least. A night, a single night, has passed, one that feels closer to years, decades even.
Your room is as you've remembered it - tidy, save for of course the tangle of wires and cables from various consoles littering the floor - a rather troubling fact at that, given that you had to
remember rather than
know. Indeed, for the most part, what you ought to know right now, you remember instead.
Staring into the mirror, you barely recognize the youthful face that stares back with alert eyes it should not have.
Now then, what was your name again?
>Joseph Wakefield.
Your name, is Joseph Wakefield; that at least, is not under doubt, though everything else may be.
You do not remember what day it is, what you had planned, or even what games you played last night. Instead, you know your dream, an awfully long dream at that, far different to your usual nightmare, one distinguishable from reality only in that you've awoken from it. You look in the mirror, and barely recognize the youthful face that stares back with alert eyes it should not have.
You'd compare your current predicament to the start of a JRPG plot, but funnily enough, you aren't in the mood today.
[]Play some games.
[]Check your phone.
[]Leave your room.
>[X]Leave your room.
Not exactly feeling in the mood for gaming, you open the door as to leave your room. What lies beyond is not what you remembered.
You gaze out upon a once grand mausoleum, now lying in ruins and overgrown with countless blooming flowers. Rays of light pierce the damaged domes and broken buttresses, softly illuminating the interior. Sitting upon an enomrous coffin located in the center of a congeries of rather expensive-looking furniture and fallen monuments, is a fair maiden dressed in monochrome attire, she beckons to you.
[]Approach the maiden.
[]Shut the door.
>[X]Shut the door.
You shut the door immediately.
Nope. Nope. Whatever this mess is, nope.
The universe however, seems to have other plans in mind. Cracks, like those on glass, spread from where you slammed the door as if it were damaged from the impact. They spread and multiply, spreading across the door, spreading beyond the door, your entire room cracking, and shattering. Luminous shards fall and fade, leaving you standing before the lady.
"It's not that easy to escape me, Mister."She resembles a porcelain doll in complexion, though not quite in attire, being dressed in a crisp white dress-shirt, a black hoodie the color of death with pale markings. In her blonde hair she wears a lace-trimmed headband, and her crimson tie is worn rather loosely, her feet, clad in black stockings and matching boots swing idly. Her eyes, a piercing, ghostly blue, stare into your own.
"W-who are you? What are you?""Take a wild guess."[]"Death."
[]"Taxes."
[]"Nixon."
>[X]"Death."
You utter your response quickly, quicker than what is normal for you, and yet, it feels perfectly normal.
"Close enough.""Am I dead?""That, would make this awfully difficult, no.""Then where am I?""Nowhere in particular.""Can I have a bit more of an explanation?"A wry smile.
"You'll be better off finding the answers yourself."She gestures to a grand doorway behind you, one that is remarkably intact.
"Go through there, and you'll find them soon enough. And don't worry Mister, I'll accompany you."That, does not sound reassuring at all.
[]Go through the door.
[]Refuse. You're not going through there without more information
[]Other.
>[X]Go through the door.
"Oh and one last thing - you dropped this!"She reaches into her pockets and tosses a silvery object to you. It's a lighter, one of those more old-fashioned zippos.
"Thank you?"You click it open, confirming that it works.
"I don't remember owning this.""You don't always remember what you've lost."Giving her an odd glance, you push open the doors, and walk into the light that lies beyond.
((What happened beyond that, between walking through those doors, and being recruited by Harmony, only Joseph, and, as he's come to call her, Freyja, know.))