Entirely More Sinister (Wyatt)

[dorian armel smith.]

He cracked his jaw, and ignored the paint that was dripping from the thick brush onto his boots. Beside him: the paint pot, an unorthodox exchange for the common spray can. Before him: the wall, one of four that blocked off the shop (that Dorian didn't care to know the name of) from the outside world. There were scrawlings here and there from where other distracted teens had come to showcase their limited artistic talent through graffiti. Most of it was faded or painted over, though. There was still a lot of space for new additions.

It was hard to tell when Dorian was in deep thought, because he always glared like that, but suddenly he moved, and brought the brush around in an arc to splatter against the wall. The black liquid splashed out in a line as he dragged the brush, taking a sudden turn, and then another, and then stopping abruptly. The bristles were removed from the bricks before being flicked and sputtering flecks of paint over them.
As he worked, Dorian chewed his bottom lip, not in a nervous or unsettled gesture, but a hungry one. His spare hand hung lifelessly by his side.

When he was done, he stepped back and admired the seemingly random black smatterings of paint that he had decorated the red brick wall with. As he examined them, he bit on the skin around the nail of his thumb, and cleared his throat. Deciding there was something wrong with the work of art so far, he tossed the brush to the ground and slid forward again, taking both his bare hands to the hard surface and smudging the paint about wildly.

Again he stopped, and again he took a step back. His hands were now both black with paint and scraped with bits of stone, but that didn't stop him from running one of them absently through his black hair. He muttered something to himself that sounded vaguely like 'several lifeless midgets'.

It was a saturday, so he had no prior obligations, and wasn't breaking any rules by being here (though he was breaking rules by graffitiing), not that that mattered to him. Still unhappy with his creation, he seemed to move a little closer to the shop wall again, but stopped abruptly when he heard something. Something other than background noises of traffic and the chattering of crowds in the town centre. Slowly, but without concern, he turned to face whatever it was.

[grayson wyatt thatcher.]

Wyatt was roaming around St. Michael's as he normally did when he was bored, not that it really cured anything. It was Saturday, something fun needed to happen today. It had to. The boy watched the people walking around, all seemed so dull. Doing the same meaningless tasks as they always did. Wyatt was sick of it all, he couldn't handle this town any more. He needed some kind of excitement.

"Huh?" He asked himself as he saw something out the corner of his eye. A kid around his age was smearing paint around on a wall. Wyatt was sure he hadn't seen this guy before. There was something so...odd about him. The boy couldn't place what it was, but there was something different. Wyatt tried to get closer to figure out what he was painting but stepped on a can, crunching it noisily. 'Crap.'

"Hey..." The boy said cautiously as the other turned towards him. "I like your style." He lied, not really knowing what the guy was going for. The graffitiing itself was a pretty good idea, maybe Wyatt would try it some day. "Sorry for intruding, didn't mean to mess with your concentration."

[dorian armel smith.]

Dorian stared.

It might have been a stare of irritation. It might have been a stare of curiosity, or even one of amusement. It was quite impossible to tell.

The brown-haired boy in front of him was named Grayson, though a lot of people called him Wyatt. That might have been his second name. He was in the grade below him at school. And he liked his style? What did that mean? Did he think this was graffiti? He looked from the boy back to the wall. It didn't look much like graffiti, by the commonly accepted use of the term. But then, it didn't look much like anything.

Turning back, Dorian took slow steps toward Wyatt, his eyes taking him in in that calculating way that had been remarked upon by several psychiatrists. He stopped walking and stood still when they were only a metre apart. Black paint dripped from his hands.

"You didn't." He said, finally, and he notably closed his teeth around something, presumably his own tongue.
The boy was from St Michaels, like himself, so he knew that he wasn't a spy. He had probably just stumbled on to him by accident. No harm intended.
Almost with a twitch of the neck, he was looking back at his work on the wall again.
"You like it, huh?" He said, his voice low, that one would have to actually listen to hear it. "Then tell me, d'you think..." He raised a hand and pointed at the black smearings, "It'll work?"

[grayson wyatt thatcher.]

"Depends on what you wanted to do." Wyatt said taking another look at this guys...art. "If you wanted people to wonder what the hell it is, then I'm pretty sure you accomplished it." He said with a smirk. The boy glanced down at the other's hands. 'He really goes all in for his art.' He thought as he brought his eyes back up to the boy's face. There seemed to be something off about the guy...nothing that you could actually see though. Wyatt got an odd vibe from him. "You do stuff like this often? Graffiti and whatnot?" He asked raising his brow.

Who was this kid? He had this aura about him that seemed to tell people to not even try to talk to him. Something...evil? No that couldn't be it. Wyatt just brushed the feeling off. He was just being paranoid, his parents always told him that. Especially whenever he brought up anything about Powers. No, obviously he was crazy because he thought something was happening there. No one ever wanted to admit that it just wasn't a normal school. Wyatt pushed it out his mind, back to this kid. "I'm Wyatt by the way."

[dorian armel smith.]

Dorian didn't crack a smile when Wyatt smirked. Instead he nodded a little, as if taking his response into account.
"It wouldn't be much of a secret, if everyone could see it." He mused, his voice still very quiet. Still observing the younger teenager's face, as if taking in every single muscle movement, he raised one of his blackened hands and bit on the nail of his thumb thoughtfully. Then he finally backed off and went back to his wall. He paced alongside it, taking wide strides as he went and watching it like it needed intimidating to convince it to stay where it was.

Wyatt asked him if he often did stuff like this and Dorian didn't look back at him when he answered.
"No, graffiti is pointless. It's a coward's way to break the rules. Victimless crime." He stopped walking and raised both his hands, making a rectangle with his fingers and peering through it at the mess like the director of a film.
"For this I just needed a bigger... canvas..."
He stayed absolutely still in that position until Wyatt spoke again, and when he did, the answer came immediately.

"I know who you are." Dorian said, and lowered his hands. "You're like me. I've seen you around with your camera, taking pictures, watching..." He paused, still not bothering to turn around and look at Wyatt. "Scary, isn't it? You never know who's watching. On average, you're photographed three hundred times a day by surveillance cameras. And there's always someone on the other end. Another pair of eyes. All we can do is hope there's someone watching them too."

He stopped talking abruptly, either realising that his train of thought was going off the rails, or simply deciding that Wyatt didn't need to hear it.
"D." He said, "I'm D." Finally, he looked back at him. "Why are you here, Wyatt?"