A Second Life
A Second Life
It's a warm afternoon on May 31st, 1935 and the sun is shining. A cool breeze tickles your hair and makes ripples in the tea in your cup. You've just graduated from Ursuline Academy here in the great city of New Orleans, and your family couldn't be more pleased. You've done well in your efforts to become the perfect young southern lady -- proper posture and dress, makeup to pale your olive skin to a more acceptable white, parasol and wide-brimmed hat to keep the sun off you. Everything is as it should be.
Well, almost. You see, sitting next to you is a charred corpse with a rictus grin of pain permanently plastered on its face, its body occupying the driver's seat of a dilapidated abandoned streetcar that somehow always fits perfectly no matter where you are. That's your Geist, or as it calls itself, The Conductor. A ghostly symbiotic entity you made a deal with after you died to come back to life, in exchange for it being fused to your soul and body to experience life once more through you.
Which reminds you of the second person currently present at the table, sitting across from you and munching on a vanilla scone loudly. Tall, athletic, with pale skin, short swept-back black hair and piercing blue eyes. He's dressed in a strange black overcoat with a feathered collar, black trousers, and black heeled boots. He carries an ebony crozier engraved with death iconography in silver (currently leaning against his chair), and wears a black felt top hat with a silver band.
Nikolas Krushyu. A self-proclaimed "Sin-Eater", a Russian, and most importantly the one who originally got you killed when he distracted the streetcar driver while you were on the tracks holding the cooling corpse of your youngest brother, tragically gunned down by the thugs of a crime family.
He takes a sip of tea and sticks his tongue out. "Ugh, bitter," he mutters before reaching into his coat and pulling out a flask, pouring a decent quantity of what smells like alcohol to you into the brew before sipping (slurping) again. "Much better. So, are you just going to sit there like a statue?"