Lieu: Sur la route/Le domaine de Henderson
Interagir avec: Tatiana Korvo

Wyatt ne devrait pas conduire.
Il ne devrait même pas faire quoi que ce soit, à moins qu'il s'effondre dans le lit.
Il avait au moins une demi-douzaine de cafés dans la dernière heure, encore une demi-douzaine de Red Bulls l'heure précédente, et maintenant, il avait une tasse remplie d'un mélange dégoûtant des deux embrayés dans sa main droite. Il a goûté comme de l'acide de batterie (non qu'il avait jamais goûté de l'acide de batterie réel, jamais entendu parler de métaphores?) et son cœur était probablement à environ deux secondes d'imploser, mais en ce moment, c'était la seule chose qui empêchait Wyatt de causer un horrible accident de voiture.
Maintenant, un jour normal, un trajet de neuf heures serait une promenade pour Wyatt. Il l'avait fait avant ; plusieurs années de course, en fait, mais il avait été éveillé pendant un grand total de vingt et un heures, et il faisait vraiment un certain nombre de choses sur ses facultés cognitives. Il avait été coincé au travail jusqu'à deux heures du matin déballant et étagèrer de nouveaux stocks. Pourquoi n'ont-ils pas pu attendre le lendemain matin pour le faire? Simple – parce que Byron Whitaker, assistant directeur de succursale de Trenton, très propre magasin de disques vintage, était un douchenozzle massif.
Si vous disiez à Wyatt que le gars était en fait, littéralement le frayeur de Satan, il aurait rempli une bouteille de spray d'eau bénite et est allé en ville sur lui, aucune question posée. À ce stade, ce n'était même plus difficile à croire. Sinon, pourquoi quelqu'un prendrait - il autant de plaisir à tourmenter ses subordonnés? De toute évidence, c'était le travail d'un pouvoir plus grand et maléfique, qui au lieu de damner les pécheurs impies à l'enfer, les a fait travailler des quantités ridicules d'heures supplémentaires pour près du salaire minimum. La veille de Noël, pas moins.
Il ne pense pas qu'il détestait une personne plus dans tout son, vingt-six ans, six mois, et vingt-sept jours de vie, et ce n'était même pas une exagération. Même avec un cerveau effréné, à la caféine, et exactement zéro heure de sommeil, Wyatt pouvait sentir les feux de la fumée haineuse dans ses veines, laissant derrière lui une trace toxique de désolation complète et totale.
Peut-être que c'était juste son corps qui lui criait dessus pour arrêter de chugger cette abomination de Taureau Rouge. Ça aurait pu être l'un ou l'autre, vraiment, mais Wyatt était trop concentré sur la conduite directe aux soins.
Dire que c'était une expérience terrifiante – bien, ce serait la sous-estimation du siècle. C'était probablement la pire décision qu'il ait jamais prise. Une ou deux fois, Wyatt aurait pu jurer que son brouillon d'une voiture s'était levé à quelques pouces du sol. C'était physiquement impossible, bien sûr, selon les lois du mouvement de Newton, mais cette connaissance ne l'a pas réconforté dans le moindre, et il a levé les yeux juste à temps pour voir un panneau sur le côté de la route.
«Entrer dans les dortoirs. Population: 937 habitants
Ça allait être un long voyage.

Par une sorte de miracle, Wyatt a réussi à arriver à Wilmington en une seule pièce. Bien sûr, ses mains tremblaient, ses cheveux et ses vêtements grinçaient, mais il était ici, vivant et non éclaboussé... surtout.
La même chose, cependant, ne pouvait pas être dit pour sa voiture. Pour commencer, il y avait au moins une douzaine de boîtes vides de Red Bull éparpillées sur le siège arrière, de multiples taches de café sur le rembourrage, et le pare-chocs arrière était à peine accroché (avec la permission de Wyatt retournant droit dans le mur d'un 7-Eleven dos à Richmond). Honnêtement, il doutait que la voiture survivrait à l'hiver, et d'une manière bizarre, ça le rendait un peu triste. Peut-être qu'il pourrait lui donner un bon style de send-off, viking, le brûler au sommet d'un pyre funéraire, et tout ce jazz.
La privation de sommeil lui arrivait vraiment, n'est-ce pas? Il pensait que c'était là que le délire s'est finalement installé.
Mais au fur et à mesure que la mémoire musculaire prenait le dessus, Wyatt tourna brusquement à gauche, et assez tôt, il aperçut la silhouette de témoin du domaine Henderson qui se profilait au loin. Les arbres enneigés étaient un spectacle familier, lui rappelant les rencontres des années passées. Troisième année consécutive – comment le temps a volé.
La chose suivante qu'il savait, il tirait dans l'allée, bien qu'il ait repéré quelques visages familiers hors du coin de l'œil. Ce choc de cheveux rouges brillants se démarquait contre le paysage enneigé, et il savait instantanément à qui il appartenait. S'il pouvait vraiment arriver à la porte d'entrée sans se faire face à l'épuisement, il aimerait dire bonjour à Tatiana.
Et puis il s'est probablement évanoui dans le salon après devant un feu rugissant. Oui, ça avait l'air sympa.
Avec un tour de clé, le moteur s'est arrêté, et Wyatt est sorti de la voiture, claquant la porte fermée avec un peu plus de force que ce qui était probablement nécessaire. Les roues de ses bagages roulaient bruyamment contre le sol inégal alors qu'il s'approchait du bâtiment massif, et ce n'est qu'alors qu'il s'est rendu compte qu'il n'était pas du tout habillé pour le temps. Apparemment, un t-shirt, une chemise en flanelle, un sweat à capuche et une paire de jeans n'étaient pas assez pour éviter le froid. Ce que, pour être honnête, il aurait dû s'attendre. Heureusement, il est venu préparé avec des pulls supplémentaires de la vilaine variété de Noël.
Malheureusement, ceux-ci étaient encore coincés dans sa valise – il était donc probablement dans son intérêt d'entrer avant qu'il ne se fige les doigts.
"Yo, Tatia!" Wyatt appela, prononça un peu de boue, et lui tira les dents dans un sourire à demi-coeur. Quoi de neuf? C'est bon de te voir.
“The mind can calculate, but the spirit yearns, and the heart knows what the heart knows.”
-Stephen KingT H E B A S I C S 
|{Name}|
Marion Wyatt Rothenberg
(Yeah, yeah, his first name’s Marion, laugh it up.)
|{Nickname}|
It’s not really a nickname, but one thing’s for certain; he very much prefers to go by Wyatt, or like, any sort of derivative of it. Just please, please - do him a solid and never call him Marion. He has no idea what possessed his parents to name him that, and he dies a little bit inside every time he hears it.
|{Birth Date}|
May 28th, 1989
|{Age}|
26
|{Gender}|
Male
|{Sexuality}|
Grey-romantic Bisexual
|{Sexually Active}|
Yes
|{Relationship Status}|
Single
|{Occupation}|
Most of the time, Wyatt hops from job to job, doing temp work at various factories and furniture places, or anywhere at all, really. But as of the moment, he’s managed to snag a semi-stable position as a record store clerk downtown.
(He likes to think it’s just a little something to supplement his income until his career finally evolves from ‘starving artist’ to ‘financially sufficient artist’.)
A P P E A R A N C E
|{In Depth Appearance}|
Wyatt stands at a perfectly respectable 6’1”, though with his tendency to slouch, he usually appears a little shorter than he actually is. It’s mostly out of laziness, but his posture is terrible; shoulders rolled forward, hands stuck in his pockets. Pretty much the only time he grows to full height is when he feels threatened, and has been known to be truly terrifying when he does so. Fortunately, however, this side of him is not something his friends see very often - though the same can’t be said for everyone else.
Wyatt’s pretty built, but not overly so. He’d almost have the physique of a swimmer, if he actually put some effort into working out. Really, the only exercise he gets is from his job, though just from looking at him, the merits of a career in manual labour are undeniable.
Most of the time, Wyatt can be seen with a cigarette between his lips, features set in an easy grin. His steel grey eyes always seeming to glitter with something akin to amusement - about what? Even he isn’t sure, and while he used to be a tad insecure about a slightly crooked front tooth, he’s long since gotten past it. He likes to keep his hair cropped close to his head, with clean shaven being his go-to facial decor, but some days, he gets lazy and gives his scruff free rein.
|{Clothing Style}|
“Accidental Hipster” is probably the best way to describe Wyatt. He doesn’t put much effort into keeping up appearances, but somehow, he has a knack for turning his déshabillé to his advantage. When it inevitably gets chilly, he resorts to heavy flannels and/or ugly Christmas sweaters. Paired together with his positively ancient jeans and work boots, the whole effect almost seems to scream “lumberjack”. On warmer days, he basically dresses exactly the same - except instead of hideous, moth-eaten, thrift store sweaters, it’s t-shirts and tank tops.
Wyatt seems to wear a lot of jewelry for a guy, though it’s mostly leather and beaded bracelets, steel rings on his fingers, and again, he’s an expert at making them appear noncommittal. Scarves, on the other hand, they’re just not his thing. The weather in Jersey never seems to get cold enough for them, anyway, so the last thing he needs is to go out and buy a scarf he’s never gonna use. As far as he’s concerned, the layers of the shirts and sweaters and jackets he wears are enough to ward off the cold. Oh, and beanies. Beanies are great for that, too.
|{Scars, Tattoos, Piercings}|
Wyatt doesn’t have any piercings or tattoos, though he used to have his ears pierced. He does, however, have a sizeable scar (already healed) of about two to three inches under his right eye, stretching from the top of his ear, and another, smaller one vertically through the eyebrow. They were from a fight he’d gotten into a couple years back, where he ended up with the pointy end of a broken bottle to the face. There are, of course, a maze of tiny battle scars peppering his knuckles and the rest of his skin from past altercations.
G E T T I N G T O K N O W M E
|{Likes & Dislikes}|
✔Horchata
✔Cigarettes
✔Dogs
✔Oil paints
✔Rain
✔Bad puns
✔Joy Division
✘Traffic
✘Job interviews
✘Getting up early
✘Lattés
✘Dubstep
✘Lizards
✘Two-facedness
|{Hobbies}|
Contrary to popular belief, Wyatt’s actually quite the artist. While he’s never had much for it in the way of formal education, he has something of an affinity for the craft.
Getting absolutely shitfaced.
He’s a sucker for reality TV. Sitting on the couch watching reruns of The Real Housewives is his idea of a great Sunday night.
|{Habits}|
Smoking. It keeps him from getting jittery, and while he’s been trying to cut down, it isn’t going very well.
Wyatt scratches the side of his head when nervous, which is actually something he finds annoying whenever he realises he’s doing it.
Cracking his knuckles. Who cares about arthritis, right?
|{Fears}|
☠Getting stuck doing the same, shitty jobs for the rest of his life.
☠Losing his parents.
☠Letting his anger get the better of him.
D E L V I N G D E E P E R
|{Personality}|
♦ Genuine ♦ Dedicated ♦ Abrasive ♦ Neurotic ♦
To say that Wyatt doesn’t beat around the bush is a huge understatement. He says what he thinks and will rarely sugarcoat his answers to win people over. He’s never uncomfortable; in fact, his boldness often verges on brash and crosses into downright crude, thanks to his lack of a filter. If he likes something, he'll let you know it, and if he doesn't, well, he's never been shy about voicing his opinion in that matter either. Try as he might, Wyatt's never really had the best poker face in the world, and it tends to give him away, more often than not.
While he isn’t purposely malicious, he does have an explosive temper when crossed, and he’s the kind of person who would rather start throwing punches than hash things out. With that taken into consideration, it’s very easy to peg him for a textbook case of Small Dog Syndrome, despite his not at all diminutive stature. It’s more a matter of principle, and if there’s one thing he can’t stand, it’s being talked down to. Of course, this isn’t to say he’s all bad, just that he’s hard to like. He does have a few soft spots here and there, even if they aren’t exactly the easiest things to find.
Yet for all his flaws, he’s never met a boundary he wouldn’t cross, and he’ll go to the absolute ends of the Earth for you if he thinks you’re worth it. Wyatt is, by nature, extremely impulsive, both in the things he does and says. As far as he’s concerned, life’s too short to just sit around and let shit happen. He often states that no one should take life too seriously because in the end, everyone ends up in the same place - even if he doesn’t believe what he’s preaching. At the very core of his personality, Wyatt is kind of a bleeding heart, and he often puts the needs of others above his own.
|{Place Of Origin}|
Trenton, New Jersey
|{History}|
Born in the Garden State of New Jersey, Wyatt began life in a small, three-bedroom home with his parents, brothers and sisters. The oldest of five children, he was always the most aware of how tight money was, how hard their parents worked trying to make ends meet, and how their every waking moment was spent thinking about how they were going to pay rent the very next week. That, of course, left the young Wyatt to take care of his siblings while Mr. and Mrs. Rothenberg were away, and he was a good sport about it, too - never fussing, never complaining - at least up until middle school, anyway.
In school, he struggled, both academically and socially, though if he had to be honest, he saw that shit coming from a mile away. As his grades slipped, his frustration grew, and soon, he began to take his anger out on the people around him. There were too many things about him that could be picked on for his liking, and so he grew louder, more boisterous and was forever throwing the first punch in a fight. You had to be living under a rock to not know his name, in fact. And Wyatt loved every second of it, no matter how many times he was sent to the principal’s office, knuckles bruised and bleeding.
Unsurprisingly, everyone was divided when it came to Wyatt - you either loved or hated him, and oddly enough, he was okay with that. It put him on the map and gave him the attention he craved; the attention he lacked. Back home, his father would yell, and his mother would cry, wondering just what happened to their good, little boy. It was a good thing the principal claimed he had so much potential, if only he “channeled his energy appropriately” - whatever that meant.
This continued all the way until sophomore year of high school, but before he could go any further down this path, the then fifteen year-old Wyatt finally found what this so-called conduit was when one day, his art teacher sat him down for an after-school talk.
It was a sobering message, coming from the unlikeliest of places, and it caught him off guard. While he never did fare well in structured classroom settings, Wyatt had taken to art class like a duck to water, even if he didn’t quite realise it.
Slowly but surely, he opened up to Mrs. Wilkes - a little reluctantly, at first - though every one of these talks took away a tiny bit of rage with them, even if it sounded like the cheesiest goddamned thing ever. The process was gradual, almost painfully slow at times, but while there weren’t any soap opera-esque miracles, just having someone to confide in was enough for him to get his shit together.
...Well, kind of together, at least.
With some effort, he managed to get through high school, and all things considered, it was actually an okay experience. He made some friends, passed his classes, even managing to squeeze in some time to practice his art. Of course, this was only possible as his siblings got older, and by graduation, he’d gotten himself a decent GPA, and a partial art scholarship.
It was inevitable, really, but after a semester, Wyatt had to drop out due to outstanding tuition fees. Even with a scholarship, financial aid, and a part-time job, his parents just weren’t making enough money to put him through college, and he set about finding a more stable career.
Wyatt’s interest in art was pushed to the back of his mind as he settled into a routine of menial, mind-numbing work, though he never lets himself forget about it completely. It’s always nagging at him, a ceaseless skittering under his skin, and whenever he finds the time to spare, there’s nothing he’d rather do than pick up a brush, and watch vibrant hues splash across canvas.
|{Extra}|
My family doesn’t celebrate Christmas, but I’d say my favourite thing is probably going out to dinner with friends.
|{Theme Song}|
Ride – twenty one pilots
“Yeah, I think about the end just way too much
But it's fun to fantasize
On my enemies I wouldn't wish who I was
But it's fun to fantasize”