Part One: What the Hell's Your Name?

WHATSERNAME DRIFTED THROUGH THE CROWD, as nameless as she always was. Her short reddish-orange hair bobbed above her shoulders, contrasting violently with the black corset that was clinched around her waist, just above her knee-length lace-trimmed skirt. There was an unusually somber air around her, and if anyone had card to look they would have seen tearstains on her cheeks that sprang from her reddened eyes and ran to her pointed chin.

The Jesus of Suburbia followed the heavy sound of her high combat boots as they thundered across the dead grey concrete. There was a greasy shine above his limp and spikeless black hair, which fell over his also bloodshot eyes in a manner similar to the person that had caused the ill-matched pair to grieve. In fact, the Jesus of Suburbia looked like he could have been the twin of the deceased teenager that he mourned. But no-one could mistake him for the other, as the Jesus of Suburbia was missing the defining tracks that had run down the arms of his somewhat twin.

The two somewhat mortal enemies were walking to the same place together for one reason, and one reason only -- for the funeral of the one once called Saint Jimmy.

“Wait up!” the Jesus of Suburbia shouted at the girl he was tailing turned a sharp corner, losing him in the thick Monday morning crowd.

But Whatsername did not wait up, nor did she ever outwardly show that she’d heard him. With a quiet grumble of a sarcastic, “thanks,” he ran after her, catching her as she crossed the street to the next block.

“You could go slower, you know,” he panted quite harshly.

“And you could go faster,” she retorted sourly, bitterly.

“Listen, Whatsername. Just -- let’s pretend to get along, okay? That’s how Jimmy would’ve--”

“Jimmy doesn’t give a fuck cuz he’s dead, idiot.”

“If he was alive, he’d care!”

“Don’t even pretend to understand Jimmy!” she yelled. “You were the one who drove him to suicide, remember?!”

“What?! I -- I didn’t, you have to -- listen, Whatsername, I -- I didn’t--!”

“You ignorant little son of a bitch! You’re not the Jesus of Suburbia, so stop pretending you’re all high and mighty!” She glared at him, before adding one last comment: “And stop calling me Whatsername, goddamn it!”

“Well, what the hell is your name, then?! I never learned it -- Whatsername!” he angrily half-screamed at her. “I don’t even know your name! Jimmy didn’t even know you’re name, did he?!”

“No, he--!”

“Then what is it?!”

Whatsername didn’t answer, just ignored the Jesus of Suburbia and stormed onward. Before she was out of earshot, her companion shouted something else at her.

“You were the one who made him kill himself! You and your damn letterbombs!”

Whatsername didn’t reply to that and just ran far, far away from the Jesus of Suburbia and the blame he was placing on her.

“Bitch,” the other muttered as he turned in the opposite direction, heading back to his apartment and the rest of the Underbelly.