Frank

Frank has a very big back yard.

He knows his neighbors’ names and faces, although he visits them only rarely. He lives in a very exclusive neighborhood. He knows the scenic spots and the dull-as-anything hellholes. He can tell you where to go for a good time on a Friday night, even if he’s got problems identifying which day of the week is Friday. Or for that matter, when it’s day or when it’s night.

Frank isn’t much to look at. His body is covered in corrugated channels, the marks of Lilith - though where he grew up, the recipients of a failed mutation are labeled “freaks” by the superhuman subculture. “Child of Lilith” is too high-falutin’. He’s tall, massively built, with hands like huge slabs of meat on the hook. He doesn’t talk much now, and his singing voice is getting rusty. He wears Hawaiian print t-shirts and shorts, going barefoot whenever possible, because the Antarctic cold just doesn’t bother him.

When he wants to pray, he visits Trinity Church - never the same priest twice. When he wants to warm up, he climbs Mount Erebus. He knows Juan Pablo Camacho personally. He stays long enough for the novelty of his presence to be of interest, then leaves before the palpable fear of mortal humans for his appearance can set in. He eats when he feels like it and drinks when it suits his fancy, though neither are strictly necessary.

Mostly, though, Frank spends a great deal of time and effort convincing himself that he’s happy here. And sometimes, when a diversion is needed, he tries to come up with reasons that he could be happy anywhere else.