The Grand OC SII: The Re-OCening: Week 29: UNINTELLIGIBLE!

Name: Francois Hiccke
Race: Human...?
Gender: He/him
Description: An ordinary man, wrapped in sheets and sheets of loose paper. The paper is gathered together into the rough shape of an overlarge trench coat, the bottom edge of which scrapes the ground. His face is impassive, and seems entirely incapable of expression (it is made of flesh. you did check). On one breast pocket he wears a metal badge, which describes law enforcement of some kind - what law and what enforcement is unclear. The words are unreadable (they are clear words, emblazoned in brass, but they do not seem to say anything when you try and read them). The paper coat is also covered in words (but they too do not seem to say anything, at great and verbose length). Other than that, he wears strange leather gloves, the fingers of which bend in strange ways out the corner of your eye. When he moves them to take coffee or to pick up evidence-bagged contraband, they rustle in excitement (you do not know if it is the paper or the gloves, but it almost sounds like scuttling).

He is here to escort someone. The law wants them. He does not know who or why, but he is sure it is going somewhere. He is working.

Items/Abilities: Francois holds a police revolver. It is black and nondescript. It does not look as if it has ever been used. His spare magazines do not have bullets in them. They shake from time to time, and they are brown, not black.

Biography: Hicckesque, is what they called him at the precinct. He was a normal man. The setting was a town. Orders came from above, in manila envelopes. Every day he opened them and read the orders to the others. One morning he woke up with three people in his bed, whipping each other. He threw his blanket over them as he got up, and he didn't see them anymore. The wheels on his bicycle squeaked. The manila envelopes stuck to him. The people at the precinct began to stop. They would be carted out, along with their desks. He stopped showering. The room began to become empty at work. There were fewer people to read the envelopes to. The envelopes had orders in them. Sometimes they were blank, as if the people who they were meant for were no longer here. Sometimes he could not read them at all. The envelopes began coming in coir, sisal, burlap sacks, and then they stopped coming at all. Every day he would read the paper, densely printed. He would send his men, then his man, then no one at all. There were no desks but his. The papers just came on their own. They stuck to him. He felt small. His blankets were too big for him. He felt as if moving was strange. He could climb the walls if he wanted. The papers were everywhere. The whipping couple had moved into his apartment. All his things were in the closet, and one day the closet door was gone. There was only wall. The papers stuck to him. He did not smile anymore. One morning he went to work and his desk was gone. Then he was gone, too.