Sta.sh
He awakes lying on his back on the altar of a church.
He feels…stiff, dry, worn out, and incredibly confused. His confusion only increases when he looks to the right of him and sees another man lying on the altar beside him.
But…it isn't just any man – it is himself. But the other him…the other him looks, well, dead. And how is that even possible? His hand stretches out, fingertips skimming across the high cheekbones of his – but not his – face. The skin is waxy and cold. He is dead, and has been for a while, although the corpse must have been preserved in some way.
So then…is he a ghost? How would that work, exactly? He feels so real, more real, even, than the dead him, who is as still and artificial looking as a mannequin, scarlet hair falling over closed eyes. His own eyes flick down to the corpse's neck, where a ragged wound is, black around the edges as though burnt. Caused by…a raygun. He remembers now, with a strange sort of shock, what happened. How he died at the hand of Korse. How he had died saving The Girl. The look in his brother's eyes just before the leader of BLind pulled the trigger…
He slides off the altar, numb. Bewildered. His hand flies to his throat, but it is unmarred. There is smooth flesh there, nothing more.
Then he feels the necklace.
More of a collar, really, but it isn't hard for him to unlatch it and stare at the small tag on the strip of leather, the printed words upon it.
#1313
REBEL CLONE
MALFUNCTION
UNSAFE DNA, TERMINATE
He stares at it, unaware that his hands are shaking. According to this he is a clone. But he is Party Poison. Of course he is. He knows it. How could he not know himself?
And yet there he is, dead.
So, maybe he is a clone. And in that case, he's apparently a 'malfunction,' with 'unsafe DNA.' And they ('they' presumably being BLind) wish to terminate him. They want to kill him. Again.
He swallows, looks nervously down at his pale hands clutching the collar.
Wait – pale hands? His hands aren't pale. Not anymore.
And then a thought – a terrifying thought – occurs to him.
He swipes his hand across the altar, revealing the reflective marble beneath, pitted with age. His face peers back at him worriedly.
A pale face, a younger face, framed with feathery black hair. He feels at his stomach and hips. They are not lean, no, he is soft there, with a slight pudge at the sides. When he lifts up his plain grey shirt, his skin is almost blindingly white. It has never been exposed to the blazing sun of the desert, or any sunshine at all.
No.
Yes.
Oh, fuck.
His mind – his memories – those belong to Party Poison.
But his body…his very DNA…belongs to Gerard Way in the year 2005.
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Hey, I'm not complaining! So it was rather sad to see the disappearance of my dear old desktop, Lambie, since he served me so well...but Frankie is pretty much perfect so I hope he'll do the same <3
So...somewhere in between now and Wednesday morning, I need to study in-depth five units in math which I have entirely forgotten! 
Ah, the sweet life of a procrastinator.
Lonely 
