Mediocrity 50% [Brallon: Deja Vu, Book 1]

0.5

Dallon James Weekes deemed himself an ordinary guy. The kind of normal that it's remarkable in its own way. He wasn't 'living at Number 4, Privet Drive' normal, nor 'I'm not like other girls' normal. He was more... perfectly average, neither exceptional nor terrible at anything he undertook. He was numb to the world, with a Bachelor's Degree in business and a depression diagnosis to boot.

He felt completely average, not anything special whatsoever. Not too over the top, not behind the curve, not understated nor overrated. He was just kind of there. A solid C. He was middle class and worked a nondescript nine to five office job in a tiny cubicle office populated by plastic plants, peeling, stained off white paint, and an out of date computer. His office smelled like old coffee, and he felt it reflected himself perfectly well. 

It was all just completely mediocre. And he was fine with that. He didn't think you needed to be special or overachieving. It was fine for other people, as he usually got along well with extroverts, as they balanced him out, but not for him. Maybe that was his introversion talking, but the spotlight made him anxious. And he was okay with that. For the time being, at least. Maybe in 50 years, he'd look back on himself in his mid-20s, a couple of years out of college and regret never taking a jump into the constantly  moving current of success and fame. Maybe he'd regret never wanting to be reading a speech thanking his colleagues for something that he got the credit for. As of now, he didn't want to talk to anyone, much less be playing a bass on a stage in front of screaming crowds. He'd rather be a part of the masses, the ordinary populace. Not a villain trying to hurt people to get ahead, nor a hero trying to save everyone at the expense of themselves. And as of now, Dallon was okay with his position in life.

He lived in a high rise apartment building with thirty floors, residing exactly on floor number fifteen. Dallon roomed with his best friend, Ryan Eric Seaman, who was mainly a real estate agent, but also a drummer on the side, in a small cover band that played a few gigs at a local coffee shop every once in a while. He wrote stuff too, but that was before a suburban real estate boom had begun in Los Angeles. Ryan and Dallon had known each other since the seventh grade, smack dab in the middle of their middle school careers. They'd gone to the same high school, even the same college, and now shared a cramped apartment that neither of them had the motivation to move out of, particularly Dallon. Of course, Ryan hadn't originally lived in said apartment, but had moved in after Dallon had relapsed. He was a stellar friend in that respect.

Dallon was a tall man, 6'3 and long legged. He had dishwater blue eyes and brown hair that he couldn't seem to get to do anything style-wise. A long nose and lips on the thin side. He didn't care too much for, or about, his appearance. He was currently wearing ripped skinny jeans and and old band tee that he had found in the back of his closet. It was a weekend, and that's why he wasn't wearing his usual slacks and a blazer, which were sometimes accompanied by a bow tie if he felt especially upbeat and snazzy that morning. He didn't usually wear the bow ties.

He was sitting on an old brown couch, with a ripped seam somewhere on it, that he and Ryan had found once, then promptly forgot about it, and its location. It was probably just on the edge of the couch, in between two cushions, where most belongings went to die. In between couch cushions and under beds. The couch was equally as nondescript as Dallon's boring life. He was flipping through channels on the television, slouching a bit with each dead end show that flicked on screen. There wasn't anything interesting on.

Ryan flopped down on the couch next to him, running a hand through his newly dyed hair. It had been a turquoise blue before, but Ryan had recently dyed it black. It suited him, in Dallon's mind.

Keys jangled in the lock of the door. Only three people had the keys to Ryan and Dallon's apartment; themselves and their close friend Spencer James Smith, who coincidentally had the same middle name as Dallon. They'd met in freshman year of high school and had kept in close contact until now. He was an artist with far too many friends and acquaintances for Dallon's introverted taste.