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| 2008-10-07 11:44 |
| (no subject) |
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- Jim Hollingsworth loses his wife Annie and daughter Sarah in a car accident. His friend, Leonard McKay refers him to grief counseling.
- At the clinic, Jim runs into a disguised Lee Huntington, who's there to pull a job. He meets with Doctor Adams to discuss his grief. She sends him to Stash Labs to recieve experimental drug treatment.
- At Stash, we see Holly Hawk and Diedre Kennedy the first time. They're chemists and co-workers of Leonard's. Jim is given a supply of the experimental anti-depressant Noemo.
- The Noemo works to suppress Jim's grief and he's able to get on a more even keel. After a short period of time, though, the drug stops working and is pulled from the market. He's addicted to it, though, and begs Diedre to get him whatever is left of the stuff so that he can find out what made it work for him. She agrees and gets him the leftovers.
- Tweaking the formula, Jim accidentally reverses it, intensifying his negative emotions and drowning out the positive. He's driven mad with grief and starts tearing up the family house in his madness. In the process, he comes across a small box of love letters from Leonard that Annie was keeping hidden. Also in the box is a paternity test which reveals that Sarah wasn't actually his daughter.
- Angry and with vengeance on his mind, Jim returns to Stash Labs in the middle of the night, intent on killing Leonard for having had an affair with his wife. In Leonard's desperation to keep himself alive, he tells Jim that the car accident was rigged by the higher ups at Stash because her involvement with him had exposed her to carefully guarded company secrets. They couldn't kill Leonard because he was too valuable an asset, but they could get rid of the woman to punish him.
- Furious, Jim throws Leonard into the nearest vat of caustic looking chemicals and storms off, intent on wrecking havoc on the men responsible. Unknown to him, however, is that Holly Hawk has witnessed these events. It takes several minutes, but she rescues Leonard from the vat and spirits him away to an abandoned warehouse where she can take care of him.
- Jim, thinking a little more clearly, decides to create a masked persona in the vein of the Steel Sentinel so that he can avoid discovery. He adopts the name 'Hollow'--because his emotions are deadened now--and alters the formula of the emotion enhancer so that it will drive anyone who comes in contact with it insane. With this, he becomes Steel's first true, malicious villain.
- We kick over to Diedre Kennedy's story. Holly is at home with Diedre's son, David, watching the news. The broadcast is about the appearance of the Hollow and the reappearance of Steel's golden age superhero, the Sentinel. Through the broadcast we learn that the Sentinel was assumed dead or retired after the golden age of supervillainy wound down, etc. etc. We also learn that the Hollow is targeting men who work for Stash Labs.
- Diedre returns home from work, het little boy (about five or six) is thrilled to see her and runs to mommy. She remarks that Holly doesn't look well and Holly replies that she's been taking care of a sick...fish. Diedre doesn't buy it, but leaves it alone for the time being.
- The next day, Diedre has a presentation to make to the board members of Stash Labs about her new universal solvent compound. She declares that the solvent will help with the planet's trash problem by dissolving garbage at a greatly accelerated rate. This way, acres of land that are currently used as landfills can be turned into viable commercial or residential property.
- After the presentation, Violet Stash, the CEO of the company, approaches and Diedre is told to return to the labs later that night to speak with a group of higher ups who want to see the compound in action. She agrees, but when she returns to the lab, she is cornered, stuffed in a special airtight room and exposed to the toxin. Outside, we hear the real presentation going on. The business men are meeting with several representatives from different countries and offering the compound to the highest bidder as the most effective biological warfare ever created.
- Cut to later. The room that Diedre was imprisoned in is covered in nasty, gooey, mossy stuff. This is actually Diedre, decomposed, several weeks after the 'test'. Through some miracle, the bits and pieces begin reforming and she is reborn in human form. She staggers to the door and escapes, but the first time she touches something organic and it melts, she understands that she's become the formula. She has become Decay, personified. The specially designed suit that she used when developing the compound is the only thing she can touch without destroying it, so it becomes her costume--like a wet suit, almost.
- Confused and still very muddled, Diedre makes her way out of Stash, accidentally killing several people as she goes. Reports are made by Stash's security about a strange, monsterous woman melting people and the police get involved. This leads to a climactic confrontation in Steel Square where she realizes what she's done and allows the Sentinel to arrest her. However, as the handcuffs are snapped into place, through the crowd comes Holly, with David close at hand. Seeing mommy for the first time in forever, the boy breaks free and makes a run for his mother, grabbing her hand.
- Reaction shot. Diedre has killed her little boy with her touch alone.
- Wracked with grief, Diedre collapses and is taken into custody in an armored van.
- After being booked and on her way to a special security facility for supervillains (which hasn't been in use since the 60's), the van she's in is hijacked. It's Holly. She takes Diedre to the warehouse where she's stashed Leonard and introductions are made. Leonard is wrapped in bandaging, still recovering from his dip in the chemicals and Holly explains that he's made of cancer now (ew) and remembers nothing of his former life. Blah, blah, blah, etc. etc. etc., Diedre vows vengeance on Stash Labs for what they did to her.
- Enter the Hollow. Knowing that they have a common enemy and not realizing that the newly born 'Cancer Man' is actually Leonard, the group teams up to blow Stash Labs sky high. Holly adopts a costume for this purpose and they all skip off into the sunset to set things on fire.
- Cut to a highscale museum benefit soiree where Lee Huntington is making her debut. She speaks with Albert Lumley, listens in as people talk about the recent resurrection of the villainous lifestyle and dances with Nigel Meriwether. She's there to steal something and so is he: a small, priceless mirror that someone on the black market is simply dying to get their hands on. However, as they make their move, they discover that the mirror has been moved to a different location.
- Blah, blah, blah, Bloody Mary escapes the mirror and hops into Albert.
And...that's all I've got now. Brain go sleepy-bye.
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| 2008-10-05 15:37 |
| Buffyverse angst. |
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The world is dark. The room is silent. No one has any words. It's as though the entire combined vocabulary of every inhabitant of the room has simply fled, leaving the scoobies without means of communication beyond weeping and silent, empty faced stares. What is there to say? What words could possibly express the grief felt by all the silent, stony faced people in Buffy Summers' living room? No, it's not even her living room anymore...dead people don't own houses. Somewhere in the back of Dawn's mind, she registers that the house is hers now.
He follows her. It is instantaneous and an impulse that he can't control. He follows her up the stairs like a devoted puppy. The demon in him roars in protest. The grieving man within him doesn't give a damn.
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| 2008-10-05 15:36 |
| Old, old, original Villainyverse opening. |
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(All voice over)
Steel City.
Everyone here knows their heroes and their villains.
Everyone knows who's who and what's what...
Some of them even write about the cape and cowl phenomenon that's exploded here over the past twenty years.
But they don't always get their facts straight.
It's a pity, really. The true stories that accompany the tapestry of lives in Steel are absolutely fascinating.
My own included.
I go by many names, more than I can count...but today, I go by the name Scribe.
I'm a historian of sorts, I suppose.
Unlike the 'scholars' with million dollar book deals, I can write it because I've lived it.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. The stage was set and the players in their proper places long before I ever came on the scene.
As much as I'd like to skip ahead and get to all the juicier "Me" bits, I realize:
Sometimes you have to tell one story in order to tell another.
Let me introduce you to Steel's premiere guardian.
The Sentinel.
No one knows who he is.
No one.
Trust me, I've spent enough time trying to figure it out since I got here.
There are plenty of theories about him...
It's been suggested that he's not a man, but a machine.
He's the shadow that dogs every criminal in the city, but there isn't anyone alive that knows his true name.
His partner, the Cardinal, is just as much of a mystery.
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| 2008-10-05 15:33 |
| Inquisition: Original Opening |
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"I've traveled the world...learned a great many things through the sum of my experiences. Shall I share with you the three most fundamental lessons, dear Scarecrow? The three things that are true regardless of where you go or what you do or who you are? Oh, don't bother trying to answer...I know how hard it is to breathe with that on, much less speak. I suppose it's cruel of me to offer you a choice when you have none, even in something so small as this, but I think you'll find in the days to come--and make no mistake, you will be mine for days--cruelty is something you should become accustomed to."
The figure in red crouched in front of Jonathan Crane so that captive might meet the eyes of captor.
"Darkness cannot swallow you if you embrace it. Fear cannot touch you if you face it. But pain...pain is the inescapable, my dear Doctor Crane, inescapable through any means other than death. My mercy is nonexistant, but by all means, appeal to it if it gives you some measure of hope...false though it may be."
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| 2008-10-05 15:31 |
| In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning... |
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With a gentleness that went against all his established negative feelings for the woman in his arms, he held her head steady between his palms--part of him wanting to crush her skull for being so damn infuriating and part of him wanting to thrust her away from him as fast as humanly possible--and looked at her.
"I'm here."
She hiccuped and gasped like a fish out of water, eyes streaming and face flushed. "He's not! He can't be! I won't let you take him!"
She still wasn't seeing him.
He tightened his grip just the slightest bit, forcing himself not to wince when he used one shirt sleeve to wipe some of the collected liquids that were streaming down her face.
"Al. I'm here."
He didn't know what posessed him then. What strange magnetic force that caused him to do what he did next.
But it happened so fast he wasn't given enough time to ponder.
He pressed his lips to her forehead swiftly before withdrawing.
She went still as a statue, seeming to finally stop breathing completely. The only indication he had that she hadn't suffered a heart attack was when she blinked.
Al blinked again, this time some clarity coming over her expression as if she saw him for the first time. She looked like some sort of bewildered animal, staring at him with wide, watering eyes.
"Breathe," he muttered, trying not to think about the (wince) kiss he's just pressed to her forehead, thinking that drastic times called for drastic measures. "Breathe."
A huge gasp was his reward, followed by a squeak and her throwing all her weight at him, wrapping her arms around his ribs in a crushing embrace. "Jonathan!"
The leather volume he'd had in hand hit the floor, the pages becoming crushed under the weight of the book's spine, and Al continued to blubber, trying to explain between violent heaving breaths what had sent her into hysterics in her sleep.
She thought he was dead. She was clinging to him because she thought he was dead.
She was crying because...because...
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| 2008-10-05 15:29 |
| Apparently, I was feeling whimsical... |
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Every tale has a fairy, And every fairy has a tale, Though you very seldom hear them From the source, Chances are you've heard them As told by Grimm or Anderson, But if you want the honest to You've only one recourse, There's a single course of action, If you want a good distraction, If you want to hear a fairy tale, Ask a fairy, We're the absoulte authority on the art, Be it cindermaids or nobility, The storytelling majority...
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| 2008-10-05 15:26 |
| Eheh. Pregnancy with an mpreg punchline payoff. |
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"I'm WHAT?" "Pregnant." Eyes big with shock, I stared at Carson Beckett. "No, no, no. I'm not pregnant. It must've been something I ate." "I'm relatively certain you would remember swallowing a baby."
"You don't seem to understand, I can't be pregnant." Carson Beckett, a man whom I've long admired (mostly from behind), glanced down at the test results in his hand and reaffirmed my suspicions that he had gone 'round the bend. "I've run the test three times, and each time it's come up the same. You are pregnant, there's no denying the facts." "I don't think you get it, Beckett. There's no way I could be pregnant...not even under the most ideal of circumstances! This is...this is...it's impossible, that's what it is!
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| 2008-10-05 15:25 |
| Don't know what this was but I know what it *will* be |
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Look at them. The unwashed masses...the humble horde...all on their way to work, on their way to the daily grind, the rat race. All of them blissfully unaware of the ugliness beneath the surface of their city, seeing only the shining icon of their chosen champion The ugliness and the beauty. It was an accident, you know...all some kind of sick twisted accident. The powers that be are having a laugh at my expense, I think. I didn't mean to get involved...I didn't mean to get obsessed. Wait, is that what I am? Obsessed? I know I'm sure as hell not normal, but I don't think I'd put myself in a class with Harley Quinn. Now there is a chick with issues. I've got a vendetta against a woman I don't even know. Does that sound insane? Well, maybe it is. Just a smidge. But it's true. Her name is Harleen Quinzel and I hate her guts. I've studied her for the past couple of years and I've gotta tell you, she disgusts me.
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| 2008-10-05 15:24 |
| Oh...wow...this is two years old. |
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Doctor McKay stepped up to the podium. He had never been very good at this sort of thing, but according to Weir, he was the one who should say something. He thought that it should've been Beckett who gave the eulogy, after all, she had been his girlfriend, but Elizabeth had said the Scotsman was too broken up to even be seen in public right now. McKay's second choice would have been Sheppard, but he was currently offworld with Teyla, Ronon and Zelenka, meeting with a group of natives that absolutely refused to meet the inhabitants of Atlantis at a later date, human funereal customs be damned. They had some kind of month long festival coming up that meant that they weren't allowed
<hr><hr> "Because you're not really here! You're in my head!" "How can I be sure?" "I'm not dead, Rodney!" "Yes..yes you are!" He pointed at her, "I saw the body!" Cadman paled, "Body?" "Yes! They just had the funeral and-" "FUNERAL?" She exclaimed, "They had a-BUT I'M NOT DEAD!" "This is insane! I'm not dead! I'm right here!" "No, what's insane is the fact that I'm talking to a dead woman." "Stop saying that!" "I dont know..maybe..maybe some kind of...I don't know what! You're the genius here, Rodney, you figure it out!"
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| 2008-10-05 15:22 |
| Mi Familia |
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After months of training and you finally understand all of a program's commands, a revised version of the program arrives with an all-new command structure. (Thoreau's First Theory of Adaptation) And so it was for Jonathan Crane. It seemed like every time he thought he had the three women in his lair figured out, they'd go and yank the rug out from under him by changing the rules as he knew them. It was far from being fair, but it definitely kept things interesting. In many ways, his henchgirls were still very much a mystery to him, and often times he'd find one of their little unknown idiocycracies catching him off guard and knocking him flat on his ass before he knew what was happening. For example, one of the things Crane didn't know much about was their families. Oh, they'd been mentioned in passing, sure, and the way Techie had blanched whenever the topic came up was quite interesting.
As best he could tell, Al had a 'nice' family--the sort that the Captain declared she wanted to be adopted into--the Captain had lots of sisters that she loved dearly, and Techie... Well, she had summed it all up in less than fifteen words when she'd been pressed for information: "Mafia on my father's side, shotgun toting rednecks on my mother's. Don't. Ask."
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| 2008-10-05 15:22 |
| Old opening, never going to be used, can't eraaaase. |
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Pixie Sticks. It sounds like such an innocent thing, doesn't it? Who would ever think that something with 'Pixie' in the name, could be one of the most potent and dangerous forces in the universe? Jonathan Crane certainly didn't consider that to be a possibility... At least, not until he saw the effect it had on one of his henchgirls. There are two types of people in the world: Those who can hold their sugar and those who can't. Techie, he discovered the hard way, belonged to the latter group. If he had known that beforehand, he never would have brought the things back to the lair. As it was, however, she had pounced on the litle acetate bag like a moth to a flashlight and before he knew what was happening, she'd claimed them as hers.
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| 2008-10-05 15:18 |
| The Most Practical of Rabbits. |
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Basil Marchbanks was a practical rabbit. At least, as practical as any rabbit ever had reason to be. He lived by his wits, as all wild creatures do, and gave very little thought to his surroundings or what tomorrow might bring. He knew his name, he knew his whereabouts and all the hiding places to be found nearby, he knew where the best lettuce in the garden was to be found, and that was plenty. Everything else was merely collateral to his existence. He didn't need it, so he didn't take much notice of it. Basil was vaguely aware of the two legged thing that tended to the garden from which he ate his fill, and also aware of the other, differently shaped two legged thing that hung clothes on a line, but he didn't pay much attention to them. They rarely ventured outside so they didn't bother him and he returned the favor.
The little two legged thing, however...she was another matter entirely. She was almost always outside, going against the established behavior of the other two legged things. In fact, she was the only two legged thing he'd ever come across that spent almost as much time outdoors as he did. He never bothered to learn her name (though he'd heard her called by it on several occasions, he never took notice of it; just as she never took notice of his name) but despite that, he found her to be an interesting creature to watch. Living in such a safe place as this expanse of well manicured lawn with many well kept bushes to hide in, Basil had many opportunities to observe the little wild two legged creature from a safe distance. Occasionally, he'd think she was watching him with just as careful scrutiny, but then he would dismiss it. After all...the two legged things never understood rabbits...or any other animals, for that matter.
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| 2008-10-05 15:18 |
| I know this was going to start *something*... |
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The spectre wiped his brow with the sleeve of his gossamer robe. Centuries had passed since he'd been called into service to forge a weapon for use in the lower realms--
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| 2008-10-05 15:15 |
| Baby's First Heist |
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I am a bad man. I am a villain. I am a bad man. I am a villain.
This was Jonathan Crane's creed as he impatiently paced back and forth across the worn carpeting of his latest lair with a screaming bundle of baby in his arms. I am a bad, bad man! He had to keep repeating it as though it were his mantra to drown out the wails of the little beast in swaddling clothes that he held. Stalking back and forth with a slight bounce in his step, knowing just how ridiculous he must have looked, he got more and more ill tempered. It had been, what Techie would have called a "Rodney Dangerfield kind of day" in that aboslutely nothing went right. First, Crane had made a batch of toxin that was horribly, horribly flawed. Rather than striking fear into the heart of the intended victim, they were filled with joy and laughed and laughed and laughed until the oxygen deprivation got to them and they passed out. That sort of thing was all well and good for the Joker, but laughing gas was far from being an acceptable weapon for the master of fear. That alone had put him in a bad mood and if that weren't enough, it seemed that Kitten had come down with a case of colic so now. The three idiots were gone when this particular bout of crying started so of course it was up to him to deal with this. Ye Gods he was getting sick of this. Almost an entire decade had passed since his entire universe had been tossed neatly on its head by Al and just as he'd originally thought, he did indeed live to see the day when he cursed the day he set eyes on her. Almost every disruption in his nice normal little existence was their fault. <hr> But the most horrifying thing of the day--what made him go from irritible to being in an outright snit, was the front page photo on the Gotham Times. Apparently, some photographer who fancied himself the next Jimmy Olsen had snapped a picture of the Scarecrow with a baby. As if that weren't enough, the accompanying article went a long way to making sure that his reputation could conceivably be completely and irrepairably ruined.
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| 2008-10-05 15:14 |
| Playing Cupid For Dummies: SCRAPPED! |
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She had always been a woman who arranged things. Furniture, flowers, bookshelves...it didn't really matter what the object in question was, Techie liked having a place for everything and everything in its place. She enjoyed having some semblance of control over what was going on around her, so it followed that she liked to arrange things to her liking. Her friends' lives were no exception. It had been close to three years since Evelyn's birth and in that time, the Captain and Edward Nygma had gone against convention and remained seperate, rather than getting married. To Techie, this was unacceptable. The chemistry between the two was undeniable--especially considering the fact that they'd had a child together--so it would follow that they simply had to get together in the end. Clearly they just needed a bit of prodding from someone who knew they belonged together so that they'd stop beating around the proverbial bush and get with the happily ever after already.
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| 2008-10-05 15:13 |
| Eddums gets paralyzed... |
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Adage: Noun. A traditional saying expressing a common experience or observation; proverb or maxim.
Everyone’s heard old adages throughout their lives. They’re simply inescapable. Those memorable metaphors that your grandmother repeated again and again to instill morals, teach lessons and give warning. Almost like miniature cautionary tales or after dinner mint sized pieces of priceless advice.
An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.
A penny saved is a penny earned.
No use crying over spilt milk.
Look before you leap…
All of them good, solid principles.
But while most old adages can be glossed over or all out ignored, a certain riddle themed super villain should’ve taken that last one in particular to heart.
Especially when the situation in which he should have recalled that bit of sage advice involved taking a flying jump down an elevator shaft.
In his defense, it was accidental. He certainly didn’t mean to leap through a set of open elevator doors and fall six floors…he was smarter than that. He had IQ tests to prove it.
However: when fleeing a burning building in a full blown panic, one tends to forget such silly, unimportant things as watching where you’re going.
Apparently, Firefly had it in for the same group of people that Edward had decided to use as his latest human clue, but like all
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| 2008-10-05 15:13 |
| Mourning. |
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A church bell chimes midnight in the distance, a raven flies back to her nest, a shadow advances toward the gates of Gotham Central Cemetery. There are fairy lights in every shop window and unnaturally healthy green wreaths on every door. It is December in Gotham city and it is raining. On other nights--other, less somber nights--the shadow stalking through the downpour has a name that strikes fear into the hearts of many. Those nights, they call him 'Scarecrow'. If you were to bump into him this night, he wouldn't even bother to glare at you. He will continue on his way as if you are not there. Tonight, he is content to be anonymous. Nameless. Just another man wallowing in his grief. Mere weeks ago, the world was blanketed in white. Perfect, innocent, clean, pristine. Tonight, however, it is bleak. The snow has melted days ago. The rain is so heavy it is like being beneath a shower of cold, stinging needles. Fitting.
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| 2008-10-05 15:12 |
| Girls on Film |
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After nearly a decade of this 'on the run' business, the art of desperately trying to escape an entire police force was getting more than a little bit stale. It had never been much fun to begin with, but nowadays it was just plain tedious. Jonathan Crane yanked the lapels of his worn tweed jacket forward, concealing as much of his profile as humanly possible. He had been separated from his henchgirls in downtown Central City in the dead of night. The Flash had been thoroughly distracted by the girls and their newly acquired quantum-something-or-other (as if he had been paying attention to their babble? Not likely) accelorator suits. They weren't faster than the scarlet speedster--not by a long shot--but they were fast enough to be a nuiciance of such magnitude that the Scarecrow was able to slip away from the brawl.
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| 2008-10-05 10:49 |
| (no subject) |
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Tick, tick, tick, tick. With surgical precision, the brass hands on the Clock King’s ornate pocket watch slice their way around the watch dial. Their movements are strict, sharp, exact. There is no margin for error, never a single second lost, as time--as the Clock King’s core philosophy decrees--is the most precious commodity of all. This is the watch that has seen a dozen heists; the watch that has perfectly timed the execution of a hundred plans; the watch which is guaranteed to never lose a second in a century. The watch that, tonight, has struck its last hour. The hands do not slow. Their progress does not ebb in a gradual manner, the way an old watch winds down, they simply stop altogether. This moment of unplanned chaos does not belong in the Clock King’s orderly, suffocating organized existence. He carries a dozen more watches--another dozen clocks reside in his lair--but still he will not let this watch die. This Will Not Do. This simply Will Not Do at all. This is the watch which he carried on that fateful day when his life was completely upended and he launched his career as the Clock King. He would not let you call him sentimental; he reasons that he likes having it as a reminder of why he became what he is. He refuses to let this watch stop permanently. Determined, he sets out to find a watch maker. Surely in a city as large as Gotham there must be at least one. He will dispose of the proprietor when he no longer needs his services--but his primary concern is the watch. --- Only rich men wear pocket watches anymore. Rich men who are so rich they usually decide to throw away a fifty thousand dollar Rolex and buy a new one rather than have it repaired.
As such, watch makers are not in terribly high demand.
There is a single shop--Brookstien’s--which has survived the ravages of a throwaway generation and it is one of Gotham’s oldest family businesses. Micah Brookstien immigrated from Germany with his three young sons--Melvin, Gabriel and Jacob--shortly before the first world war and set up shop immediately. Melvin left to seek his fortune and Gabriel died in WWII in the line of duty, but Jacob--who had always been in too delicate health to leave home, neither as self made man nor soldier--took over when Micah’s hands got too crippled with age to continue with the delicate operations involved with watch repair. Now, Jacob runs the shop. He has been at this job for more than half a century and though his last birthday cake has so many candles they couldn’t be counted, he is still a sharp eyed expert in his chosen field. This expertise is the only thing that keeps him in business where other watchmakers fail right out of the gate. It is also his expertise that will be his undoing, as if he were a mediocre watchmaker, a criminal of the Clock King’s stature would not have sought him out. The watch shop is immaculate as Temple Fugat enters it and he is please. The glass display cases may be old, but they are gleaming and their contents are obviously arranged with great care. Brookstien is behind the antique register--a brass affair that’s nearly as aged as he is--and there is no light of recognition in his eyes as the Clock King enters in plain clothes. The old man is tinkering with a clock and Fugat approaches, laying his watch on the counter and narrowing his eyes appraisingly at the proprietor. “I need this fixed.” “So I vould assume,” Jacob replies dryly, reaching out with a gnarled hand--used up from decades of delicate work--and turning the watch over. Jacob reaches under the counter and retrieves a pair of old gold wire spectacles, placing them carefully on the bridge of his beaky nose. He studies the watch, frowning. “Ven do you vant it?” His accent already grates on Fugat’s nerves. “When can you deliver it?” “I do not yet know vat is vrong vith it.” “You try my patience.” “I get ze impression a great many things try your patience, sir,” Jacob says pointedly, looking over the rims of his spectacles at Temple. “But come back in ze morning.” “What time?” “Morning,” Jacob repeats, as though he is speaking to a small, dense child. “If ze shop is open, it vill be ready.” “Do I have your guarantee on that statement?” “No. Zere are no gaurantees. If I cannot complete ze repairs, zen at least you vill know vat ails your vetch.” “To come back here without knowing that my watch is repaired would be a waste of time.” Jacob shrugs his hunched shoulders. “Time is to be vasted.” Temple’s blood pressure skyrockets and for a moment, he contemplates how easy it would be to bring up his cane and strike the old man down. He takes a breath, even as the homicide plays out in his head, and then steps away from the counter. “Tomorrow morning.” --- Ten o’clock sharp, Fugat returns to Brookstien’s only to find the shop already open. The blinds in the front window that had been drawn the night before are open, letting sunshine stream in on a dozen brass, silver and shining wood clocks that are artfully scattered on display. Temple barely takes note of how exquisite the morning sun looks, filtering through the window--only finding himself annoyed with the proprietor for the bad business practice involved with opening early. He pushes through the front door and finds, not Jacob Brookstien behind the counter--but a young woman, leaning over a pocket watch and tinkering expertly with its innards. She is small and slight--almost childlike--but even as he looks at her with disdain, he can’t deny that she is also strikingly beautiful. It’s not the sort of screen siren beauty that is so idolized and sought after; instead, she is the sort of lovely that is often overlooked due to its understatement. Her posture is awkward, like she doesn’t yet know how to sit up straight, and her own obliviousness to her prettiness helps to make the understatement of her beauty even more muted. If she were standing next to a painted, perfectly coiffed bombshell, the eye would be drawn to the flash, no doubt, leaving her to fade into the background, like a single cornflower next to a dozen roses.
Her graceful fingers are still hard at work and she has not yet looked up, but Temple yanks her unceremoniously out of her task by striding up to the counter and laying his hands on it hard.
She jumps violently and gasps, the sudden intake of air setting off a coughing fit. She looks up at him with large china-blue eyes, set into a face so white she looks like a doll that is in danger of shattering under the sheer pressure of his gaze and for a split second--no more--Temple feels remorse for having startled her.
His first impression is that she’s not a day over seventeen, but her eyes have the slight creases around them of a woman in her mid-twenties. Not yet noticeable enough to make her look old, but enough to betray her age. “I’m here for my watch,” he states straight away. “Rebecca!” a voice harkens from the back of the shop--presumably that of Jacob. “Is zat ze impatient man?” She stutters for a moment and darts away from the counter, looking at Temple--Temple, the man who intentionally gave her a fright--a sympathetic glance. She lifts a single finger, instructing him to wait a moment. Like a ghost, she flutters to the door that leads to the back of the shop and slips inside, leaving Fugat alone, the sound of ticking clocks the only thing to keep him company. He rather likes it. His fingers tap out an imperceptible pattern on the glass countertop, but the seemingly nonsensical arrangement of beats compliments the ticking rather well. Fugat glances at his wristwatch--a device no less expensive than the pocket watch he left here, but much less personally significant--and decides to give the girl another fifteen seconds before he loses his patience completely and barges through the door after her. She makes his deadline with four seconds to spare. Jacob trails behind her and his age--which wasn’t quite so obvious when he sat behind the counter--is painfully clear in his wobbly, limping gait. Rebecca’s grace is all the more apparent next to the elderly Brookstien.
“It’s about time,” Fugat barks, taking a perverse sort of pleasure in the way Rebecca flinches at the sound of his voice.
Jacob is unaffected. “Zis is a vatch shop, of course it is about time.” “My watch--” “Is badly damaged,” Jacob says, cutting the other man off. Fugat notices that Rebecca suddenly averts her eyes and stands with her hands folded in front of her, like a guilty child. “Zere vere several springs out of place--and a cracked gear.” “That is impossible,” Fugat counters. Only, after saying it, he realizes that perhaps the activities often associated with a criminal lifestyle--taking a beating from Batman or eluding the police, for example--might have caused such damage after all. “Zat is vhat I thought, but zese things happen. Though how I haven’t the foggiest notion.” “Can you fix it or not?”
“Vith a replacement part from Svitzerland, ya.”
Temple blows out a puff of breath. “How long?” “A veek, two at most.” He has a heist planned in six days. He wants the watch with him but it may take too long. Temple removes a folded handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabs at his forehead. “Send for the part. Immediately. I--” “Vill be back every morning to see if it has arrived,” Jacob finishes, reading Temple’s face like a book. “I will indeed. And so help me, if you try to cheat me in any fashion--” “I have many clients I vould rather svindle than you, sir.” The sudden exhalation of breath from Rebecca can only be that of a carefully restrained chuckle and the corners of her mouth are upturned as she looks up at Temple. He narrows his eyes at her, his lips pursing into a severe, grim line. Her face falls and her eyes dart away once more. The bell on the front door jingles as the Clock King exits. -- Preparations are made for his impending job. There is a bank with a clock above its doors--a clock that hasn’t been operational in over a year. On principle, Temple finds this despicable and a crime worthy of retribution at the hands of the Clock King. Since he works alone, planning a bank job is more difficult. He can’t rely on hired hands--for him, a bank job is all about timing. Perhaps that’s why he likes them so much. They play to his strengths. The next morning, after very little sleep, he returns to the watch shop as promised. Again, the shop is open early, again Rebecca is behind the counter instead of the old man and again, Temple alarms her. She doesn’t jump quite as high as the day before, but it is enough that when she recovers, she glares at him for the briefest of moments. The glare intrigues him. It’s so out of place on what looks like such a fragile face and he wants to dig deeper, to see whether or not he can push that little spark until it becomes a raging inferno of anger, but the moment is spoiled when she averts her eyes and smoothes the front of her dress. Temple is disappointed, but doesn‘t know why. Maybe he’s just spoiling for an argument… “My watch?” Her voice is feather light, “The part hasn’t arrived yet, sir.” She doesn’t look up in time to see him depart. Rebecca never was very good at looking people in the eye… --- The third day goes much the same as the first two. Temple arrives at ten sharp to find the shop open and Rebecca hard at work as he approaches. He gets within two footsteps of the counter, preparing to slam his fists down on it in the same manner he did yesterday just to startle the girl, but she looks up at him and he stops dead. She looks at him through narrowed eyes--eyes that are hostile for a split second. It is a look that says, “Don’t you dare.” Temple’s lips twitch but he contains the smirk that is trying to spread, instead putting his hands up in defeat. She turns her attention back to her work, as if she‘s already bored of him. “Not today.” Her voice is husky, as if she’s fighting off a sore throat. <hr> “I vant you to stay avay from her.” “Do you presume, old man, to put restrictions on the master of time?” “Vat do you know of time?” Jacob says angrily. “You believe because you fashion yourself ze Clock King that you know all zere is to know about such a thing! You do not. Just because you say you value every second does not mean you do. Just because you count the minutes with the accuracy of a Swiss watch does not mean you live them and know their value. My Rebecca, she is dying.” Temple feels as though he’s been slapped. The look of shock doesn’t go unnoticed. “Yes, dying,” Jacob continues savagely. “Zat is vhy I suspect she has gone all reckless over you. She has nothing to lose.”
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| 2008-10-05 09:20 |
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Hermione Granger stands, the snow ankle deep. Her socks are soaked through, but it doesn't matter. She feels the blood trickling from the corner of her eye, freezing halfway down her face and it doesn't matter either. Nothing matters.
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| 2008-10-05 09:19 |
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-phone rings- -stumbles out of bed to answer it- "Hu--yawn--llo?"
"Barbara?" "Mmph. What." "I need you to do me a favor." "...at three in the morning?" "It's only midnight here." "Don't you dare bring logic into this."
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| 2008-10-05 09:17 |
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With easy, almost feline grace, Selina Kyle slunk down the grand staircase. The crimson velvet gown she wore clung to her generous curves and the 'borrowed' diamonds around her neck sparkled with more brilliance than the crystal chandeliers high above. Her entrance turned several heads--a striking hourglass in a room full of coat racks was bound to attract attention--but she didn't shy away from the hungry glances the way she once might have. No, she owned her sensuality now.
At least, that's what she told herself. <hr> "My lovely foe," he murmured against her neck. She suppressed the shudder of revulsion that accompanied his attentions. "We've done this dance before, you know. You never win." "Dying makes a girl reckless," "So I see." He smiled at her. It was chilling. "You're here to kill me." "You killed me. I think it's only fair that I return the favor."
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| 2008-10-05 09:13 |
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Once upon a time--
No, no, too overused, too tired a phrase.
Long ago--
Oh, dear me, that's almost just as bad. Humph.
Well, I was always craftier with a wand than with a quill. Say what you will about the pen being mightier than the sword, I find that magic trumps them both. Perhaps I should try doing this a different way.
You know the story of Cinderella, don't you? Her glass slipper, her pumpkin coach, her fairy godmother?
Well, guess which one I am.
In this day and age, there's very little use for creatures like me. Why, when's the last time you got invited to a royal ball? Never, eh? That's what I thought. No, now it's all sweet sixteens and what-have-yous that have girls crying into their pillows at night. That sort of tish tosh was never my scene. I'm all about the grandiose, my friend! The bigger, the better!
Over the past, good grief, eight centuries, I've had ample opportunity to be just as outlandishly gaudy as I wanted, but the modern age hasn't been very kind to the fairy godmother's trade, so I've taken up a new method of finding my Cinderellas and giving them their happily ever afters. Oh, no, I'm not revealing how outright, the story is in the telling...
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| 2008-10-05 09:12 |
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Hermione Granger staggered along the corridor towards Gryffindor Tower. If you had ventured to actually say that she was staggering, she would have fixed you with a haughty glare the likes of which hadn't been seen since her time as Luna Lovegood's university flatmate and corrected you in a very prim, proper and slightly slurred voice: "I do not stagger."
Merlin forbid you suggest she was inebriated.
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| 2008-10-05 09:09 |
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There is no naked terror quite like the terror of sitting in a cold, dank basement with people you are thrown together with by circumstance whose names you don't know but upon whom your continued survival may be directly connected to. The power is out, only floodlights light the hallway and a chill permeates the bones of the author sitting, shivering in front of her laptop, typing because she needs to find a way to keep her sanity in some fashion in an insane situation and typing--with its regular, familiar movements--is a comfort that cannot be measured.
It's cold, it's dark, it's dank, it's creepy and the wind is howling above, the roar punctured every so often by either a police siren or the tornado siren.
There isn't any comfort to be had in the familiar movements of fingers on keys. There isn't any comfort at all to be had.
Death is at the door. Will he knock? I have no idea.
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| 2008-10-05 09:08 |
| Old. |
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The author sat staring into space at nothing in particular.
Anyone who is a creative entity by any stretch knows that into space and nothing in particular are absolutely the best things to stare at when one is thinking thoughts that aren’t as solid as they should be. Into space and nothing in particular make no demands that you force your strings of thought to bind together into coherent order the way a peer would; into space and nothing in particular sit patiently by, the way a good friend ought to when you’re busy thinking, silent and supportive, waiting without pressing.
The author had been stagnating with her writing, there was no denying it. She had done everything in her power to avoid her muse the way one tried to avoid the repeated calls of an overly enthusiastic guy you went out on one date with and didn’t like after such close observation.
Just like the first and last date you never want to hear from again, the muse refused to be ignored. Unlike the first and last date you never want to hear from again, there is no machine to take the muse’s messages that will allow you to ignore him, hit the ‘erase’ button and pretend it all never happened. The muse is not so easily dismissed and he lives in a corner of the mind which demands attention so loudly that nothing short of death will silence it.
The avoidance came out of frustration with writer’s block. The author had despised the fact that she was unable to fulfill her one true purpose for so long and now that the muse had finally come knocking after ignoring her desperate calls for inspiration, she was determined to ruthlessly ignore him back.
The only problem was, she had set into motion the very events that had led up to his reawakening and she knew it.
It had been innocuous enough at the time; usually the very first snowflake that starts the ball rolling downhill seems innocuous enough when it falls, and darting down the school supply aisle at the grocery store to save time in getting out the door seemed harmless.
Until her eyes hung against her will on the cover of a large journal. She didn’t make a conscious decision to glance at it, her eyes, of their own volition, sought out the book and stuck there, leaving her standing in the middle of the aisle, her destination and haste to get to it completely forgotten.
It was a travel journal. Or at least that was its cover theme. It could have been used for any purpose, she supposed, but she knew if she’d bought it, it would have had to become a travel journal--which would demand that she travel somewhere so she’d have something to write in it.
She didn’t buy it for this reason, though she could have afforded it. She just didn’t have anywhere to go.
Still she crossed the aisle and picked up the book, thumbing through its blank pages and testing its weight, finding that she liked its bulk quite a bit. A large empty journal held so much promise. It was practically a blank novel just crying out for its pages to be filled.
She put it back.
She put it back and ignored that tell-tale itch in her fingers.
She ignored the dialogue that plunked itself neatly into her head that night and ignored the scenes writing themselves when she washed her hair the next morning.
And now she stared off into space at nothing in particular twenty four hours after coming in contact with the blank book, the itch still present and insistent but with ideas to back it up.
Yet she stubbornly refused to pick up a pen and scribble, even as she felt herself hit that groove that would see to it that she wrote faster and more efficiently than she ever had before if she’d just pick up a writing implement and use it.
Into space and nothing in particular eventually shifted themselves as the real world emerged and she stopped looking through the wall and instead looked at the wall.
Her eyes slid with a will of their own, the way they had the night before when they hit that journal, and moved around the room. The wall became the corner of the desk. The corner of the desk became the center of the desk. The center of the desk gave way to the notebook tucked upright between two pencil cups, one empty and one full.
The itch intensified and somehow evolved into movement, jettisoning her from her comfortable place on her bed and making her reach for the notebook and a pen.
Empty pages became full ones. Two ink pens were drained of their contents. The itch subsided.
And the muse was content to have won.
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| 2008-10-05 09:04 |
| Sorority Zombies |
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So you're going to be here tomorrow, right? If my flight doesn't go down in a screaming fireball, yeah. It's just a plane. 'Just a plane'. Just a few tons of metal sitting on something as unsure as air, you mean. I'm gonna die, I just know it. Don't be so pessimistic.
Pessimistic? You think that's me being pessimistic? Let me tell you something, optimistic is that I die quickly. <hr>
That...looks suspiciously like a zombie apocalypse. I don't suppose anybody has Bruce Campbell on speed dial?
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| 2008-10-05 09:01 |
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| catverse |
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"We're full of Christmas cheer!"
"You're full of heavily rum laced eggnog." "You say potato..."
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Her voice cracked. Rodney McKay sat in his quarters, staring at the wall but taking no real notice of what his eyes were seeing. Her. Voice. Cracked. Teyla Emmagen, the strongest woman he had ever known--in more ways than one--who showed no sign of weakness, even under the most extreme of circumstances, who was always calm-bordering-on-serene even when the world was crashing down around her head.. The warrior woman with the cool, unaffected air and the solid, trusting, soothing demeanor… Her voice had cracked? Over him?
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All day the rain had been coming down, not heavy but constant enough to be deemed as somewhat dreary. Anne wouldn't have minded a day indoors, partnering the queen in an engaging game of chess or cards, but the days to come would keep them all so confined, with the promise of at least several days, if not weeks, aboard the newest ship in the queen's fleet, fine though it may have been, was incentive to enjoy as much time outdoors as she could before the imprisonment at sea. She could have done without the rain insistently pattering on her riding frock, but it might be worth the trouble. Elizabeth would be sure to want one last ride with Sir Robert before departing. Her Majesty certainly enjoyed the hunt, and Anne could hardly bring herself to complain, although her fellow ladies-in-waiting did not share the sentiment.
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For future reference and so I don't forget that I meant to use this somewhere, the prescribed stages of courtly love:
*Attraction to the lady, usually via eyes/glance
*Worship of the lady from afar
*Declaration of passionate devotion
*Virtuous rejection by the lady
*Renewed wooing with oaths of virtue and eternal fealty
*Moans of approaching death from unsatisfied desire (and other physical manifestations of lovesickness)
*Heroic deeds of valor which win the lady's heart
*Consummation of the secret love
*Endless adventures and subterfuges avoiding detection
Positively medieval...but still rather romantic, I have to admit. Though courtly love has no basis in reality as far as the historians say.
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The original fanfic is here: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/3587187/1/My_First_Year_At_Hogwarts_Or_How_Not_To_Write
Not necessary to read to understand the following, but that'll make things a little easier.
Now, onto the workings of the universe itself.
There are four groups of magic practitioners in the ‘verse; Casters, Seers, Artisans and Weavers.
Casters=The elite. They’re the equivalent of the purebloods in the HP universe and their powers are all about the flash/bang impressive kind of magic. They consider themselves to be above Artisans and Seers because they don’t require aids such as potions and crystal balls to perform magic. Their elemental correspondence is fire. They use wands or--if they’re very well trained--just their hands.
Seers=Lower on the totem than the Casters but higher than the Artisans. Seers correspond to both air and water and have control over things like astral travel, being able to see into the future, transfiguration, ESP, etc. They keep small vessels of water with them for divination purposes and crystals are how they channel their powers.
Artisans=Lower than the other two classes because they’re the most common type of magic practitioner. Artisans make potions, salves, are gifted in herbology and jewel crafting. They get their hands dirty, in other words and their elemental correspondence is earth. Medallions help to center and ground their magical powers, though their spell casting abilities are greatly weaker than Casters or Seers--naturally. They can build up their strength to rival that of Casters and Seers, but it takes a great deal of effort.
Weavers=Weavers have all the abilities of the first three classes to some extent. They don’t specialize and are equally good at all types of magic. They’re also very, very rare. Megara is the first Weaver born in over a century.
The familiars of the HP universe (cats, owls, frogs, etc) will all be replaced with small enchanted dragons which were specially bred for servitude. Dunno how that’ll work out, but that’s the general gist of it.
How Magic Came to Be: (THIS MAY CHANGE) Magic came from King Arthur’s court. Merlin was gifted with magic from the Fae Queen and ordered to spread it equally amongst mere mortals. He created the four groups and while their numbers were small to begin with, after centuries of marriages between normal humans and gifted ones, it’s all a hodgepodge of magical DNA now. Everyone’s got powers but the rarest of the rare squib equivalents.
THIS MAY REPLACE THE ABOVE: Instead of Merlin being given magic, the alternative is this:
Centuries ago, the Fae race--who are the world's most magical beings--decided that mankind, with his love of technology, wasn't worthy of recieving the powers of enchantment. Usually, they gave any given race of beings the opportunity to have this power at a certain point in their development, but man was simply too violent, power hungry and barbaric for this. The Fae Queen, in her wisdom, decided that every century, a child would be born and tested to see if the race as a whole was worthy of magic. Many centuries passed without anyone living up to her expectations, until Merlin gained her favor.
On his death bed, she offered to grant him one wish for a life well lived. She offered immortality, gold and eternal happiness. Instead, he asked that she create a world where the other members of the human race could know the wonder of magic as he had. She did so, creating a parallel earth, simply copying the planet as it was and planting the seeds of magic there. She gave Merlin an extra hundred years of life so that he could help develop his brethren and teach them. This way, on this paralell earth, everything that's happened here, also happened there. The same people were born, the same wars were fought, but for different reasons and with different weapons, etc.
Also, the Fae Race didn't give humankind all the secrets of magic. They still put a new person to the test every century to see if the human race as a whole is deserving of the next level of enchantment knowledge. Megara, with her gift of Second Sight, is one of these and will be instrumental in ushering in a new era of magic, just as Merlin was before her.
The villains of the story: Back when the magical community was still relatively new, an order came to be called The Dark Hand. It was a group of Casters who thought--because of their superior magical powers--that the other classes should serve them.
Seers and Artisans were enslaved, Weavers were all but wiped out because they posed the greatest threat to the Caster elite. It remained this way for several centuries (a dark age during which Artisans and Seers forgot how to cast like Casters because they weren’t taught how) until there was an uprising staged with the help of one of the Caster elite. A member of each class led the slave class in a revolution against the Dark Hand’s tyranny and, after the battle was over, these four people decided to create an academy (Fogswrath Academy) where all the classes would be trained to the fullest extent that their magics would allow. A way of keeping things more even, if you will, and to ensure that another dark age would never fall on the world again. Seers, Artisans, Weavers and Casters would all be taught the same things so that none would get the upper hand ever again.
FOGSWRATH ACADEMY:There are seven magical schools under the Fogswrath banner, one on each continent. Formal education starts at age seventeen and stops at age twenty two when the students are released out into the world to find their fortunes. At the end of those five years, a test is given and, based on your score, you’re branded for life as either an Artisan, Weaver, Seer or Caster. Your life literally depends on your grades.
Though elitism is supposedly frowned on, the fact of the matter is that Casters get the best, most lucrative jobs because they’re so powerful. It’s like…Casters are college graduates, Seers are high school graduates and Artisans are the drop-outs. Any schmuck can make a potion; not every schmuck can blow a whole city block away.
The Dark Hand is still active, much like the KKK is still active, and TDH’s greatest ambition is to reinstate the dark age when Casters ruled supreme. The Voldemort analogue/historical figure Grigori Rasputin is at the head of this little society and he needs the powers of a Weaver to implement his big take-over-the-world plan. I haven’t worked out why yet, but that’s how it is.
Artemis Caine is Megara from the future. In her timeline, she was seduced over the TDH’s side with promises of ultimate power but the world suffered greatly for it. She’s come back in time to stop herself from doing what she did the first time around. At the end of the story, she disappears, which is rather tragic, since Artemis has fallen in love with Matthew Blackwell (Snape) at that point. Or…he’s fallen in love with her, I don’t know.
The Quidditch chapters might get chucked completely or, I might just make up my own magical sport. For now, it’s called Brandysnatch…and I have no idea what I’m going to do with it. I think it might be like the X-Men’s danger room. Just a giant free-for-all battle ground.
EDIT: Apparently, Bandersnatch refers to the game of catching a dragon. Like trying to catch a greased pig. I like this idea. I'm keeping this idea.
The Englishness of the whole thing will be cut out with painful precision. No more gits, prats or anything like that. Just plain old idiots, jerks and jackasses…and everyone will drink coffee, dammit. Coffeeee!!
William Keaton (Harry Potter) won’t be the boy who lived, obviously, so ignore anything that talks about that. Instead, he's one of many who was selected at birth for the war against the Dark Hand. Every Constable (Auror equivilant) was selected due to a prophecy given about them at birth. William's prophecy states that he is one of seven who will be instrumental in the Dark Hand falling forever.
Meg’s the heroine here and Rasputin’s never fallen in the past, just the Constables doubled their efforts in hunting down members of TDH in recent years and its fallen out of fashion to be counted in their ranks. I like to think of them as like, villains constantly behind the scenes just waiting for an opportunity to strike and cause another war. They’re the mafia, pretty much. Step out of line, never get the opportunity to do so again.
The Weasley twins are still twins, but now they’re triplets…if that makes any sense at all…and it probably doesn’t. Okay, take Fred and George, but Ginny came along at the same time, making Ron the youngest. And there’s no Charlie, Bill or Percy, either.
…I’m confusing myself. Here, the rundown of who’s who:
Draco Malfoy=Eric Underwood
Lucius Malfoy=Clement Underwood
Harry Potter=William Keaton
Ron Weasley=Avery Weeks
Fred Weasley=Damien Weeks
George Weasley=Errol Weeks
Viola Weasley=Viola Weeks
Molly Weasley=Mary Weeks
Arthur Weasley=John Weeks
Hermione ‘Mi’ Granger=Anastasia ‘Anya’ Hunter
Minerva McGonagall=Bridgette Webster
Albus Dumbledore=Claude Murphy
Severus Snape=Matthew Blackwell
Pomona Sprout=Claire Sandoval
Lavender Brown=Ernestine Simple
Poppy Pomfrey=Petra Webb
Neville Longbottom=Gregory Bowers
Blaise Zabini=Jonathan Fulton
Pansy Parkinson=Lana Fitzgerald
Millicent Bullstrode=Minnie Gumble
Gregory Goyle=Virgil Floyd
Vincent Crabbe=Tracy Klien
Hagrid=Hemingway Meek
Fillius Flitwick=Adrian Forge
Lord Voldemort=Grigori Rasputin (for now)
Diagon Alley is now called Vanderpoole Market. The Leaky Cauldron is Marina Gardens (a more upscale-y restaurant rather than a pub). I have no idea what I’ll call things like firebolts, butterbeer, floo powder etc. I’ll probably just get rid of those things, actually...but I’m keeping apparation...though I might alter it into something like boom tubes…because I FUCKING LOVE BOOMTUBES.
And…I think that’s about it.
Amazingly, the story doesn’t read half bad with names swapped out. Still needs a lot of tweaking and editing, though. Especially paragraph formatting and filling in holes that nobody would understand if they hadn’t read it in fanfic form first.
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| 2008-08-06 17:26 |
| Penny Dreadful and the Shilling Shockers outline: |
| Public |
| penny dreadful |
|
How someone with my narrow view of religion got into writing a story like this, I don't know...but there you have it:
Penny Dreadful (née Penny Dixon) is a goth rock superstar, always looking for her next big thrill. Sex, drugs, rock. That's her life. She thinks she's the end all be all princess of darkness, going so far as to try and enhance her image by taking up demonology, occult practices and other things that make middle America shudder. She's a dark Madonna, who thinks she's the genuine article, when really she's the product of really good marketing. She's lost herself as a result of her fame; she'll be the first to tell you she's the hardest of the hardcore, but she can't tell you why. She's the first to tell you that she knows the scene like the back of her hand, but she doesn't know to which 'scene' she refers. She's a pastiche of cyberpunk, gothic and loligoth style, made that way because the image sells well and that's all. Though she honestly believes her own good press.
Also: It should be noted that she wears a rosary at all times, with an inverted cross. This comes into play later.
On tour with her band, Penny plays her biggest sold-out stadium ever and, still flying high after the show, decides that the afterparty will be so much more fun if there's drugs involved. Things get wild, Penny shoots some heroin and overdoses.
She awakes to find herself in the afterlife, standing before a judge, reading off each of the ten commandments that she has violated in her lifetime, with corresponding illustrations for each. Even as this is occurring, she's being rushed to the hospital as medics try and keep her from dying. Her body makes it to the hospital, just as she's about to be judged and sentenced to an eternity in hell for her misdeeds on another plane, and a priest, taking pity on a young girl who--for all he knows (she doesn't exactly look like her stage persona at this point and her rosary has been removed, lying next to her in such a manner that the inverted cross could be taken as an upright one)--is a good Catholic, he administers the last rites, cushioning the blow of her sins.
(I realize I am taking liberties with Catholic dogma, but it works in context, I swear it does)
This sucks for Penny. She was looking forward to going to hell--meeting her patron God and all like that--and suddenly she finds herself yanked out of hell and suddenly in purgatory, which is simply a barren wasteland of lost souls, waiting for their penance to be paid. Not quite all the feiry excitement she's read about.
Meanwhile, in the real world, the media is all over her death--it's an absolute feeding frenzy--and her body is in the morgue waiting for a hearse to come and pick her up to take her to the nearest funeral home. Time passes for the real world just as it always has, but for Penny, every second in the real world is about a month in purgatory. Therefore, by the time the hearse arrives, she's lived what feels like an eternity to her in the wasteland.
There are a series of panels that paralell what's happening in the real world and in purgatory. As Penny's body is transported to the funeral home and the undertaker begins preparing to embalm her, in purgatory, an angel appears to her. Apparently, the blessing of the priest has washed away the majority of Penny's more serious sins and oh, would she like to go to heaven?
(Again, taking liberties that work in context.)
Penny winds up in heaven, which is even duller than Purgatory, until she's shown the hall of lifetimes. Within the hall of lifetimes there are millions and millions of small hourglasses, each one representing a lifetime in progress. When the sand runs out, buh-bye mortal realm, helloooo afterlife! The only exceptions to the sand-running-out rule are those mortals who have a purpose that must be fulfilled. Those hourglasses are never allowed to run out. Penny gets the bright idea that if she happens to snatch one of those hourglasses meant for someone with a divine purpose, she can return to earth.
Okay, so the scene is a lot more complicated in my head, but the point is, Penny's plan works. Her body jerks awake just as she's about to be embalmed and the poor undertaker has a heart attack from the shock. The ethereal hourglass is now strung around her neck and can't be removed.
Penny stumbles out of the funeral home, wearing the undertaker's jacket and a cheap party dress that was obviously meant to be what some other corpse was to be buried in, into the light of a hundred news crews.
Extra, Extra! Hallelujah, Penny Dreadful is alive!
Cut to Penny's New York penthouse where she's being allowed to recuperate from her near-miss. Recuperation for Penny is an apartment full of people. She's not nearly as shook up as she should be, having mostly forgotten what happened while she was on the other side, but a party girl approaches Penny and -gasp- it's the angel in disguise. The memories come flooding back, "Oh, shit, I'm in trouble."
But, not necessarily. Penny didn't just take any divine hourglass, she took one meant for a Warden. Wardens are charged with remaining in the mortal realm to catch any demons that escape the confines of hell and return to earth. Penny is now obligated to fulfill her duty as a Warden, or else her mortality will be revoked and she'll be sent back to purgatory permanently.
Penny certainly doesn't want to go back to purgatory, but she doesn't want to have to spend eternity as a Warden, either. The angel makes an offer: catch thirteen demons on the 'most wanted' list and she'll be released of her contract. Her mortal life will be restored to just how it was before she died of an overdose.
Penny takes the deal and the hunt is on!
She spends the next few issues (although, this is rapidly turning into prose in my head and not a comic--so maybe it'd be fairer to say chapters) capturing these demons. Along the way, she'll get a couple of allies, though I have yet to decide what sort, and once she has the thirteen demons in tow, the angel appears.
This is the big twist: the angel who's been Penny's handler? Not an angel. She's actually Lucifer. Those thirteen demons (which will be taken from the Lesser Key of Solomon and have proper correspondences) are the key to overthrowing the earth and finally bringing about the apocalypse. Purgatory, heaven, everything that Penny experienced after death was a ruse presented by Lucifer to lull her into doing his dirty work.
Blah, blah, blah, climactic battle, blah, blah, blah--
I have no idea how it ends. On the one hand, I could have Pen overthrow the devil himself and take his place; on the other, I could have her overthrow him by destroying the thirteen demons and making armageddon as a concept null and void.
On yet another hand, the legions of heaven could come to her aid and she could fight off armageddon even as it's happening and then get her reward in the form of being returned to earth like in the original deal.
Bleh, I don't like that ending. That invites the assumption that she cleans up and lives a moral life because of her brush with God. Too...after school special.
I'll figure something out.
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| 2008-06-07 14:05 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
|
Anne Thorne stalked past the stone and iron cemetery gates, desperately wishing she had thought to wear a scarf.
The weather was quickly turning bitter cold in the Northern Italian countryside, much to Anne's chagrin. When she'd applied to spend a semester abroad as an exchange student, she'd had been under the impression that Italy was supposed to be warm. Unfortunately for her, winter came just as it had back home in the states, if not worse than the December chill of Albany, New York, then at least just as bad, especially after sunset.
She scolded herself silently as she stomped along the street, trying to keep from tripping on the uneven cobblestone. What had she been thinking, staying in the library until one in the morning? Especially considering the fact that she had to walk past one of the country’s oldest--and by far creepiest--cemeteries in order to get back to her villa?
She had simply gotten lost in the history of the countless dusty tomes the library had to offer, she supposed. Anne always had been a history buff and it showed in her voracious thirst for old libraries full of old books. Tonight, she'd lost herself in several hand written volumes from the eighteen hundreds, all of them on the history of her temporarily adopted country and hadn't realized that the hours had flown by without her notice until a far off church bell had chimed midnight. She still hadn't been able to tear herself away until, slipping her coat on, inch by inch, while still leaning over the books she'd been perusing, buttoning each button with extraordinary unintentional slowness as her eyes devoured every passage, the clock chimed one and she realized she'd spent a full hour standing at the table putting her coat on. Anne loved history and there was no two ways about it.
She shivered suddenly, glancing up at the field of tombstones that stretched into the horizon and then looked back down at her feet, watching as her boots clip-clopped on the street with a sort of reassuring regularity.
Her history teacher in high school--a rather odd old fellow who fancied himself an authority on death and all its aspects--had told her that cemeteries were full of history too--more so than many books. Mr. Clifford had even arranged a field trip for her entire grade to New York's oldest cemetery to demonstrate his point--but despite his insistence that cemeteries were simply chock full of history, Anne couldn't get past the fact that they were mostly full of dead bodies. It was part of why she was hurrying along in hopes of clearing the area as quickly as possible.
She knew, intellectually, that nothing in there was going to get up and follow her home, but logic doesn't even begin to enter the picture when you're stomping along in the dead of night in an unfamiliar country, with dead leaves crackling and crunching under your boots and the wind howling through every available tree branch within earshot. Logic had no place at all in situations like these. Now, paranoia, on the other hand...
Anne pulled her coat tighter around her body, trying to keep watch in five different directions at once and failing. Her eyes darted this way and that, trying to catch sight of any peculiar movement that didn't belong. She shuffled along as quickly as she could continued silently berating herself for staying out this late when she could have been safe and warm in bed hours ago even as she glanced around.
SNAP!
She screamed like a ninny. Anne and sudden noises didn't mix. Spinning on her heel with her fists clumsily raised in front of her in case she had to fend off an attack, Anne came face to face with the source of the sound.
Anne pulled a face and shook her fist at the noisemaker. "Stupid squirrel!"
She dropped her hands and made a most unattractive face as the small woodland creature in question gave her a curious look, as if to say, "Squeak?"
Well, it sounded curious in her head.
Shoving her hands in her pockets and scowling most unattractively, Anne turned away from the squirrel after giving it an irritable glare, only to find a ragged looking man in a battered brown leather jacket standing in her path.
For the second time that evening, Anne let out a screech of surprise, though this one was a bit more justified than the last. She jumped backwards, nearly losing her balance and flailing her arms in order to regain it.
"You have quite a set of lungs, don't you?" the man asked in a voice rough enough to match his appearance, but with a mild tone and an accent that suggested he was of Scottish origin. "You could wake the dead with a scream like that."
Her heart thudding at an unhealthy pace inside her chest, Anne swallowed the lump of fear in her throat and replied as snippily as she dared, "That just might be an improvement. Excuse me."
She walked past him, giving him a wide berth and keeping her eyes on him as long as she could. He was taller than she, but only by a couple of inches, dark haired and his eyes--which followed her as she passed--were a common dirt brown. Certainly nothing extraordinary, but he wasn't exactly an eyesore. Anne continued on, trying to steady her nerves but found it to be next to impossible when she could feel his eyes following her...and what's worse, hear his footsteps doing the same. She picked up her pace, trying to tell herself that it was just her imagination. That he'd stayed put where she left him...but a quick glance over her shoulder betrayed the truth of the matter.
She eyed him warily as he strolled along a few feet behind her. "Why are you following me?"
He smiled, a charming smile that shone at her in the darkness. She forced herself not to smile back. Even an axe murderer could pass for a nice man, at least for a while, and people with good intentions did not loiter outside cemeteries in the middle of the night, waiting for a twenty-something art student to happen by.
"Who says I'm following you?" he asked with an impish wink. "Don't you know the streets are a dangerous place to be at night? Company's always nice, isn't it? I don't want to walk home alone."
"You don't want to walk home alone?" she asked incredulously, not pausing even as she conversed with the stranger. "And for that matter, isn't your home in the opposite direction? You were walking that way--" she gestured in the direction from which she'd come, just now noticing that he'd somehow managed to get within arm's reach, "which suggests to me that you turned around to follow me."
His grin spread and his strides got a little longer until he had almost fallen into step next to her. "My mother taught me better than to let a lady walk alone."
"My mother taught me not to talk to strangers," she said crisply, eyes narrowing. She stuck her hands in her pockets--both balled into fists, just in case--and making a point to extend her arms in such a way that he'd get an elbow to the ribs if he got any closer. It probably looked ridiculous, but she didn't care.
"Well, in that case," he said, placing a palm flat against his middle and bending ever so slightly at the waist in a gentlemanly fashion, "allow me to introduce myself--"
Anne goggled at his half-bow and wondered what planet he must've beamed down from. "I don't think you'd better."
"Nonsense," he replied, straightening up, "I am, after all, seeing you home. We should at least be on a first name basis, now shouldn't we?"
She scoffed. "Who says you're seeing me home?"
If possible, the grin got wider and his strides finally matched up with hers perfectly. "I do."
"Well," Anne replied shortly, glaring daggers at him, "I say you're not. Goodnight, sir. Go...loiter in front of the cemetery."
His face scrunched up as he stuffed his hands in his pockets and gave a little shrug. "I'd rather not. I find the places quite a bit spooky, don't you?"
The fact that he leaned towards her to help emphasize the word 'spooky' made Anne very uneasy and she put another foot of distance between her body and his. "If you want the honest truth, I find you spook--"
"You're American, aren't you?" he interrupted, peering at her closely. "Exchange student, yeah?"
She would have lied to him--she didn't feel at all comfortable giving him any personal information--but she was sure the accent had already given her away.
"Yeah. I'm living with--"
"No, you're not," he interrupted her again with a knowing smile.
Anne let out a little huff at being cut off twice in under a minute. "You're a very rude man, you know that?"
"Am I?" he asked, turning his face away from her and gazing off into the distance with a frown. "Well, I suppose by your standards, I must be...though I can't think of a single ungentlemanly action on my part since we met."
"We didn't meet," she replied, her voice rather sharp. "You're stalking me."
His head snapped around and he looked at her again, one eyebrow raised.
"I'm just trying to see a defenseless young lady home," he defended passionately, before his face fell back into an expression of boyish mischief. "Like a knight in shining armor escorting his lady fair."
"Or the wolf escorting Little Red Riding Hood," she retorted, fighting back the urge to let her lips curl into a smile of her own. He looked so...innocent when he did that...that thing. Damn him.
"Little Red Riding Hood, eh? Think I'm out to eat you, then?" His smile turned the least bit rakish. "Shows where your mind is."
"I beg your pardon?" she sputtered indignantly, forcing down a hysterical giggle that tried to creep into her speech. That was ridiculous!
"No, no. No need to put on a show of virtue for my sake, Red," he said with a shrug. "You've clearly got your head in the gutter. Who am I to be so presumptuous as to yank it out again?"
"I--you--" she sputtered, itching to reach out and slap him for his impertinence. Her hands actually left her pockets as she contemplated it. "Maybe you should yank your own head--damn it!" She covered her face with both hands, feeling herself grow hot as she blushed furiously.
He chuckled softly. "Yes? Do go on."
Anne threw her hands away from her face. "I--you--oh! Never mind!"
"Oooh," he cooed, taking in her feverish blush and studying her a bit too closely for comfort. "Living up to the nickname, are we, Red?"
"You're infuriating!" she exclaimed, her pace quickening with her rapidly rising irritation.
"Could've fooled me," he answered, easily catching up with her, "I thought I was David."
Anne glared at him even as he continued to smile guilelessly. "See what I did there? Clever little way to introduce myself. Your turn."
"You've got to be kidding me!"
"Nope, I'm dead serious. Well, first I'm David, then I'm dead serious. And who're you again?" He lifted one hand to cup his ear expectantly.
She glared harder, hoping he might defy the established laws of physics and spontaneously combust.
He didn't. "Sorry, didn't catch that."
Anne let out an angry little huff. "My name is Anne! Plain, old, boring Anne. Satisfied?!"
He wiggled his brows. "Not remotely, but the night is young."
Anne felt her left eye try to twitch as her blood pressure spiked. "Incorrigible!"
"No, David." He pointed at her. "You were close, though."
She groaned, but relented. She certainly wasn't going to get anywhere if she didn't play along. "Why are you following me, David?"
"There's nothing on the television." Her glare made him chuckle again. "Why should I sit around watching infomercials when you'll lie to me in person?" He reached out to catch a strand of her hair before she could pull away. "But if you want to go making things up about yourself, you might go with something a bit more believable than 'plain' and 'boring.'"
"And how would you know what I am? No, don't answer that." Anne took another step away, swatting at his hand. "I think I liked you better when you were hitting on me."
His face lit up and the widest, brightest grin yet spread across his features. "You do like me."
Anne sputtered. "Count on you to pick out that part of the sentence!"
"Well, it was the best part of the sentence."
Anne narrowed her eyes at him and pursed her lips. "Tell me something, is this a habit of yours? A hobby? Following every woman you meet in the street so that they'll pay attention to you?"
"You wound me," he answered, feigning a look of hurt. "Not every woman. I do have some standards. There's a definite set of requirements in place."
"Let me guess," she snapped, kicking at a stray pebble in her path, "that set of requirements is 'humanoid and breathing'?"
"Well, that certainly doesn't hurt," he answered honestly, watching the pebble skitter away. "I hear corpses are a terrific bore to talk to."
"Oh, not always," she replied without thinking.
He pulled his attention from the road and raised an eyebrow at that. "Speaking from experience? And you call yourself boring."
"I am!" she exclaimed.
"I've never met a woman so dead set on being considered dull," he replied, reaching out with a finger and touching the tip of her nose as though she were a child. "Boring women don't wander around Italian necropolises in the middle of the night, screaming at squirrels."
Anne opened her mouth to reply and then snapped it shut again. Damn him for having a point.
"I've never met a man so dead set on being considered a nuisance," she said finally.
"I find nuisance to be a relative term," he said smoothly. "I happen to know a great many people who find me irresistibly charming."
She eyed him askance. "Well, why don't you go talk to one of them, then?"
He looked at her as though she weren't understanding the punch line to some grand, cosmic joke. "They're not nearly as much fun to antagonize."
Anne let out a put-upon sigh. "Would you please go away? I just want to go home."
"Can't."
Anne glanced up at him, the impish expression fixed firmly back on his face. "What? Why?"
"Already here." He looked away from her and jerked his head at the tiny villa that she had rented.
Anne backed away from him, wishing she had the pepper spray her brother had tried to give her before she'd left home. Her guard had been down too long. He'd chipped away at it until she was almost comfortable with a man whose last name she didn't even know.
"How do you know where I live?" she asked breathlessly, her eyes leaping from him to the villa and back again.
The look he gave her was more serious now, though the corner of his mouth still quirked up. "Because I happen to know the person waiting for you just inside the gate."
Anne's head snapped around to look at the stone and wrought iron gate. She gulped involuntarily. "If you're trying to scare me..."
"I'd say I've done a bang up job of it," he finished. "But I'm dead serious. Well, first I'm David, but then I'm dead serious. You've got company."
Anne glanced between David and the gate and back again and laughed a little bit too shrilly. "You're pulling my leg."
His half-smirk didn't falter. "Wish I were...maybe later...but by all means, if you want to risk your neck with what's waiting in there, I certainly won't stop you." He frowned. "Well, I might stop you. Be a perfectly horrid waste of a nubile college student if I didn't stop you, come to think of it."
Anne laughed again, the sound more squeaky and uneasy than the first time around and she started for the gate. "Okay, ha-ha, have a laugh at jumpy little Anne's expense."
She expected him to answer her, maybe invite himself inside on the pretext of protecting her from imaginary monsters, but there was nothing but silence. She glanced back over her shoulder.
He was gone.
Well...finally. She told the hairs on the back of her neck to settle down as she pushed open the gate. With an angry creak of its hinges, it swung inwards and Anne felt a little silly at how much trepidation she felt upon entering the little courtyard. To be fair, she had just been followed home by some random possible escaped mental patient who knew where she lived...she was entitled to be uneasy...especially since he vanished.
She was never going to get any sleep tonight. She could just imagine his face popping up at her bedroom window, smiling at her in the dark. She should call the police. She should call the police and she should get a roommate. She should--
Her mind went blank as, inserting her key into the lock, she looked over her shoulder and saw something behind her. Not David, wiry slip of a man with hardly any substance, but something dark and solid that loomed over her.
Something dark and solid that had...teeth.
Anne gulped so hard that she was sure the entire neighborhood must have heard it before she let loose a scream that left the first two of the evening in the dust.
The thing lunged at her and she leapt back, her shoulder colliding with the solid oak door of the villa as she frantically jiggled the key in the lock, even as she slid down to the ground. The animal--if it was an animal--reared up on its hind legs, snarling.
Something warm and wet dripped down on the hand still desperately trying to work the key and she let out a little whimper. The creature, which seemed to be some sort of wild dog, dropped back down on all fours and stared at Anne, yellow eyes catching the faintest slips of moonlight and growling low in its throat.
It was mesmerizing, in a purely terrifying way, and Anne couldn't seem to tear her gaze away from that of the beast. Her breath was coming in short pants as it ambled closer until she finally slammed her eyes shut and turned her head away.
If she was going to be ripped limb from limb, she certainly didn't want to watch.
But even with her eyes closed, she could hear, and she could imagine what was happening. She heard the thing shift about, claws digging into the stone, heard it grunt as it launched itself into the air a second time, felt its weight against her, throwing her against the door.
Then she heard a clang and a yelp, and the creature went flying away from her. She summoned what courage she could and opened her eyes.
The beast crouched, snarling, one paw held off the ground, dripping dark blood onto the stones. And between her and it was David, framed by the rising moon, holding--a sword? Was that a sword? It couldn't be. But there it was, shining in the moonlight and stained with more of that blood that seemed so unnaturally thick and black.
"If you could unlock the door now?" he said tersely. She gasped and felt for the key, not daring to take her eyes off the battle.
"Come on, beastie," he crooned tauntingly. "You don't like it when something can hurt you, do you? You'd like to get a little of your own back." The thing growled low, a sound that almost could have been human speech. "Come get me."
"Look out!" Anne shouted as the thing leaped at him. In a single smooth motion, David plunged his sword into the thing's body, using its own momentum to drive the blade in up to the hilt. It snapped at him, claws slicing through the empty air as he let go and stepped back. The thing collapsed, still struggling to reach the man and tear him to shreds. David smirked, obviously quite pleased with himself.
"Look out, idiot!" Anne shouted even more insistently.
His head started to turn toward her before the second creature burst from the shadows behind him, knocking him flat.
He flung up an arm, knocking its head aside before it could tear out his throat. Anne clutched the doorknob above her head, sobbing. No, no, no, this can't be happening. He managed, just barely, to keep the snapping jaws from closing on anything more important than his coat sleeve, but there was no way he was going to keep it off him very long.
No, this is not happening!
But it was. For all her jumpiness, Anne was practical enough not to deny what she was seeing with her own eyes, much as she would have liked to.
Those eyes of hers lighted on the body of the first canine creature, dying in her courtyard.
Before she could think her way back into paralysis, she darted forward and grabbed the hilt of the sword with both hands. The thing yelped in pain and tried, weakly, to snap at her. Instinct told her to scream and run away. Instead, she gave the sword a sharp yank.
It moved, but didn't come free of the body. She could hear David panting hard, a note of something like triumph creeping into the creature's snarls and growls. Oh god, oh god, oh god...She reached out gingerly with her foot and pressed it against the dying creature's side. It scratched at her leg, but failed to get through her jeans. Bracing herself, she pulled the sword free.
It was heavy, awkward in her hands, but she had a general idea of how to use it. With a savage yell, she turned to the struggling man and beast and slammed her newfound weapon into the monster's side.
Ow. The shock of the blow made her lose her grip. She stumbled back, clutching her wrist as the sword clattered to the ground. With a strained yelp, the thing collapsed on top of David. He lay still for a moment, still panting. She stared at the blood matting the creature's fur. She couldn't have hit it hard enough to kill it with a single blow, could she?
No, she realized when he pushed the thing aside and sat up. She hadn't made it very happy, but he was the one who had killed it. Its neck was broken.
Breathing hard, Anne leaned over, bracing her hands on her knees as she tried to catch her breath. David just grinned up at her as he got up and dusted himself off, eyes alight. "My hero."
Anne didn't have the strength to answer at first, but she gasped for a few moments more and then straightened out. "What the hell are these things?"
"Were, not 'are'. They've ceased to be. I do so hate it when people muddy up their tenses," he replied easily, leaning over to pick up his sword and wipe it off on his coat.
"Fine, were. What were they?"
"Care to hazard a guess?" he asked glibly, letting the tip of the deadly weapon in hand rest on the cobblestones in the courtyard as though he were leaning on a walking stick and not a sword. "Bet you'll get it in one!"
"How can you joke at a time like this?" Anne asked, gesturing widely with her hands. "How can you--OW!"
A sharp pain exploded in her wrist and she drew it instinctively toward her chest in a protective fashion.
"Ooh." David was less than a footstep away from her in an instant. "Best let me have a look at that."
"It's fine."
"You have a funny definition of 'fine'," he said, dragging her hand away from her chest and examining it. "It's sprained. Badly, I might add."
Anne glared up at him, her jaw tensing for a moment. "Would you please tell me what's going on?"
"You can't figure it out?" He wasn't looking at her as he ran his fingers up either side of her wrist, eliciting a wince. "Color me six shades of disappointed."
"What are--were those things? Tell me. Stop playing around. I just helped you kill one, I have a right to know."
David's eyes lifted from their intense scrutiny of her injured wrist to meet Anne's. They were earnest, without a sign of the laughter and smarm that'd been evident in them from the moment she'd first seen him.
"Werewolves."
Anne burst into hysterical and completely inappropriate giggles. "Werewolves! Of course they are. Werewolves. Why wouldn't they be werewolves?"
"You think I'm kidding."
"Oh, nooooo, of course not," Anne managed to get out from between giggles. "If you say they're werewolves, they're werewolves. Not mutant wolves or government funded lab experiments, werewolves! And I suppose you're, what, a demon slayer? The Highlander?"
"Close.” David's face split into a grin that was a bit too broad. “Vampire."
Anne's giggles tapered off as the light from the moon highlighted the length of David's canines. They weren't protruding over his bottom lip like some kind of grotesque Count Dracula clone from TV, but they were definitely an unnatural bit longer than the rest of his teeth. Her laughter ceased completely.
"Vampire."
"Oh. Did I neglect to mention that bit, then?"
"I...um...you didn't...I think I'm going to be sick," she murmured.
"I'm not surprised. First time I met a vampire, I fainted dead away. Of course, that had more to do with the blood loss than anything else." He grinned at her, then looked disappointed when she didn't laugh. "Sit down. Put your head between your knees. If circumstances were different, I might offer to do that for you, but for now...down you go."
"N-no! No! You're a vampire!" She backed into the door and clawed at the doorknob, forgetting that she still hadn't managed to turn the key. He sighed at her.
"Listen, you silly girl, if all I wanted was to bite you, I would have done it at the cemetery."
He turned the key for her and opened the door.
She stared up at him, confused. He had just let her fall to her knees; he wasn't even trying to touch her. Why didn't he want to hurt her? It wasn't that she minded too terribly, but none of the vampires she had ever heard of had gone around saving people instead of biting them.
Belatedly, she realized what this would look like if any of her neighbors actually came over to investigate the commotion, and scrambled backwards through the open doorway.
"See? You're safe now," he said with a smirk. "At least, safe from my kind."
"What do--" Oh! She found herself suddenly able to breathe. He couldn't come in unless she invited him, could he?
"Of course, I'm not the one who tracked you to your home and waited to pin you down and eat you," he continued, smirking. "Alive. They don't tend to like it when the prey stops squirming." She gulped. "There will be more of them, I'm sure. Most 'wolves keep to themselves, but the social ones run in larger packs than two. And they can be nasty when they feel the need to avenge their packmates. Don't worry, though. Your front door will probably be enough to keep them out." He wiggled his fingers at her in a cheery goodbye wave, and started to turn away.
"Um--would you like to come in?" she blurted. "For coffee?"
He turned back to face her.
"Thought you'd never ask."
He strode through the door and nonchalantly slid his sword into the cheap umbrella stand in the entryway. "You probably shouldn't have done that, you know. You could've kept me out indefinitely, where now I'll be free to come and go as I please."
Anne paled the slightest bit as he stuck his hands in his pockets and wandered towards the parlor, looking around at the decor. "But, I guess the absence of my company would probably be too much for your poor heart to bear."
He strolled into the parlor and towards the somewhat rickety cast iron winding staircase.
"So! Where's the bedroom?" he asked, glancing up through the ironwork with interest before turning to look at her over his shoulder. "I do hope you've a nice squashy bed. Rather fond of squeaky springs, myself. Makes me feel I'm doing well. You know, really accomplishing something."
"You..." She straightened up with some effort. "You're insufferable. You really are." He started to speak. She cut him off sharply. "No. No denying it. First you're insufferable, then you're David. So--so there!"
He grinned from ear to ear and brought up his hands to applaud her. "Hoist on my own petard. Good show, Red."
"Stop calling me that."
"Why? It's more apropos than ever, considering you just literally almost got eaten by the big bad wolf.”
"Well, they weren't exactly shy about using you as an appetizer. Grandma."
"Here now, lay off about my age. I'm only six hundred." He pointed at her. "I'll have you know Methuselah’s got three hundred years on me yet, and don't you forget it."
"I touched a nerve," she said with a bit too much glee.
"I wish you would," he returned. "But since you've had me all to yourself for at least five minutes and you haven't tried to jump me, I must assume you're immune to my near immeasurable charms."
"Egotism is a highly unattractive quality."
"It's gotten me this far. Well, that and dogged persistence."
"Persistent you may be, but don't think you're going to wear me down that easily. The guest room is at the end of the hall." While he was looking in the direction she had pointed, she plucked an umbrella from the stand where he had stashed his sword and held it between the two of them, pointy end level with his chest.
“Oh, now that's disappointing," he said.
"I might not be much of a match for giant man eating wolves, but I think I can handle you," she said seriously, prodding him in the chest with the wooden end of the umbrella.
“Yes, well," he looked down at the umbrella and poked at the worryingly sharp tip, "much as your offer to stay the night appeals, it's not such a grand idea for either of us to be in this villa. I've this little allergy to sunlight, you see, and you seem to be the picture window in every room type...and you...well, you won't be safe here without my protection, now will you?"
"Oh, no," she snapped. "I am not leaving this place. Just because I don't think you're here to kill me doesn't mean I trust you! I'm not letting you take me off to God knows where, off where no one knows where I am! Besides--besides!" She jabbed him with the umbrella again. "Don't werewolves only change during the full moon? They won't be back until next month!"
"Will you stop poking me? And don't assume you know more about werewolves than the man who's spent the last six centuries fighting them. The full moon makes them change, but so does running with a pack on any night, if they want blood." He snatched the umbrella from her as easily as he might have taken a toy from a toddler. "And we already know they want your blood. You're a very tasty little morsel."
He tipped his head to one side and gave let his eyes travel her form with unabashed interest. "Of course, I'm only speaking in theory. I could be wrong."
"And I'm supposed to just believe you?"
"I did save your life. That should give me some credibility."
Anne's brow furrowed and she looked at David appraisingly. "Yeah, fine, okay, so you did save me...but how do I know you didn't save me from being eaten by them just so you could?"
"I told you, if I wanted to do that, I would have done it at the cemetery. I never would have given you a chance to get away. I would have done...this." He put his hand under her chin, tilting her head back, forcing her to look into his deep brown eyes. "And then this." He moved in closer, holding her body against his with far more strength than she would have expected. She should have pulled away, but she found herself curiously unwilling to move, lost in the dizzying scent of fresh blood and laundry detergent. "And this." At the feeling of cold breath on her neck, she shivered and tilted her head to the side to offer him easy access. "But I don't like to do it this way." He released her.
She stumbled backward, blinking in confusion as her mind snapped back to its normal clarity.
"What--what did you just--"
"Told you. Irresistible. But I'd rather do it the old fashioned way, wouldn't you?"
Anne took a deep breath and licked her lips, which had become unbelievably dry within a few scant seconds. "Thrall."
He looked at her curiously, a note of pleasant surprise in his voice. "Not too terribly sporting, is it? Takes all the zing out of it."
With easy grace, he passed Anne, brushing against her as he went, and swapped the umbrella in his hand for his sword. "Dawn will be breaking far sooner than I'm comfortable with. We need to move."
He spun back around, his smile just the least bit forced even as he grabbed her arm and pulled her to him, crushing her against his chest. "You might want to be unconscious for this."
Anne swallowed harshly. "Why?"
"We're going to be traveling fast. I'd never reach home in time as a pedestrian. And you wouldn't believe how long it takes me to get over a sunburn."
"So we take a car? Scary," she said, rolling her eyes as she tried to wriggle out of his embrace.
"No, not a car. I get more benefits from the pointy teeth club than my stunning physical prowess, you know, and the way I travel tends to scare the willies out of the living."
“The...living," she repeated. "Look, you smug jerk, nothing you throw at me is going to scare me as long as I know it's coming, and I like to drive fast. And there's no way in hell I'm letting you knock me out, so why don't you keep your hands to yourself for a minute and let me grab a change of clothes?" Reluctantly, David let her go.
"Quickly," he urged. She walked back to her bedroom, suppressing a sigh of irritation when he followed close on her heels. "There's no time to waste if you get hysterical again. I will drag you kicking and screaming if I have to. I'd prefer not--that would make it so much easier for them to track us."
She ignored him, searching through drawers and stuffing clothes into a bag while he paced back and forth in front of the door
"Time is of the essence, Anne," he said anxiously, glancing up at her as she rifled through her dresser. "I appreciate the gesture but matching bras and knickers are not a high priority."
"I know, I know, but I don't know how long I'm going to be staying wherever it is we're going and--"
CRASH!
"What was that?" she squealed, dropping a pair of 'knickers' she had been hoping not to show him. Amazingly, he paid no attention to the sheer red lace panties now spread out in all their glory on the hardwood floor, going to the window instead.
"Stop yammering for a minute," he whispered. Her breath rushed out in a huff.
"Yammering? I'm not the one who's been--"
"Shut. Up." He drew the curtain aside just enough to peek outside. She couldn't see a thing out there in the dark, but whatever he saw was enough to make him draw back, the smirk gone from his face.
"What is it?" she whispered.
"The rest of the pack, what else? Five more, at least," he said, more to himself than to her. "I can't fight five at once."
"What do you mean you can't fight five?" Anne got close enough to him to tug on his sleeve urgently. "What do we do?"
David glanced down at Anne's fingers where she clutched his sleeve so desperately and then looked at her. "I'd say running would be up there towards the top of the list, wouldn't yo--"
The sound of glass shattering exploded like a gunshot and Anne jumped, spinning towards the source of the sound, still hanging on David's sleeve.
The window in the parlor, which was partially visible from Anne's current vantage point, had been burst through by one of the wolves. The animal was crouched low on the floor, as if coiled to spring, and it shook the shards of glass from its fur, the tiny pieces skittering all over the floor with a series of tinkling noises.
"Well...that's the least bit inconvenient," he muttered, dislodging Anne's hand from his arm and pulling her around behind him.
"Inconvenient?" Anne said with a gulp, her hands flying to his shoulders as she peered around him.
David jabbed his finger at the front door and the animal snarling in front of it. "Under ordinary circumstances, I'd call a werewolf blocking the only exit something entirely different, but I didn't want to offend your feminine sensibilities with that kind of language."
He glanced back over his shoulder at her and the right side of his lip quirked upwards ever so slightly. "Of course, if you think it would make you feel any better I could let loose a string of expletives. I aim to please. Of course, now's hardly the time for that."
"We're about to be eaten alive by werewolves and you've still got your head in the gutter?" she gibbered, fingers fisting in the fabric of his near ruined coat.
"Better there than three feet away from my body. Come on. Do you have an attic?"
"Yes, but I hardly see what good that is to us."
"Well, for one thing, they probably won't notice us if we go out a window that high above them."
"Did I mention the attic is the third floor?" she asked breathlessly, suddenly aware of the fact that she smelled...tea. Tea? Why would a vampire smell of tea? Or was she just going insane? No--better not answer that one.
"Did I mention that I'm a vampire?" he retorted calmly.
"Not nearly as early on as I would've liked," she muttered under her breath.
"Listen, if you're scared, you can always close your eyes." He put an arm around her shoulders and led her toward the stairs. "But I won't hurt you. I'll be gentle."
He walked with his sword outstretched with one hand and the other cradling her shivering form. Anne didn't like the fact that she was clinging to him as tightly as she was, but even though he was a vampire, he was far and away a less terrifying threat than the wolf stalking back and forth in her living room. Better the devil you know, after all.
"Gentle," she repeated, allowing him to lead her, her body pressed inappropriately close to his.
As they reached the foot of the spiral staircase and they started up it, he chanced to take his eyes off the immediate threat and gave her a smile that he shouldn't have been able to manage. "Can't promise the same treatment after we're out of peril and on our own time, though."
"Insufferable," she spat without any real anger as he ushered her up the stairs.
"David," he corrected, following up behind.
The staircase was terribly cramped even with the two of them pressed so close together, and if that weren't bad enough, it was quite rickety. Anne found herself clinging to the vampire in spite of herself because of the worrying manner in which the wrought iron structure wobbled under their feet with every move they made. She didn't know what he could do, exactly, if the thing decided to collapse, but he did seem confident of his ability to survive a fall. She wasn't quite so confident of her own, however, so she stuck to David in such a way that--if the structure collapsed--he would break her fall. It might not have been very nice but then, she hadn't been having a very nice night.
With a disturbingly loud creak, the staircase swayed a little bit too much for Anne's liking as they reached the second floor landing and she found herself not only flinging both arms around his neck, but moaning in terrified anticipation of a doomward plummet.
Her eyes scrunched closed and her face twisted into a grimace, she buried her nose in the front of his jacket
He chuckled, sounding far too pleased. "Knew you wouldn't be able to keep your hands off me for long."
She squeaked in response as he guided her to solid ground once more and the moment her footing was sure, she flung herself away from him.
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| 2008-05-23 19:09 |
| Penny Dreadful Notes |
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Penny Dreadful's band is called The Shilling Shockers.
There have been many attempts throughout the history of Christianity to classify demons into categories. These systems of classification of demons are a part of Christian demonology. Classification systems are based on the nature of the demon, the sin with which they tempt people, the month in which their power was strongest, the saints that were their adversaries, or other characteristics.
Binsfeld's classification of demons Binsfeld's classification of demons was prepared in 1589 by Peter Binsfeld. His demon classification based on the seven deadly sins, establishing that each one of the mentioned demons tempted people by means of one of those sins. Guazzo's classification of demons Francesco Maria Guazzo prepared this classification of demons based on a previous work by Michael Psellus. It was published in his book Compendium Maleficarum in 1608. - Demons of the superior layers of the air, which never establish a relationship with people.
- Demons of the inferior layers of the air, which are responsible for storms.
- Demons of earth, which dwell in fields, caves and forests.
- Demons of water, which are female demons, and destroy aquatic animals.
- Demons of the underground part of the earth, responsible of keeping hidden treasures, causing earthquakes, and causing the crumbling of houses.
- Demons of the night, which are black and evil. These demons avoid daylight.
Michaelis' classification of demons In 1613 Sebastien Michaelis wrote a book, Admirable History, in which included a classification of demons as it was told to him by the demon Berith when he was exorcising a nun, according to the author. This classification is based in hierarchies, the sins by means of which the temptation is made, and includes the demons' adversaries (who suffered that temptation without falling). Note that many demons' names are exclusively French or unknown in other catalogues. St. John the Baptist and St. John the Evangelist are the two St. John's to whom Michaelis refers. The other saints are cited only by their name without making clear, i.e., which Francis is (of Assisi?).
First Hierarchy- Beelzebub: arrogance; adversary, St. Francis
- Leviathan: attacks Christian religious beliefs; adversary, St. Peter
- Asmodai: lust; adversary: St. John
- Berith: murdering and blasphemy; adversary, St. Barnabas
- Astaroth: laziness and vanity; adversary, St. Bartholomew
- Verrin: impatience; adversary, St. Dominic. See Verrine
- Gressil: impurity, uncleanness and nastiness; adversary, St. Bernard
- Sonneillon: hate; adversary, St. Stephen.
Second Hierarchy
Third Hierarchy- Belial: arrogance; adversary, St. Francis of Paula
- Olivier: fierceness, greediness and envy; adversary, St. Lawrence
- Jouvart: sexuality; adversary, not cited.
Barrett's classification of demonsFrancis Barrett, in his book The magus (1801), offered this classification of demons, making them princes of some evil attitude, person or thing:
Classification by monthDuring the 16th century it was believed that each demon had more strength to accomplish his mission during a special month of the year. In this way, he and his assistants' powers would work better during that month. The classification of demons by month seems to have astrological implications more than religious ones.
And...bored now.
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Okay, seriously, Techie. Focussss.
In the land of long ago and far away, I once got some very good advice when it comes to comic book writing. Take every issue and sum it up with one sentence. From there, sum up the events of each page from each issue. Then panel by panel. I hate working from an outline, but in this case, it needs to be done. Yes.
Villainyverse Comics Outline, Arc by Arc:
#1: This is the introductory arc. It centers on Jim Hollingsworth's grief and slow descent into madness.
#2: Jim comes out as the Hollow and seeks vengeance on the men who wronged his family.
#3: Decay is introduced in her origin issue. Hooks up with the Hollow and they join forces against the the organization that wrecked both their lives.
#4: Jim discovers that his best friend is actually the man behind the crimes against him; he clashes with the Steel Sentinal for the first time.
#5: The Hollow and Decay have a minor falling out and part company. Jim stelathily sets out to make a new life for himself as a phsycologist at Bryce Sanitarium for the Criminally Insane; the events of A Savage Pantsing take place here.
#6: The Morrigan's storyline is introduced.
#7: The events of Scarecrow's Revenge occur here.
#8: The events of Night of the Scarecrow occur here.
#9: Jim gets off scott free due to several oversights by the authorities and some very quick talking, heads to Steel University to work as a professor. The Talon is introduced.
#10: The Gentleman Thief and the Talon figure into the plot here, clashing as they both try to steal the same item.
And...blah. That's all I've got for now.
That's still an impressive amount, though.
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Page One
Panel One: Exterior. Day. A cemetery during a modest sized funeral, with about thirty attendees. It’s raining. There are two caskets visible, one large enough for an adult and one child sized. There is a crowd of mourners, dressed in black, gathered around with umbrellas. Standing front and center is a man in his mid to late thirties, in a brown trench coat that appears to be a size or two too big for him; he has small, rectangular rimless glasses. His shoulders are slumped and he has no umbrella. This is our protagonist: JIM HOLLINGSWORTH, and it’s his wife and child being buried. At one end of the caskets, a priest in white vestments stands, his bible open in his hands.
PRIEST: Before the eyes of God, we commit to the ground Sarah and Annie Hollingsworth.
Panel Two: Focusing on Jim in profile, his face downcast, brow furrowed, raindrops cascading down his face.
PRIEST (Off Panel): Ashes to ashes…
Panel Three: Same perspective as last panel. Jim has put his face in his hands (wedding band should be visible), overcome with grief.
PRIEST: Dust to dust.
Page Two
Panel One: Interior. A comfortable suburban living room. There are a few bookcases, a sofa and two arm chairs, a coffee table with photographs, a couple of fine leather bound books and a crystal decanter of scotch on it. The funeral attendants are milling about in small groups, but again, Jim is front and center in this panel, sitting on the sofa. He’s leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and a small glass in one hand with a small amount of liquor.
FUNERAL ATTENDEE #1: It’s a little unusual to be having the wake after the burial, of course, but--
FUNERAL ATTENDEE #2: Oh, but that’s how Annie wanted it, you know.
Panel Two: Focusing on Jim, in profile, eyes closed and his head tipped back as he downs his drink.
FUNERAL ATTENDEE (Off Panel): She never did like to do things in the traditional fashion…
Panel Three: Same perspective as last panel. A woman has entered the shot in the foreground and Jim has cracked one eye open to look at her, even as he still has his glass tipped back. The woman is MRS. HENRIETTA PENWHIFFLE. She’s around sixty, also dressed in black, with the most God awful garish old fashioned Sunday hat, a black number with fake gardenias tacked to it. She’s a busybody neighbor that gate crashed the funeral, but nobody has bothered to tell her to beat it because it would be rude. Jim does not look happy to see her.
MRS PENWHIFFLE: Oh, Jim. I’m so very sorry for your loss.
Panel Four: Looking at the couch head on, Mrs. Penwhiffle is moving to take a seat next to Jim. He has lowered the glass from his mouth and is resting one hand on his knee, eyeing Mrs. Penwhiffle with as much distaste as he can get away with without looking like a jerk.
JIM: Thank you, Mrs. Penwhiffle. I appreciate--
MRS. PENWHIFFLE: Of course, you do dear, of course you do.
Panel Five: Mrs. Penwhiffle is seated next to Jim fully now, her hands patting the one resting on his knee soothingly. She wears a large cocktail ring on each finger; all of them horrifically gaudy and not the least bit appropriate for funeral attire. Jim is staring at her hand as though it’s some alien thing. He obviously doesn’t want the old bat touching him.
MRS. PENWHIFFLE: I’m glad I came, dear heart, I know how hard these things can be.
Panel Six: Jim has tugged his hand out of Mrs. Penwhiffle’s grasp. He’s giving her the most insincere half-smile a man in his position could muster.
JIM: Thank you, Mrs. Penwhiffle, but if it’s all the same to you--
MRS. PENWHIFFLE: Now don’t be like that, Jim. Why when my Marvin--God rest his soul--passed on, I thought I’d never get through it.
Panel Seven: Closer on Jim and Mrs. Penwhiffle. She’s not paying him any attention, continuing the conversation without him.
MRS. PENWHIFFLE: I thought--
JIM: I’d really prefer to be let alone, Mrs. Penwhiffle.
MRS. PENWHIFFLE: that I would always be as miserable as I was on the day I buried him.
JIM: Mrs. Penwhiffle, please--
Page Three
Panel One: Perspective up to the artist. Mrs. Penwhiffle hasn’t ceased her monologue, and Jim has leaned forward to reach for the decanter.
MRS. PENWHIFFLE: Now, I know you’re hurting, Jim--
JIM: Sigh.
Panel Two: Over the shoulder shot, from behind Jim, his arm still outstretched towards the coffee table. He has paused in his reaching for the decanter. One of the books on the coffee table should be featured prominently, as this is what’s caused him to stop reaching for more liquid fortitude. The book cover is gold embossed; the title reading “THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW” with a small illustration beneath it, depicting the headless horseman, one arm stretched up above his head with a flaming Jack O’ Lantern in it.
MRS. PENWHIFFLE (off panel): But you’ve just got to haul yourself up by your bootstraps--
Panel Two (inset): A close up of Jim’s face as he looks at the book. He’s frowning, his brows are drawn together and he looks very troubled.
MRS. PENWHIFFLE (off panel): And carry on.
Panel Three (inset): A flashback panel. The colors are washed out and the image somewhat fuzzy, like a watercolor painting. Interior. The same suburban living room we left Jim and Mrs. Penwhiffle in, but on a very different day. There’s sunlight streaming through the windows and a much more content looking Jim sits on one end of the sofa with a coffee cup in one hand and a clipboard in the other. He’s reading whatever documents are on the clipboard. There’s no crystal decanter on the coffee table, but there is a teddy bear, missing one eye and with a tattered ear. At the other end of the sofa there’s a young girl in a flowered sundress. This is SARAH, Jim’s now deceased daughter. She looks to be about seven years old. Her hair is blonde and up in pigtails; her knees are tucked under her and she has a book in her lap, pouring over it with one finger pressed to the page, as though she’s following what she’s reading.
SARAH: The rat sees the cheese.
Panel Four: Another flashback panel. Closer in on Jim, Sarah no longer visible in the panel. He’s smiling to himself, even as he reads his clipboard.
SARAH (Off Panel): The cat sees the rat.
SARAH (Off Panel): Daddy?
JIM: Yes, Sarah?
SARAH (Off Panel): This book is boring. Can I look at one of yours?
Panel Five: Still in flashback. Jim is looking up at his daughter, his clipboard resting on his knee, the hand not holding his coffee cup partially obscuring his face as he stifles a grin. Sarah is looking at him imploringly from her end of the sofa. The book in her lap forgotten.
JIM: I’m pretty sure that what I read is even less interesting than cats and rats, sweetheart.
SARAH: Please, daddy? This story is dumb. The cat doesn’t even chase the rat so she can eat him.
Page Four
Panel One: Still in flashback. Perspective up to the artist. Jim isn’t even bothering to hide his smile anymore. Sarah has crept a little bit closer to her father so that she can properly utilize the puppy-dog eyes to their fullest extent.
SARAH: Can I look at the one with the pumpkin guy? The one with the horse and Icky-Bob? Please?
Panel Two: Still in flashback. Perspective up to the artist. Jim looks like he’s trying to piece together which story his daughter is referring to.
JIM: Pumpkin guy? Icky-Bob? Icky-Bob…oh, Ichabod. Now why would you want to look at Sleepy Hollow again?
SARAH: ‘Cause.
JIM: You can’t even read most of it, Sarah.
Panel Three: Still in flashback. Focus on Sarah. She has planted her hands on her hips, looking as stern as any seven year old ever has.
SARAH: I can so. I can sound out all the words, daddy.
Panel Four: Still in flashback. Sarah’s stance has softened and she looks a little bit puzzled.
SARAH: I just don’t know what they mean yet.
JIM: Well, then, there you are. If you don’t know what they mean--
Panel Five: Still in flashback. Perspective up to the artist. Sarah is back to looking pleading again.
SARAH: Would you read it to me, daddy?
JIM: And get another scolding from your mother?
SARAH: She doesn’t scold so bad, daddy.
Panel Six: Back in the present. Everything about the panel is crisp and sharp. Focus on Jim in profile, still reaching for the decanter, Mrs. Penwhiffle still yakking in the background. The grip he has on his glass has tightened in the past few minutes, leaving his knuckles white.
SARAH (Caption): I live through it all the time.
MRS. PENWHIFFLE: So I’m sure you see, Jim, considering everything I’ve told you, just how vital it is to keep going, even when you feel as though you can‘t continue--
Panel Seven: Closer in on the glass in Jim’s hand, his grip even tighter.
SFX (from the glass): Crackle
MRS. PENWHIFFLE: When you feel so empty you could just shatter--
Panel Eight: Perspective up to the artist. Jim has squeezed his glass so hard that it’s shattered in his hand. He’s cut himself in the process and is bleeding a fair bit. Mrs. Penwhiffle looks startled.
MRS. PENWHIFFLE: My goodness!
Page Five
Panel One: A long shot of the living room. All conversation has ceased and everyone is looking at Jim with obvious concern, who is staring at his hand somewhat vacantly.
JIM (whispered): How clumsy of me.
JIM (whispered): And one of Annie’s good glasses, too. She’s going to hang me for--
Panel Two: Closer in on Jim. His brow is furrowed and he looks a little more lucid, staring at his hand, his upper lip twisted into a bitter parody of the smile he had in the flashback panels.
JIM: No, she’s not.
Panel Three: Jim is getting up from the sofa, pulling a handkerchief out of his suit’s breast pocket, Mrs. Penwhiffle forgotten as he goes.
JIM: Please excuse me.
Panel Four: Interior. A bathroom in the same house. The décor is decidedly feminine. Flowered shower curtain, matching bathroom accessories, etc. There is a bright yellow rubber ducky sitting on the edge of the tub and a bottle of children’s bubble bath with a cartoon character--a dancing pumpkin--on it. Jim is standing in front of the sink, which is set into a rose colored marble countertop, perfume bottles and make-up artfully scattered next to his shaving cream and razor. There are a few washcloths as well, one of which has the same cartoon character on it as the bottle of bubble bath. Jim has his hand under the faucet, running water over his cuts from last panel. The bathroom door is visible behind him, almost like a picture frame around him, and it is standing wide open.
Panel Five: Same perspective as last panel. A man has entered the shot, and is looking into the bathroom, his expression unreadable. This man is LEONARD MCKAY, Jim’s best friend since high school and current co-worker. Later, it will be revealed that Leonard was having an affair with Annie since before she and Jim were married, but for now he’s playing the part of sympathetic friend. Jim hasn’t noticed him.
LEONARD: How you holdin’ up there, buddy?
Page Six
Panel One: Perspective up to the artist. Jim is visibly startled, looking up at Leonard, as though he’d forgotten that anyone else had the ability to exist.
JIM: Oh. I’m fine, Leonard. Just fine. If you don’t count the fact my hand looks like I ran it through a shredder, I’m better than fine.
Panel Two: Jim has turned his attention back to the faucet and is turning the water off with one hand while reaching for a towel on the counter with the other. Leonard has his arms crossed over his chest and is leaning against the door frame, appraising his friend critically.
LEONARD: You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you, Jimmy.
JIM: I’m fine, Lenny. Really.
LEONARD: I know you, Jim. You’re decidedly not fine. This is probably the least fine you’ve ever been. Why don’t you just be honest?
Panel Three: Jim has the washcloth wrapped around his injured hand, drying it and looking at Leonard with his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. He’s getting annoyed.
JIM: I said I’m fine, I meant I’m fine. Can we just drop it, please?
LEONARD: No. No we can’t. You’ve been like this for the past week.
Panel Four: Jim is throwing the washcloth on the counter, his patience obviously growing thin in his posture and facial expression.
JIM: Would everyone please stop being so concerned? I’m handling it.
LEONARD: Maybe so, but you’re not handling it well.
Panel Five: Jim is angry now, turned on his friend fully, glaring and pointing at him accusingly.
JIM: And how would you know what constitutes handling it well, huh? Should I be out in the living room with all those people who barely knew Annie, letting them pat me on the head and tell me it’s all going to be okay? Should I be happily reminiscing about things Sarah used to do, knowing that I’ll never see her again? Should I be taking the sympathy the black draped masses are so ready to dole out despite the fact they can’t possibly know what it’s like to have lost my wife and child? You tell me, Leonard, if that’s what I should be doing, because I’d hate for anyone to think I’m not following proper procedure!
LEONARD: Now, Jim, you’re not angry with me…
JIM: You’re right, I’m not. I’m furious with you! How dare you presume to come in here and tell me what I’m doing right and what I’m doing wrong? I’m grieving, Leonard! Leave me to it! I sure as hell don‘t want you around for my nervous breakdown when it finally hits!
Page Seven
Panel One: Perspective up to the artist. Jim looks like he’s about to crack.
JIM: Maybe you can deal with all the morbidity of this little mournful shindig, but I can’t. I put my family in the ground today! Is it so wrong to want to be left alone rather than casually shoot the breeze with the likes of Henrietta Penwhiffle?
Panel Two: Jim is gesturing with his hands, grandly, mockingly.
JIM: If I hear the words ‘it was a lovely service’ one more time, I may scream. How am I supposed to respond to that, Lenny? It’s customary to respond to a compliment, isn’t it? Should I ask what the best part of burying my wife was? Should I ask if they thought the casket I selected for my six year old was the right color? Should I ask if they liked the lies the priest uttered over their bodies?! HUH?!
Panel Three: Leonard is calmly listening to his friend rant.
JIM: Is it unseemly to bring up the fact that my wife won’t be going ashes to ashes, dust to dust quite as neatly as that little sermon suggested? It’s so easy for them to take the words of a priest at face value. Easier for everyone to deal with the idea of death. ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust’. It’s all so clean when you put it that way. You don’t spare a thought to the ghoulish process that’s happening right now that way.
Panel Four: Perspective up to the artist. In the living room. All the guests can clearly hear Jim’s tirade and are standing around looking awkward. His voice is coming from down a hallway that’s visible in this shot.
JIM: We dress the dead like Thanksgiving turkeys. We truss them up in trappings that make us feel better--more comfortable with death, more comfortable with the idea that what we’re seeing in those four thousand dollar display cases are the people we love, when really they’re nothing more than empty husks--bury them and think nothing of the decay that will inevitably occur.
Panel Five: Back in the bathroom, Jim is spitting mad.
JIM: So excuse the hell out of me if I don’t want to rehash how lovely the service was for the hundredth time, when all I can see in my head is my wife and my--
Panel Six: Close up. Focus on Jim. His face has crumpled, anguished. His hand is tangled in his hair. This is the moment when he finally lets grief get the better of him.
JIM: And my baby…
Page Eight
Panel One: Long shot of the bathroom. Jim has fallen to his knees, overcome, his face in his hands. Leonard has abandoned the doorway and is reaching for him.
JIM: My family.
Panel Two: Perspective up to the artist. Jim is trying to draw in on himself as much as possible. Hands covering his head. Leonard has dropped to his knees as well and is engulfing Jim in his arms.
Panel Three: Focus on Leonard as he hugs Jim comfortingly, his face grief stricken as well, being the support that he so desperately needs. The man probably couldn’t sit up if he weren’t being held up by his friend.
LEONARD: It’s okay…you‘re…no. You‘re not. Not now.
Panel Four: Medium shot in profile. Leonard has pulled back from Jim, holding his shoulders and looking at him head on. Jim’s head is thrown back and he looks like he’s in agony, tears streaming from his eyes. He’s the most pathetic thing ever to grace a comic page.
LEONARD: But you will be.
Panel Five: Leonard is shaking Jim by the shoulders.
LEONARD: Do you hear me, Jimmy?
Panel Six: Leonard has pulled Jim back into his arms, where the weeping man has collapsed against his chest.
LEONARD: You will be.
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| 2008-05-11 18:57 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
|
-stares at blank WordPad document-
-stares some more-
-blink-
-blink, blink-
-suddenly bursts into song-
...
I was about to write something! Damn you, Doris Day!
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| 2008-05-03 14:37 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
| villainy |
|
Page One
Panel One: Exterior. Day. A cemetery during a modest sized funeral, with about thirty attendees. It’s raining. There are two caskets visible, one large enough for an adult and one child sized. There is a crowd of mourners, dressed in black, gathered around with umbrellas. Standing front and center is a man in his mid to late thirties, in a brown trench coat that appears to be a size or two too big for him; he has small, rectangular rimless glasses. His shoulders are slumped and he has no umbrella. This is our protagonist: JIM HOLLINGSWORTH, and it’s his wife and child being buried. At one end of the caskets, a priest in white vestments stands, his bible open in his hands.
PRIEST: Before the eyes of God, we commit to the ground Sarah and Annie Hollingsworth.
Panel Two: Focusing on Jim in profile, his face downcast, brow furrowed, raindrops cascading down his face.
PRIEST (Off Panel): Ashes to ashes…
Panel Three: Same perspective as last panel. Jim has put his face in his hands (wedding band should be visible), overcome with grief.
PRIEST: Dust to dust.
Page Two
Panel One: Interior. A comfortable suburban living room. There are a few bookcases, a sofa and two arm chairs, a coffee table with photographs, a couple of fine leather bound books and a crystal decanter of scotch on it. The funeral attendants are milling about in small groups, but again, Jim is front and center in this panel, sitting on the sofa. He’s leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and a small glass in one hand with a small amount of liquor.
FUNERAL ATTENDEE #1: It’s a little unusual to be having the wake after the burial, of course, but--
FUNERAL ATTENDEE #2: Oh, but that’s how Annie wanted it, you know.
Panel Two: Focusing on Jim, in profile, eyes closed and his head tipped back as he downs his drink.
FUNERAL ATTENDEE (Off Panel): She never did like to do things in the traditional fashion…
Panel Three: Same perspective as last panel. A woman has entered the shot in the foreground and Jim has cracked one eye open to look at her, even as he still has his glass tipped back. The woman is MRS. HENRIETTA PENWHIFFLE. She’s around sixty, also dressed in black, with the most God awful garish old fashioned Sunday hat, a black number with fake gardenias tacked to it. She’s a busybody neighbor that gate crashed the funeral, but nobody has bothered to tell her to beat it because it would be rude. Jim does not look happy to see her.
MRS PENWHIFFLE: Oh, Jim. I’m so very sorry for your loss.
Panel Four: Looking at the couch head on, Mrs. Penwhiffle is moving to take a seat next to Jim. He has lowered the glass from his mouth and is resting one hand on his knee, eyeing Mrs. Penwhiffle with as much distaste as he can get away with without looking like a jerk.
JIM: Thank you, Mrs. Penwhiffle. I appreciate--
MRS. PENWHIFFLE: Of course, you do dear, of course you do.
Panel Five: Mrs. Penwhiffle is seated next to Jim fully now, her hands patting the one resting on his knee soothingly. She wears a large cocktail ring on each finger; all of them horrifically gaudy and not the least bit appropriate for funeral attire. Jim is staring at her hand as though it’s some alien thing. He obviously doesn’t want the old bat touching him.
MRS. PENWHIFFLE: I’m glad I came, dear heart, I know how hard these things can be.
Panel Six: Jim has tugged his hand out of Mrs. Penwhiffle’s grasp. He’s giving her the most insincere half-smile a man in his position could muster.
JIM: Thank you, Mrs. Penwhiffle, but if it’s all the same to you--
MRS. PENWHIFFLE: Now don’t be like that, Jim. Why when my Marvin--God rest his soul--passed on, I thought I’d never get through it.
Panel Seven: Closer on Jim and Mrs. Penwhiffle. She’s not paying him any attention, continuing the conversation without him.
MRS. PENWHIFFLE: I thought--
JIM: I’d really prefer to be let alone, Mrs. Penwhiffle.
MRS. PENWHIFFLE: that I would always be as miserable as I was on the day I buried him.
JIM: Mrs. Penwhiffle, please--
Page Three
Panel One: Perspective up to the artist. Mrs. Penwhiffle hasn’t ceased her monologue, and Jim has leaned forward to reach for the decanter.
MRS. PENWHIFFLE: Now, I know you’re hurting, Jim--
JIM: Sigh.
Panel Two: Over the shoulder shot, from behind Jim, his arm still outstretched towards the coffee table. He has paused in his reaching for the decanter. One of the books on the coffee table should be featured prominently, as this is what’s caused him to stop reaching for more liquid fortitude. The book cover is gold embossed; the title reading “THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW” with a small illustration beneath it, depicting the headless horseman, one arm stretched up above his head with a flaming Jack O’ Lantern in it.
MRS. PENWHIFFLE (off panel): But you’ve just got to haul yourself up by your bootstraps--
Panel Two (inset): A close up of Jim’s face as he looks at the book. He’s frowning, his brows are drawn together and he looks very troubled.
MRS. PENWHIFFLE (off panel): And carry on.
Panel Three (inset): A flashback panel. The colors are washed out and the image somewhat fuzzy, like a watercolor painting. Interior. The same suburban living room we left Jim and Mrs. Penwhiffle in, but on a very different day. There’s sunlight streaming through the windows and a much more content looking Jim sits on one end of the sofa with a coffee cup in one hand and a clipboard in the other. He’s reading whatever documents are on the clipboard. There’s no crystal decanter on the coffee table, but there is a teddy bear, missing one eye and with a tattered ear. At the other end of the sofa there’s a young girl in a flowered sundress. This is SARAH, Jim’s now deceased daughter. She looks to be about seven years old. Her hair is blonde and up in pigtails; her knees are tucked under her and she has a book in her lap, pouring over it with one finger pressed to the page, as though she’s following what she’s reading.
SARAH: The rat sees the cheese.
Panel Four: Another flashback panel. Closer in on Jim, Sarah no longer visible in the panel. He’s smiling to himself, even as he reads his clipboard.
SARAH (Off Panel): The cat sees the rat.
SARAH (Off Panel): Daddy?
JIM: Yes, Sarah?
SARAH (Off Panel): This book is boring. Can I look at one of yours?
Panel Five: Still in flashback. Jim is looking up at his daughter, his clipboard resting on his knee, the hand not holding his coffee cup partially obscuring his face as he stifles a grin. Sarah is looking at him imploringly from her end of the sofa. The book in her lap forgotten.
JIM: I’m pretty sure that what I read is even less interesting than cats and rats, sweetheart.
SARAH: Please, daddy? This story is dumb. The cat doesn’t even chase the rat so she can eat him.
Page Four
Panel One: Still in flashback. Perspective up to the artist. Jim isn’t even bothering to hide his smile anymore. Sarah has crept a little bit closer to her father so that she can properly utilize the puppy-dog eyes to their fullest extent.
SARAH: Can I look at the one with the pumpkin guy? The one with the horse and Icky-Bob? Please?
Panel Two: Still in flashback. Perspective up to the artist. Jim looks like he’s trying to piece together which story his daughter is referring to.
JIM: Pumpkin guy? Icky-Bob? Icky-Bob…oh, Ichabod. Now why would you want to look at Sleepy Hollow again?
SARAH: ‘Cause.
JIM: You can’t even read most of it, Sarah.
Panel Three: Still in flashback. Focus on Sarah. She has planted her hands on her hips, looking as stern as any seven year old ever has.
SARAH: I can so. I can sound out all the words, daddy.
Panel Four: Still in flashback. Sarah’s stance has softened and she looks a little bit puzzled.
SARAH: I just don’t know what they mean yet.
JIM: Well, then, there you are. If you don’t know what they mean--
Panel Five: Still in flashback. Perspective up to the artist. Sarah is back to looking pleading again.
SARAH: Would you read it to me, daddy?
JIM: And get another scolding from your mother?
SARAH: She doesn’t scold so very badly, daddy.
Panel Six: Back in the present. Everything about the panel is crisp and sharp. Focus on Jim in profile, still reaching for the decanter, Mrs. Penwhiffle still yakking in the background. The grip he has on his glass has tightened in the past few minutes, leaving his knuckles white.
SARAH (Caption): I live through it all the time.
MRS. PENWHIFFLE: So I’m sure you see, Jim, considering everything I’ve told you, just how vital it is to keep going, even when you feel as though you can‘t continue--
Panel Seven: Closer in on the glass in Jim’s hand, his grip even tighter.
SFX (from the glass): Crackle
MRS. PENWHIFFLE: When you feel so empty you could just shatter--
Panel Eight: Perspective up to the artist. Jim has squeezed his glass so hard that it’s shattered in his hand. He’s cut himself in the process and is bleeding a fair bit. Mrs. Penwhiffle looks startled.
MRS. PENWHIFFLE: My goodness!
Page Five
Panel One: A long shot of the living room. All conversation has ceased and everyone is looking at Jim with obvious concern, who is staring at his hand somewhat vacantly.
JIM (whispered): How clumsy of me.
JIM (whispered): And one of Annie’s good glasses, too. She’s going to hang me for--
Panel Two: Closer in on Jim. His brow is furrowed and he looks a little more lucid, staring at his hand, his upper lip twisted into a bitter parody of the smile he had in the flashback panels.
JIM: No, she’s not.
Panel Three: Jim is getting up from the sofa, pulling a handkerchief out of his suit’s breast pocket, Mrs. Penwhiffle forgotten as he goes.
JIM: Please excuse me.
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| 2008-04-03 13:28 |
| SUPER roguh draftage of Heartburn |
| Public |
|
One would think, given the length and nature of their relationship, Jonathan Crane would have known how to succesfully get out of 'family movie night' with his henchgirls by now. One would think wrong. --- There was a twinge when the man onscreen echoed the voice that had followed him into darkness, so many summers ago after one of the most brutal beatings that didn't involve the word 'Batman'--a very strong twinge indeed when he heard "I have been and ever shall be, your friend." He ignored it. He ignored it and blamed it on heartburn. --- "You do realize the ending stays the same every time, right?" "Yeah." -sob- "So why do you keep watching it if this is what it does to you? And for God's sake, get a handkerchief or something, you're slobbering all over the sofa arm." -more sobbing- "Because SPOCK CAN'T DIE! Do you hear me?! Spock, McCoy and Kirk will live forever! Friendships like that DON'T die! The cosmos will not allow them to die!" -cling- "Look at them, Squishykins! That's what real friends are!" "I wouldn't know. I've never had any." "Liar. Liarliarliarliarliar!" -beats on his chest harder than is strictly necessary- "You have! You have us!" -collapses against his chest and continues sobbing- Damn. There was that twinge. Maybe he shouldn't have had that popcorn... --- "Do you think we call each other by starfleet designations for no reason, Jonathan?" -points at the screen- "That's us up there!" -eyebrow life- "And the prime directive?" "...that's us up there more or less!" --- "All this over some fictional character, may I remind you. You wouldn't be this broken up if I bit the big one." They sobbed harder and clung harder, so much so that for a second, he thought they'd squeeze him so hard his ribcage would shatter into a thousand pieces. Crane winced. "If you died, we wouldn't just fall apart, we'd take half of Gotham with us!" "Lay waste to the countryside! Fire, brimstone! The whole nine! We'd bargain with the devil if we had to in order to get you back, and if he wouldn't cooperate, we'd set him on fire! Or...or...something really sadistically creative!" Another twinge. "Why?"
"Haven't we been over this already? Because we love you, you big dope!" -more crying and cuddling- Twinge. They said it with such conviction it made him uncomfortable. "We love you." They sniffled and stuck to his sides, lips quivering and eyes watering --- Something told him this heartburn was going to be a chronic condition.
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| 2008-04-03 13:27 |
| No idea what the hell this is, either. |
| Public |
|
The Captain didn’t mean to get drunk. Really. She had no desire to get plastered while her comrades were sleeping. But the fact of the matter was, she was bored…and there was a bar right next door to their motel and--other than wreaking general havoc on the townsfolk (which would have been less fun without T&A along--and no, she still hadn’t let that particular bad pun die)--there was nothing to do.
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| 2008-04-03 13:27 |
| I haven't the faint idea what this was going to start |
| Public |
|
In the middle of a heist is hardly a good time to have a mid-life crisis.
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| 2008-04-03 13:26 |
| Erm...? |
| Public |
|
“Don’t freak out.” “Freak out?! Freak out?!” “You’re freaking out.” “Far from it. I‘m perfectly calm.” “That would be more convincing if your hands weren’t shaking.”
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| 2008-04-03 13:26 |
| Turnshirt |
| Public |
|
The police force in Gotham City--like all police forces in every city--had its own little idiosyncrasies; things that made it different from other police forces. Things that made it special. Gotham had many things that set it apart--not the least of which was Commissioner James Gordon. Gordon was an everyman with unimpeachable moral standards and a code of ethics that a brick would bounce off of, and if ever there was a man who could live up to the term ‘good’, it was him.
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| 2008-04-03 13:25 |
| confused-for-Captain-Cold's-minions |
| Public |
|
The coats were absolutely magnificent. White, puffy and perfect fashion statements for those who wanted to avoid frostbite in either nippy weather or during a nuclear winter. They were also three thousand bucks a piece and most definitely not for the riff-raff. Whether the Captain, Al and Techie could be called either riff-raff or not was debatable (after all, sometimes they ran with the riff, other times they ran with the raff--occasionally both at once) but they most certainly didn’t wander around with their pockets stuffed with cash. So, as criminals are wont to do, they did the next best thing. Could they help it if grand larceny came so easily?
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| 2008-04-03 13:24 |
| More cold themed stuff. |
| Public |
|
If the words ‘it’s not that hot’ in the middle of August from the Captain set Techie off, the words ‘it’s not that cold’ from the Midwesterner in the cold and bleak December in Gotham City set the Captain off just as badly. It was one of the few true points of contention in the villainous household. Three born and bred southerners and one northerner (though admittedly of southern descent) were bound to have troubles in extreme weather. Techie wilted in temperatures about eighty nine degrees but absolutely flourished in sub zero conditions, whereas her companions were the compete opposite. Only during spring and fall--which could only be described as about a week of fifty degree days between sweltering hell and hell-frozen-over--could anyone come to an agreement about where the thermostat should be at.
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| 2008-04-03 13:23 |
| Either Sub-Zero or Cold Shoulder... |
| Public |
|
“People watching.”
“I beg your pardon?” “People watching,” the Captain repeated, tipping her head and looking at Jonathan Crane as though he were showing signs of growing another head. “Didn’t you hear me the first time? Are you coming down with an ear infection? Do you need soup?” “I do not need soup,” he snapped irritably, and in true ironic fashion he found that he wanted soup the moment that the words had left his lips--he ignored it, “and my hearing isn’t failing me. I simply couldn’t believe my ears. Now, if you had said people poaching…” “Who huh?” Techie poked her head out of the motel bathroom. “Someone say poaching? You going funky poaching, Cap‘n? I didn‘t bring my gear…” “No, Ops, I’m going people watching.” “Oooh!” The Harley Quinn quality to Techie’s voice would have made her hand Crane his lungs if he’d dared to point out the similarities. “We haven’t been people watching since Central City! Do you have a bus schedule? Where’s Al? Should I pack a lunch?” The Captain smiled fondly. “Yes to the schedule, Al’s in the lobby, and no, no lunches.” “Are we bringing Squishy?” Crane was about to snipe at her not to call him by that infernal nickname when the Captain cut him off. “No. No lunch and no Squishykins.” ‘Squishykins’ jaw dropped open at this vehemently put statement but snapped his mouth shut with an audible click once he realized he must’ve been gaping like a fish. Usually, the three hellions would attempt to drag him everywhere with them...it was highly suspicious when they didn’t. His eyes narrowed, darting from one woman to the other warily, even as Techie shrugged carelessly. “Okay. Al coming?” “She’s not not coming,” Captain said distractedly, unaware of the way Crane was eyeing her askance, as she reached into the coat closet and retrieved what had been ever-so-appropriately dubbed the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man coat--a huge, down filled, bright white coat that Techie had ‘bought’ for her commanding officer during their first truly harsh winter in Gotham. All three girls had identical vestments, but after being mistaken for some of Captain Cold’s minions the last time they had run into the Flash, they no longer wore them in tandem.
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| 2008-04-03 13:22 |
| Unhappily Ever After |
| Public |
|
When Jonathan Crane blinked the stars from his vision that had been caused by the brilliant flash of light, he discovered that his initial conclusion about Al was incorrect. She had merely appeared to have vanished; it was just a trick of the light blinding him that had made him think she was gone, nothing more, for she stood in front of the book, just as she had before his retinas had been treated to something that no doubt had caused permanent damage of some kind. However, though Al was still standing in the lab, it was quickly determined that she wasn’t exactly all there. Not that she’d been all there to begin with, but now she looked a great deal more vacant than usual. “Al?” He hated the fact that his tone matched that of her worried comrades and that they all spoke in unison. He also hated the fact that she didn’t respond. He tried again, his voice purposely harsh and snappish. “Al?” Still nothing. The Captain was nearest to the eerily silent and still Al, and she made quick work of crossing over to stand in front of her. Techie wound up in front of her quiet comrade mere seconds after the Captain had made her way over, whatever nifty piece of tech she’d been fascinated with moments before completely forgotten. His feet moved him towards her as well, despite his best efforts. The Captain cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted--not the wisest course of action in this situation, but clearly the only thing she could think of. “Earth to Al, come in Al!” Techie waved a hand in front of Al’s face to no avail. “I don’t think her hailing frequencies are open, Captain.” The two henchgirls glanced at each other worriedly and the Captain’s voice got small and meek. “Nikkums?” Several things happened at once then. The Captain reached for Al, Techie tried to stop her with a shouted, “NO! Don‘t touch her!” and there was another flash of light when her hand closed around Al’s upper arm. Once more, Crane blinked until he could see again and what greeted him wasn’t encouraging. The Captain was standing just as frighteningly still as Al was. Something akin to panic started to rise inside the Scarecrow and he covered it with what he always did. Anger and disdain. “Fools,” he groused, stalking over to them, all hesitation forgotten with the strength of his irritation. “You ought to know better by--” “Squishy, look out!” Crane stumbled on the half straightened slinky that the Captain had dropped and pitched forward, arms outstretched in preparation to steady himself. It was a tactical error on his part, because the very tips of his fingers brushed the cover of the book and a third blinding flash of light spread outwards, leaving Techie blinking stupidly as she waited for her vision to return. “God damn it!” she squawked when she recovered, seeing Crane in an awkward position that made him look like a badly posed department store mannequin. “Don’t listen to Techie, oh no, never listen to she who might actually have a theory about what’s going on!” She set her fists on her hips and huffed like an angry bull, glaring for all she was worth even though she suspected her annoyance was falling on completely deaf ears. “Ought to leave you lot like that, I ought!”
Techie jumped three feet in the air when all three frozen people blinked once in unison. It was a supremely creepy sight to behold, like they were automatons with scheduled tasks programmed into their brains that included blinking once every few minutes.
She shook off the shiver that had spilled down her spine and decided, no, she couldn‘t just leave them like this (she pretended that she was actually seriously considering not racing to their rescue; it made her feel like less of a sap), took a steadying breath and closed the distance between herself and her cohorts. “God, I hope I’m right.” She squeezed her eyes shut, reached for the Scarecrow‘s arm and everything went white.
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| 2008-04-03 13:21 |
| Sugar Shock |
| Public |
| catverse |
|
An hour late, but whatever.
The sound of pots and pans clanging in a cacophony of dings and bangs was one of the more common noises to be heard in the lair of the Scarecrow these days. So common, in fact, that Jonathan Crane had almost learned to sleep through the racket. Of course, ‘almost’ only counts in horseshoes, it most certainly doesn’t even bear mentioning in this particular situation. Crane lay face down on his bed, his nose pressed as deep into his mattress as the near-rock-hard surface would allow without causing suffocation, with a pillow of an impressive size covering his head. He held it to his ears, a hand clamped to each side of his face so hard one would think he was afraid his skull would fly apart at the seams if he did otherwise. If he hadn’t been so completely bone weary from almost three days on the run from the Green Lantern of all people (the result of a comedy of errors which neither deserves explanation nor recollection) he would have done something more constructive than just sticking his head in the proverbial sand. Something constructive…and most likely homicidal in nature. But, though his mind was perfectly capable of concocting a variety of horrific scenarios in which there was a veritable smorgasbord of torture devices in store for his ‘beloved’ henchgirls, his body simply wasn’t up to the task. Ooh, but if he were…the mess of tangled limbs and broken bones that would have littered the common room floor would have made Jack the Ripper a bit queasy. CRASH! BOOM! BANG! The whole rhythm section was the purple gang", his mind supplied in a voice that sounded suspiciously like the Captain at her most chirpy. He stifled the voice directly before pretending he hadn’t heard it in the first place.
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| 2008-04-02 16:04 |
| Try, Try Again |
| Public |
| batman |
|
Edward Nygma was in a very foul mood.
Edward Nygma, just turned eighteen, in his faded rental tux, was in a very foul mood indeed. He stood slumped against one of the gymnasium walls, watching the insipid displays of the hormonal teenagers before him, getting surlier by the second.
It's not that he was disgusted by their display--by the seniors all pawing at each other on the dance floor despite the best efforts of the chaperones--it was the fact he didn't like being here when he could conceivably be out there.
Or, he could have been...if he actually came to the prom with a date.
But he hadn't.
A leggy blonde passed him by, a big beefy football player’s arm possessively draped around her waist as she laughed at some idiotic joke her equally idiotic date had just whispered in her ear.
Edward straightened up a bit and took notice of her, but she didn't even give the boy against the wall a moment's notice.
Well, that was always the way of it, wasn't it? Edward was a wallflower, regardless of his attempts to change that fact, and nobody spared him a second glance.
He stumped the toe of his dress shoe into the worn wood floor absently.
What the hell had possessed him to come here anyway? This had to be some kind of masochistic thing on his part. He didn't have a date, he didn't get to dance, he didn't even want to try any of the punch that was within arm's reach because he'd seen it get spiked...half a dozen times by half a dozen different students with half a dozen different varieties of alcohol. To partake in such a beverage could cause brain damage, he was sure.
Not that many of the people around him had brains to damage.
But maybe, if he had bothered to take a sip of that scotch-bourbon-vodka cocktail, he might've found something about this to be entertaining (after all, alcohol made almost anything seem more interesting; the fact they served it at monster truck rallies and sporting events was proof positive of that), but as it was, this was about as much fun as a root canal.
Well, no, not even that much fun. At least if he were at a dentist's office, the possibility of nitrous oxide was part of the equation, and nitrous oxide was always worth a laugh.
Mark his words, if he lived to be a hundred, he'd never attend another formal occasion again.
---
Twenty years later...
Whether Edward Nygma would be fortunate enough to live to be a hundred was yet to be seen. Right now, it was starting to look like he might not get to see forty, if the Bat caught him for his latest crime.
Was it his fault that some idiot hadn’t been paying attention to the ‘CONDEMNED!’ sign on the building he’d blown up? Edward had gone out of his way to choose a location that fit his needs for the riddle crime of the evening and wouldn’t get anyone killed.
But then some vagrant had to wander into the building seconds before the bomb inside it went off and get his stupid self blasted to smithereens.
Utterly typical.
Why did everything have to keep happening to him?!
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