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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| 2008-10-05 09:01 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
| 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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| 2008-10-05 09:04 |
| Sorority Zombies |
| Public |
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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 09:08 |
| Old. |
| Public |
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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 09:09 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
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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 09:12 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
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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 09:13 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
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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 09:17 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
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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 09:19 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
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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 09:20 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
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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 10:49 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
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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 15:12 |
| Girls on Film |
| Public |
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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 15:13 |
| Mourning. |
| Public |
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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 15:13 |
| Eddums gets paralyzed... |
| Public |
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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 15:14 |
| Playing Cupid For Dummies: SCRAPPED! |
| Public |
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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 15:15 |
| Baby's First Heist |
| Public |
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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 15:18 |
| I know this was going to start *something*... |
| Public |
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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 15:18 |
| 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 15:22 |
| Old opening, never going to be used, can't eraaaase. |
| Public |
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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 15:22 |
| 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 15:24 |
| 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 15:25 |
| 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 15:26 |
| 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 15:29 |
| 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 15:31 |
| 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 15:33 |
| 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 15:36 |
| 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 15:37 |
| 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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