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fandomhigh_ooc2014-05-08 11:01 am
notaweenie.livejournal.com) wrote in fandomhigh_ooc2014-05-08 11:01 am
Entry tags:
Meme: Writing samples
Okay. Unless I missed it this hasn't been done since August 2012
But it's one of my favorites! Just post your writing sample for your characters!
But it's one of my favorites! Just post your writing sample for your characters!
no subject
--
For all of the travel that Reno had done with Rikku over the past few years, there was just something about setting foot in an old, familiar bar that was just a little bit like coming home. Maybe it was the way the floors tended to get a little sticky when Tino was on drinks and in a mood, shoving them at patrons quickly enough to cause the liquid to spill. Maybe it was the general attitude of the bartenders. He didn't recognize any of them these days, or at least hadn't stopped by enough evenings to find one that he did, Tino aside, but it really took a certain sort of attitude to tend the bar at Caritas.
This one, at least, seemed kind of his speed. Not super talkative. He could get behind that. She hadn't even given him a strange look when he ordered a drink you could fuel a helicopter with, she just sat back and looked impressed as he knocked it back without flinching, and then flagged her down for more. She had asked if he was new in town, and he'd laughed, informing her that he'd been a Fandomite for years longer than she'd been, whoever she was, and he was appalled - appalled that she didn't know him to see him.
Not that he expected her to. But it was always fun messing with people around here to see what they were willing to swallow. He even had her going for a bit, telling her increasingly detailed stories about invasions long past, about that one time he'd been turned into a zombie, or that other time, when he'd had to walk backwards and blink in order to lure one of the freaky stone angels into the ring of them standing into the park. It was a long talk, and it dredged up a lot of old memories both good and bad, but it was a good one. By the end of the night, he was good and drunk, she was calling him 'Old Man,' and he was making headway on warming her up to the idea of answering to 'Rookie.'
"I've got plenty of Rookies," Reno informed her as he tipped her neatly and made his way to the door. "The ones that serve me at the bar are just my favorites, yo."
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------
It was entirely possible that the novelty of having superpowers wasn't ever going to wear off. Sure, Nikolai had thought, at first, that his powers were pretty stupid. After all, when back home there were guys like the Mighty Dragon running around, flying, breathing fire, throwing cars, what was one guy whose single claim to fame was making people nap after making eye contact? Oooh. Aaah. Eye powers. If anything, they were more inconvenient, right up until they proved to be useful for something.
Take the rowdy asshole that was standing at the desk of the Arms today, demanding either a full refund or for Nick to step outside, complete with tough-guy chest thumping and a few expletives that could almost put Nick's own foul vocabulary to shame.
"I'm sorry, sir," Nick repeated for what was about the dozenth time since the man came down in a snit, "if we offer refunds to our guests for every time the island ruins the view from a sixth-floor window with an unnatural weather pattern, we'd go under the first time a blob of ice cream falls from the sky. We at the Arms Hotel just can't be held accountable for the weather, natural or unnatural as it might be."
The tough guy reached across the desk, making to grab Nick by the collar of his jacket. Nick, in turn, stepped deftly out of the way, reaching up to straighten his mirrored shades as he did so.
"And trust me, sir, you don't want to do that."
"What are you going to do? Call security?"
"Of course not, fuckface."
In fairness, Nick's own customer service skills sometimes left something to be desired. Not that he thought on that too strongly as the guy across the desk leaned over and took a swing. He was more concerned with not getting punched in the face, dodging again to avoid the worst of the damage, though the man's fist knocked his shades askew.
The man froze. Nikolai raised an eyebrow at him, and then calmly leaned forward to shove lightly against the man's forehead, sending him tottering backwards like the world's squishiest statue. The soft chud sound as the man hit the floor, out cold, was actually pretty satisfying, as was the buzz that was singing through Nick's nerves as he stepped around the desk, zip-tied the jerk's hands behind his back, and then casually rifled through the man's wallet for whatever cash was left after paying for his stay.
"For new shades, asshole," he muttered, before stepping back to the desk to call for a trooper to get this jerk out of here. "You think they're cheap?"
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---
Could anyone really blame Rapunzel for wanting to spend as much time outside as possible? Her roommate was very sweet and all (and it was nice to actually interact with people other than her mother and Pascal, who was totally a person, thank you), but her actual room was on the fourth floor, and well -- let's just say she'd had quite enough of leaning out windows for her fresh air.
She was doing her best not to take up the whole deck, but her hair was making it a little difficult. She'd brushed it before she'd come down, and done her best to pile it neatly next to the loungey...chair thing where she was sunning herself. Pascal, for his part, was snoozing in her hair, having already taken to the idea that they were out in the sunshine, and all was how it should be.
Rapunzel wished she could relax about this as easily as he did. For every moment that she was struck breathless by the exhilaration of freedom, there was one where she was wracked with guilt over what her mother must be feeling in her absence. She was the worst daughter, she was a despicable excuse for a human being, she was -- mmm, the scent of wildflowers on a warm breeze was even more intoxicating than she'd ever thought it would be.
She laid back, closing her eyes and trying to clear her mind so she could just enjoy being outside in the first place. There wasn't much she could really do about it anyway -- she had no idea how to get back, or even how to get a letter to her mother to reassure her that she was fine. And hey -- this pretty much proved she could take care of herself in the outside world, right?
That was when the first prickly thing landed on her stomach.
Rapunzel's eyes shot open, her gaze centering on the little creature and the...bits of red rubber in its quills. "A hedgehog?" she said softly, confused. The little animal seemed perfectly content to have landed on her out of nowhere -- really, it seemed relieved more than anything. Rapunzel looked up, and immediately stood, scooping up the little hedgehog and gently setting it on the ground. She did the same for Pascal, who was much less pleased about that, but Rapunzel had other things to worry about at the moment -- there were no fewer than half-a-dozen more hedgehogs floating down from the roof of the dorm, with precariously-placed balloons attached to their backs.
Rapunzel swept up her hair, stretching a length of it between her hands as a sort of net for the little animals to fall into, and only breathed a sigh of relief when she'd caught them all. (Most of them managed to pop their balloons when they were only six feet or so above her head, but one fell from about twenty feet up and really scared her.)
As she set her new, prickly little friends on the ground, she caught Pascal giving her pretty much the dirtiest look she knew he could muster. "Don't be jealous," she chided gently, plucking up the chameleon and placing him on her shoulder. "You get to come with me to give whoever threw them off the roof a piece of our minds!"
That, at least, seemed to cheer him up a bit.
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---
Elsa had no idea how she'd managed to get herself dragged into this. She hadn't even signed up to be on the student council, but here she was, one of the sophomore class representatives, voted in on the grounds that, as future queen of Arendelle, she was probably more qualified for the position than most of the other students her age. And she'd accepted, too, with a sort of refined dignity that masked the slight tinge of annoyance she felt over once again being told what to do and who to serve without having any say in the matter herself.
And for the most part, it really wasn't so terrible. She didn't mind the glitter all that much in spite of the way it got into everything, and the other people on the council seemed pretty open to her suggestions for themed dances, appreciating the way she'd draw from memories of her childhood to contribute to a masquerade prom, a formal ball for a summer social to draw graduates back to the island for a weekend. Her classmates didn't treat her differently, didn't seem to care that she had some sort of secret that she wasn't sharing with them all. After all, who didn't have a secret around here? She was happy to keep wearing her gloves, and they were happy to keep letting her wear her gloves while they ran around turning into wolves or lighting one another on fire with their brains or whatever it was that people who were open about their powers did. There wasn't any reason, here, why anyone should change.
But this… this student council meeting wasn't going well, for Elsa. Today's discussion was for some sort of theme for the next welcome picnic, and no amount of calm bargaining was going to get people to change their minds once they'd gotten them set on 'Winter Wonderland.' She didn't mind the abundance of sleighbells, the garlands, the tinsel, or the scent of pine. She didn't even mind, so much, the fact that this winter wonderland was taking place at the start of the second summer semester. It was all for fun. She understood that. She'd even help people make enough refreshments to keep the entire student body rolling in nonalcoholic eggnog for the entire Saturday, if they wanted. But when people started throwing around the idea of decorating the entire park in an icy motif, she found herself getting antsy.
When the student council president looked straight at her and asked, "Do you wanna build a snowman?"
Well, that was when Elsa mumbled something about a headache and excused herself from the meeting.
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no subject
Then she went and died. Damn it Gert!
----
Barry was sweating. This was not a good thing.
His fingers flew over his keyboard, trying to make last minute adjustments so he could try and fix this thing before-
KA-BOOM!
-another explosion occurred in the warehouse district. Oops.
"FUCK!"
Swearing. Also not a good thing. But pretty common if you knew Barry.
"Barry?"
And visitors coming into his not-so-abandoned warehouse while he was trying to fix the thing with the thing before it all went ka-boom again? Not a good thing.
"Get the fuck out of here, I'm busy!" Barry shouted over his shoulder.
"Barry, the whole island is going crazy! Principal Winchester just-"
The visitor paused as she noticed the giant glowing rip in reality that was in the corner of the warehouse. It was noticible because it was glowing and also it resembled... well...
"Barry, why is there a giant glowing vagina in your warehouse?"
"I'm fucking working on it! Okay?!" Barry shouted in as he typed in the final command into his console and grabbed a couple of pairs of goggles. He hit enter then grabbed his friend and dragged her behind a stack of metal cases with a biohazard sticker on the sides.
"Barry! What are you-"
"Shut up!" Barry shouted back and shoved the extra pair of goggles at her. "Put these on and stay behind the crates. The crates will block any mutagenic energy when the portal is displaced."
"What?" she asked. "What are you talking about?"
A high pitched whine began to emanate from the portal/glowing vagina.
"Quick!" Barry shouted as he tucked himself into tiny ball. "Duck and cover!"
The high pitched whine became deafening before quickly dropping as the giant glowing vagina shrank and disappeared with a small fizzle and a "ploop."
"Well that was anti-climatic," Barry said in a relieved tone as he pulled himself off the floor.
"Not. Really." The tone was angry. And slightly... animal sounding.
Barry looked up and groaned. "Not again."
"I'm a giant fucking lemur Barry! This kind of shit isn't supposed to happen!"
"OKAY! OKAY!" Barry shouted throwing his arms up in the air. "Shut the fuck up, okay? If you tucked and rolled like I told you to do, this wouldn't have happened!"
"Still a lemur, Barry!"
Barry rolled his eyes. "Look, just give me twenty fucking minutes and I'll clone you a new body, okay? Get the fuck off my back."
Of course the cloning process led to another little accident but that's another story.
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--
It didn't much matter to Celia that it was January, or that the wind was biting at her neck and tugging curls loose from under her hat. She didn't care that the snow nipped at her exposed nose, or that her skirts were blowing about and getting soggy. None of the earthly discomforts that she had previously worried about so much even existed right now. She hadn't played out of doors since almost before she could remember, since her mother died, and never like this.
Far off in the distance, she could hear her roommate calling her name -- it had been her idea to go play in the fresh-fallen snow in the first place, while Celia would have happily contented herself with a pair of slippers and one of her finds from the school's incredible library. But now that she was outside, the elements didn't matter, and her book laid forgotten on her nightstand.
Magic wasn't for play. He'd taught her that, and it was etched so deeply into her mind that Celia had hardly broken that rule even here, without his constant supervision. Her gifts were for demonstrations of power, for trickery, for her to prove she was a step ahead of everyone else, always.
And at first, she hadn't done much. She didn't fancy the color of the blanket that Hector had sent with her, she'd decided as she'd spread it out across her new bed with an airy flick of her wrist. And before her roommate had ever arrived, Celia had quickly switched the drab green wool for a rich, lilac-colored velvet. Child's play, really.
She'd levitated her shoes across the room, one lazy Saturday morning after she'd settled in a bit. Once again, she'd taken precautions that her roommate was out, as she wasn't ready to answer questions, and Hector would have whipped her blind for showing off before she was ready, before he'd approved her use of her gifts. He always had to watch her. He always had to give his permission, his blessing that she was doing it perfectly.
But now, she was lost in the art before her eyes. Celia's gaze tracked the snow as she molded it before her, her hands gently twining the air. A flick here to create a lightly twisted leaf, shining with already-melting ice. A nudge, and snow fell off the petals she was meticulously sculpting to her imagination.
"Celia! Celia, what're you doing, there's a snowball fight ba…." Her roommate's calling of her name meant that Celia hadn't broken concentration one bit as she pulled the flower into existence, the voice a dull throb that had mattered less than the cold until now. The other girl stopped behind her, quiet suddenly, then murmured a stunned, "...whoa."
And Celia didn't feel anything. Hector had promised glory when she revealed her talents, and consequences if she did it too soon.
But all Celia did was turn, keeping the icy flower where it grew from the snow, and smile. "Do you like it? I've never really played in the snow before."
Alana
Blond guy is no one in particular but started out as a riff on Jackson.
Alana didn't look up from her book until the fifth tiny, mewling kitten dropped onto her lap. She'd kept her eyes on her thick paperback while she picked up the first four by the scruffs of their necks and deposited them gently on the grass to her left.
Cats falling like rain were weird, but Earth was weird, and that whole problem could wait for another time. Alana was far more interested in finding out how Jade Flower would navigate her relationship now that her boyfriend knew she was part-ninja, especially when ninjas had killed his entire family. (Alana wasn't quite clear on what a ninja was, but it sounded badass, like a freelancer but somehow less completely terrifying.)
But the fifth cat's claw pierced Alana's skirt and dug into her flesh. She yelped out a swear and jumped to her feet, thwapping lightly at the kitten with her book.
"Hey," a smug-looking blond guy called from across the lawn. "Stop with the cat-hating."
"I don't hate cats!" Alana retorted, though she did stop flailing away. "It drew blood. I thought it might be dangerous."
"You thought a two-pound kitten might be dangerous." The guy clearly didn't believe her. Which was fair, because Alana had been making the excuse up as she went along.
"Look, I was reading," she admitted. "I'm not used to furry things dropping on me when I'm reading, and I … maybe kind of freaked out a little when it clawed me." In hindsight, the kitten did look absolutely unthreatening. Alana winced in its direction and whispered, "Sorry."
"'Sokay," the blond said, craning his neck to see the cover of her dropped book. "Storms of Silver," he read, raising an eyebrow at the pirate-ninja falling out of her puffy shirt on the cover. "Wow. Heavy reading today, huh?"
Alana blushed and scooped it up. "I promise it's not the type of book it looks like," she said. "I mean, it is about a pirate-ninja and her lover … but mostly they just hang out on her ship and play cards and talk about books they like. I think it might change my li- ACK."
The ACK was a kitten dropping on Alana's head. Alana made it worse by moving … which led the kitten to slide down her neck and somehow get all tangled up in her wings.
"I think maybe I should read the book that'll change my life inside," she said dryly, once the disaster had been averted. "Thanks."
"No problem," the guy said -- then, more curiously -- "Hey, can I borrow it after you finish?"
Alana grinned broadly. "Of course. I need somebody to talk about it with."
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Her roommate, a mundie boy who seemed to have his nose in a book more often than not... less so. Actually, he looked almost actively terrified as he surveyed the room, now that it was done. It made Isabelle smirk a bit to herself. "Something the matter?" she asked, faking innocence.
"Uh..."
"Yes?"
He swallowed, and volunteered, "Don't you think, uh, there should be less –– ?"
"Less empty space on the wall?" Isabelle filled in for him, while he was still talking. "I completely agree." She knew that wasn't it. But what he'd meant to say didn't suit her, and she had every intention of wrapping him around her finger within the next week or so at most, so she couldn't really let him get any objections in right now. Besides, dominance was fun. And harmless! The boy was probably glad to be living with her anyway. She gave him an expectant look when it seemed like he was about say something more.
He seemed to deflate under her gaze.
Isabelle clasped her hands together and smiled. "Now, let's get started on your side of the room. We should match, shouldn't we?"
She wasn't going to take no for an answer.
Anders
Anders chewed on his new pen as he went to select his classes for the coming semester. He was almost excited; he'd never had reason to select what he was to study before. The village school he'd attended as a boy had been a one-teacher affair, and as a Circle apprentice, his choices had been few and never as frivolous as whether to study Friendship is Fashion or How to Have a Wonderful Day. (Though Anders thought he knew the answer to the last one: He wasn't in the Circle, so it was a wonderful day by definition. He could have taught that class, he thought, as he crossed it off the list of options.)
He squinted at the next class on the list before glancing up. "Excuse me, does Elvis mean anything to you or did the scribe make an error?"
"Old singer," his very patient roommate said from the other bed, where he'd been poking at buttons on the tiny tablet he carried with him for what seemed like hours to Anders. He'd have to ask what made it so absurdly absorbing. "How come?"
"I thought it might have been meant to say Elvish and was almost interested," Anders said peevishly, going back to crossing things off. "I've always wanted to know more about the Dailish. But if it's just about a bard, I don't see the point." He glanced back to the list of classes, began crossing things out again. "No, no, maybe, no … "
Abruptly, he stopped muttering to himself and began glaring at his roommate.
"What did I do?" the redhead asked nervously.
"You said mages here were free," Anders said in a low tone. "'There's no Circle, Anders, you can do your magic in peace. No one will bother you. There are no Templars or Chantry.' Everyone's been telling me that since I got here."
"Because it's true," the roommate said, for what he was beginning to suspect wouldn't be the
last time. "I promise, nobody here cares you're a wizard."
Anders snorted. "Right. So why is there a class on Managing Your Powers every week, if it isn't an excuse to get all the mages in one place for easy tracking?"
"Dude, I promise, people here don't think about it that way."
Anders looked extremely dubious. "I'm not sure there's any other way people ever think about it, outside worlds where mages rule. Either way, they won't get me into that little group."
"Suit yourself."
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--
Cheryl popped another one of the little squishy bears into her mouth and snickered as she watched the...thingie skitter across the floor of the teachers' lounge. She had a memo in front of her (something something grading policies, something -- she'd already decided it was a Pam thing, not a her thing) and was sort of half-listening to Zoe ramble on. Staff meetings here were somehow even more boring than the ones at ISIS. She blamed the fact that no one was drinking at this one. Like, come on, people.
She'd found her way to get through it, though, and smiled as the little creature on the floor developed a sort of rainbow-y...sheen. It was sort of cute, in a way! All like...green and big-eared and made up of wavy lines. Cheryl was pretty proud of herself for not freaking out at the little cutie yet, since that would probably clue everyone else into the hallucinogens. Pam knew, of course, but at least she hadn't asked to share.
Blah blah, our students are sooooo important, blah. Cheryl knew Pam was like, taking notes or whatever so she'd just get the gist from her later. They were high schoolers, anyway -- it's not like they wanted to be here any more than she did, so whatever. She was way more into watching the little animal thing scurry across the floor and over to another new teacher's legs. The woman in question was actually listening attentively -- good for her or whatever -- but Cheryl was the only one watching as the thing seized on her leg and took a sharp bite.
Then the shrieking started.
Cheryl was puzzled as the woman swatted the little thing away and started examining her ankle. "...can you guys all see that little guy too?" she wondered. And now all the other teachers were staring at her incredulously, and a few were saying something about a gremlin, and Cheryl found herself shrugging. "I thought he was in my head," she admitted cheerfully.
But just then, it all froze in perfect, beautiful slow motion. That long-haired hippie guy (soooo not her type, but he probably had good weed, so she'd noticed him) was holding his hand out in front of him and kinda...levitating the thingie (gremlin?) up from the floor. "You're not biting me again," he said, with like, way more seriousness than Cheryl would've expected. And then -- and then -- the gremlin started to gasp a little, and turn kind of blue, and Cheryl's brain just kinda broke.
Anakin put it down before he killed it -- it was just passed out, Cheryl could tell -- and behind her, something weird was happening to that teacher who'd been bitten, and she was starting to sing about a wrecking ball or something, but Cheryl didn't care. She was already halfway across the room, groovy bears forgotten, and perched on the arm of the dean's chair. "I love that you know how to do that," she purred at him.
Maybe hippies weren't so bad after all.
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---------------
"Mister?"
Mike was asleep. Mike was having a beautiful dream about a proper beach and Florida warmth and cool drinks and pretty girls. He was asleep, dammit. So why was his dream being sullied by a random tiny voice that didn't seem to be coming from anyone he could actually see?
"Hey, mister?"
And now he was feeling someone shove at his shoulder, as well as hearing the voice. Giving up on the last remnants of his dream with a sigh, Mike managed to pry his eyes open. It took a while for his vision to really focus. It took even longer for his brain to make any sense of what he was seeing.
Because there was a kid standing by his bed. He couldn't have been older than six, seven at the most, with messy dark hair, imposing eyebrows that Mike seemed to somehow almost but not quite be able to recognize, and an all-around somber air about him.
"Uhmm," said Mike, ever so eloquently. "Hel...lo?"
"Are you going to make me breakfast?"
Mike squinted at him. "Am I going to make you... ? Kid, I'm sorry, but, um. Who the hell are you?"
The boy frowned. "You're not supposed to say hell."
Mike felt more chastised than he would've expected to for a reason he couldn't quite explain. It was less to do with the voice and more with the look. Because that was one intense look this kid had. Like, really intense. His poor brain was trying desperately to place it, and coming up with nothing. "Okay, I'm sorry," he said, pushing himself up a bit on one arm, rubbing at his eyes with his other hand. "It's just... Who are you? Please. I didn't say hell this time."
The kid eyed him for a moment, as if weighing the pros and cons of giving up such valuable information. And then he said, "Derek Hale."
Derek Hale?
... Derek was a kid.
Mike glanced over at the calendar on his bedroom wall and just barely kept himself from swearing when he saw the red circle around the date. Derek was a kid. And it was going to be a full moon.
Oh, Mike so wished he'd not been such a good person. He could've just grabbed his clothes and his wallet and run out the door and not come back before Monday so he wouldn't have had to deal with a werewolf pup. But instead, he sighed and sat up all the way. "Okay, Derek," he said. "Just gimme a minute and I'll fix you up some breakfast, sure thing."
Although not before calling Stiles. Unless he was even less mature this weekend than usual, he was not going to make Mike deal with this on his own.
Bay Kennish
Bay taped a stencil to the brick wall outside Cafe Luke's and stepped back to check that it was straight, smiling to herself in satisfaction as she did. The image looked at first glance like the same girl she'd been tagging around Kansas City for years -- frilly dress, long hair, ax in her hand. But if a closer look revealed that the "girl" was a gremlin in a wig, and that twist made it just Fandomy enough to make Bay feel like she was doing more than treading over old ground.
She pulled a can of black spray paint out of her backpack, nervously glanced down the dim street, and started painting. Nobody was going to be walking around a sleepy small town at 4 a.m., she reasoned as she started to paint. Nobody at all.
When the voice spoke from behind her, Bay was so startled she flinched, then swore under her breath as the line of paint zigzagged crazily past the border of her stencil. "You made me mess up," she pouted, before she turned around to see who was behind her. "... I mean, hi? I was just … going."
Okay. So she was almost certain nobody with a blue mohawk and multiple piercings was an authority figure, even if he was wearing a kitchen apron over what looked like a thrift store t-shirt. Probably if she smiled and put the paint away, she'd get out of this one without any Troopers or parents being called.
The guy held up one hand to stop her. "It's okay," he said. "I was just saying this was pretty good. Did you draw the stencil?"
"I did, thanks," Bay said reluctantly, wondering what the catch was going to be. "Look, I know I don't exactly have your boss's permission to paint here, but ... honestly? The town needs more street art, and I didn't think anybody would be around."
"Oh, yeah, I always get in early on the day we get our produce delivered," Mr. Mohawk said, tilting his head as if considering the piece from more angles. "I like this. I didn't order a mural, but we should have one. And, uh, I am the manager. So..."
Of course he was. "So..." Bay winced. "Are you going to make me paint over it?"
The guy shook his head. "Nah. That'd be completely fascist of me. Just don't paint any dicks or anything, and we're good."
"No dicks, got it," Bay nodded, amazed she was getting off this easy. "Thanks."
"No problem," he returned. "And come inside when you're done, will you? I have this new quiche I need somebody to try."
So business managers in Fandom fed you quiche when they caught you spray-painting on their buildings. Bay smiled, very aware she was not in Kansas City any more.
The quiche turned out to be pretty good, too.
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Tobias hadn’t seen so much food in one place in his whole life and he focused on it to avoid a panic attack induced by how the people around him were dressed in every color of the rainbow, like the factionless, but with the Dauntless’s zeal for noise. The entire place was too clean and crowded, spilling over the brim with excitement. He’d have to face down the fear and learn more about this new place, but food first. He cautiously reached for a piece of chocolate cake—initiation in Dauntless had given him a taste for it—still half expecting to hear a voice over his shoulder scolding him for his choice.
He was long past the age of coddling. Food was for nourishment, not enjoyment, Tobias, seeking pleasure was self-indulgent—
He turned the voice in his head off—that man had no place here—and bumped into someone as he turned from one of the tables. “Watch where the kark you’re going,” said the other Dauntless, or at least that’s what Tobias assumed of the heavily muscled blond young man with multiple piercings and tattoos, dressed in black leather despite the early summer heat.
Tobias rarely smiled but he gave the other guy one out of pure relief. “I thought I was the only one here.” Someone—anyone—would could explain how the factions worked in this new place would be welcome, even if this guy didn’t exactly look like the friendliest person in history. But then, Tobias reflected, neither did he.
Blondie stared back at him, then crossed his arms over his chest. “If you’re another karking relative, I will kill something.”
Tobias didn’t know what karking was, but the jump to killing was definitely a Dauntless trait, and it wasn’t like he’d had that long to learn all of the Dauntless slang during his initiation “I’m Four,” he continued, holding his hand out in the traditional Dauntless greeting even though it was still a strange gesture for him. Abnegation wasn’t big into casual touching and Tobias was still learning the ways of his new faction.
Blondie continued to stare at him. “Like the number? Do you have siblings named One, Two, and Three?”
Tobias shrugged, staring back. “No. Is there a problem?”
“It’s a karking stoopa name.”
And that’s when Tobias hit him.
Jack Nought
When you grew up the way Jack did, you didn't really have much call to do your own laundry. Either whoever had you locked up washed everything for you, or you were on the run and not exactly taking breaks to chill in the laundromat. Jack got used to rinsing out whatever smelled bad in the sink and not worrying about anything else.
So Fandom was the first time she had to actually deal with her dirty clothes on a regular basis. Which was fine, even if 21st century washing machine technology was pretty much prehistoric. She'd just wait a couple weeks until she had enough to justify a laundromat trip, then hang out and read Guns & Ammo while the machines did their thing.
Or at least, that was how it usually worked. Today, not so much. Because today, the brunette chick who worked at the laundromat told Jack everything was out of order, like it wasn't her goddamned job to fix them. "Laundry strike," she shrugged, and went back to texting, barely glancing up when Jack cursed her out.
Okay. So Jack would fix a machine for herself. Easy, right? She poked at every dial, knob and button on the control panel of the first machine she saw.
Nothing happened.
She went to the next machine in the line.
Even more nothing happened.
She'd gotten the lecture about not using biotics indoors, but she was pissed now, and the situation seemed to call for desperate measures. Especially as there was no freaking way she was toting her dirty underwear all the way back across town. She raised a hand, sending out a controlled blast of blue energy at the first machine she'd been messing with.
The effort, which should have smashed the machine flat, did nothing but knock a jug of detergent onto its side. Jack was blinking at the spreading puddle in confusion when the damn machine started laughing at her.
"Laundry strike," the girl from behind the counter repeated as she came up to Jack, seeming relatively unphased by the display of powers. "The washers aren't going to work again until they feel like it, no matter what you do. Quit playing with it."
Jack eyed the girl. "What, it's got some kind of freaking VI in it with an ego? We have to be nice?"
"Yeah, it's in Fandom," the brunette sighed, bored. "Don't expect it to make sense."
"So I'm supposed to walk out of here with dirty clothes?" Jack asked, blue energy crackling around her again.
"No," the girl answered, rolling her eyes. "Calm down. You're supposed to --"
And Jack never got to hear what she was supposed to do, because that was when the machines all started singing. Loudly.
I make my living off the evening news
Just give me something -- something I can use
People love it when you lose,
They love dirty laundry …
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So, Professor Skywalker was glaring, kind of a lot, and Emma had been glared at enough to know when someone was glaring like a champ, and boy was that what he was doing right now.
Of course, Emma had also been glared at enough to not be particularly cowed but this particular Olympic-level glaring, so she composed her features into a particularly innocent expression and answered his question. "No, I don't know why I'm here."
Skywalker didn't look like he believed her. "You've missed the last two weeks of classes. Two weeks."
"I know," she agreed, nodding. "Because I was a swan." If crazy island was gonna be crazy, Emma was gonna run with it.
"So I was told." The glare wasn't letting up, and now that Emma was looking at him, she didn't think his robes had been that ragged at the hems before.
"Cade brought me to my classes." Which meant she now owed him big time for covering for her. "Or at least he said he did, can't remember, because I was a swan."
That did not seem to placate Skywalker. "Cade bought a swan to class." He pulled the cover off a box on his desk. Roused by the light, the swan hissed and jabbed its beak at him through the bars of the cage.
Emma knew it was a bad idea but she couldn't help it, and started giggling. She just hoped someone had pictures.
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**********
Well, this sucked. Flash had been here at work, working on some scheduling, minding his own business. But then the stupid gremlin dropped out of the vent and bit him. The bite was enough to shock the symbiote into action. Flash's Venom uniform was on in an instant, but he could already feel the symbiote taking control as his consciousness faded.
Venom reacted quickly, changing into his monstrous form and eating the gremlin in one bite. Unfortunately, that meant a higher concentration of gremlin venom right to the symbiote, meaning that things had gotten very ridiculous very quickly.
Of course, the fact that Venom grew a top hat and cane moved the goalposts for 'ridiculous' another 20 yards down the line. But that was cleared easily when he started singing and highstepping out of the wheelchair.
"Hello our baby, hello our honey, hello our ragtime gal," Venom sang, stepping one way with the tophat dofffed and the cane under his arm. "Send us a kiss by wire, baby my heart's on--"
The instant before Clint walked into the gym, Flash was back in his chair, staring ahead blankly.
"Did I just hear something?" Clint asked.
"Ribbit," Flash answered.
"Did you just croak like a frog?" Clint asked.
"Ribbit," Flash answered.
"You're on your own," Clint said, heading into the office and closing the door.
Venom was back immediately. "FIIIIIRE! If you refuse us, honey you lose us, then you'll be left a--"
Clint opened the door. "What was that music?"
"Ribbit," Flash said, back in his chair.
Clint closed the door again.
"--lone. Oh, baby, telephone, AND TELL US WE'RE YOUR OOOOOOOOOOWN!"
Clint opened the door and walked out with the chair from his office. "Okay, whatever the hell is going on, I'm not leaving until I know what I have to worry about."
"Ribbit," Flash said, sitting in his wheelchair and staring ahead like nothing happened. "Ribbit."
After about twenty minutes of sitting in silence other than the occasional ribbit, Flash blinked and looked over at Clint before sighing. "Sorry. There was a gremlin."
"Was there a bite?" Clint asked, making sure.
"One or two," Flash said. Oh god, he could still taste it. All of the breath mints in the world weren't going to help with this. "At least I didn't do anything too weird."
"You don't think croaking like a frog for twenty minutes is weird?" Clint checked.
"Compared to some people?" Flash suggested.
"I only came here to do some billing, but now I'm going home," Clint said, getting up to leave. "Don't get bit again, okay?"
"I really wish I could promise that, sir," Flash sighed. Seriously, not his day.
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(Reno comes off a little flat in this, since he's just borrowed to be the straight man of the piece SORRY RENO)
============================
Another day at Fandom, another invasion. But instead of big, stompy monsters, or zombies, or dinosaurs, or vampires, the invading swarm this time were some yellowish-green-skinned slimy-looking aliens. Really tiny ones, about two feet high. You'd think being small would make the aliens easier to kill, but they were resilient little buggers. Yu couldn't stomp 'em or shoot 'em or anything. Rikku was beginning to suspect they were armor-plated, only none of her frag grenades seemed to be helping, either.
It was time to kick things up a notch.
Reno had long since stopped being surprised by the sorts of things Rikku came up with, when left to her own devices, but when he got back to the apartment that afternoon -- another failed attempt to beat the shit out of what looked for all purposes like a gigantic ball of phlegm -- he had to stare.
"You, uh." He squinted. "Do I wanna know, babe?"
"Hi," Rikku said. She had a feverish look in her eyes. The kind that said she hadn't had much sleep and had probably been snacking on straight coffee beans. "Dude I think I did it. Like, I have the plan that's gonna save the day. Lookit."
What Reno was supposed to 'lookit' at was Cuban Pete, Rikku's orange-and-white furball, who had a black disc thing strapped onto him. The disc had a red blinking light on it, and lots of wires.
"So ... is that a bomb on your cat?" he asked.
"Remote-controlled," Rikku insisted. "He's not in any danger. You know those spaceships they have? They're, like, hovering over the ground, but there are little tiny holes in them. Really small. Petey just needs to squeeze in, drop the bomb off, and come back out." She frowned. "And not, like, start trying to eat the aliens, 'cause they might be poisonous, or flop down and take a nap in there."
Clearly this plan had a few holes in it.
"How's he gonna get it off?" Reno asked. Might as well see how well she'd thought this out.
"Oh, that's easy," Rikku scoffed. "I'm gonna attach it to his walking leash. That thing's never lasted ten seconds on him." Petey made Houdini look like a slacker.
Okay, it wasn't such a bad plan after all. "I guess we could stand outside, shaking the treat bag."
"Buuuuuuut my luck he'd be contrary enough not to hear it." Rikku deflated. So much for her perfect plan. Except .... "You know?" she said, perking up again. "Ferrets like traipsing through dark tunnels. We put a little ramp up to one of those holes, and another one out the other side? He'd probably dash in there, drop the bomb, and steal something of theirs."
Reno grinned at his girlfriend. "You wanna strap a bomb to my weasel-goose?"
Rikku's eyes were solemn. "Remote-controlled," she repeated. "I promise I'm not putting Mako in any danger."
Mako was, in fact, completely unharmed when he deposited the bomb inside the alien spaceship, and when he emerged with what was probably a gearshift.
Either the bomb was a dud, or the alien ships were bomb-proof, because no matter how many times they smashed the button, nothing appeared to happen.
"Oh, well," Rikku sighed. "Science is always hit-or-miss. Mako still gets treat-treats for almost saving the day. Wanna see if we can electrocute the ship with your mag rod?"
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=========================================
The magic store hadn’t been opened in months, which meant Rinoa’s first course of business was going to be dull -- cleaning. She had to clear off all of the shelves, dust, vacuum, and give the entire place a thorough inventory. It was slightly more fun than cleaning usually was, since all this stuff was hers now, but the more she sorted things, the more questions she had.
For example: could skink root go bad, if it was left out for six months? Like, did it become less powerful if it was exposed to the elements? Her magic didn’t need crystals or candles. Maybe there was an expiration date somewhere? She didn’t want to sell people bad skink root and then have someone’s spells go all wonky.
Located in the very back were the bits that Rinoa was itching to get to: all those spellbooks. Some of them had interesting runes and sigils across the leather bindings. There were undoubtedly some very dark spells back there; the section was labeled RESTRICTED for a reason. She’d have to be sure to keep students from poking around back there.
She looked up when the bell over the door tinkled; a very pale girl with white-blond hair was darting her eyes nervously around the store. Rinoa stopped mid-unboxing in order to wave.
“Hi!” she called out excitedly. “Welcome to the Magic Box! It’s our grand re-opening, except not officially just yet.”
The girl seemed flustered. She darted a look at the many crates, and then back at the door. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought the store was open.”
Rinoa hurried to the front of the store to better assess her first customer. “Oh, don’t worry about all this,” she said, gesturing around her. “I put the sign up so people would come in. I mean, who wants to clean all day? Dull. Can I help you find anything?”
The girl managed a ghost of a smile. “I’m … just looking,” she insisted.
“Great!” Rinoa said. “Look away! Except upstairs, in the restricted area. There’s some serious mojo up there. Hey, can skink root go bad? My magic doesn’t use any.”
“Your magic?” the student asked.
“I’m a Sorceress,” Rinoa explained, straightening her shoulders slightly. “Oh. In case you’re new here: yes, magic’s real; no, maybe it doesn’t exist in your homeworld. It works differently in a lot of the dimensions. Oh, and multiple dimensions exist, too. It’s a Fandom thing. Go yell at your big sibling if they didn’t tell you any of this.”
“I’m … fine,” the girl said. “I mean, good. That’s good to know.”
“Okay,” Rinoa said. “Let me know if you need help finding anything. I’ll be over here, throwing out some old skink root.”
When Elsa actually managed to leave the store forty-five minutes later, she had somehow ended up with six candles, three amulets, two dusty books about the history of magic in Scandinavian countries, and a job. She only barely managed to leave without copious amounts of old skink root -- “possibly still good! On the house! Are you sure?”
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The guy was just staring back at Pam not saying anything. Bartenders these days.
“Okay, eighty-six this shit and let’s start over,” she said cheerfully. “First question, do you have any milk? And none of that two percent crap. If I wanted water, I’d order water.”
Tino rather grudgingly went over to the little fridge behind the bar, and emerged with an opened half-gallon of whole milk.
“How much is in there?” Pam asked. “I don’t need a glass, just fork the carton over. Okay, now, absinthe, and a lot of it.”
A green bottle was produced, which Pam took cheerfully. “See, it’s easy,” she explained. “You pour in enough absinthe that it looks juuuuust about the color of antifreeze. Then you chug it down until you’re out of milk.”
She stopped pouring to squint into the carton, then nodded her approval. She capped the bottle with a flourish. “Ta-daaaa,” she announced. “A Poovey family specialty.”
Tino did not look especially impressed. Happily, Pam didn’t seem to care much about his rolling disdain.
Pam was, instead, taking a healthy swig from the carton and assessing the room. “Okay, now I need you to make one for the hot guy at the end of the bar,” she said, pointing vaguely in the direction of the door.
Tino raised an eyebrow, then glanced back at the multitude of candidates for the position of ‘hot guy.’
“Oh,” she said. “The one with the, uh …” She squinted. “You know? Just make some for those seven or eight there in the front row. I’d bang any of ‘em.”
First guy (or girl!) to flirt back won a Pammy! It was like a contest.
“Wait,” she said, standing abruptly for an ominous rumbling sound. “Don’t send ‘em yet. I gotta hit the toilets, first. Wait ‘till I’m back. Oh, that reminds me, the second stall in the men’s room is clogged.”
Tino narrowed his eyes considerably.
“Oh, please! Like it’s my fault your boss cheaped out on the toilets!”
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Miriam was becoming a big fan of the common room kitchen. As long as somebody's name wasn't on it (and maybe even if there was), she was quite happy to help herself to whatever she found. She'd poured herself a bowl of some chocolate crisp cereal and milk that was a day or two past its expiration but it didn't smell bad so what the hell, then plopped herself down on the couch with a cigarette and the remote control.
"You're not supposed to smoke in here."
She craned her neck around to look at the boy who had just walked in. Tall, cute, green eyes. Nice. "Didn't see a sign," she said, waving her hand and almost ashing on the couch. She fished around at her feet for the empty soda can she was using as an ashtray and dropped the butt in. "Where's a girl gotta go to enjoy a smoke around here?"
"Um, the roof, I guess," Green Eyes said with a slight wrinkle of his nose that spoke volumes of what he thought of smoking.
"Don't judge, everybody's got a vice," Miriam said, sizing him up to try to figure out what his was. She'd put money on him being into some kinky shit or something.
She turned back to the TV, flipping through the channels until she landed on a dumb horror movie. "Death does have a conscious plan," some gothy emo kid was saying, "and that it's been set into motion. Great. So, Newton's Third Law of Motion and well, look, I'm just guessing that it goes for Death, too, when he's working in our world. Newton says that every action has an equal and opposite reaction. So, that means that if Death has taken action, so can we. And that that action may thwart Death's intent."
Miriam rolled her eyes at the screen. "Yeah, right," she said. "That's not how it works."
"Huh?" Green Eyes said. He'd made his way to the fridge and was looking for a drink.
"Trust me, you don't know want to know," Miriam said, flipping from the movie to some god-awful reality show. Part of her wanted to brush against him and find out what his "final destination" was, but she resisted. She'd had enough visions of gruesome deaths, and she'd like to keep them strictly fictional, thank you very much.
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On her first day here, Cosette had gotten a lecture of sorts on Fandom, why it was strange, and what to expect from the place. She hadn't been terribly inclined to believe it at the start, thinking it was only a joke; some of the girls at the convent school used to do something similar, and inform the newest arrivals of the worst punishments they could expect if they misbehaved. They hadn't been lying, only conveniently neglecting to mention that no one in recent memory had ever been guilty of an offense that warranted the sort of penance in question, so as willing as Cosette was to accept that Fandom was indeed a very strange place (what with being nearly two centuries in the future from home, and all) she'd reasoned that it was only odd under rare and unusual circumstances.
That was before the island had seen fit to commemorate the first day of March by sending entire prides of tiny, friendly lions to come barging through every door that had been left open with roars that were impressively loud for their size, and the last day of said month with equally tiny flocks of sheep. That was also before the migrating flocks of flying toasters passed overhead, leaving bread in their wake. Ever since then, Cosette had reconciled herself to Fandom's whimsy being a common occurrence. She didn't mind, mostly; after the confines of the Petit-Picpus convent it was refreshing just to have so much freedom, and so far all those seemingly impossible incidents had been good for a laugh, at least.
Today was an exception.
She stood in front of one of the sinks in the girls' bathroom, noting the flush of her cheeks as she glared into the mirror.
"What did you say?"
"That you're a terrible dresser," the mirror answered in a prissy tone that irritated her.
"A fine one you are to talk," she retorted, half bristling with indignation and half wondering when it had started seeming perfectly ordinary to have conversations with objects.
The mirror sounded bored. "Oh, please. This is a dorm bathroom. Girls running in and out all the time. Do you have any idea how many outfits I've seen over the years? From all over the timeline and the universe?"
"There's nothing wrong with mine," Cosette insisted, although now she was looking at her own reflection with a slightly more critical eye . . . which she was not going to admit out loud to the mirror. "Besides, you're only a mirror, and can't wear clothes at all, so it's hardly your place to tell me how I ought to wear mine."
"Hey. I'm just a mirror -- one that's giving you my honest opinion. What you choose to do with that information is up to you."
"I don't choose to do anything with it, then," Cosette huffed, and spun on her heel to march out of the bathroom with as much dignity as she could muster.
Despite those words, the second she got back to her room she opened her closet and began to examine her wardrobe. "To think I'm listening to what a silly old piece of glass has to say," she told herself, laughing a bit once she'd taken stock of her clothes. "No matter, it's never talked before today, and likely won't tomorrow, so what do I care what it thinks? Nothing, that's what, nothing at all. Terrible dresser, indeed! I'll show it, and if it ever does talk again someday it won't be able to say a thing about me."
With that she hurried out of the room toward the library; she had some research to do.
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===============================
Eleanor hadn't expected sunlight to be so bright. It was dazzling against the snow, it was warm against her skin -- although the wind was doing a wondrous job at counteracting its talents in that department. (Wind. And snowflakes, landing in her palms, big and soft and wet. In the pictures she'd seen, snow looked fluffy, like sugar; it was just frozen condensation, of course, so it was only logical for it to be wet, but the chilly drops of it were still a revelation to her senses.)
Today, she had seen an aeroplane lift off from the ground. One day, she promised herself, she would ride one. Perhaps to India, or Ireland, or somewhere else that she had only dreamed of. Today, she had ridden on a bus. One with wheels. Today, she had met other people her own age, and even possibly made friends, though she wasn’t sure how one could tell, when one had officially made a friend. She could call them acquaintances, at least, and hope for friendship to blossom.
And now she was standing on a snow-covered lawn, lost in the crush of people swirling around her. She had never dreamed of some of the splices displayed before her; that teacher appeared to be a rather vibrant shade of blue, and a boy standing near him had an exquisite set of wings attached to his back. Wings. Eleanor felt a sudden stab of envy. What was teleportation, to flight?
Andrew Ryan must have been lying, about Rapture possessing the best and brightest of society. He had claimed that surface-dwellers were decades behind, technologically, but so many of the gadgets people were holding were utterly alien to her. She wanted to take each of them apart, examine the wires and circuitry and see what made them each tick. She doubted any of these strangers would take kindly to that.
Had Ryan been lying? Or had the surface simply caught up and surpassed Rapture in the decade since the man's death? Surely there would be a library here that could enlighten her. Oh, a library, filled with hundreds of books, and no Mother to censor her reading choices.
She was following the flow of the crowd, idly, letting the current of bodies carry her forward; there seemed to be a rather important table where people were signing in, and Eleanor was too busy examining the carnival of sights and sounds around her to care much what this registration might be. Until she neared the front of the line, that was, and saw a sign that caused her heart to stop.
Meet Your Big/Little Sibling!
Beneath it was a list of named pairs; the anticipated pair-bonds. She wondered on what basis they had assigned her new Big Sister. It hardly mattered. She didn’t bother finding her name, either on the sheet or on the row of nametags splayed out on the table before it.
She willed herself not to panic. She was free from Mother; she had faced worse than whatever this school might throw at her. She would refuse to participate, and if they didn’t take the refusal graciously, then they would soon learn, as her mother had, that she was not a safe person to imprison.
From behind her, she heard a pleasant-sounding voice call out, “Hey! Hey, you forgot your name tag!”
“No, thank you,” she called politely, waving as if this was perfectly ordinary, nothing to be concerned about. “I decline.”
She walked away before she could hear the girl’s confused reply.
She ought to have known there would be a catch.
no subject
Éponine stood beside a park bench, head canted slightly to one side as she regarded the cluster of flamingos milling about the pond. She had seen birds like this before, just once; a professor from the École Polytechnique had given her five francs to carry a letter for him to the Boulevard de l'Hôpital. With several meals thus assured, rather than returning home, she had gone for a walk in the Jardin des Plantes and subsequently found herself at the Royal Menagerie.
"Oh, hello," she told the birds, letting out a breath she had not realized she was holding when none of them seemed to startle at the sound of her voice. "Aren't you a funny-looking lot? I couldn't be sure, the last time, for my head had gone queer. No dinner in three days. But here you are, looking just as I remember, and I'm glad! I hardly know on this island, sometimes, whether I've gone completely mad. Even having food and a warm place to sleep seems like it ought to be a dream."
She considered their long, stalky legs and then raised her own right foot in imitation for a precarious moment, having apparently come to the decision that she had said too much on the previous subject. "I feel as though we ought to be friends, you and I, even if I don't know what you're called. I meant to find out, you see. There's signs at the Menagerie, and I can read, I can -- only there were ever so many people there that day and I don't like it, you see, all those people bumping and jostling, as if --"
She trailed off there, shaking her head and continuing in a hurry, as if she were worried the birds might press her to finish the previous thought should she give them the chance: "But no matter! I haven't told you my name, either, so that's all fair, isn't it? Oh, how funny you do look! As if the breeze might come along and knock you down, but that's not really true, is it?" A sly look lit her otherwise dull eyes with a momentary gleam. "You've got them all fooled, but not me. I know. Well, you needn't worry. You haven't tried to chase me off. That was kind of you, and I'll keep your secret to repay you."
If there was anything out of the ordinary about carrying on a conversation with flamingos in the park, Éponine seemed not to know or care. Birds were an improvement over the empty air, at any rate. She ceased talking momentarily, instead humming softly in her half-broken, tuneless way: some snatch of nonsensical melody she'd heard on her way past the Devil's Nest last night, no doubt. The flamingos looked back at her, implacable.
"Right then," she said abruptly, as though shaken out of her reverie. "I'd best get a move on with this mail, or that funny horned creature who works at the school office will be grouchy at me." She cast one last, speculative look at the flamingos, then was gone.
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Drake was running late to his first official class. This would not do. So instead of parking his motorcycle outside the school and rushing to his class, he rode it up the stairs, through the doors, and down the hall, before skidding to a stop outside the classroom door. He winced just a little when he saw the black streaks the tires had left; Zoe was going to kill him. But riding a motorcycle was so much more fun than just shimmering -- and more human.
He bounded through the doors of the class, snapping his fingers and changing his leather jacket and jeans into suit, tie, and the black robes of a professor. Rubbing his hands together, he said, "Fresh young minds to corrupt. I mean teach. Did I say that out loud? Never mind. Anyway, I am Professor Dèmon, and this is Adventures in Literature." He wrote this on the blackboard and underlined them, then turned back to the students. "Now, I want each of you to introduce yourselves and tell me why you're taking this class."
He waited as each student made their introduction, nodding thoughtfully. When the last had finished, rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers, vanishing the black robes and revealing that the "suit" was nothing but a false shirt front. He yanked the dickey off and tossed it aside, now wearing just jeans and a t-shirt. "Now that we have that boring part over," he said, moving in front of his desk and hopping up to sit on the edge, "I want you to tell me what your favorite work of literature is. What story ignites your passion? What tale makes your blood start pumping? Why do you love it?" He leaned forward, very interested in what each student had to say.
Class was almost over by the time the last student finished. "Next week we'll start to dive into some classic works," Drake said. "We'll start with the legend of Robin Hood. I have it on good authority that the vice principal is actually the Sheriff of Nottingham, so we may have to do something about that. Oh, and you don't have to call me Professor Dèmon. Way too stuffy. You can call me Drake, or if you're slightly more daring, O Captain my Captain." He grinned. "Saw that in a movie once. I always wanted to say that."
no subject
When did the manic pink pony become my oldest continuously active character?
Anyway.
*
Priestly (townie app)
"Huh."
Priestly stood outside of Luke's -- CAFE Luke's, and he might've noticed that change the last time he was here if he hadn't been too busy freaking the fuck out -- his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He hadn't even found a place to stay yet; he'd simply made a beeline for the diner -- CAFE, apparently -- the minute he'd set foot on the island. It'd been his home-away-from-the-dorms on the island when he was in high school, and being harassed by zombie!Hurley aside, it didn't have any of the slightly terrifying associations some of the other spots on the island did. Besides, if he was actually going to stick around here and not run away again -- Alfred would have to let him into the Clocktower in New Gotham, Dinah would pout at him if he didn't -- then he was going to want to get himself a job.
It wasn't even so much the money. He just wanted something to distract himself from going on "dystopia!Priestly's greatest hits" tours.
"Right," he said. "Cafe Luke's. That just means it's, like, classy or something." He looked down at his dusty boots, his pretty-much-just-as-dusty ripped up cargo pants, and his green camo "Oh no! It's snowing!" t-shirt. "'Cause I totally ooze class."
Standing outside wasn't doing him any good. He took a breath, adjusted his duffel on his shoulder, and pushed open the door.
"Well hey there!" The guy behind the counter who was not Lacey and looked a little too old and comfortable in himself to be a student greeted. "Welcome to Luke's! What can I get you?"
Could this possibly be Luke? THE Luke?
. . . Nah.
"Hey." He slung his duffel onto one of the stools at the counter. "Is Lacey Burrows still around here, somewhere?"
"You mean the former manager?" The man shook his head. "Sorry hon, she headed out more than a year ago. Right after my cafe and her diner melded together in a quantum entanglement accident. I'm Vincent, by the way."
"Priestly. And I totally almost know what all of those words mean." he said. He shrugged sheepishly. "Well, uh, maybe you can help? I'm looking for a job."
Vincent gave him a considering once over. "Wait-staff or kitchen?"
"Can I do both?" Priestly flashed him a smile. "I used to work here in high school, I've got years of experience behind the grill of my friend's beach-side sandwich shop, and I'm a grade-A fancy culinary school drop-out."
"Why'd you drop out?"
"I wanted to tour the world and learn from the locals."
Vincent nodded slowly. "And did you?"
"Well, I got stuck in Hong Kong for a bit, but I could run a mean noodle cart."
Another nod. "I might just have a position for you. Tell you what, I'll show you around, and then you can take on the kitchen for the afternoon. Make me up something special."
Priestly grinned, his shoulders slumping a bit in relief. "Sounds good, man. Have at ye."
Vincent waved him around the counter, then lead the way to a large metal door next to the window into the kitchen. "This here is the freezer. There are coats hanging just inside the door, and a tram runs all the way to the back. I've posted a few maps around, so if you get lost, look for the green signs."
Priestly raised an eyebrow at him, pushing the door open. "Really? Maps of the -- SWEET MOTHER OF CRAP." He heard Vincent chuckle behind him, but couldn't tear his eyes from the freezer in front of him. It went on. And on. And on. "You've got yourself your own pocket universe back here!"
Vincent sighed. "I wish. Nope, just a very large freezer run by a fusion reactor. Don't touch that -- it pretty much just takes care of itself."
". . . Can I live here?"
Another chuckle, and Vincent clapped him gently on the shoulder. "Let's see how well you cook first, honey."
Priestly's look of shock transformed itself back into a grin and rubbed his hands together. "Yeah. Let's do that!"
Okay, this maybe wasn't a terrible idea, after all.
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The Devil's Nest was quiet this early in the evening. Raven had heard some of the other students talking about it back at the dorms, the island's "adults only" club, the only place that bothered to check IDs to get a drink.
It sounded like a challenge to her.
She'd planned the look carefully. Her usual "normal" face, blonde hair down and loose to give her a more mature air, and a simple, smart blue dress that buttoned up the front. She blew past the bouncer with a flash of white teeth between red lips, and strode up to the bar like she'd been there every day of her life.
That was key, looking like you were right where you belonged. She'd learned that at a young age, and it seldom failed her.
"Well hey there," she said to the bartender -- tall, dark, and handsome, naturally, though he looked like if he broke a smile his face would crack in half. She flashed him the same grin she gave the bouncer. "How about a beer?"
The bartender stared at her for a beat too long. She kept her smile fixed in place.
"No," he said.
Raven feigned surprise. "Why not?"
"You're too young."
"I'm eighteen!" A lie, but not too much of a stretch.
"Drinking age is 21."
"What?" That got a real jolt of surprise. New York's drinking age had been 18 since before the war. "Since when?"
The bartender simply stared. It was a little bit creepy.
She huffed a sigh, rolling her eyes. "Fine. I'll go somewhere else." She stalked to her feet, making a show of heading for the door, then stopped as soon as she was out of the bartender's sight line and shifted.
She aimed for an age range of early thirties, to make sure she cleared the age limit by enough that no one would think she was too young. She kept the blonde hair -- blondes had more fun, of course -- but toned down the lip a bit, and swapped the blue dress for a white halter-topped sundress, something that really showed off her breasts, which she gave a little extra oomph. She checked the look quickly in her compact, then turned and headed back for the bar.
She dropped her voice a touch, too, adding a smokey texture for effect, and forwent the cutesy flirting. "Martini, please. And make it snappy."
The bartender stared at her, wiping down a glass.
She pulled a cigarette out of her purse and made a show of looking for a lighter. "Take a picture, honey, it'll last longer."
"Nice trick," he said.
She looked meaningfully from her cigarette to him, holding it out in perfect "would you light this for me?" position. "Which one?"
His nostrils flared for a moment, almost like he was sniffing her.
. . . Crap.
"ID," he said.
"You know, funniest thing," Raven said, giving him a grin. "I seem to have left it back home."
The bartender went back to cleaning the glass. Raven waited a few beats longer, then threw the unlit cigarette down on the bar, picked up her purse, and headed back for the door.
She went further this time, actually going back out onto the street and around the corner to the alley before shifting -- this time into a middle aged business man. Thinning hair, cheap suit, she even went for a nice pair of old hornrimmed glasses to complete the look. Harried accountant, she decided -- back stories were also useful. She circled the building and came back to the front door from the other side, head down, face empty, a simple glance and nod for the bouncer (was he smirking?) before making a beeline for the bar.
The bartender didn't even look up. He pulled out a glass, filled it with coca-cola, and dropped a cherry on top.
Raven sighed and pulled the glass over, taking a long, despondent sip through the straw.
Stupid superpowered bartenders.
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The cat was following him again.
Roland had set himself up on the corner of Griffin and Loon -- a good couple block from the bar that boasted live music, and not just because it felt like horning in on another artist's territory. He'd gone in to check it out, once, noting with interest that it was a karaoke place, then had backed out immediately upon seeing who -- or more accurately, WHAT -- was on the stage.
He'd reached a point in his life where he rather thought he'd seen enough rotting corpses, thank you. He certainly didn't need to see them up, walking around, and covering David Bowie.
Still, he might yet go back and give it a try -- so long as he could get someone to tell the band to take five first, of course. As much as he preferred the immediacy of busking, the surprisingly intimate give and take when you snagged an audience out of a large crowd, it'd be good to get back on a stage again. Especially seeing as this town he'd landed in was somewhat lacking in the large crowd category.
In fact, for the last two afternoons, he'd managed to garner himself an audience of only one. And that one was currently occupied in licking itself in a really undignified manner.
"Oh, nice," Roland told it. "Everyone's a critic." The cat started purring loudly, still occupied with its grooming. Roland snorted. "Showoff." He played a few idle chords on Patience, hoping perhaps the guitar would lend him a little of her namesake, and then, because he thought he was funny, he picked out the chorus of "Love Cats".
The cat straightened, wrapping its tail around its paws like it was posing for an Egyptian statue, and narrowed its eyes at him. It was a handsome enough creature, fiery orange with three white socks and darker red streaks around its neck like jewelry, or tattoos. It looked far too pleased with itself for Roland's liking.
"I want you to know that I have the utmost respect for your species," he said. "I just don't LIKE you."
The cat came over and started rubbing its cheek against his leg. Roland tried not to think where said cheek had just been, then remembered the stories of news-squirrels and the green deer in the woods and wondered if this cat was somehow otherworldly, too.
'Well,' he thought. 'It is a CAT, after all.'
"Priestly!" An athletic and quite pleasingly shaped blonde woman, in her early twenties, Roland guessed, came jogging down the street. Roland picked up some major chords, real power rock type music. She demanded a good, heroic theme. The cat perked up. "Priestly," the woman said, slowing as she came up to where Roland stood. "I've been looking all over for you. I can't believe Dean let you out of the house. I don't care WHAT you and Stevesie were doing, next time I see him. . . ."
The cat trotted over to sit at her feet, meowing indignantly. The woman scooped it up and it batted its head against her breasts. She flushed, letting out a mortified hiss of "PRIESTLY".
'Showoff,' Roland though. "I'm told cats go wherever they want to go," he said aloud.
The woman shrugged. "Maybe. But Priestly's not usually a cat."
Roland frowned and squinted at the cat, trying to See what she meant. The cat yawned. It just looked like a cat to him.
"That happens around here, sometimes." She shuffled the cat to one arm and offered Roland the other. "I'm Dinah. You're new?"
"Roland," he said, letting Patience go with one hand to shake hers. She had a strong grip, reminding him of Rebecca, but that was where the similarity ended.
"You seem to be taking Fandom in stride," Dinah said. "What brings you here?"
"No idea," Roland said, smiling. "But you know? I'm looking forward to finding out."
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Eliot had once told Sophie that he was pretty sure he was the only member of their crew who could ever go off to live a "normal" life without going insane. He'd honestly believed it at the time, too.
Of course, Fandom could hardly be considered a "normal" life.
"Are you kidding me? Are you actually kidding me?" He held the santoku up at eye level, blade angled away from anyone's delicate flesh. "I am holding a knife. You do not sneak up on a man who is HOLDING A KNIFE." He looked the woman in front of him over appraisingly. "Though actually it is kind of impressive. What are those, Avas? From Doc Martens?"
Kenzi looked down at her boots, snapping her heels together. "Good eye, Ninja Chef. They don't even have the signature lacing."
"I worked with a woman with a shoe fetish," Eliot explained. "They're very distinctive boots." He set his knife aside, shook a lock of hair out of his face, and folded his arms. "Now what are you doing in my kitchen?"
Kenzi smiled. "My weekly pilgrimage into Freezer Land for strange and exotic ingredients?"
Eliot eyed the freezer, then Kenzi, then the counter top, calculating. "I'd better go with you."
"I know you're kind of excitable and all," Kenzi said, "but I've actually been here a little while, now. I think I can handle freezer time."
Eliot considered, then discarded the series of knives in the block. Instead, he picked up the honing steel, hefting it and testing the balance. "The polar bears have been getting restless."
"You're going to fight a polar bear," Kenzi said. "With a knife sharpener."
"Honing steel," Eliot said. "You're right." He reached out with his free hand and grabbed a whisk.
"A WHISK." Kenzi's eyes went wide. "How do you fight a polar bear with a whisk?!"
"Carefully." Eliot flipped the whisk in his hand and nodded to the freezer. "All right. Let's go."
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Pinkie
(The app says my age is 29. Oh my god.)
“Isn’t this place absatively amazingly fantastic?” Pinkie Pie gushed as she strolled down the streets of Fandom, staring around at all the signs and waving a cheerful front hoof at passersby. Being [s]NPC[/s] Fandomites, they managed to mostly keep the staring to a minimum. Not that Pinkie Pie would have noticed if they were standing around gaping at her; ponies stood around and gaped at her all the time.
In answer, Gummy the baby alligator attempted to eat her hair.
“Oh hello there!” Pinkie called to the tall lady by the flower shop. “I hope you’re having an extra specially fantabulous day today!” She trotted over and sniffed at one of the displays. “These smell delicious! I’ll have to come by some time for lunch!” And she was off again before the tall lady had a chance to do more than wave in return.
“Oh, look, Gummy! I wonder what they sell in here?” She pranced up to a barn-ish looking building and hopped up on her hind legs to peer inside. “Whatever it is, it must be superduper exciting! Just look at all the ponies hanging about!” She waved to her fellow ponies, then frowned slightly when they didn’t wave back. She waved harder, her hoof blurring with speed, her whole body vibrating with the action. One of the fillies blinked at her, but she didn’t even stop chewing her food for long enough to say hi. Pinkie Pie pouted and dropped back down on all fours.
“Well, that’s strange. They don’t seem very friendly, do they, Gummy?” She brightened back up, her eyes going wide. “Or maybe they’re just shy! I bet they don’t get a lot of new ponies around these parts, what with all the strange furless bears wandering around. I’m sure once they get to know me we’ll all be the bestest of friends!” She pranced around excitedly in a circle. “THAT’S IT!” she cried. “I’ll throw an icebreaker party! And invite all the ponies and furless bears and rabbits and monkeys and frogs and turtles and birds and buffalos and gazelles and teal deers and mongooses and flower sellers in Fandom!”
Gummy fell off her back and landed on his head.
“That’s right,” Pinkie assured him. “I’ll invite all the alligators, too. Oh, this will be EVER so much fun!” She sat back on her haunches and lifted her front hooves, counting items off on nonexistent fingers. “We’ll have cake and salad and flowers and apple cupcakes and punch and music and pin-the-tail-on-the-pony and streamers and BALLOONS!” She pressed her front hooves to her cheeks with a gasp. “Oh, there’s ever so much to do! There’s invitations and decorations and party hats to buy. . . . I’ll have to get my students to help, of course, it’ll be such a great way for them to learn! Princess Celestia will be so proud of me, why I bet she’ll throw a Great Galloping Gala all for me in my honor, and everyone will be there, Twilight Sparkle and Rainbow Dash and Apple Jack and Rarity and Fluttershy and EVERYONE, and all my new furless bear friends will be there and how do you suppose they lost their fur? Maybe it’s always summer. Can you imagine that, Gummy? No winter at all, then you’d never have to clean up winter to make way for spring! Hello Mr. God of Biscuits! You must come to my party!”
And so she went, on and on and on, as she rushed back to her apartment, pausing every so often to wave at another townsperson and invite them to what was shaping up to be the most amazingest, extra-special Ice Breaker party in the history of ever.
Fandom would never know what hit it.
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The Hawklord had told her the language was close enough to Elantran to get by, but JGob certainly wasn’t any kind of word she’d ever seen, not that that necessarily meant anything given her haphazard studies.. She pressed her nose up against the glass - just for a moment, until she remembered that it was probably frowned upon here. Not that it wasn’t frowned upon in Elantra, but Teela would mostly have just laughed and pulled her away. Here she had to remember for herself.
Which reminded her... She turned and looked up to the sky, hoping against hope to see at least one Aerian in the sky - or if not an actual Aerian, at least some winged creature beyond birds. But there was nothing.
She sighed and turned her attention back to the shop - she thought it was a shop anyway, though it was like nothing back home. The smells coming from it were just amazing and her hand went to the pocket where she had a small amount of money that the Hawklord had said was the currency here - not that she had any idea how much anything cost or was actually *worth* here so how she’d ever bet anything, she didn’t know. Still…
No, she’d better not, even if her stomach was growling at her more loudly than Marcus when she was late arriving - which was most days if she was honest. It would be better to find the stupid school where she was supposed to stay and make sure she knew the rules about things instead of dawdling in the town. She was going to become a Hawk if it killed her and if she had to go to this stupid school and pass the stupid classes to achieve that, then that’s what she’d do.
And she intended to go straight there, honestly she did! But as she started on her way the hidden marks on her arms started to itch and when she turned to see what magic was happening, she saw this *man* and she *felt* the fire and before she could stop herself she had crossed the street to him and was staring up in awe and maybe a little horror.
“What in the world happened to your mouth?!”