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Post by Terra on Aug 25, 2012 19:49:24 GMT -5
Bridge City.
A city of heroes, a city of light.
A city of horrors and strife in the night.
…That’s a stupid rhyme, thought Patrick Renard as he buttoned his suit jacket. However, it had inexplicably stuck in his head - he had heard it murmured in an empty train car one night, and he couldn’t be sure whether it was his mind playing tricks on him or an invisible passenger in the seat behind him. He could believe either one - there were plenty of invisible people in the city, more than most realized, and some were bound to fancy themselves poets - but his mind had a tendency to get away from him sometimes. He had to be careful with that. The pursuits of the mind, when unchecked, could have terrible consequences. Especially in cases such as his.
He looked out the window over the city lights and could see the clock tower in the distance.
Five forty-four. He was on schedule, as always.
He had a party to attend. And he wasn’t the type to be fashionably late. Especially not on a night such as tonight. He had a lot of connections in high-up places, and he knew that there were important things with important people happening tonight.
He was definitely going to be there to watch. And if the opportunity presented itself, to participate.
* * *
The charity ball was being put on to benefit an organization dedicated to protecting ordinary citizens from the scary, superpowered people. It was somewhat controversial, and Patrick himself loathed the cause. Not that he was to let anyone else know that. He had to keep up appearances, after all.
Decadence reigned; the organizers had clearly spared no expense in the decoration, and the food had to have been horrifically expensive. Smug, wealthy businessmen and politicians determined to show their support of the common people swarmed around him, drinking and bragging about their accomplishments, or else pretending to be interested in another’s.
Though Patrick maintained a coolly indifferent poker face, he silently reveled in the spectacle. There were few things he enjoyed more than people who embraced their own selfishness.
But he had not yet found the real show.
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Post by Celestial on Aug 25, 2012 21:04:59 GMT -5
Diana Day was bored and excited at the same time. She did not really understand how the two emotions could be experienced at the same time but here she was, standing behind with one of the most loathsome people she had ever met, waiting for the right time. In an thirty four minutes and twenty two seconds, the guests would all be here, in an forty seven minutes exactly, they will all be relaxed and in an hour, forty seven minutes and one second...well, that was going to ber her moment.
The moment to declare war on this city.
Frankly, she could not have chosen a better venue. Paranoia over superhumans had been growing recently due to a string of small-time croocks using their powers to commit various acts. The underworld has also been taking advantage of superhumans. Of course, the legit ones had been taking the fallout for it all. But if this ball was a success, and she just knew it would be, their lives would become much more difficult and by extension, her's would be easier. There would be fewer loose ends to take care of.
"Diana! Diana, dear!" chimed Mr. Clarion, M.P., her beloved employer. Well, technically employer. She was an unpaid intern working for him. However, he had a habit of bringing interns to shindigs when he needed a personal assisant since he did not have to pay them overtime like he would have to a real PA. He was a scumbag but the kind of scumbag who did not realise that they were a scumbag. That's why he addressed everyone in such a jovial, light tone. Diana hated it.
"Yes, sir?" she asked submissively.
"Get me another drink will you, there's a good girl," he said with a smile, handing her the glass before turning back to chatting with his politician buddies. Diana, wearing the fakest smile you could wear without somebody seeing through it, took the glass and went to the bar to get it refilled. This was the third one in fifteen minutes. If she had to take him home...
Well, even if she did, it did not matter. Today was the start of a brand new area. Soon, people like Clairon will not be in Parliament.
Soon, she would rule them all.
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Post by Yoyti on Aug 25, 2012 21:38:20 GMT -5
Kurtis Clark was an odd gentleman.
He had an odd name, sported an odd face, and worked odd jobs. There was a very good reason for all these things. No one wanted him around for very long. He predicted that by 2015, over half the world's population would know about him, and hate him. Such prejudice against him forced him to constantly change his name, face and job. Unfortunately, this made him stand out even more.
Currently, he was operating under the alias of Bryce Clayton. This was his fifty-sixth name, and he was running out. He sometimes thought he changed his name far too often. He had changed it thrice in the last month, but figured it was better to be safe. Of course, everyone knew that Bryce Clayton was also Alexander Greene and Kyle Freedman, but Kurtis didn't know that they knew, and that's what mattered. He had also recently grown a pencil moustache and sideburns, as well as dying all his hair blonde. This was even more of a giveaway, as last month he had no pencil moustache, sideburns that were halfway grown, and purple hair as a side effect of the black dye he had used the previous month.
His job, however, was a dead giveaway. He was a vacuum salesman. A job he was very good at.
Now why did he go to such extreme measures? He was a superhero. He was currently on his ninety-third superhero name, The Disintegrating Cape (originally Ashes). He had the power to control particles, which his powers defined as "anything loose that you can hold more than ten of in a cupped hand." This power worked very well in small rural areas, with lots of surrounding soil, but small rural areas never needed superheroes. He was always in big cities. And big cities never had enough particles. So he had to resort to creating his own. He was infamous for destroying things. Pavement, bricks, and, in one instance, the excess skin of a man who had recently undergone weight loss. As a result, places usually kicked him out in favor of more conventional superheroes with flight, speed and strength.
Recently, he had managed to find a fairly stable position in Bridge city. His employer loved him, everyone else tolerated him, and he didn't have to save the world, because there were already so many other heroes in the area. And he could still fight crime on the side with the dust he collected from his vacuuming.
But things were about to turn for Kurtis Clark. He could return to his original identity. For a contrived circumstance was about to pop up that required his powers to be used in a convoluted way, even though other supers might have done it, though also in a confusing way.
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Post by Tiger on Aug 25, 2012 22:52:22 GMT -5
Dayna Lawson was thinking of herself as Blue Jay again, and was rather annoyed to find Blue Jay's hands slapping cheese slices onto a tray, her greatest physical challenge aligning the slices into a spiral that whirled into the center of the plate. Thinking of herself by her superhero alias was nothing new for Dayna; being disgusted with herself was much less familiar. She definitely didn't experience it nearly as often as she was tonight.
Dayna didn't want to be here; she'd tried her hardest to wiggle out of the event. She would have pretended to be ill if Janice Magdolin wasn't known for firing her workers for taking sick days. Janice, head of Magdolin Catering, the snooty company serving tonight's menu, didn't much like Dayna anyway, probably only hiring her because one of Janice's cooks had vouched for the girl. Having graduated from university just a year ago and with barely-passing grades, Dayna couldn't afford to lose this position - no matter how many intolerable people she had to put up with.
It was intensely uncomfortable here; she felt like people were talking behind her back, but with full intention of her hearing their words. Except, who would peg uncertain, quiet, dark-haired Dayna as the fiery-tempered, energy-blasting, spiky blue-haired Blue Jay? They had no idea who they were standing in the room with, no idea who they were offending, and although that probably should have been amusing, it just disgusted her. She wanted to put salt in the wine and see how much chortling they did then.
Three years I've been running around Bridge City in a bird mask, all so these people can throw a - an anti-superhero ball. She shook her head at the cheeses, as if they might understand her pain. And I cannot believe I just used those words together.
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Post by Jayeee on Aug 25, 2012 23:17:30 GMT -5
It was just a quick drink, that’s all. Just to pass the time, nothing more. All Jackson Tucker planned to do was step into the bar, socialize with some of the patrons and then go on his merry way to the charity ball; that was the goal. The funny thing about Jackson’s goals however, was that they always seemed to turn a little hazy. After the seventh or eighth drink, that was.
Jackson liked to think of himself as a typical thirty-seven-year-old, but as with most things, his view of himself was vastly different to reality. He was one of the generation of superheroes who had become so prevalent in the Bridge Town society, and after a couple of beers most nights of the week, he’d set off to fight crime. At least, that was what he remembered the next day. In actuality, Jackson’s crime-fighting skills depended entirely on his temperament, which was always erratic after a pre-crime fighting drink. His super-strength made matters a lot more serious; whether he locked up the latest crazed trouble-maker in a feat of heroics or kicked a car into a skyscraper trying to play football depended wholly on the night. And the alcohol.
It was tough being a superhero. Once upon a time, Jackson had been married and was just beginning his life as a fully-fledged crime fighter. Who would have guessed that fifteen years later his loving wife would leave him after claiming that he couldn’t handle the pressure as a hero? What Pressure? The alcohol took care of that little problem. Just enough get the job done, that was his motto.
“Think you’ve had enough, buddy?” The bartender asked tentatively, eyeing his customer’s shaky demeanour.
“Eh, I gots a big party tonight, so you just keep this here glass full, ya’hear?” Jackson slurred with a haphazard grin and tapped his empty glass. “Got a big night head of me.”
The bartender nodded cautiously. “Ah, so you’re headed to that charity ball tonight?”
Jackson nodded enthusiastically. “I sure as hell am.”
Truth be told, he didn’t even remember receiving the ticket for the charity ball. He’d woken up on the floor of his living room a day or two ago with the ticket in his hand. He’d figured somebody gave it to him for doing such an excellent job fighting crime the night before. The name of the ball mentioned something about superheroes, so that had to be right.
Jackson hungrily watched his glass fill up with whiskey. “D’you think they’ll have an open bar at this ball thing?”
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Post by Nova on Aug 26, 2012 0:20:18 GMT -5
Aiden Vansta smirked in the back of his limousine as he and his company entered Bridge City. It had been fifteen years to the day that he was banished from this pathetic place he called home, and he had worked up a marvelous master plan of revenge. Once a long-haired black man with jet black sunglasses, he was transformed to a short haired blonde caucasian man with piercing blue eyes. Yes, this guise of his worked wonders in comparison to what he once was.
He felt tired from the long journey to Bridge City. It's been a four day trek, and he had to be energized if he is going to a social gathering with others. He then saw a lone pedestrian on the sidewalk. How unfortunate for this young fellow, he thought.
"Jase, get Oscar to pull over near that young man."
Jase went to the window and motioned to pull over. Aiden rolled his window down, and whistled at the man.
"May I help you?" asked the man. Aiden said nothing, but locked eyes with him. The young man, now helpless, fell to his knees in weakness. Aiden then rolled his window back up.
"Feeling better, Sir?" asked Jase.
"Haven't felt like this since I was twenty," Aiden replied. "How much longer til we reach the charity ball?"
"Fifteen minutes or so, Sir."
"Make it thirty."
"Yes Sir."
He wanted to get a good look at the city before he destroyed it.
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Post by Dju on Aug 26, 2012 12:06:20 GMT -5
Vitoria wasn't strong, she was too skinny and too clumsy. Her long arms and legs seemed to match her pony tail, dangling like straps of fabric. But even though her bad coordination has cost her a lot, since the Renascence Vitoria managed to climb tall buildings by her own. She had the physical of a teenager, that ought to make up for it...
Ah, the Renascence...How long has it been? 500 years? Yes, about that, thought Vitoria as she reached the roof. It was wet from the rain earlier, though it was probably always wet. Bridge City's weather was famous for it's constant raining. A cruel weather for a cruel place. I hope I don't spend my next 500 years here. The roof where she was standing wasn't her first option for a look out, but that was the highest building she could find around. From there, Vitoria could see everything she had to...and a little more. A charity ball was being held inside one of Bridge City's finest business centers, and thank goodness it was practically made of glass, revealing all the party inside. Probably to remind all this city who is the real boss around here, Vitoria reflected. A fat cat handed his empty cup to his assistant, a dark-haired lady stared at her cheese plate, a discreet gentleman slided in the hall without being noticed.
Ludovico Sforza would be furious, "such good food wasted on such boring guests" he would boast...but he was dead. Long dead, in fact. But the Fenice remained, she and her beaked red mask to bring down the unjust...and that ball looked very unjust to her. She put the mask on and waited, perhaps there could be more to be seen.
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Post by Yoyti on Aug 27, 2012 9:35:13 GMT -5
(OOC; Time to get Ashes some plot going)
Dave Dawson sat up in his chair. It was a big chair. His father had always taught him that you could tell a lot about a man by his chair, and so, when the time came, he selected a chair that would give people the sort of impression he wanted. That, of course, told people more than enough about him.
Dave Dawson was the CEO of VacCo, the fourth largest vacuum company in the world. And he was discussing a large issue with his managerial board.
"People," he began. 'We have a problem. The people are cracking down on superheroes. This wouldn't normally be a problem, except for two things. The inconsequential thing is that it leaves our city open to attack by super villains. We're a huge corporation. That doesn't concern us. However, what does concern us is that our best salesman, Bryce Clayton, is a superhero. Even if he hasn't done any up front crime fighting in several years. We need to keep him out of trouble. And for that, I have a plan. We are going to play a little joke on him.
"Everyone knows that Clayton's current superhero identity is The Disintegrating Cape. We are going to send Clayton to the anti-superhero charity ball, and stir up some trouble. Like all superheroes, Clayton has costumes hidden everywhere. We're going to swap out his Disintegrating Cape outfit for his original Ashes outfit, which I obtained from his brother, Kent. It'll be a bit snug, but it should still fit. Everyone thinks that Ashes and The Disintegrating Cape are the same person. This will imply that they are not. Clayton will be out of harm, while the government tries to capture Kurtis Clark. And yes, I know they're the same person, as does everyone else, but this will prove that they're not. Even though they are."
With this confusing statement, Dawson dismissed his board and sent for Bryce. Unfortunately, while Dawson's intended trouble may have been fake, there would probably be some very real trouble at the ball. The CEO of VacCo may have put his best salesman into greater danger than he was already.
(OOC; I hope that made even the slightest bit of sense.)
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Post by Draco on Aug 27, 2012 22:52:52 GMT -5
He stood in the kitchen of a busy event, the charity ball to be exact, watching all the waiters run in and out, all the workers running around the main room getting things ready and working with early invitees. Him on the other hand, wait, he needs a name... But he doesn't really have a name, well he does, but he doesn't like it mentioned, even in a naration, so let's just call him Walter for the time being. Anyways, Walter watches, and they glare at him back.
"Now I wonder why they're glaring at me. Sure I shouldn't really be back here, but it's not heard of for a guest to be back here."
He continues to watch until someone taps him on the shoulder.
"Yeah, what do you want?"
The man glares at him and taps his foot, "I want you to get to work and stop loitering around!"
"Now why should I be working? It's not as if I was a waiter."
He notes the vain on the man's forhead pulsing with rage, then looks down at what he was wearing. It was a waiters uniform...
"Oooh, the man I took this from was a waiter and not a guest! I knew I was to early. Oh well. If they didn't want this to happen, they should have actually invited me!"
Without a word Walter turns around and takes a step away from the angry man. Then he's gone, without a trace. The man rubs his eyes, looks around, and rubs his eyes again. He walks away quickly unsure of what he just saw.
Walter walks around the ball room, tasting food from random places. No one even batting a eye at him, but a few tend to notice some food disappearing from time to time.
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Post by Dju on Aug 28, 2012 17:20:30 GMT -5
I know something is about to happen, I feel it. That's why the Fenice exists, isn't it? Feeling bad things and stopping them? Vitoria thought nervously, biting her lips so hard they bled. Even though all the centuries she have been living and existing she still felt uncomfortable with predictions. Perhaps there are heroes in that charity ball, heroes this city knows and trusts. I'm not alone, thank goodness.
Thirty minutes have passed, thirty long and endless minutes...and still nothing, but the bad feeling in her throat remained, as if it was afire, trying to warn her and all the guests inside that they shouldn't be in that hall. Or better yet, in that city. Vitoria jumped from the roof and climbed her way to the business center, carefully so none of the guests would catch sight of her.
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Post by Rikku on Aug 28, 2012 23:19:01 GMT -5
December Doomsday stood in the corner and fretted. He was pretty good at fretting. A champion fretter, really. He could go pro.
He hadn’t been planning on going to the charity ball – parties, oh dear, so many people and conversing and, and cake, it was horrid – but once he’d heard that man Mr. Renard was going he was all but obliged to attend. They’d met a few times before; December had an uneasy feeling that the fellow could and would wreak all sorts of mischief on the unsuspecting and December could not, in good conscience, allow him to do that! Which made sense. Because. Superhero.
So not for him the cosy seat by the television with a quiet glass of nutritionally unnecessary but pleasantly flavoured port, not tonight. No. Tonight he mingled.
December was not very good at mingling. This wasn’t his fault, exactly; he was wearing his second-best jacket, the one that didn’t even have patches on the elbows, and his collar went as high as it could but there was no way to hide his face, really, nor his hands; where his skin was exposed you could see the unnatural pallor of it and, here and there, the crack-like fissures through which his blood could be seen, glowing silver. December adjusted his thick bottle-end glasses. Those at least were doing a sterling job of concealment. “Bravo,” he said kindly, and then felt incredibly ridiculous and wished he hadn’t. Talking to yourself probably wasn’t a very mingle-friendly move, and he was bad enough at mingling as it was!
Well. Normally. Actually, once he inched bravely out of his corner, he found that tonight was the exception; people stared at him in a kind of awed fascination of course, but no one ran away or pointed guns at him or snapped photographs to post on Flitter or what-have-you, so he found, rather to his surprise that he was having a good time.
“I’m so glad that one of the so-called ‘villains’ felt that this ball was safe enough from superhero victimisation to attend,” one woman was saying to him, and December choked on his prawn thing.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m not a villain, I’m a hero.” He paused. That sounded a lot like he was tooting his own trumpet. “Well, of sorts. I mean, one tries one’s best!” he said, helplessly.
“Oh, a hero,” the woman said, her face turning snidely blank. “I see.” She produced a notebook from her rather nice purse. “So you’re one of the ones that makes a habit of bystepping due process to criminalise innocent civilians?”
December stared at her. “I, um,” he said. “I make things vanish. I mean, sort of. I mean. What?”
She tutted and wrote something down. “Name please,” she said, and then, when he hesitated: “Well? Chop chop, I might’ve heard of you. If you’ve done anything particularly self-righteous lately it’ll make for a good article.”
“December Doomsday,” December mumbled.
The pen paused on the page. “Doomsday,” she repeated.
“Yes! Um. D, two o’s, m—”
“I know how to spell it, Mister Doomsday, I merely question your earlier statement. How can you be a hero with a name like that?” She peered at him critically, then brightened. Leaning forward, she whispered, confidentally, “I know a few supervillain organisations if you’re considering a change in—”
“Oh dear, crime, I’d better go, um, stop that crime,” December said, and made a panicky escape.
From there he looked around, almost hoping for some actual crime to appear, but no. No giant platypi terrorising the elegant party-goers, no men in masks brandishing zap-guns. No crime at all. The party was going perfectly well.
December, consoling himself by the thought that there’d probably be lots of nice crime to fight afterwards, drifted gently back to his corner to observe.
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Post by Draco on Aug 29, 2012 2:57:08 GMT -5
The nameless man, going by Walter at the moment, watches December Doomsday and the incident that just occurred.
"Kukuku, always a fun guy to watch and follow."
With that he steps into a shadow and disappears. He reappears out of some different shadows wearing a black mask and a black kimono.
"Kagenura is here!"
He begins to swagger through the ball like he belongs. Which he isn't. He wasn't invited remember. But he's saved his number of lives, he should. Of course, he probably took just as many too... But let's ignore that.
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Post by Tam on Aug 29, 2012 6:04:49 GMT -5
It was a quiet night in the basement flat, all things considered: the couple upstairs were out for the evening, and with their absence a heavy blanket of flavoured cigar smoke (chocolate, must be a saturday) had been allowed to form along the ceiling, even managing to slide through the gap above Harry Harwell's closed bedroom door. The boy's mouth quirked downwards in distaste as the odour began to settle on him, but he bravely ignored it. The neighbours hated it when his brother brought out the cigars, and it was a rare occasion that Hayden was able to smoke them indoors without fear of sparking a yelling match. Or an eviction warning. Or an eviction.
In light of these facts, Harry was more than content to put up with his brother's cigarstink for one evening. Especially if it meant Hayden had one fewer reason to burst into his kid brother's room and discover the three vodka bottles that had mysteriously disappeared from his stash earlier this evening and were now, even more mysteriously, completely devoid of their liquid contents despite their unbroken caps.
It had been a quiet night, and Harry had spent it how he usually spent his quiet nights: sitting on the floor of his bedroom, getting inadvisably drunk, and debating whether or not he was a supervillain.
The paper in front of him certainly seemed to think so; he had found a picture of himself near the back pages (the artfully skewed shot no doubt intended to look rushed and desperate in the face of extreme peril the likes of which no ordinary photographer should ever have to face) headlined with the block-print words, "BLOODY HARRY: FRIEND OR FOE?" The paper in question was well-known for the weekly profiles it published on Bridge City's superpowered population — heroic and nefarious, up-and-coming and established alike. Contrary to the ambiguous tone of the headline, however, the rest of the profile seemed quite certain of Harry's status as a newly hatched terror of some kind. "Skulking around the city at night," "motives unclear," "unnerving apparition," "avoid all contact until the phantasmal teen's true threat level has been ascertained," and so on.
Bla bla bla bla bla.
He had just been out for a darn walk.
Harry blew gently on the page to turn it (his hands hadn't been very useful for this sort of thing ever since they stopped existing on the corporeal plane — some strange rule of the universe dictated that the ability to generate currents of cold air on a whim was a more practical talent for his type), his hand reaching instinctively for the next bottle in line beside him. He had already jabbed his index finger through the neck and could feel the tingling warmth of the alcohol beginning to crawl up his arm (yet another weird twist of the universe's priorities: a dead boy could absorb the energy from a bottle of vodka and yet be incapable of actually moving said bottles by any method other than blowing on them really hard until they tipped over and rolled) when he stopped.
He was back on the front page of the newspaper, staring at that picture of the fancy people in their fancy clothes at that fancy building. That gala thing was tonight. And while it wasn't exactly for his class of citizen, it was obvious that the function was going to be drawing the attention of the city's superpowered inhabitants as well as that of whatever soft-skinned rule-abiding civilians had been invited to attend. Maybe some of the superpowered ones would show up to protest. Maybe one of them would be a ghost.
It wasn't that much of a stretch, really.
Leaving the still mostly-full bottle of vodka on its side among the drained hulls of its companions, Harry rose to his feet (then to about three inches above the floor) and drifted through his door, mind humming with the alcohol and a bit of something else.
"Hayden?" he called tentatively down the hall. The melody of some kind of country rock ballad wailed back at him from the open doorway of the other bedroom. "I'm going out."
He could hear him. There was no way he couldn't. Hayden always heard. He just didn't always care. Harry thought briefly of telling his brother exactly where he was going, just to get some kind of reaction out of him, but he decided it probably wouldn't be the kind of reaction that would make such truthfulness worth it. Instead, Harry just shrugged and moved up the stairway and through the door at the top, barely noticing the way the little girl who had been playing outside clutched her toys to her chest and scooted backwards across the grass when he passed by, barely feeling like he'd just been stung.
Bloody Harry had a party to crash.
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Post by Celestial on Aug 29, 2012 9:46:35 GMT -5
Forty six minutes had passed. She had been forced to get drinks for Mr. Clarion another five times. Diana would tell him to slow down but in her alter-ego, she did not have the guts. But now, she wouldn't have to. It was time to act.
"Excuse me, Mr. Clarion, sir, I don't...feel well. May I go use the ladies' room?" she asked tentatively. The MP looked at her with glassy eyes. It took him a few seconds to remember who she was.
"Oh yesh, you, that girl, whatsh your name...Deena! Shure, go. Jusht be back before-" he burped unceremoniously "-I finish my drink."
"Thank you, sir," she said quietly and bowed before heading for the door to the bathroom. Once out of sight of the party guests and various staff, Diana snapped her fingers.
All chatter stopped. The bird flying outside the window was frozen in mid-air. Time had stopped.
Now that there was no guarantee of anybody seeing her, Diana took off the long brown wig that she wore, exposing her short bob of pure white hair. A side effect of her time control abilities.
Holding the wig in her hands, she walked out of the bathroom and towards the lobby, where the bag that she had come in with was stored. She had claimed that she had come from the gym before this and did not have time to drop off her things, living in a distant suburb of the city. Clarion bought it. She knew he would. But she had also made sure that the cloakroom where she had stored it did not have metal detectors.
Diana arrived in the cloakroom, took out her bag and opened it. Inside was her costume, which she put on without any hurry. There was plenty of time. Once she was done, she admired herself in the window. Everything worked to create an impression. The long blue flowing cloak, the shirt and leggings patterned to look like chainmail, the cuirass and the fauld, both elegantly patterned and giving her the look of a medieval knight,matching gloves and boots, both with patterned of silver, a blue cloth to hide her mouth and finally, a silver coronet with a lion and a unicorn on it holding up a blue gem. But it was practical too. The armour was all very light while her gloves incorporated blades on the knuckles. She had designed all this very thoroughly.
Stowing her normal clothing and wig into the bag of another person, just in case, Diana- no, Ancien- put the bag away and returned to the room where everyone had gathered. Some might have felt her cloak brush against their leg but otherwise, it would look like she just appeared out of thin air.
Ancien headed for the stage in the centre of the room. She climbed it and looked around at her audience, especially shooting a glance at Clarion. Oh how different the woman standing here right now was from the Diana he knew. Everything that was Diana had been stripped away now. This was who she was.
Ancien snapped her fingers again.
"Hello, everyone!" she shouted so that they could all hear her. "I am so happy that I have the attention of the most prominent people in the city. For now, you hold all the wealth and all the power. But that time is limited. I have come to take it all from you. But not for myself: for this country. You have misused the power you have. Now it is time for somebody to fight you."
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Post by Dju on Aug 29, 2012 11:47:29 GMT -5
The voice passed through her like a knife, making Vitoria shiver. It felt cold and harsh, filled with joy and respect...it was terrifying. A solemn voice, from someone who knows exactly what it's doing, Fenice thought.
Vitoria leaned closer to the window to peek inside, she knew she could be easily spotted this way, but no one was paying any attention to the window. All their eyes were stuck on the stage, letting a strange figure on a kimono and the floating sweets on the serving table pass unnoticed. What is going on here?
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