So, this here is a thread for various, non-having-their-own-thread stuffs I write. That seems to...
Doing the things (Snippets, Oneshots, and Ideas thread)
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UnwelcomeStorm
BARK! BARK! BARK!
- Location
- United States
So, this here is a thread for various, non-having-their-own-thread stuffs I write. That seems to be a thing. Plus it will give me a space to exercise writing skills and put ideas down somewhere before they mutate and start demanding their own threads.
(Yes, this is also over on SB. Since I post here too, I didn't want SV left out.)
Feel free to post discussions or even prompts. I can't promise I will follow up on them (the prompts that is) but if something sparks I'll put it here.
Worm Stuff
Antagonist
Storybook/Animated Villains Changer!Taylor.
Fiesta
Dancer!Taylor, Eventually became the Warrior of Dusk quest instead.
I Am The Law (2)(3)
FFTactics Advance Judge!Taylor.
Constellations v.2
What almost happened instead of a story about a girl and her doG.
All Things Devoured
Necromorph!Taylor.
I N T E R
Eversion: the process of turning something inside-out.
Trailblazing
A Tinker!Taylor joins the Merchants willingly and on purpose.
Worm Abridged
Worm, cut down to the barest possible form. It's not even crack, it's the greasy residue of crack.
Not Worm Stuff
Test Your... Magic?
Harry Potter/Mortal Combat
(Yes, this is also over on SB. Since I post here too, I didn't want SV left out.)
Feel free to post discussions or even prompts. I can't promise I will follow up on them (the prompts that is) but if something sparks I'll put it here.
Worm Stuff
Antagonist
Storybook/Animated Villains Changer!Taylor.
Fiesta
Dancer!Taylor, Eventually became the Warrior of Dusk quest instead.
I Am The Law (2)(3)
FFTactics Advance Judge!Taylor.
Constellations v.2
What almost happened instead of a story about a girl and her doG.
All Things Devoured
Necromorph!Taylor.
I N T E R
Eversion: the process of turning something inside-out.
Trailblazing
A Tinker!Taylor joins the Merchants willingly and on purpose.
Worm Abridged
Worm, cut down to the barest possible form. It's not even crack, it's the greasy residue of crack.
Not Worm Stuff
Test Your... Magic?
Harry Potter/Mortal Combat
Last edited:
Antagonist
UnwelcomeStorm
BARK! BARK! BARK!
- Location
- United States
Antagonist
Brockton Bay was a lot of things, as cities go. Few other cities could claim to be so divided in extremes; the carefully groomed loveliness of the rich districts, the squalor and filth of the poor. The shining beacon of hope that was the Protectorate base, perched in the Bay like a lighthouse, and the invisible, overarching marble-carven smirk of racial crusades. It was a city full of heroes, the kind with laurels of fame and those who worked in silence, with long hours and aching hands. It was a city full of villains, the kind with grand designs and thirsts and those who struggled in the grime just to fill a hunger. And like every other city, Brockton Bay never truly slept. As the sun set, the city drew in a second breath of activity and fervor.
Tonight, that breath was filled with the howls of dogs, and the cheers of men.
A bass thump shook the walls of the not-so-abandoned warehouse, situated near the edge of Empire territory, but apart from the throbbing beat the music was drowned out by shouts and jeers and barks and cries. Handlers grabbed the victor of the second bout by the collar and dragged it, snarling, back to a kennel, while another man grabbed the corpse of the loser and dragged it, leaking, to the pit kept for just such a purpose. Beer and money changed hands as odds were given for the next dogfight. My fight.
The large kennel I was in was approached by another handler-- I could tell because it wore big, thick gloves to turn away an angry hound's teeth-- and it began to push my cage forward on its rails towards the rust-colored enclosure. I heard it grunt with effort, and what might have been a swear. Did its face look uneasy as it looked at me? It might have. I couldn't quite tell. The monsters here all blended together like watercolors, and while they were certainly all shaped like humans, I knew the difference. These creatures were base, blood-mad and bloodstained. I could smell it, all of it. The handler at my cage smelled like a woman's protestations. The creature writing numbers on the chalkboard smelled like a club, sticky with matted hair. The audience smelled of hate and sickly pride. My mouth watered at the scent of so much sin.
A bell rang, and the two kennels lined up to the fighting arena opened. Opposite me, a scarred and half-blind pitbull took two steps out of his cage, then stopped, and with a whine retreated to the faint safety of wire walls. Boos started to sound, until I stepped out. Murmurs and angry mutters began, for while I certainly was shaped like a dog, I was not the German Shepard listed for the fight. My fur was thick, and black, and set in tufts like scales. A step, and my eyes turned a bright and voracious yellow.
Another step, I began to grow.
A third, and the men-creatures were yelling now, but my hide was smoke and it drifted against the doors, turning solid and coarse in the locks. Guns were fired, and smoke swirled in the sudden wind that rose with a flesh-quivering haaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAA as I opened my jaws wide.
Brockton Bay was a lot of things, as cities went. It had been beautiful, once, but now was mired in decay. The supports were rotten, the city trembled under the weight of all the violence and the greed and the fear that it hoarded. If my city was to be beautiful again, the roots of its rotting fruit had to go. And when the sun lowered each day in the sky, I knew how.
I would huff
I would puff
I would blow it all down.
Brockton Bay was a lot of things, as cities go. Few other cities could claim to be so divided in extremes; the carefully groomed loveliness of the rich districts, the squalor and filth of the poor. The shining beacon of hope that was the Protectorate base, perched in the Bay like a lighthouse, and the invisible, overarching marble-carven smirk of racial crusades. It was a city full of heroes, the kind with laurels of fame and those who worked in silence, with long hours and aching hands. It was a city full of villains, the kind with grand designs and thirsts and those who struggled in the grime just to fill a hunger. And like every other city, Brockton Bay never truly slept. As the sun set, the city drew in a second breath of activity and fervor.
Tonight, that breath was filled with the howls of dogs, and the cheers of men.
A bass thump shook the walls of the not-so-abandoned warehouse, situated near the edge of Empire territory, but apart from the throbbing beat the music was drowned out by shouts and jeers and barks and cries. Handlers grabbed the victor of the second bout by the collar and dragged it, snarling, back to a kennel, while another man grabbed the corpse of the loser and dragged it, leaking, to the pit kept for just such a purpose. Beer and money changed hands as odds were given for the next dogfight. My fight.
The large kennel I was in was approached by another handler-- I could tell because it wore big, thick gloves to turn away an angry hound's teeth-- and it began to push my cage forward on its rails towards the rust-colored enclosure. I heard it grunt with effort, and what might have been a swear. Did its face look uneasy as it looked at me? It might have. I couldn't quite tell. The monsters here all blended together like watercolors, and while they were certainly all shaped like humans, I knew the difference. These creatures were base, blood-mad and bloodstained. I could smell it, all of it. The handler at my cage smelled like a woman's protestations. The creature writing numbers on the chalkboard smelled like a club, sticky with matted hair. The audience smelled of hate and sickly pride. My mouth watered at the scent of so much sin.
A bell rang, and the two kennels lined up to the fighting arena opened. Opposite me, a scarred and half-blind pitbull took two steps out of his cage, then stopped, and with a whine retreated to the faint safety of wire walls. Boos started to sound, until I stepped out. Murmurs and angry mutters began, for while I certainly was shaped like a dog, I was not the German Shepard listed for the fight. My fur was thick, and black, and set in tufts like scales. A step, and my eyes turned a bright and voracious yellow.
Another step, I began to grow.
A third, and the men-creatures were yelling now, but my hide was smoke and it drifted against the doors, turning solid and coarse in the locks. Guns were fired, and smoke swirled in the sudden wind that rose with a flesh-quivering haaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAA as I opened my jaws wide.
Brockton Bay was a lot of things, as cities went. It had been beautiful, once, but now was mired in decay. The supports were rotten, the city trembled under the weight of all the violence and the greed and the fear that it hoarded. If my city was to be beautiful again, the roots of its rotting fruit had to go. And when the sun lowered each day in the sky, I knew how.
I would huff
I would puff
I would blow it all down.
Fiesta
UnwelcomeStorm
BARK! BARK! BARK!
- Location
- United States
Fiesta
June, 2005
"So, what do you think, Taylor?" Annette smiled, showing the ten-year-old the catalog of classes available. "One physical and one art, for a healthy body and a healthy mind. It's good to have a range of hobbies and activities; what would you like to do?"
Taylor piped up immediately, "Flute! I wanna play the flute too, mom!"
Annette laughed. "I should have seen that one coming... okay, yes. Music classes, right here. What about a physical class?"
"Umm..." Taylor's face took on a very serious expression as she looked at the offerings. "Oh! Dance! I wanna dance!"
August, 2007
"Umm... Mr. Barnes?"
"Yes, Taylor?"
The girl looked down at her feet, one hand fisting nervously in her pyjamas. Another sleepover with Emma, which had grown increasingly frequent since last month. Alan Barnes was a family man, and little Taylor Hebert was basically family. And with Annette so recently passed... he squatted down, to get more on Taylor's level, then lifted her chin with a finger. "What is it, Taylor?"
"I..." She swallowed. "Could I... borrow a little money?" Alan blinked, surprised, and she rushed ahead. "It's just to pay for my dance class! Dad hasn't paid Miss Felicity for this month, and-- and I'll pay you back as soon as I can, and--"
Daniel was always punctual with bills, and even Annette's death shouldn't have changed that. What was he--
Alan's eyes widened a bit as it finally clicked. Daniel not answering the phone, Taylor staying over for dinner almost every night, and now this? Alan reached out and ruffled Taylor's hair, putting a smile on his face.
"No worries, Taylor. I know how much you and Emma love that dance class. I'll take care of it, okay?" Taylor's eyes glistened, and she threw her arms around him in a hug. "Now, why don't you go back and play with Ems? I think I smell popcorn and movies~!"
Alan watched her head back to the living room, then stood and straightened his tie. "And it's about time I had a talk with Danny, I think."
May, 2010
Taylor sobbed, and felt like every breath was going to split her chest in two.
She was in a dumpster, kneeling in a puddle of trash and maggots and who knew what else. Clutched to her chest was a long, filth-encrusted object, with just a few glints of metal and bent keys to ever suggest that the object had once been a flute. Her mother's flute. And now it was... this. Taylor didn't want to look at it. She didn't want to touch it. She didn't want to ever let it go. How had it come to this? Her best friend was gone, being devoured by a spiteful monster in her place. Her dad was barely there, the house's emptiness suffocating the both of them. And now this?
How could anyone do this? How could the world be so unfair?
Taylor clutched the ruined flute tighter, rocked back and forth in the garbage, feeling like the grief all at once was going to tear her apart. How could people be so... ugly. They were ugly inside, and mean and spiteful, and this whole city was filled with garbage and flies and people hurting and killing each other, and the ugliness was ALL AROUND HER
...
April, 2011
The Trio finally left the bathroom, their laughter still easily heard through the door as they departed. Taylor sighed, and brushed a lock of soda-soaked hair out of her face. Just another day at Winslow High. She retrieved her bag from the bathroom stall and rummaged through it, assessing damage--her art project was ruined, yay--but the hidden inside pocket had been securely zipped, and from it Taylor retrieved her second most precious possession: an off-brand MP3 player.
A quick shuffle to get her backpack settled and her earbuds in, Taylor hit Play and let the music wash away her hurts and worries, as it always did. Sure, the Trio were absolute bitches intent on making her life a living Hell, and sure, the school administration was either in on it or staffed entirely by incompetent boobs, and sure, Brockton Bay was a festering pit of desperation and all the ugliness of human nature... but Taylor could dance. And dancing made everything better. Each percussive beat put a spring in her step, every soulful brass cry made her heart beat harder. And the stares, the laughter, and the disapproving shouts from teachers as Taylor danced out the doors of the school? None of that mattered. With every step the world was a little bit brighter, a little less ugly.
Taylor danced in place on the bus, sashayed and twirled her way the last few blocks home, then got cleaned up, changed, and grabbed her favorite castanets, the bubbling energy and enthusiasm in her chest that always rose when music was around dissolving frustration and fatigue in equal measure. The day was still young, and it was time to head to Lord's Market, set down a hat, and dance her way that much closer to repairing her mom's flute. She left a note for her dad, locked the door behind her, and smiled at the afternoon sunlight.
Life was beautiful.
June, 2005
"So, what do you think, Taylor?" Annette smiled, showing the ten-year-old the catalog of classes available. "One physical and one art, for a healthy body and a healthy mind. It's good to have a range of hobbies and activities; what would you like to do?"
Taylor piped up immediately, "Flute! I wanna play the flute too, mom!"
Annette laughed. "I should have seen that one coming... okay, yes. Music classes, right here. What about a physical class?"
"Umm..." Taylor's face took on a very serious expression as she looked at the offerings. "Oh! Dance! I wanna dance!"
August, 2007
"Umm... Mr. Barnes?"
"Yes, Taylor?"
The girl looked down at her feet, one hand fisting nervously in her pyjamas. Another sleepover with Emma, which had grown increasingly frequent since last month. Alan Barnes was a family man, and little Taylor Hebert was basically family. And with Annette so recently passed... he squatted down, to get more on Taylor's level, then lifted her chin with a finger. "What is it, Taylor?"
"I..." She swallowed. "Could I... borrow a little money?" Alan blinked, surprised, and she rushed ahead. "It's just to pay for my dance class! Dad hasn't paid Miss Felicity for this month, and-- and I'll pay you back as soon as I can, and--"
Daniel was always punctual with bills, and even Annette's death shouldn't have changed that. What was he--
Alan's eyes widened a bit as it finally clicked. Daniel not answering the phone, Taylor staying over for dinner almost every night, and now this? Alan reached out and ruffled Taylor's hair, putting a smile on his face.
"No worries, Taylor. I know how much you and Emma love that dance class. I'll take care of it, okay?" Taylor's eyes glistened, and she threw her arms around him in a hug. "Now, why don't you go back and play with Ems? I think I smell popcorn and movies~!"
Alan watched her head back to the living room, then stood and straightened his tie. "And it's about time I had a talk with Danny, I think."
May, 2010
Taylor sobbed, and felt like every breath was going to split her chest in two.
She was in a dumpster, kneeling in a puddle of trash and maggots and who knew what else. Clutched to her chest was a long, filth-encrusted object, with just a few glints of metal and bent keys to ever suggest that the object had once been a flute. Her mother's flute. And now it was... this. Taylor didn't want to look at it. She didn't want to touch it. She didn't want to ever let it go. How had it come to this? Her best friend was gone, being devoured by a spiteful monster in her place. Her dad was barely there, the house's emptiness suffocating the both of them. And now this?
How could anyone do this? How could the world be so unfair?
Taylor clutched the ruined flute tighter, rocked back and forth in the garbage, feeling like the grief all at once was going to tear her apart. How could people be so... ugly. They were ugly inside, and mean and spiteful, and this whole city was filled with garbage and flies and people hurting and killing each other, and the ugliness was ALL AROUND HER
...
April, 2011
The Trio finally left the bathroom, their laughter still easily heard through the door as they departed. Taylor sighed, and brushed a lock of soda-soaked hair out of her face. Just another day at Winslow High. She retrieved her bag from the bathroom stall and rummaged through it, assessing damage--her art project was ruined, yay--but the hidden inside pocket had been securely zipped, and from it Taylor retrieved her second most precious possession: an off-brand MP3 player.
A quick shuffle to get her backpack settled and her earbuds in, Taylor hit Play and let the music wash away her hurts and worries, as it always did. Sure, the Trio were absolute bitches intent on making her life a living Hell, and sure, the school administration was either in on it or staffed entirely by incompetent boobs, and sure, Brockton Bay was a festering pit of desperation and all the ugliness of human nature... but Taylor could dance. And dancing made everything better. Each percussive beat put a spring in her step, every soulful brass cry made her heart beat harder. And the stares, the laughter, and the disapproving shouts from teachers as Taylor danced out the doors of the school? None of that mattered. With every step the world was a little bit brighter, a little less ugly.
Taylor danced in place on the bus, sashayed and twirled her way the last few blocks home, then got cleaned up, changed, and grabbed her favorite castanets, the bubbling energy and enthusiasm in her chest that always rose when music was around dissolving frustration and fatigue in equal measure. The day was still young, and it was time to head to Lord's Market, set down a hat, and dance her way that much closer to repairing her mom's flute. She left a note for her dad, locked the door behind her, and smiled at the afternoon sunlight.
Life was beautiful.
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I Am The Law
UnwelcomeStorm
BARK! BARK! BARK!
- Location
- United States
I Am the Law
"We're being herded, we have to get out of here!"
"Not exactly much of a choice right now, Tattletale!"
Grue flooded the street behind them with darkness, but Oni Lee's teleporting didn't seem terribly bothered by the roiling clouds, and if the spreading bloom of red on Regent's side was any indication, slowing down Bitch's dogs and finding a better path was simply not an option. Oni Lee was armed and had little, if any, respect for the sanctity of life. If he caught up, their costumes would not prove sufficient protection against his knife. Grue turned his head, trying to spot the teleporter or his clones, until a sudden curse from Bitch and a hard stop of the mountain of mutant dogflesh beneath him made him focus on the road ahead.
What was left of it, anyway. There was a barricade set up, dumpsters pushed into the road and set ablaze. The height and flames weren't enough to stymie the dogs, but Grue had a fleeting feeling that they were there only for ambiance: the flickering flames painted the alleyway into sullen reds and deep shadows, as though the entire street was drenched in blood. And illuminated, front and center, was a large man with a tattooed chest and a metallic dragon mask. Lung. In the shadows, Grue spotted glints of metal and shifting limbs; the ABB had them surrounded.
Scales were already appearing over the villain's chest and shoulders as he began taking slow, measured steps forward towards the Undersiders.
"You have stolen from me, whelps. This will not be abided." Flames licked up Lung's arms and down his steadily-sharpening claws.
"Your punishment---"
FWEEEEEEEEE!
Everyone jerked in surprise, guns going up and heads snapping towards the source of the shrill whistle. Striding out of a narrow side alley was---
Grue blinked. Twice.
Striding out of a narrow side alley was an imposing figure, clad head to toe in black armor, the metal plates covered in bits of gilt and decorative whorls that gave it an unsettling appearance. The figure's helmet was adorned with horns, great curled things like those of a bull, and just barely visible were locks of dark hair spilling from under the metal mask.. Grue couldn't remember any parahumans in the city that matched such a description, but by appearance alone, this was not someone he wanted to tangle with.
The effect was somewhat ruined by the giant, bright yellow bird the figure was seated upon.
Lung began to growl something about an interruption, but the figure continued the trend by raising one hand up to the sky, before calling out:
"Today's laws! Forbidden: Firearms! Recommended: Beastmasters!"
A beat.
One of the ABB raised a shotgun towards the mounted figure and pulled the trigger. The click was deafening in the silence.
"Infraction! Red card!" And a red card appeared in the figure's upheld hand. The unfortunate gangster did not have to wait long for the repercussions, as with a cry of shock luminous chains wrapped around him, and with a flash the chains, gangster, and abandoned shotgun vanished. Grue turned his head slowly to look at Tattletale, who was staring at the bird-mounted figure with her jaw hanging open. Which was... not encouraging, really.
The Judge paused for a moment for any further infractions, before nodding once and swiping her hand down, sharply.
"ENGAGE!"
"We're being herded, we have to get out of here!"
"Not exactly much of a choice right now, Tattletale!"
Grue flooded the street behind them with darkness, but Oni Lee's teleporting didn't seem terribly bothered by the roiling clouds, and if the spreading bloom of red on Regent's side was any indication, slowing down Bitch's dogs and finding a better path was simply not an option. Oni Lee was armed and had little, if any, respect for the sanctity of life. If he caught up, their costumes would not prove sufficient protection against his knife. Grue turned his head, trying to spot the teleporter or his clones, until a sudden curse from Bitch and a hard stop of the mountain of mutant dogflesh beneath him made him focus on the road ahead.
What was left of it, anyway. There was a barricade set up, dumpsters pushed into the road and set ablaze. The height and flames weren't enough to stymie the dogs, but Grue had a fleeting feeling that they were there only for ambiance: the flickering flames painted the alleyway into sullen reds and deep shadows, as though the entire street was drenched in blood. And illuminated, front and center, was a large man with a tattooed chest and a metallic dragon mask. Lung. In the shadows, Grue spotted glints of metal and shifting limbs; the ABB had them surrounded.
Scales were already appearing over the villain's chest and shoulders as he began taking slow, measured steps forward towards the Undersiders.
"You have stolen from me, whelps. This will not be abided." Flames licked up Lung's arms and down his steadily-sharpening claws.
"Your punishment---"
FWEEEEEEEEE!
Everyone jerked in surprise, guns going up and heads snapping towards the source of the shrill whistle. Striding out of a narrow side alley was---
Grue blinked. Twice.
Striding out of a narrow side alley was an imposing figure, clad head to toe in black armor, the metal plates covered in bits of gilt and decorative whorls that gave it an unsettling appearance. The figure's helmet was adorned with horns, great curled things like those of a bull, and just barely visible were locks of dark hair spilling from under the metal mask.. Grue couldn't remember any parahumans in the city that matched such a description, but by appearance alone, this was not someone he wanted to tangle with.
The effect was somewhat ruined by the giant, bright yellow bird the figure was seated upon.
Lung began to growl something about an interruption, but the figure continued the trend by raising one hand up to the sky, before calling out:
"Today's laws! Forbidden: Firearms! Recommended: Beastmasters!"
A beat.
One of the ABB raised a shotgun towards the mounted figure and pulled the trigger. The click was deafening in the silence.
"Infraction! Red card!" And a red card appeared in the figure's upheld hand. The unfortunate gangster did not have to wait long for the repercussions, as with a cry of shock luminous chains wrapped around him, and with a flash the chains, gangster, and abandoned shotgun vanished. Grue turned his head slowly to look at Tattletale, who was staring at the bird-mounted figure with her jaw hanging open. Which was... not encouraging, really.
The Judge paused for a moment for any further infractions, before nodding once and swiping her hand down, sharply.
"ENGAGE!"
Constellations v2
UnwelcomeStorm
BARK! BARK! BARK!
- Location
- United States
Constellations
(Version 2)
The first time Taylor heard the voice, she was only eight years old. It was at summer camp, and she had wandered away from the trail to chase a grasshopper. At first she wasn't afraid, until sunset faded into night, and she was left alone in the black air with only the sound of cicadas. It was getting colder, and she was lost and hungry and scared, until a glowing ball of pale-blue witchlight sparked to life in front of her.
Poor child, the light said. Are you lost?
"Y-yes." Taylor answered.
You must be scared, and lonely. I can stay with you, if you want.
"You will?" Taylor looked up at the floating light. It glimmered at her, a little brighter. "Thank you!"
Of course, little one. Don't worry.
I won't leave you.
It kept its promise.
Taylor was huddled against her bed, hands held over her ears. Mom and Dad were downstairs, and they were shouting at each other. They'd never done that before-- raised their voices a little, sure, but never shouted. Mom shouted, anyway. Dad roared, and Taylor cringed in on herself a little more every time he did. She buried her face in her sleeve, and whispered to the empty room.
"Why won't they stop fighting...?"
I'm sorry, little one. I know this scares you.
"I don't understand. What happened? I just... I just want them to stop..."
Of course, my dear. I know. I'll try to help if I can.
But the voice couldn't help, and mom left. Later that night, the phone rang, and Taylor picked it up after her dad did, quietly, and listened to the faceless voice on the other end of the line: "Mr. Hebert, there's been an accident." Taylor hung up. She didn't need to hear more. And in the days that followed, her dad grew more and more remote, and looked at her less and less. But she wasn't alone.
How awful, for your mother to have gone. It's terrible... but don't worry, Taylor.
I won't leave you.
It always kept its promises.
Everyone left, eventually. Everyone but her Voice.
Dad thew himself into work, even changing jobs, and he was at home less and less often. Sure, they had more money, but Taylor would have given it all away if it meant her dad was still her dad, and not the stranger he was becoming. Mom was gone forever. And Emma-- oh, Emma was almost the worst. Because she wasn't absent, oh no. She was always around, but she wasn't there for Taylor. She'd bit the hand that always offered her comfort, as the Voice said. And it made Taylor just... so mad. Everything made her so mad: her father, her friend, her school, her city. The anger was suffocating her.
She was so lucky she had her Voice. It was always there for her. And it always had a good idea to share, when she needed one.
Taylor blew on her fingernails, willing the paint to dry a little faster. She'd never done this by herself, before, it'd always been Emma who knew how to put on makeup and gloss and fingernail polish. There were bits of the paint smeared onto the sides of her fingers, and over her cuticles. She hoped it didn't matter.
"And... you're sure this will work?"
Taylor, have I ever been wrong?
"No, of course not. It's just... it's a bit far-fetched, you know?" She blew on her nails again. "You really think this will give me powers?"
More like it will give us powers, my dear. I can't do much like this, but if you let me share with you, you'll be able to use my powers as you like. We could be a hero, just like you always wanted.
"I'd like that." Taylor smiled. "It's just..."
Hmm?
Taylor flushed a bit, and looked down at her feet. "It's just... I don't understand why you'd do this for me. Like, I don't know what you get out of it, I guess." There was a long pause before the Voice spoke again, a gentle admonishment in its tone. The flickering flame of its presence manifested itself before her.
Oh Taylor... it's because we're friends, of course. And friends-- real friends-- want each other to be happy. That's all.
Taylor nodded, and took a breath. She lifted up her hands and touched her fingers to the cold flame, and felt a tingling warmth spread across her hands as the fox seeped in under her nails.
I promise.
(Version 2)
The first time Taylor heard the voice, she was only eight years old. It was at summer camp, and she had wandered away from the trail to chase a grasshopper. At first she wasn't afraid, until sunset faded into night, and she was left alone in the black air with only the sound of cicadas. It was getting colder, and she was lost and hungry and scared, until a glowing ball of pale-blue witchlight sparked to life in front of her.
Poor child, the light said. Are you lost?
"Y-yes." Taylor answered.
You must be scared, and lonely. I can stay with you, if you want.
"You will?" Taylor looked up at the floating light. It glimmered at her, a little brighter. "Thank you!"
Of course, little one. Don't worry.
I won't leave you.
It kept its promise.
Taylor was huddled against her bed, hands held over her ears. Mom and Dad were downstairs, and they were shouting at each other. They'd never done that before-- raised their voices a little, sure, but never shouted. Mom shouted, anyway. Dad roared, and Taylor cringed in on herself a little more every time he did. She buried her face in her sleeve, and whispered to the empty room.
"Why won't they stop fighting...?"
I'm sorry, little one. I know this scares you.
"I don't understand. What happened? I just... I just want them to stop..."
Of course, my dear. I know. I'll try to help if I can.
But the voice couldn't help, and mom left. Later that night, the phone rang, and Taylor picked it up after her dad did, quietly, and listened to the faceless voice on the other end of the line: "Mr. Hebert, there's been an accident." Taylor hung up. She didn't need to hear more. And in the days that followed, her dad grew more and more remote, and looked at her less and less. But she wasn't alone.
How awful, for your mother to have gone. It's terrible... but don't worry, Taylor.
I won't leave you.
It always kept its promises.
Everyone left, eventually. Everyone but her Voice.
Dad thew himself into work, even changing jobs, and he was at home less and less often. Sure, they had more money, but Taylor would have given it all away if it meant her dad was still her dad, and not the stranger he was becoming. Mom was gone forever. And Emma-- oh, Emma was almost the worst. Because she wasn't absent, oh no. She was always around, but she wasn't there for Taylor. She'd bit the hand that always offered her comfort, as the Voice said. And it made Taylor just... so mad. Everything made her so mad: her father, her friend, her school, her city. The anger was suffocating her.
She was so lucky she had her Voice. It was always there for her. And it always had a good idea to share, when she needed one.
Taylor blew on her fingernails, willing the paint to dry a little faster. She'd never done this by herself, before, it'd always been Emma who knew how to put on makeup and gloss and fingernail polish. There were bits of the paint smeared onto the sides of her fingers, and over her cuticles. She hoped it didn't matter.
"And... you're sure this will work?"
Taylor, have I ever been wrong?
"No, of course not. It's just... it's a bit far-fetched, you know?" She blew on her nails again. "You really think this will give me powers?"
More like it will give us powers, my dear. I can't do much like this, but if you let me share with you, you'll be able to use my powers as you like. We could be a hero, just like you always wanted.
"I'd like that." Taylor smiled. "It's just..."
Hmm?
Taylor flushed a bit, and looked down at her feet. "It's just... I don't understand why you'd do this for me. Like, I don't know what you get out of it, I guess." There was a long pause before the Voice spoke again, a gentle admonishment in its tone. The flickering flame of its presence manifested itself before her.
Oh Taylor... it's because we're friends, of course. And friends-- real friends-- want each other to be happy. That's all.
Taylor nodded, and took a breath. She lifted up her hands and touched her fingers to the cold flame, and felt a tingling warmth spread across her hands as the fox seeped in under her nails.
I promise.
All Things Devoured
UnwelcomeStorm
BARK! BARK! BARK!
- Location
- United States
All Things Devoured
There's a lot of things you don't really realize the importance of until they're gone, or so they say. 'They' being books and songs the world over, usually lamenting the loss of a partner, or a home, or a purpose. Loss gets tied to regret gets tied to hope for a new future. Well, in the things I've read, at least. Things I used to read. I don't, anymore. I don't do a lot of things anymore, to go back to that missing-what-you've-lost thing.
Like blinking. I don't do much of that, these days. Breathing would be up there too, but I have to fake that a lot more consistently than the blinking. Flex the diaphragm, let my chest expand, then wait a second before relaxing. Air whistles out from the ruin of my nose, and I see Julia turn to Madison a couple rows ahead and make a gagging motion. I breathe in again and exhale even louder, just to be petty. At the front of the class, Mr. Gladly turns his head from the board to see what's making that noise, only to immediately remember what's making that noise and quickly avert his eyes.
And I'd thought that the teachers at Winslow didn't look at me before, hoo boy. Now that we're living in a post-Locker world, everyone keeps to a minimum safe distance. No eye contact allowed.
The bell rings and I shove my textbooks into my bag with all the care and grace they deserve, then spend the next minute picking up the remains and scattered papers from the floor. It gives time for Madison to take up her post outside the classroom, which is the cue for Emma to sidle on by and draw other individuals into her orbit for the show. I get out the door and look, there they are, right on time. I stand close to the wall and let her approach, following the script of this tired play.
She starts talking at me. I don't really care to listen, and neither does anyone else crowding the hallway. I don't think Emma has realized that people don't follow her movements to watch me. She talks, and I just stare. I always forget to blink, so I know my eyes look glassy and clouded. Emma talks a bit faster, like maybe if she just throws darts quickly enough one of them will strike home. Bullseye. Which gives me an idea.
I tilt my head a bit, like I'm thinking, and put my hand on my cheek. My pinky taps and taps into one of the sunken pockmark scars, right near my cheekbone, where doctors had to excise a lesion that had gone gangrenous. Once I see a few students start to fidget, I stop tapping, and move my pinky a bit higher.
I press the digit against my eye, just enough to move it. Relax, then press again, and now a few kids are already breaking away, unable to handle it. Emma finally notices about three more sentences in, so I press a bit harder and move my finger back a bit, like I'm going to pop the eye right out of its socket. I've considered doing it for real, but I'd never get a second attempt, so I'm saving it for a special occasion.
Emma's composure breaks, like I knew it would. She stammers, and tries to rally her courage, but like Humpty Dumpty she can't quite get herself together again. Her jabs get more desperate, more vicious, less able to be shrugged off as typical highschool drama. And the kids all around us in the hallway stop to watch her mask peel off, show the rotten undersides.
I don't really blink anymore. I don't do a lot of things anymore. But Emma doesn't really have friends anymore, and while it's a really far cry from an even trade, it's something I can start with.
You see, everyone knows what Emma is. Everyone knows what Emma did. Everyone knows how the pretty redhead locked me up in that too-small space, how she laughed into the vents when I didn't cry. Everyone knows that by the time the janitor pulled me out, I was eaten and dripping and broken. Everyone knows that there's such a thing as going too far, and that Emma didn't care.
Everyone knows what Emma is, except Emma.
I remember to inhale so I can start humming to myself, like everyone remembers I did while I was stuck in there. A nursery rhyme; Emma calls me a retard, as expected, and when I keep it up she just makes this teakettle shriek and slaps me, then runs away. By tomorrow she'll have glossed over this whole thing until she's forgotten it, or convinced herself she's 'won' something.
One of the students says something-- an apology, or a reprimand to Emma's behavior. I stare at them until they look away. None of them helped. They don't get to say they're sorry.
The crowd disperses, the show over. So is school, as far as I'm concerned. Which just leaves one last thing on today's planned itinerary: check the traps.
There are two types of traps set around the city, mostly near the docks and the trainyards. That's where there are the most rats, so that's where there are traps. The regular rat-traps are easy, in that they're easy to get and easy to set. Basically just an oversized mousetrap, with the brass bar strong enough to break a human hand. I baited them with peanut butter, and on good days maybe a third of the traps would have a rat in them waiting for me. The other traps were live traps, and so far I really hadn't had any luck with them.
Today wasn't a good day, but it wasn't a bad day, either. I emptied the traps of my catch, moved them around, and re-set them for the next batch. Then it was just a matter of finding a nice, quiet alley where I could remove my shirt. Saves on laundromat costs.
I hunched down over the small pile of furry carcasses, and stopped holding my flesh in place so tightly. My false ribs twitched, then strained, making a bulge in the skin around my belly until the thin layer tore, making room for the bones to stretch outwards and reform. Skin wrapped back up around them as tendons crawled along the new limbs-- they were small, vestigial, they didn't really need muscles. The tiny clawed hands reached, and I bent down a bit more so I could grab a rat with them, then I curled even farther forward. Saliva started flowing again, just in time to let my jawbone dislocate and crack in half, opening up my throat like a snake. I assume that most snakes don't have squirming tendrils to help pull the meal in and down, but it's convenient. The rat gets dissected on the way to where my stomach should be, its flesh becoming my flesh. I'm about to start on the third rat when someone's foot scrapes on the asphalt behind me.
I turn my upper body, my spine making a popping sound as it gets twisted apart and put back together in the same instant. Bone spurs are already starting to press outwards from my wrists, flattening and sharpening until my limbs are less than useful for fine manipulation, but very useful for scything and stabbing.
I don't use them for that, at least not right away. I'm not interested in stabbing heroes, even if it looks like they're interested in stabbing me. Though, I suppose I will have to do something.
But there's enough time to finish the rat before I decide.
There's a lot of things you don't really realize the importance of until they're gone, or so they say. 'They' being books and songs the world over, usually lamenting the loss of a partner, or a home, or a purpose. Loss gets tied to regret gets tied to hope for a new future. Well, in the things I've read, at least. Things I used to read. I don't, anymore. I don't do a lot of things anymore, to go back to that missing-what-you've-lost thing.
Like blinking. I don't do much of that, these days. Breathing would be up there too, but I have to fake that a lot more consistently than the blinking. Flex the diaphragm, let my chest expand, then wait a second before relaxing. Air whistles out from the ruin of my nose, and I see Julia turn to Madison a couple rows ahead and make a gagging motion. I breathe in again and exhale even louder, just to be petty. At the front of the class, Mr. Gladly turns his head from the board to see what's making that noise, only to immediately remember what's making that noise and quickly avert his eyes.
And I'd thought that the teachers at Winslow didn't look at me before, hoo boy. Now that we're living in a post-Locker world, everyone keeps to a minimum safe distance. No eye contact allowed.
The bell rings and I shove my textbooks into my bag with all the care and grace they deserve, then spend the next minute picking up the remains and scattered papers from the floor. It gives time for Madison to take up her post outside the classroom, which is the cue for Emma to sidle on by and draw other individuals into her orbit for the show. I get out the door and look, there they are, right on time. I stand close to the wall and let her approach, following the script of this tired play.
She starts talking at me. I don't really care to listen, and neither does anyone else crowding the hallway. I don't think Emma has realized that people don't follow her movements to watch me. She talks, and I just stare. I always forget to blink, so I know my eyes look glassy and clouded. Emma talks a bit faster, like maybe if she just throws darts quickly enough one of them will strike home. Bullseye. Which gives me an idea.
I tilt my head a bit, like I'm thinking, and put my hand on my cheek. My pinky taps and taps into one of the sunken pockmark scars, right near my cheekbone, where doctors had to excise a lesion that had gone gangrenous. Once I see a few students start to fidget, I stop tapping, and move my pinky a bit higher.
I press the digit against my eye, just enough to move it. Relax, then press again, and now a few kids are already breaking away, unable to handle it. Emma finally notices about three more sentences in, so I press a bit harder and move my finger back a bit, like I'm going to pop the eye right out of its socket. I've considered doing it for real, but I'd never get a second attempt, so I'm saving it for a special occasion.
Emma's composure breaks, like I knew it would. She stammers, and tries to rally her courage, but like Humpty Dumpty she can't quite get herself together again. Her jabs get more desperate, more vicious, less able to be shrugged off as typical highschool drama. And the kids all around us in the hallway stop to watch her mask peel off, show the rotten undersides.
I don't really blink anymore. I don't do a lot of things anymore. But Emma doesn't really have friends anymore, and while it's a really far cry from an even trade, it's something I can start with.
You see, everyone knows what Emma is. Everyone knows what Emma did. Everyone knows how the pretty redhead locked me up in that too-small space, how she laughed into the vents when I didn't cry. Everyone knows that by the time the janitor pulled me out, I was eaten and dripping and broken. Everyone knows that there's such a thing as going too far, and that Emma didn't care.
Everyone knows what Emma is, except Emma.
I remember to inhale so I can start humming to myself, like everyone remembers I did while I was stuck in there. A nursery rhyme; Emma calls me a retard, as expected, and when I keep it up she just makes this teakettle shriek and slaps me, then runs away. By tomorrow she'll have glossed over this whole thing until she's forgotten it, or convinced herself she's 'won' something.
One of the students says something-- an apology, or a reprimand to Emma's behavior. I stare at them until they look away. None of them helped. They don't get to say they're sorry.
The crowd disperses, the show over. So is school, as far as I'm concerned. Which just leaves one last thing on today's planned itinerary: check the traps.
There are two types of traps set around the city, mostly near the docks and the trainyards. That's where there are the most rats, so that's where there are traps. The regular rat-traps are easy, in that they're easy to get and easy to set. Basically just an oversized mousetrap, with the brass bar strong enough to break a human hand. I baited them with peanut butter, and on good days maybe a third of the traps would have a rat in them waiting for me. The other traps were live traps, and so far I really hadn't had any luck with them.
Today wasn't a good day, but it wasn't a bad day, either. I emptied the traps of my catch, moved them around, and re-set them for the next batch. Then it was just a matter of finding a nice, quiet alley where I could remove my shirt. Saves on laundromat costs.
I hunched down over the small pile of furry carcasses, and stopped holding my flesh in place so tightly. My false ribs twitched, then strained, making a bulge in the skin around my belly until the thin layer tore, making room for the bones to stretch outwards and reform. Skin wrapped back up around them as tendons crawled along the new limbs-- they were small, vestigial, they didn't really need muscles. The tiny clawed hands reached, and I bent down a bit more so I could grab a rat with them, then I curled even farther forward. Saliva started flowing again, just in time to let my jawbone dislocate and crack in half, opening up my throat like a snake. I assume that most snakes don't have squirming tendrils to help pull the meal in and down, but it's convenient. The rat gets dissected on the way to where my stomach should be, its flesh becoming my flesh. I'm about to start on the third rat when someone's foot scrapes on the asphalt behind me.
I turn my upper body, my spine making a popping sound as it gets twisted apart and put back together in the same instant. Bone spurs are already starting to press outwards from my wrists, flattening and sharpening until my limbs are less than useful for fine manipulation, but very useful for scything and stabbing.
I don't use them for that, at least not right away. I'm not interested in stabbing heroes, even if it looks like they're interested in stabbing me. Though, I suppose I will have to do something.
But there's enough time to finish the rat before I decide.
I N T E R
UnwelcomeStorm
BARK! BARK! BARK!
- Location
- United States
I N T E R
Taylor used to love playing Hide and Seek. She'd always been the best at it, back when Emma used to play with her; in fact she'd been so good, she'd scared their parents a fair few times, and pushed Emma over the edge of irritation with her elusiveness. Emma took things way too hard, so she'd started choosing easier places to hide in, to let her friend catch her more often. Playing together was better than waiting alone, anyway.
It was a habit she hadn't quite let go of, even after Emma and Sophia changed the game from Hide and Seek to Seek and Hurt. That was Taylor's first mistake. The second was thinking she didn't need to practice, because with so many people around, she had to be seen, right? Someone had to notice Emma's game, didn't they?
They did, but Taylor's third mistake was to trust that they would care.
She'd forgiven herself, though. Mistakes are okay, so long as you learn from them. And Taylor had learned. It might have taken her a while, long enough for Emma and Sophia to really start playing rough, playing dirty, but she'd learned.
("Oh, oh! There she is! Quick, grab the bottle!")
("Shh, shhh, quiet!")
She'd learned, and once again, Taylor was the best at Hide and Seek.
She turned around the corner, picking up her pace a bit. It almost wasn't necessary, here in Layer 3 everything was slowed down. Students shuffled in a sleepy tide through the hallways, all sallow skin and sagging faces. Outside the window, birds labored in a slate-colored sky. Behind her, still several paces from the corner, Madison's hair was lank and dull, and Julie's nails had gotten long and ragged. Taylor reached the janitor's closet, yanked open the door, and pulled it shut before she could be seen.
This was one of her spaces, one of her places where the air was thin and the light was wrong. All she had to do was... twist.
Taylor slid downwards, slid inwards, slid outwards all at once. Then she pushed open the closet door, which grated on rusted hinges. Here in Layer 4, everything was still. All the students stood and stared at the walls. Birds outside were just laying on the ground, tiny beaks clicking. Even the air felt stale and thick in her lungs. Taylor was the only one that stayed vibrant, no matter down deep she went.
Taylor walked out, skirting around her paralyzed peers. She gave Madison a mocking pat on the shoulder, and traced a finger across the smooth expanse of skin where her mouth would be. Taylor had the best hiding place-- so secret, everyone else's lips were sealed. She left the girls behind, starting to whistle a cheery tune as she made her way to the second floor of Winslow. One of the bathrooms had another thinned space, and once she reached it Taylor slid upwards/outwards/inwards back to Layer 1. Sound immediately resumed outside, as teenagers tromped between classes and gossiped and tapped away at their phones. Taylor left the bathroom and joined the traffic.
Emma and Sophia and everyone else could look for her all they wanted. They'd have to get really good, if they wanted to find her. And if they did, then...
Well. Taylor sometimes wondered just how far the Layers went. And it really wasn't fair to make them keep playing when they didn't know the rules had changed.
Taylor used to love playing Hide and Seek. She'd always been the best at it, back when Emma used to play with her; in fact she'd been so good, she'd scared their parents a fair few times, and pushed Emma over the edge of irritation with her elusiveness. Emma took things way too hard, so she'd started choosing easier places to hide in, to let her friend catch her more often. Playing together was better than waiting alone, anyway.
It was a habit she hadn't quite let go of, even after Emma and Sophia changed the game from Hide and Seek to Seek and Hurt. That was Taylor's first mistake. The second was thinking she didn't need to practice, because with so many people around, she had to be seen, right? Someone had to notice Emma's game, didn't they?
They did, but Taylor's third mistake was to trust that they would care.
She'd forgiven herself, though. Mistakes are okay, so long as you learn from them. And Taylor had learned. It might have taken her a while, long enough for Emma and Sophia to really start playing rough, playing dirty, but she'd learned.
("Oh, oh! There she is! Quick, grab the bottle!")
("Shh, shhh, quiet!")
She'd learned, and once again, Taylor was the best at Hide and Seek.
She turned around the corner, picking up her pace a bit. It almost wasn't necessary, here in Layer 3 everything was slowed down. Students shuffled in a sleepy tide through the hallways, all sallow skin and sagging faces. Outside the window, birds labored in a slate-colored sky. Behind her, still several paces from the corner, Madison's hair was lank and dull, and Julie's nails had gotten long and ragged. Taylor reached the janitor's closet, yanked open the door, and pulled it shut before she could be seen.
This was one of her spaces, one of her places where the air was thin and the light was wrong. All she had to do was... twist.
Taylor slid downwards, slid inwards, slid outwards all at once. Then she pushed open the closet door, which grated on rusted hinges. Here in Layer 4, everything was still. All the students stood and stared at the walls. Birds outside were just laying on the ground, tiny beaks clicking. Even the air felt stale and thick in her lungs. Taylor was the only one that stayed vibrant, no matter down deep she went.
Taylor walked out, skirting around her paralyzed peers. She gave Madison a mocking pat on the shoulder, and traced a finger across the smooth expanse of skin where her mouth would be. Taylor had the best hiding place-- so secret, everyone else's lips were sealed. She left the girls behind, starting to whistle a cheery tune as she made her way to the second floor of Winslow. One of the bathrooms had another thinned space, and once she reached it Taylor slid upwards/outwards/inwards back to Layer 1. Sound immediately resumed outside, as teenagers tromped between classes and gossiped and tapped away at their phones. Taylor left the bathroom and joined the traffic.
Emma and Sophia and everyone else could look for her all they wanted. They'd have to get really good, if they wanted to find her. And if they did, then...
Well. Taylor sometimes wondered just how far the Layers went. And it really wasn't fair to make them keep playing when they didn't know the rules had changed.
AnimalKrazed
Caw Caw!
- Location
- Above You
This has all my yes. It is an intriguing thing to read, so thanks for sharing. Your work is as good as always Storm.
I Am The Law (2)
UnwelcomeStorm
BARK! BARK! BARK!
- Location
- United States
I Am The Law (2)
Justice. Noun. Plural justices. First definition: just behavior or treatment. Rather recursive, but quickly explained: what is just is the quality of being fair and reasonable, and justice is the administration of law in maintaining this quality.
Second definition: a judge.
Taylor closed the tab, then with a touch of paranoia wiped the browser history from the computer, tucked into the corner of Mrs. Knott's class. She shivered, and tugged her hoodie in a little tighter. Judge. Just the word sent cold tingles across her scalp, made phantom horns intrude on her peripheral vision. Taylor glanced around nervously, but all the other students were busy tapping at their own keyboards, as she'd known they would be. Her power was ever-present and invisible, until she called on it, but the urge to check and make sure no one was looking was a reflex. Between her new secrets and her old problems, Taylor felt her nerves being run ragged. It was worth it, though.
Or would be. Probably. She was working on it.
And her old problems continued to work at her, as her favorite trio of parasitic barnacles hemmed Taylor in against a wall of the hallway. They must have enjoyed this the last time they'd done it-- or, Taylor thought, with a sliver of dread swimming into her stomach, Emma and her cronies hadn't been the only ones to notice Mr. Gladly turning his back on them. On her. From the sweet, satisfied smile Emma was sporting, Taylor thought so.
Forbidden: Emma. Recommended: Bitchslap. The redhead started talking, and no infractions piled up. Drat. Would it be an abuse of power if she actually added that to the Book, next time she brought it out? At the very least it would surely out her, if Taylor used her power like that so openly. What would the penalty even be, for unlawfully existing as Emma Barnes? Other than being Emma Barnes, of course.
The thought brought a smile to Taylor's face, which made Emma scowl in response, and even reach out a hand to push her shoulder, bumping Taylor back against the wall. That made Taylor tense up, even when she knew that nothing would happen: as far as her powers were concerned, she wasn't 'on the clock.' Her flinch and refocus unfortunately also brought her attention back onto what Emma was actually saying.
Taylor left school in a bit of a hurry, after that. It didn't bear repeating.
She went home filled with a mixture of relief, and anxiety, because now that her old problems had been faced for the day, it was time to pay attention to her new problems. Namely, the half-dozen ABB thugs and the fiery ragedragon she had in her jail. Attacking the Judge is an automatic Red-level infraction. Said so right in the Book. At least ever since Taylor had written it in there.
There was probably something profound in having a power based entirely upon justice being only as moral as the one using it.
But philosophizing was only delaying the inevitable. Taylor put away her school things, got cleaned up, then grabbed some change for the bus and headed out. She couldn't ignore the criminals she was detaining forever, and according to the Book of Law chained to her armor's waist, prisoners could (at the will of the Judge) either post bail, serve out their sentence, or be extradited to an appropriate local authority.
Hopefully, the ferry to the Protectorate Rig wouldn't have too steep a fine for taking her armored dinosaur bird along with her.
Justice. Noun. Plural justices. First definition: just behavior or treatment. Rather recursive, but quickly explained: what is just is the quality of being fair and reasonable, and justice is the administration of law in maintaining this quality.
Second definition: a judge.
Taylor closed the tab, then with a touch of paranoia wiped the browser history from the computer, tucked into the corner of Mrs. Knott's class. She shivered, and tugged her hoodie in a little tighter. Judge. Just the word sent cold tingles across her scalp, made phantom horns intrude on her peripheral vision. Taylor glanced around nervously, but all the other students were busy tapping at their own keyboards, as she'd known they would be. Her power was ever-present and invisible, until she called on it, but the urge to check and make sure no one was looking was a reflex. Between her new secrets and her old problems, Taylor felt her nerves being run ragged. It was worth it, though.
Or would be. Probably. She was working on it.
And her old problems continued to work at her, as her favorite trio of parasitic barnacles hemmed Taylor in against a wall of the hallway. They must have enjoyed this the last time they'd done it-- or, Taylor thought, with a sliver of dread swimming into her stomach, Emma and her cronies hadn't been the only ones to notice Mr. Gladly turning his back on them. On her. From the sweet, satisfied smile Emma was sporting, Taylor thought so.
Forbidden: Emma. Recommended: Bitchslap. The redhead started talking, and no infractions piled up. Drat. Would it be an abuse of power if she actually added that to the Book, next time she brought it out? At the very least it would surely out her, if Taylor used her power like that so openly. What would the penalty even be, for unlawfully existing as Emma Barnes? Other than being Emma Barnes, of course.
The thought brought a smile to Taylor's face, which made Emma scowl in response, and even reach out a hand to push her shoulder, bumping Taylor back against the wall. That made Taylor tense up, even when she knew that nothing would happen: as far as her powers were concerned, she wasn't 'on the clock.' Her flinch and refocus unfortunately also brought her attention back onto what Emma was actually saying.
Taylor left school in a bit of a hurry, after that. It didn't bear repeating.
She went home filled with a mixture of relief, and anxiety, because now that her old problems had been faced for the day, it was time to pay attention to her new problems. Namely, the half-dozen ABB thugs and the fiery ragedragon she had in her jail. Attacking the Judge is an automatic Red-level infraction. Said so right in the Book. At least ever since Taylor had written it in there.
There was probably something profound in having a power based entirely upon justice being only as moral as the one using it.
But philosophizing was only delaying the inevitable. Taylor put away her school things, got cleaned up, then grabbed some change for the bus and headed out. She couldn't ignore the criminals she was detaining forever, and according to the Book of Law chained to her armor's waist, prisoners could (at the will of the Judge) either post bail, serve out their sentence, or be extradited to an appropriate local authority.
Hopefully, the ferry to the Protectorate Rig wouldn't have too steep a fine for taking her armored dinosaur bird along with her.
InfiniteDaze
Too lazy to leave the house
- Location
- I wish I could stay
Reminds me of Disgaea 2's felony system, which would give units bonuses for committing certain actions then going to "court". The one required use of the system was Tink, who was charged with "Existing" (yeah, Tink often got the short end of the stick).
Dakkan Sall
Random Encounter
- Location
- On the world map
Same here. I can't recall the last time I saw it mentioned in a fic or such, even obliquely. Interesting to think of, and I wonder if in this particular scenario it's just Taylor who can visit, or if there are others and she's just unusually acclimated to the situation.
And if the Trio ever end up managing to follow her... well... Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun the frumious Bandersnatch.
Flairina
Least Omnipotent Goddess
- Location
- The next infinity over
Wait, is that an EVERSION crossover? First post seems to say as much, now that I look. Holy hell, I thought that game had been forgotten. I'd actually love to see more of that; if Taylor ever reached the LOWER levels, then...
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Actually it seems to be more like Final Fantasy Tactics Advance. The law system is taken almost verbatim from the game and her judge costume seems too, up to and including a chocobo if I read correctly.
UnwelcomeStorm
BARK! BARK! BARK!
- Location
- United States
Hey, SV! I need an opinion.
I havethis fic, a Persona/Worm cross, with the protagonists of Armsmaster and Narukami Yu. I haven't updated it in a while, probably because I keep finding things to distract myself with, but I've got some parts already written and a full outline. I know where I want the story to go, and end. Problem being, getting there has become somewhat unappealing. Not bad, just... meh. But lately it occurred to me: what if I converted it into a quest instead of a pure fic?
Pros: Keeps things interesting for me, since I have less of an idea what's coming. Careful selection of options and events can still lead to situations I'd originally planned.
Cons: Losing direct control over the fic's progress and direction is a risk. Already have two quests I want to keep up with, but the tone of Stacked Deck is more melancholic than the others, so maybe it'll be okay.
Thoughts?
(Also, while thinking of the means/place to put a poll, I just realized I have a snippet thread that could work. So I'll post there too. It's kinda a discussion thread, right?)
I havethis fic, a Persona/Worm cross, with the protagonists of Armsmaster and Narukami Yu. I haven't updated it in a while, probably because I keep finding things to distract myself with, but I've got some parts already written and a full outline. I know where I want the story to go, and end. Problem being, getting there has become somewhat unappealing. Not bad, just... meh. But lately it occurred to me: what if I converted it into a quest instead of a pure fic?
Pros: Keeps things interesting for me, since I have less of an idea what's coming. Careful selection of options and events can still lead to situations I'd originally planned.
Cons: Losing direct control over the fic's progress and direction is a risk. Already have two quests I want to keep up with, but the tone of Stacked Deck is more melancholic than the others, so maybe it'll be okay.
Thoughts?
(Also, while thinking of the means/place to put a poll, I just realized I have a snippet thread that could work. So I'll post there too. It's kinda a discussion thread, right?)
I'llNameThisL8r
Bad at names
- Location
- Here
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Persona fusion by committee will probably be hell.
Virgo with cheer
Also The Evil Within, just so Yaknow.
- Location
- The Place of No Return: Canada
Hm. I DO like this idea. After all, everyone remembers how well the SUPLEX ALL THE THINGS quest went. let's try it!
For the record: I still giggle like a loon every time I read "What the Christ, Glenn."
I'd wait till you finish some more of your works first then start something new.
- Location
- ferreries
I'd love to participate in such a quest!
Dakkan Sall
Random Encounter
- Location
- On the world map
Huh... I thought it was JAGS Wonderland...
- Location
- Saof Afreekah
I want this. I WANT IT SO BAD
Test Your... Magic?
UnwelcomeStorm
BARK! BARK! BARK!
- Location
- United States
New
My Brain: Replace Harry Potter with Scorpion and see what happens.
Me: Okay
The very normal family in the very normal little house at Number 4, Privet Drive was, upon closer inspection, not really very normal at all. The married couple that lived there, a Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, occupied complete opposite positions on the scale of human proportions, and their son obeyed the fictional rules of generational appearance rather than actual genetics, and was well on his way to becoming a carbon copy of his father. Only without all the height, on account of little Dudley being only eight years old or so. So that was all already a bit odd. But the true oddity at Number 4 was a nesting doll situation of progressively stranger circumstances. Namely, the fourth resident of the Dursley Household, a Mr. Harry Potter, also age eight.
First, Harry Potter was not the Dursley's actual child, but their orphaned nephew that the family had taken in under duress. Second, he looked nothing like his presumptive relatives, being short and thin and dark of hair as opposed to the tall, blonde Dursleys, though for the moment he did at least share Dudley's height and Petunia Durlsley's thin frame. Third, he lived in a broom closet under the stairs, when the Dursleys not only had two spare bedrooms but also a perfectly serviceable couch. Really, even the loft could have been dusted a bit and cleaned up into a habitable space, but no: closet. So even at the bare surface level, the closer one looked at the life of young Harry Potter, the weirder it got. But without a doubt, the strangest, most inexplicable thing about Harry Potter?
"Dudley, I was playing with that! Give it back!"
"Make me, Potter! It's my ball anyway. You gonna cryyyy, Harry?" Dudley stuck out his tongue at his smaller cousin, and held the rubber ball close to his already-flabby chest. Keep Away was one of Dudley's favorite games, because it was rather easy to win no matter what he did.
"Dudley." Harry stood up, tiny fists clenched in anger. "Come back here and give me back the ball. Don't make me come over there."
"Nyaa nya-nya-nyaaa nya--"
"I said GET OVER HERE!" Harry yelled, young face set in an angry grimace, and flung out his hand towards his cousin. The barbed head of a tentacle burst through his palm and speared the rubber ball, then dragged it back to Harry quick as a blink, ruining the toy but winning the argument.
Yes, the strangest, most inexplicable thing about Harry Potter was probably that. The occasional floating object or disappearing and reappearing of the boy himself was pretty tame in comparison.
* * *
"I think I'll put it somewhere poor sod can find it, maybe... up a tree?"
Harry sighed, and watched Draco Malfoy rise up into the air on a school broom, one hand holding Neville's Remembrall as a trophy. Keep Away. Why was it always Keep Away? Did no one ever learn? Well-- better Malfoy learn it now, rather than later. Harry could be merciful for a first offense. He took a few steps forward, to separate himself from the huddled mass of indecisive students, and called up to the pale bully. "Draco, come back down and give that here."
"What, Potter-- you want it? Why don't you come up here and take it, then?"
"I won't ask again, Draco. Don't make me come up there."
"Bet you can't, Potter. You've never so much as seen a broom, much less ridden one, and--"
"GET OVER HERE!" The tentacle launched from his hand and, with a tug from Harry, wrapped itself around Draco Malfoy rather than impaling him, then retracted so fast it tore the boy from his broom and brought him crashing to the earth. See? Merciful. The Remembrall went flying, only to be caught by the second tentacle. This one had a mouth, which could reasonably be used as a grasper, and Harry had been sure to practice to prevent any more innocent rubber balls from being lost in battle. Nobody else really seemed to appreciate the effort Harry went through. They mostly just started screaming. Or yelling, which is a distinctly less panicked sound, as demonstrated by Professor McGonagal when she yelled Stupefy! shortly before the world went dark.
Me: Okay
The very normal family in the very normal little house at Number 4, Privet Drive was, upon closer inspection, not really very normal at all. The married couple that lived there, a Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, occupied complete opposite positions on the scale of human proportions, and their son obeyed the fictional rules of generational appearance rather than actual genetics, and was well on his way to becoming a carbon copy of his father. Only without all the height, on account of little Dudley being only eight years old or so. So that was all already a bit odd. But the true oddity at Number 4 was a nesting doll situation of progressively stranger circumstances. Namely, the fourth resident of the Dursley Household, a Mr. Harry Potter, also age eight.
First, Harry Potter was not the Dursley's actual child, but their orphaned nephew that the family had taken in under duress. Second, he looked nothing like his presumptive relatives, being short and thin and dark of hair as opposed to the tall, blonde Dursleys, though for the moment he did at least share Dudley's height and Petunia Durlsley's thin frame. Third, he lived in a broom closet under the stairs, when the Dursleys not only had two spare bedrooms but also a perfectly serviceable couch. Really, even the loft could have been dusted a bit and cleaned up into a habitable space, but no: closet. So even at the bare surface level, the closer one looked at the life of young Harry Potter, the weirder it got. But without a doubt, the strangest, most inexplicable thing about Harry Potter?
"Dudley, I was playing with that! Give it back!"
"Make me, Potter! It's my ball anyway. You gonna cryyyy, Harry?" Dudley stuck out his tongue at his smaller cousin, and held the rubber ball close to his already-flabby chest. Keep Away was one of Dudley's favorite games, because it was rather easy to win no matter what he did.
"Dudley." Harry stood up, tiny fists clenched in anger. "Come back here and give me back the ball. Don't make me come over there."
"Nyaa nya-nya-nyaaa nya--"
"I said GET OVER HERE!" Harry yelled, young face set in an angry grimace, and flung out his hand towards his cousin. The barbed head of a tentacle burst through his palm and speared the rubber ball, then dragged it back to Harry quick as a blink, ruining the toy but winning the argument.
Yes, the strangest, most inexplicable thing about Harry Potter was probably that. The occasional floating object or disappearing and reappearing of the boy himself was pretty tame in comparison.
* * *
"I think I'll put it somewhere poor sod can find it, maybe... up a tree?"
Harry sighed, and watched Draco Malfoy rise up into the air on a school broom, one hand holding Neville's Remembrall as a trophy. Keep Away. Why was it always Keep Away? Did no one ever learn? Well-- better Malfoy learn it now, rather than later. Harry could be merciful for a first offense. He took a few steps forward, to separate himself from the huddled mass of indecisive students, and called up to the pale bully. "Draco, come back down and give that here."
"What, Potter-- you want it? Why don't you come up here and take it, then?"
"I won't ask again, Draco. Don't make me come up there."
"Bet you can't, Potter. You've never so much as seen a broom, much less ridden one, and--"
"GET OVER HERE!" The tentacle launched from his hand and, with a tug from Harry, wrapped itself around Draco Malfoy rather than impaling him, then retracted so fast it tore the boy from his broom and brought him crashing to the earth. See? Merciful. The Remembrall went flying, only to be caught by the second tentacle. This one had a mouth, which could reasonably be used as a grasper, and Harry had been sure to practice to prevent any more innocent rubber balls from being lost in battle. Nobody else really seemed to appreciate the effort Harry went through. They mostly just started screaming. Or yelling, which is a distinctly less panicked sound, as demonstrated by Professor McGonagal when she yelled Stupefy! shortly before the world went dark.
