not so ancient.

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not so ancient.



January 6th, 2010


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Some way to ring in the new year. The minotaur--Jacob, or what was left of him--couldn't think how long he had been tearing through the museum. An hour? More? His legs ached, his throat was sore, and he could feel blood that wasn't entirely his own spattered all over him. What bloodthirst had taken over seemed to be abating, though his horns and fur were still there; somewhere in the back of his head, Jacob was starting to regain consciousness, like Cinderella at midnight--but with less pumpkins, and more gore. The museum was infused with cold air in between the sweaty damp, and his air hung thick with every breath. His whole body, right down to his bones, felt bruised and swollen. Jacob wanted to lie down somewhere and sleep and sleep--but the minotaur pushed on, exhaustion and anger fueling him. Jacob couldn't fight it anymore.

The wall burst open. Light poured in from outside, the high beams, a helicopter, police cars. The minotaur heard the tinny voices of megaphones screaming in at him, and he roared back. And then a small figure, favoring its right side, clambered up atop the rubble of the doorway.

"We have the front and back surrounded," Boomerang said over the thrumming of the chopper outside. "You have nowhere to go. Give up now and you won't be harmed."

Jacob, as asked, gave up.

The minotaur did not.

[open to ALL! this is the last log, so anyone who wants to get a final hit in on the minotaur is welcome to it! please feel free to wrap up your other threads in the meantime: for ooc knowledge, the minotaur is definitely banged up and wren and mac were hurt, along with several dozen others. GOOD LUCK]

January 5th, 2010


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The minotaur had ripped through the first floor of the museum. He didn't know what he was looking for--or if he was looking for anything. But every person he saw filled him with indescribable rage, and the smell of blood was making him crazy. He swiped away a man running in the opposite direction past his legs; his hands crunched around a woman's leg as she tried to slide by against the wall. When he made his halting way upstairs, followed and preceded by screams, another few men got in his way. Swinging his head from side to side, he went first one way, and then the other, chasing a woman who shrieked and screamed and darted just out of his reach. He couldn't concentrate with all these--these things in the way, these stands and tables and lights. Reaching out a hairy arm, he shoved a moving guitar exhibit roughly to the side--and exposed a girl's hiding place.

[open to Wren, Mac, and Kelly!]

January 4th, 2010


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Hey guys, just a quick heads up! I'm extending the plot through to Tuesday night, rather than tonight, so everyone can finish and threads/docs they might have. THANKS ♥

January 2nd, 2010


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Greg was late, as usual. He was always late for things, nowadays, it seemed: his wife had perfected her exasperated sigh when he showed up ten minutes after their son's baseball game had started, or with his dinner getting cold on the table. But things were busier now than they had been even in the height of his days as boomerang: with a wife and child and a full time job and the occasional (lately, more than occasional) superhuman threat, he seemed to be running late everywhere. He sometimes wished the team was back together, if only so he could have the occasional night off. As it stood, Boomerang had had to make three appearances before Greg could even get into the neighborhood of the EMP: two nasty car accidents the police couldn't handle on their own, and a store hold up on Granada that would have left the shopkeeper dead had Boomerang not stepped in. Now it was nearly midnight, and he was still three blocks away from--

What the hell was that?

He could see the EMP looming in the distance, and the floodlights beaming up into the darkness. For a moment, he could see the acrobats and press still crowding around the doorway--he turned down his radio--and then a car went flying up into the air and landed with a crunch and screams in the middle of the street. It didn't take long for the panic to start. First there was a pregnant silence, and then an indistinct roar, and the crowds around the EMP started shrieking and fighting with the civilians stuck in their cars to get as far away from the museum as quickly as the could. Greg could see a great looming shape rising over the cars, and when it stepped into the beam of the floodlights, he caught a full glimpse of its hulking, monstrous mask.

It was a good thing he had left his costume on under his tux after the Granada incident. )

January 1st, 2010


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Jacob Aster was what someone might call quiet. He was nice, but shy, and when he did speak, people usually had no idea what he was going on about. The price to pay for brilliance, his mother had called it, back when she was alive. Brilliance--that was why he got such a nice job at Mammoth Shipping; it was why they tasked him with some of the more difficult biochemical analyses, why they trusted him to work independently. Though he didn't often talk to his coworkers--they got on fine, but he was just awkward--he had heard whisperings that some of the higher ups in the Mammoth labs were looking at him for a promotion. It was why he had volunteered to stay in the labs while the rest of Mammoth's employees filtered out to the New Year's Eve ball; they still had work to do on the recent shipment from the Crete dig. His superiors had smiled, pleasantly surprised. He was sure he'd get that promotion now.

And really, why shouldn't he? Jacob--and everyone else in this department--knew he was miles ahead of his coworkers in chemical analysis and development. When the vast anthrax scare took Mammoth by surprise, it was his formula that made the most potent vaccine. When they had received that shipment of Greek urns from the Turkey dig, had he not worked three days straight to analyze the bacteria present? He deserved a promotion, and it was high time he received it.

In precautionary suit and gloves, he removed the bovine horn from its case in the sterilized room they had set aside to study it. Something seemed to ripple through his arms. He felt strangely warm, and the brief thoughts of entitlement and anger--he deserved the promotion, the recognition; he was better than all of them; who were they to relegate him to the bottom of the labyrinthine labs while they got drunk and rubbed up against each other at the company party?--the bitterness surged up inside him, and worms or slugs or snakes seemed to burrow and slide under his skin. His forehead boiled, like bubbles of flesh were bursting underneath his mask, pushing out and up like horns. He dropped the carved horn he was holding as his stomach turned over, and when he looked down at his hands, they burst--covered in coarse brown hair and twice their natural size--out of the gloves of his suit.

His bones crunched. His skin stretched. His nostrils flattened wide against his face as pale ivory horns ripped from his forehead. In Jacob Aster's place was a ten-foot tall creature, three times as wide as a man, nostrils flaring and eyes rolling in a head shaped distinctly, horrifyingly, like a bull's. And he could only think of one place to go: the place where his keepers were gathered, the Mammoth Holiday Ball.

December 31st, 2009


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New Year's Eve was by far the biggest event of Seattle's annual party scene, and Mammoth--appropriately--was the biggest of them all. Streams of lights, high-beams flashing their location into the night sky, musicians and dancers and--this year--a smooth red carpet lined up outside the museum like the entry to a king's feast. A woman in sequins and feathers waved coyly from behind a massive peacock-tail fan; a pair of acrobats stood on hands and elbows near the door, contorting to wave with their feet. The performers were cordoned off, and at their edges stood the press, cameras flashing, microphones buzzing, as they pressed in as close as possible to photograph the people entering the ball. The guest list was motlier this year than in previous years: a woman, clearly high-society, in an elaborate Vera Wang, entered just behind a young man in a rented tux and hastily purchased domino mask. Anamitra Malik, representing the company, was wandering back and forth in front of the line of press in blue silk--"A Chantal, darlings; if you don't know her, you really ought"--occasionally pausing to warmly welcome this or that guest. She seemed to be familiar with not only the high-rollers, but some of the more mundane attendees as well.

Inside, the EMP had been transformed. The more portable exhibits had been put into storage to allow for wider walkways; impromptu bars had been set up at various points around the museum's three floors. The giant guitar statue was surrounded on all sides by a circular table, at which blackjack dealers entertained those willing to put down bets. Music came from all corners, a different theme on each floor, while the cafe was filled with plush new seating and lowlit tables, the quiet tinkling of jazz piano coming from within its smoky interior. Complimentary champagne and snacks were going around on trays held up by smart-looking waiters and waitresses, though guests could find harder liquor at the bars in the upper tiers.

A large television screen had been rigged on the upper tier, against a far wall so it could be visible from below. Three hours to midnight.

[open to all!]

December 29th, 2009

i see a stairway and i follow it down to the belly of a whale,

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As expressed Christine didn’t like Christmas or New Years. In fact she was generally sour towards most holidays that came along; all they did was remind her of what she’d lost. No, that was giving herself far too much credit. They reminded her of what she’d given up. Ruminations of what life might have been like had she not gone through with that abortion years ago were infrequent, she’d been young and stupid, but giving up her son for adoption, that stung. That hurt. Working kept her mind diverted from him sufficiently during the year but the holidays always ripped the bandage off the wound and she thought of her own childhood, of her parents and those few days where they actually behaved like a real family for a change, before the sherry induced cat fights started and Christine would roll her eyes and disappear off into the house somewhere to let her ridiculous parents hiss and spit at each other in private. At this time of year she would find herself thinking about her son, what his Christmas had been like, what toy he had really, desperately wanted and if his adoptive parents had given it to him in the guise of Santa Claus. At this time of year she wondered whether or not he had her eyes or her blonde hair, if he was tall for his age, how many pairs of shoes he’d grown out of this last year. This time of year hurt like no other. Perhaps with the exception of his birthday.

There was exactly one photograph in her possession of her son and usually it stayed at home, tucked away somewhere safe and out of sight, which she hated to do, as if she were ashamed of him, to which her inner monologue often cried Well Aren’t You? It was just better that way, she thought. It avoided awkward questions, it meant she didn’t have to lie to anyone, say that he was a relation from some distant branch of the family. For the last few days though she’d been taking the photograph out of the drawer it was usually locked in and holding it in her palm as though it were fragile, breakable. From out of the once glossy rectangle a baby looked up at her, sleepy, impassive in a way. The longer she looked at him the more accusatory his expression seemed to become, the more knowing, until her chest felt tight and her eyes started to sting and she had to put the photo away; it burned her. Christine both hated and loved it. In the run up to Christmas it lived in the inside pocket of her business jacket and it was so heavy., but she had gotten to that point that she reached every year where she couldn’t put the photo away completely, she had to keep it close, sentimentality beat out her iron fisted control and she carried her son in her pocket. Maybe it was dangerous to do that, but she didn’t care. )

[ narrative . closed ]

December 28th, 2009


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sent to all Mammoth employees, and, through various channels, everyone on the network:

ooc note. )

December 21st, 2009


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Wednesday, Dec. 23 from 4-6 p.m.
Local actor and author Kyle Hollings, known for his performances in the Seattle Players' rendition of Twelfth Night and Waiting for Godot, will be giving a reading of Dickens' famed A Christmas Carol at The Atrium at Salish Lodge & Spa; complimentary apple cider and gingerbread cookies will be served. Admission is free, though donations are encouraged. All proceeds go to the Harrison Street Children's Center.

Reservations are not required and space is available on a first come, first served basis. For more information please call 800.555.SALI or visit

Thursday, Dec. 24 from 9 p.m. - 2 a.m.
Ring in Christmas Eve with DJ Six-Seven (Las Vegas-Pure Nightclub, Moon, Prive) at Fremont Studios. Cover is $15, which includes a special performance by Jeremih.

For more information, call Fremont Studios at 555-7814 or visit

Thursday, Dec. 31 from 9 p.m. - 2 a.m.
Keeping in Mammoth tradition, the megacorp is throwing its annual holiday ball. Exclusive, black tie, and the pinnacle of Seattle class, Mammoth promises this ball will be the best yet. Admission begins at 8 p.m. at EMP, with five separate dance floors designated for dancing, drinking, live performances, and dining.

Reservations are required, either through invitations or purchase of tickets at $179 and up. Tickets may be purchased at Half of all profits will go to the Marilyn Idris Metahuman Research Fund, and the construction of the Homestead at Alder Cove foster care center.

Friday, Jan. 1 from 6-8 p.m.
A celebration of old and new, the Sixth Street Boys Choir will perform a selection of old and new pieces at Benaroya Hall, 200 University St. Tickets are $25 in advance and $35 at the door. For more information, call Benaroya Hall at 555.8971 or the Sixth Street Boys Choir offices, at 555.1982.

November 16th, 2009

what's a girl supposed to say.

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Delivered to Mac by courier; )

here's the (e)mail it never fails, it makes me wanna wag my tail

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SUBJECT: In person introductions.
email body )

SUBJECT: Auction Menu.
email body )

November 9th, 2009

you'll ask your reason why, what once was yours is mine. (connor)

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The tumultuous events of late seemed to finally be behind them. Nikki and her niece were back at home, Sylvie was out of the hospital and no longer craving human flesh, and the threat that the two supposed vigilantes posed had been dismissed by Ana. The Seattle area was finally starting to look peaceful and clean again, the way it should, and it was back to business as usual. Luther and Connor had their life back, uninterrupted. No more running around trying to save everyone, no more shuffling sleeping arrangements, no more eating out of the vending machines. It was quiet motel rooms and cheap diner food again, tv schedules so Connor didn't miss his dramas, Luther counting his pills. Everything was normal.

Luther wasn't sure why it bothered him so much. The excitement around Halloween had admittedly been a pain in his ass, but for the first time in ages, he'd been free to roam the streets. And he'd been enjoying it. No looking over his shoulder for once, at least not for cops. Zombies were something he could actually handle, strange as they were, and there had been something truly exciting about being let off his short leash to fight evil for a change. It had felt like he was doing something good for the first time in forever. He'd protected people. He'd been someone who could be relied upon to save the day. Given the circumstances, it was pretty different from being the father who could unclog the sink or show up at just the right moment to take the baby to the doctor, but it felt the same way. And having Nikki around to remind him of the old days, when he had still been a decent person with a real life, had made the illusion even more real.

But the illusion was gone now. Luther had been saying many times over the last few days that he was glad things were back to normal, but his behavior had definitely been at odds with his words. And that evening, while Connor sat and watched tv, Luther was stretched out on his bed and staring at the ceiling instead of exercising the way he usually did to pass the hours. There were a lot of thoughts rolling like loose marbles through his head and all of them were not helping with his brooding.

[ open to connor! ]

November 4th, 2009

we've added enough of the world;

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And just like that, it stopped.

The zombies paused with their teeth buried into their neighbors' arms, dazed and unaware of what exactly had happened. The sky stopped raining meatballs and pancakes. A man in a bright red leather jacket stopped moonwalking across the stage, while another felt his canines retract into his mouth. Film in theaters across the city regained their pictures. People began to clean up the mess.

For now, it seemed, things were back to normal.

ooc. )

we'll save this earth into jars;

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“Good evening, Athena.”

Athena had locked that door. She knew she'd locked that door. But there he was, hands folded behind his back, hair slicked down, face grim. She got up hastily from the oils and herbs she'd been poring over for the past week, the clues and spells she'd been desperately searching in for some reversal. He shifted lazily from foot to foot, but she could see the line of tension in his shoulders.

“What are you doing here?” she asked sharply. She was nowhere near his height, but had learned in their years together that she needed to cut an imposing figure. Imposing, but not defiant.

That seems to me a stupid question. )

before the night is through i wanna do bad things with you,

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Sylvie Blake was not acting like herself. Everything was aggravating her to the point of wrathful outbursts and curse words she would never dream of using. After the pain in her stomach had gotten so bad that seemed to be reaching out tendrils all through her body she had dumped her phone, not caring that it landed on the bed once, bounced and skittered under the bed next to hers, and lurched off into the hallways. Frankly the hospital was a madhouse; doctors and nurses were flying this way and that and injured people were slumped against the walls or the floor, some bleeding profusely others seemed to be the victims of hit and runs, most were groaning in low voices, on the verge of passing out. Sylvie pushed her way through the crowds, looking for an exit or for something to fucking eat at the very least, dodging people or else telling them in no uncertain terms to move out of her way as she went.

Someone bumped into her coming out of one of the curtained areas and Sylvie shoved him away instinctively, her expression a mixture of disgust and anger. "Get your hands off me," she snapped roughly.

Shaking his head the man stammered an apology and then proceeded to pin her to the wall accidentally when a gurney went by housing a patient who was writhing and screaming bloody murder at the top of his lungs. Sylvie’s eyes focused in on the throbbing line in his throat just inches away from her, she began to salivate, swallowing down thickly as the man tried to move past her. Then it was all too much; the scent of sweat and fear and panic enveloped her senses and she grabbed him by the shoulders, lunging in as if to kiss him only to open her jaws at the last moment and plunger her teeth into the soft, warm flesh of his throat. Blood gushed over her tongue, the sweet flavour of human flesh covered her taste buds. Screaming in gurgled agony he lost his footing under the unexpected weight of the petite blonde jumping him and fell onto his back. Sobs broke through his screams, chaos erupted anew all around and he grabbed a fistful of her thick hair, pulling her head up and away from the mess that had been his throat moments ago. Snarling now, blood painting her chin and staining her teeth Sylvie grabbed his hand and wrenched it away, holding it in a tight little fist as she sank her teeth into his trachea, effectively cutting off his air supply and ending his struggle.

Wolfing down mouthfuls of bloody tissue she realised that she had just discovered the only way to sate that aching in her gut.

[ narrative ]

you quiver like a candle on fire,

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It wasn’t about catching her in the blast. Not yet anyway. Christine had gone to ground and was hiding out somewhere in the city anyway. So now, it was about providing a symbol for her of what was to come, after all he had promised biblical and that was what she would get. Since her apartment block had underground secure parking he had to move the thing out into a more public venue. It wasn’t hard after he’d broken into her apartment and had her keys, everyone was too busy with the other chaos going on in the city to be too bothered about one man. He set everything up in the concrete cloisters of the garage where he could be alone and concentrate fully without worrying about being interrupted and then it was just a case of driving the thing somewhere that would get a nice public reaction and enough coverage to make sure the bitch would see it on the news, out in the open so there was no way the police could cordon it off. Parked innocently at a meter he got out, shut the door and walked away, thumbing the button to start the countdown.

When the device when off it was with a magnificent boom; a firestorm of smoke and flame exploded into the crisp Seattle air around the car’s engine block, the hood shot up, the chassis distended and buckled, the windows cracked into find spider web designs and the upholstery inside choked the fire with a horrible chemical scent as it burnt. It wasn’t long before the camera crews arrived on the scene, it didn’t take long for their stations to get the plates and grease a few palms for the owner.

At the top of the evening news the story was announced with footage of the burning wreck of a silver Audi: "The car of advertising heavy weight and Mammoth Shipping employee Christine Golding was at the centre of an explosion today, though no one was hurt in the blast and the cause remains unclear, speculation points towards the threats of one Peter Hartley. Details will follow this break."

November 3rd, 2009


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"... partly cloudy with sunny spells and a high of fifty-five degrees with temperatures dropping into the low forties overnight. Please be advised that with the nights drawing in and the ongoing chaos we are advising you to stay indoors and off the roads. Back to the s-- what? There’s what behind me? Is that a waffle? I-- No keep rolling. Uh, it appears to be raining food..."

November 2nd, 2009

wait, okay, you've got to look before you go;

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Kelly knew she wasn't the best or the brightest (at least when it came to things not involved with KICKING ASS AND TAKING NAMES). She knew that in ten years, if she wasn't teaching plebes to shoot on some army base in the godforsaken Arab desert, she'd probably be just like Coach Wallace--middle-aged, fat, and yelling at kids to run laps. All right, so maybe she'd never be fat, and 34 wasn't really middle-aged, but that was besides the point. At least now she knew that among all the other mushy beloved daughter and step-sister bullshit on her headstone, they would be able to inscribe,

Or queen. Whatever.

She'd made a bunch of stops after their impromptu wild rumpus and game of throwing debris at zombies from a rooftop: her brother's job, where they had barred themselves against the flesh-eating hordes; her mother and stepfather's apartment, though they had left town as soon as the chaos started; the school, which was blissfully empty in an impromptu zombies-are-attacking-so-school-is-cancelled day. The wild things had crushed the swingset; whoops. Now it was off to Wren's: if there was anyone who needed to get a little wild, it was that girl. Her information was in the school's files; all Kelly had to do was wait outside the window and tell her things to howl.

[open to wren!]


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“...reports of domestic disturbance in downtown Seattle today. Local high school student Jeremy Hills has reported a disturbing and violent change in his stepfather—more shockingly, he states that it seems to be in accordance with the recent string of 'zombie' attacks...”

“...have Trisha Takanawa in the field with Lupe Moreno, a local bar owner, who reports seeing someone with fangs and an apparent taste for blood in her bar. According to Ms. Moreno, the man was trying to warn them of something called a 'vampanese'...”

“...the feud between local carpenter Todd Woods and engineer Harry Busman, employees of Titan Construction Company known for their competitive animosity, reached new heights today, when the men came to blows on site. Busman reportedly followed up the fight by telling his team to craft him a pair of wings...”

“ students taking to the streets in song...”

“ lighter news, a Michael Jackson impersonator is holding an impromptu concert at the Paramount Theatre...”

“ interview today with a man calling himself a 'zombie hunter,' giving our viewing audience a few tips on how to deal with the new faux human menace. The man, who goes by only Puget Sound, says it's his mission in life to kill zombies and find the last twinkie. One wonders if he's gone to too many Zombieland screenings--although with the current climate, who could blame him..."
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