not so ancient.

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]

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!]

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!]