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!]

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 ♥

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. )

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.

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!]