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[Apr. 30th, 2009|12:03 pm] |
Who:Nathan Wallace & the Repo Man.
What: The Party. (Party ftw?)
Where: Very obviously where the party is being held.
Why?: On such a perfect night...
A lunatic may be “soothed”...for a time, but in the end, he is very apt to become obstreperous. His cunning, too, is proverbial, and great.... When a madman appears thoroughly sane, indeed, it is high time to put him in a straight jacket.
-Edgar Allan Poe
( If the lion were to know his own strength-no man could withstand him. ) |
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[Apr. 16th, 2009|10:09 am] |
WHO: Cherry Darling & OPEN.
WHAT: Cherry receives a "gift"
WHERE: Largo Towers, Cherry's suite next to Luigi's room.
WHEN: A few hours before Emma's party.
RATING: TBD?
( I look like a freakin' cupcake. ) |
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[Apr. 13th, 2009|07:24 pm] |
WHO: Emma Frost, Rotti Largo & OPEN!
WHAT: The opening to Emma's birthday ball.
WHERE: GeneCo Ballroom.
WHEN: At the opera tonight!
RATING: PG-13, for now.
( Come one! Come all! ) |
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| [Open to Nathan, Repo-menfolk, and anybody who wants to wander by] |
[Apr. 7th, 2009|12:42 am] |
Perfection is in the curve of the wrist and how well your fingertips guided you. The little variations between color, a rosy pink and a bruised peach, didn't matter much to her now. It used to be a confusing literal mess, trying to adapt to discerning omental fat from the rest of the deadened yellow patches floating around inside the abdomen. Intestines used to be a labyrinth for her fingers to follow, but now she cradled them in her arms, the end of the organ slipping down and hanging limp and spaghetti-like next to her hip.
The chest cavity gaped open to the night air, bathed in the blue light from her visor. It had been carved and gutted out like a jackolantern. She had made room to work by sawing off the rib cage, and now her arms worked freely, fists splashing around in the dark blood that had pooled towards the pelvic area.
Snip one, two, snip one two three, Aha! There. She mentally guided herself through her work, taking a playful edge to her thoughts, poking and digging around to the tune of a random ditty that had popped up in her head. She looked like a kid playing in the sand box. All the joy was focused around her hands, a satisfied sigh sounding when she finally exited the chest cavity and stood victoriously with the spine cupped in her palms.
Grinning. Was she actually grinning? She staggered backwards a bit and managed to regain her composure, but her eyes were wide and frightened looking behind that blue haze. A snap change in emotion swept over her and that balloon of pride that had begun to inflate in her chest iced over with a tactile chill and drew upwards, forming into a lump in her throat.
Okay, now it was certain. She was going just a tad bat shit to be humming over an evening of organ harvesting. The chilling thing was that she had nearly no remembrance of when such a switch occurred. She was giddy and a bit keyed up because she was doing a favor for him, of course, and there was the masquerade ball later tonight, but she never remembered being aware of the switch over between a mind that viewed business as a numb procedure and a mind that enjoyed the mess and appreciated the colors of organs.
She clutched the organ, dropping it hot potato style into a plastic bag and then into a coolant filled briefcase. Part of her was starting to think clearly again, her mind chugging along like the trooper it was. She was coherent enough to remember to mark the case, bringing out the laser pen that etched the organ's specific bar-code into the top of the briefcase.
Staring around, her gaze darted over the street in front of her, then behind her. She sort of felt embarrassed, looking over her shoulder past the dangling remains of her assignment as if someone had been watching.
Gain control, c'mon, don't be a sissy. Time to call in the catch, righto, pronto. She prodded herself mentally, shaking her head once and then twice, staring down at her digital communicator and muttering "Nathan Wallace" in an unsure tone.
"Hullo? Boss? Where did you want the drop off point for the fax to be? I'm hanging around Cathix street..." |
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| Open to Nathan! |
[Apr. 6th, 2009|03:00 pm] |
Who: Shilo & her daddy. =)
What: ...IDK, stuff.
When: Same night as this, right?
Where: La Casa De Wallace, obviously.
There should only have been so many sites Shilo was allowed access to. Mediupdate? Not one of them. Search engines? Message boards? No, not those either. But it had been a long time since she accepted "ACCESS DENIED" as an answer. And so, after checking her mail (nothing but newsletters and junk - what else was new? It's not like she knew anyone who could email her, anyway) and journal at least five times, she gave up on communication and went back to fantasizing about what a night she might have as a guest at Ms. Frost's birthday ball.
It was all she could think about. For the last week, every moment spent alone was filled with daydreams and little sketches in the margins of her textbooks and notebooks and scrap papers. Now, she was just looking for dresses. That she'd never have. Oh, it's nothing, Daddy. Just a very large box with my name on it and I don't even have the slightest idea where it came from! Maybe it's an accident. Still, I'd better take it upstairs and not let you see what it is and keep it, just in case! Right, that would totally work. Regardless, she'd bookmarked more than a few and wasn't giving up the hunt, just yet.
Her stomach growled and, from chair, she cast a scowly glance back at the now-empty minifridge to her left. Two peanut butter and honey sandwiches and a bag full of trail mix did not cover a whole day of food, Dad. Growl.
Whatever. Back to the task at hand.
...Maybe she could make one. If she had the material. If she had a sewing kit. If she could sew better.
Not gonna happen.
But a girl could dream, couldn't she? Well, alone in her room, alone in her whole house because Daddy had business - more important things - to attend to, Shilo propped her window open and turned up the phonograph as loud as it would go (not terribly loud, still, sadly) and dreamed her little heart out. |
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| Log: Luigi and Cherry |
[Apr. 6th, 2009|03:03 pm] |
Who: Luigi and Cherry Darling (ha!)
What: Gift-wrapped henchgirl from Daddy!
When: After Luigi receives this message
Where: Luigi's grand suite.
Luigi rarely questioned his father's decisions, but this was one of those times. At least, it would be, if Rotti's communications allowed for him to receive messages. But it didn't, and Luigi had long ago accepted that. That was just like Rotti, too. Cold and distant, a paternal figure only when absolutely necessary.
While he waited for her to show up so he could reject her, he decided he'd idle the time away by reviewing her info. She was gorgeous, the picture of perfection, but that was expected. All women of GeneCo were clones of one another. He brought up the images file and ignored the surGEN notes; he had very little patience for much reading.
The first image he saw certainly got his attention. A gunleg. So she was a cripple, but her handicap was also her weapon. Well that could prove rather interesting. Immediately he thought of Pavi's Asian beauty, and sneered. A bitch with a gunleg beat out that knife-thrower any day! All the press would be interested in her, and turn their cameras away from Pavi!
Suddenly, he wanted very much to meet this woman. |
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| [Open to Anyone, ie, Denizens of the underworld.] |
[Apr. 6th, 2009|11:30 am] |
You could say something about the street here.
Something dark and gritty, something metaphoric and full of prose, but truth be told there is little and less poetry in the world these days.
Poetry of darker sorts. Boots and creatures, black instead of white, No sun, sun was a distant memory to Nathan Wallace-not entirely there in the moment. Repo preferred the world like this.
The same way he preferred to exist in the shadows and only stalk boldly out if there were creatures to be threatened. Abominations have no need to concern themselves with things like parties. Nathan Wallace was ready to loose himself, and Repo was more then willing to catch his alter-ego and take over.
He preferred it.
The simplicity of the occasional scream, the plesant feeling when the lower creatures ran from him. In moments like these, directives were little and less. He'd been given an order that he considered he could follow at his leisure and if he disobeyed...
No, as a rule, dogs didn't bite the hands that fed them. Largo kept him in killing and he performed a vital public service-keeping the vermin in check.
Similar to the vermin he was watching now. Sixteen, attractive female. (It's not her.) Long dark hair and dark chocolate eyes (It's not her!) And the usual diatribe from the more civilized who thought still after all these years that killing children was wrong.
Even children who-(thanks to their GeneCo Heart) could run a mile in a minute four-if the air quality were better. Thank goodness for the air quality-without it, Rotti Largo would have unintentionally created a race of super humans.
But no, they were in check. Under his thumb.
His dog perches, utterly content, smiling to itself as the girl continues to glance over her shoulder. Is she being followed? Just possibly. |
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| Open to Emma Frost. |
[Apr. 3rd, 2009|09:15 pm] |
Who: Jack Shepard, Emma Frost, any GENterns (Brave enough to help out?)
What?: Prepping for Surgery
When: Obviously before the ShinDig.
You had catalogues of eyes, books of noses, pictures taken from the dozens of people you'd seen flash across your table over the years and you still weren't prepared.
He's not nervous. Jack Shepard doesn't get nervous (Not where anyone can see) he exists in a state of perpetual calm and catalogues of eyes, books of noses. His specialty is the human spine, the core of movement, but he dabbles in everything else. Medicine was no longer a science.
No. It was an art form. Perfected, Why fix when you could create? He was a modern day Pygmalion sculpting women and men out of clay.
He checked his watch, closed his eyes, and wondered about the patients that had been shuffled aside would make it. Mr. Johanson probably, he came in for an adjustment every year since his car accident. Mrs. Rodrigeuz-
She should just go to a body farm and be done with it.
She tried to be Emma Frost and Failed, tried to be Amber and Failed, tried to be Mag and failed. When he'd looked at her ID photograph and realized she was beautiful he couldn't help but feel a little sad. Pygmalion had become a Roman doctor, trained to ignore the sounds of his patients suffering.
So he waits, pacing, nervous as the cats in the zoo. Books of Faces, Eyes, Noses, lips, Books of life.
Since they had none that actually existed. |
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