Introduction to Fandom Muses

I'm Annabel Delacroix, and I'm 17. If you're from the East Coast or the Upper East Side of New York particularly, chances are you've heard of me or at least of the family my mom married into. The Marquette dynasty covers a modeling agency, three magazines, a major record label, real estate empire, and a new independent film franchise. My step grandfather was quite the entrepreneur. Too bad he didn't live long enough to reap the benefits of it. That's okay though. My brother Deacon and I have that covered. We've lived a privileged life, but now we're on the run.

The details aren't important unless we think they're any of your business. Another rich family, with another deep dark secret. Yawn. Really, we're doing you the favor by sparing you yet another tired cliché. Things happen, and you don't mean them to or maybe you do. Either way, you can't take them back so you make due. I know we have.

Anyway, so it turns out, I slay vampires. It would have been nice to know that, like if someone could have been bothered to tell me that before I broke Brigitte Carlson's wrist simply by twisting it an attempt to get my BlackBerry back from her nosy little hands. I didn't even twist it that hard, and then…snap. Compound fracture, and suddenly everyone thinks I'm some kind of violent freak with rage problems and my parents stick me in therapy with some idiot that Freud himself would have had committed. I wasn't the problem. The problem was that no one bothered to tell me that I was supposed to be a superhero now or how to be one.

Lucky for me I met some drunk demon at Butter who knew the score and was willing to fill me in. Well, that was until these two cute guys named Sam and Dean busted up our party and killed the poor guy. He was nice too. I mean, I'm sure if he'd been sober he probably would have tried to kill me or something. But he was totally wasted and therefore harmless and he told me all about demons and vampires, hunters and slayers while he complained about how much he missed being human sometimes. He probably misses it even more now that he's back in Hell.

So now I'm in Los Angeles because my brother tracked down some school for people like me so we can learn how to use all this power we never asked for to actually hurt the people who hurt us put the hurt on some evil. Sign me up, give me a uniform, and charge me tuition, whatever. Just don't expect me to live in some dorm where my brother isn't. Besides, I don't really like girls anyway. Not unless they recognize who's queen.

Introductions. They’re basically pointless, because it doesn’t matter what you say about yourself, people are going to perceive you how they want. They’re going to have whatever impression they choose. They say first impressions are everything, but I say that’s bullshit. How the hell can you figure a person out after meeting them one time? Everyone puts way too much stock in that whole first impression thing. Which is usually why a person doesn’t show you their true self on that first initial meeting. So, I guess first impressions are like I said, total bullshit.

I’m Deacon Marquette, maybe you’ve heard of me, maybe you haven’t. I really don’t care either way. I’m not here to impress you and I don’t give a fuck if you like me or not. I’m not exactly the best representative for that family name. Dad tries to keep me out of the public eye as much as he can, considering I soil our great name every chance I get. Hey, life’s short, I’m gonna live it how I want. I was born into a life of privilege, why the fuck wouldn’t I take advantage of that? Besides when I fuck up, it’s always the same old lecture about how hard Grandfather worked to create this dynasty. But he’s not here now is he?

Anyway, I’m 22 and I’m from the Upper East Side of New York. You know the place. Society’s finest. All money and ego and that overwhelming sense of entitlement. I’d like to say I’m the exception, but that would be a lie. I just have a different take on that whole life. One that my father is not especially impressed with. Or any of his friends for that matter. Again, I really don’t care.

Right now, I’m basically on the run. The reason isn’t important. My step-sister, Annabel and I came to LA because she’s sort of what you’d call special. One of many or so she was told. So, I tracked down this school that helped people like her learn about their powers and what their destiny is. Too bad there isn’t one for my own. Me, I’m just hanging out, doing whatever I feel like doing. See, wherever my sister is, that’s where I’m gonna be. Somebody’s gotta keep her safe and look out for her. I don’t trust anyone else doing it.

Introductions are lame. They're for people with MySpace and people who buy into Match.com commercials. A bunch of insecure basement dwellers rattling off their best traits and a few anecdotes from their glory days in an attempt to make other basement dwellers like them so they can have sex on instant messenger or whatever it is the majority of people reading this do in their vast amounts of spare time.

I mean, that or they just straight up lie which is probably what I would do if I actually played along.

Look, the basics are these: I'm a demon. Okay, so that's just one basic in case some smart ass in the crowd feels compelled to showcase their stellar counting skills. Or maybe it's grammar skills...with the plural thing? Whatever. I'm bored with this already.

Anyway, I'll keep this short for the Dean Winchesters of the world lest they find it a little hard to follow along. I'm a demon, which means you probably shouldn't trust me. Unless you're Sam, in which case I've never lied to you so you damn well better trust me.

So that's it. You can run along now, back to your cybersex and your digital cameras with your weird crooked angles that you think are so flattering. I have bigger fish to fry so unless you've got some tartar sauce, you're of no use to me. You're probably of no use to me anyway. Negative points if you're a witch or a bigot.

Questions? Comments? Suggestions? Fries you'd like to share because you're not a selfish fry-Bogarting racist? Just so you know, I prefer the latter. That or just plain silence.