The Doorway: a panfandom game

Who: Grantaire & Enjolras
When: Evening, September 7.
Where: Café Cluny, W. 12th St.
What: Grantaire is capable of taking the 1 from Chambers St. to Christopher St., of exiting onto 7th Ave., of turning immediately into West 4th St., of strolling up toward the Meatpacking District. He is capable of that. His shoes are capable of that.
Rating: Low.

( he enjoyed having a purpose of occasion, much like some men enjoyed an ortolan, although without the napkin. )

In the past seven days, I've had a three-day weekend and a three-day week. Tuesday I lost somewhere between West 52nd and Bryant Park. I dedicate it to the workers. I have no real notion of what work entails, precisely, but as the only thing of value I possess is time (and never do a damned thing with any of it) I have to imagine it's better off in someone else's hands. I have nothing; I give all. I am the most generous and the least lavish. I'm a boy with a wooden shoe.

But not a very good boy with a wooden shoe, as I'd have much preferred to give them Saturday. I only slept through half of Saturday, and as far as I can tell it was the better half.

This is the most beautiful day I've seen in any August, and I'm not exactly a young man. I think, for this breeze, I might well come out from under my bridge. I may even have a walk (no flash photography, please), despite the fact that I understand that such things are considered healthful. I intend to set no precedent, I deny any and all knowledge of the potential character-building, mind-clearing, or leg-stretching effects of such a course of action, and I hereby submit advance notice of my intent to attribute any positive feelings that may occur in the course of the afternoon to the excellent terrine I had last night at Jadis.

That said, I'm going for a stroll in the sun.

[Enjolras]

And if the sun would like to accompany me, provided he promises to walk slowly and not say too many improving things, he is naturally very welcome. Unless he is otherwise engaged.

It is surprising that in a place such as this, so far removed from my home across the sea and nearly two centuries. At yet today, I saw a children's book propped in a store window.

And I was reminded that when I was young, my mother used to sing to me what she remembered of an opera called Médée, she said she'd seen it when she was much younger, years before meeting my father -- though it had stuck with her in ways that, as she said, many brighter and better had not.

...But it seems perhaps, perhaps my mother had more of an ear than she thought, as it seems Cherubini's Medea has survived, and survived, and survived.

TEXT TO COMBEFERRE:

» Fear not
» For behold
» I bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be unto
» All people
» A towel can be used as a blanket

I'm feeling charitable, so if anyone wants an app that blocks inane posts which repeat the same blatant observation the previous three have stated, then let me know. I know I'm not the only one who finds the echo on the network pointless and annoying.

The last time I took a bath was on Saturday, June 8th.

I may never take one again.


[FILTER: Enjolras & Combeferre]

This morning, I dreamed that you both had joined a Benedictine monastery in Madrid and left me your entire collection of shirt collars.

Please check in. If you fail to respond, I shall assume your vow of silence prevents you from doing so and will mount a rescue effort.

And fie on your collars.

On 14 July 1789, the Bastille was stormed and it's inmates released. That was done as an act of defiance; that the people would not stand for the abuses of the monarchy. Today is the day we commemorate that and every moment where what was good, what was right and what was fair was looked at not in terms of what is legal or illegal, what is accepted and what isn't -- but what was equal and respected the rights and freedoms of all men, women and children who should not be looked upon as worth less or more by the status of their birth or the money in their bank account.

In the spirit of taking rash, irreversible action in the face of dire circumstances, I invite you all to come tomorrow night for a casual celebration of the beginning of the end, of one of history's greatest lessons in looking before you leap, of the day we in la belle France decided we would throw up our hands, procure a very large armory, and decide later what exactly we were going to do with it - of, in short, the best sort of holiday on which to get utterly tight on a Sunday and have to wake up the next morning for work.

It will be a very happy Bastille Day. (And I will be a very happy host if a few of you would chip in a few dollars for Money in the Bank, which I consider a most meet and fitting backdrop for a holiday commemorating an assault on an empty building.)

Sunday, July 14, at Eight o'Clock in the Evening
Room 5209
Come One, Come All
Contributions are welcome in the form of snacks, beverages, and pay-per-view donations.

As much as I know there is a sincere little cabal in this tower who believes that I am incapable of fun and amusement, I should think this is no time for fun that ensuring the children de-homed by the bombing in Batignolles were able to find their own diversion was amusement enough for me.

All my love and appreciation to those of you who are assisting and donating your time to our crisis center I spoke of in my last entry. You're already touching lives and I do promise you that the warmth you show to 'the least of these' will not go unnoticed or unsung. People and fed and clothed, children are smiling and life is going on, bit by bit.

There, now: I've just suffered my first truly modern ailment. Jetlag.

Some idiot has dug up Paris with a garden trowel and tried to plant businesses like so many petunias, but parts of it are very much the same, and I'll admit the smell is drastically improved. Grantaire, however, commands as little respect as he always did. The feminine reaction to an offer of a bottle of wine and an evening of excellent company is much the same as it always has been, and a glorious death adds no salt to that meat.

All in all, a thoroughly pleasant trip home. I miss her already.

Who: Henri Combeferre, Stephen Dedalus, Denis Enjolras, and Simon Grantaire
When: After the Paris bombings
Where: A grimy little brasserie in the Av. de Clichy, Paris
What: Surveying the aftermath of the attack - from a distance
Rating: Low
Status: Gdoc, in progress


( Drink with me to days gone by )

I know there are a lot of you who are concerned about the bombings happening in other countries, and about the broadcasts that we've seen lately, and I know many of you are interested in helping. This is, as I'm sure you all know, a very delicate situation, and bringing this person in hinges on the countries investigating him being able to do so quickly at a moment's notice, before he knows what's going on. At this time, the best things we can do to help is to keep our eyes peeled for violence and threats to the city we're living in right now, and to join organizations such as the local law enforcement or SHIELD to be more involved in any take-down attempts. It won't help any of us to rush in unorganized. There are people here who are working on stopping him, and we need to work alongside them.

That said, I'd like to ask all of you who have experience with tracing signals and hacking to help us narrow down where this terrorist is, or anyone else involved in his organization. If you discover anything at all, please alert myself and Director Fury or Regional Director Hill. Anything we can tell them and share with each other is going to help us in the long run. When he is located, and he will be, I know that we'll be able to bring him in quickly. In the meantime, sit tight, do what you can to help us find him and don't do anything reckless. The rest of the city . No one can hide forever.

FILTERED TO TONY STARK (MCU) & PEPPER POTTS:

Are either of you in town? I'd like to talk to the both of you, if you have a moment.

FILTERED TO PEGGY CARTER:

What do you say to a kid who's lost another one of his friends? I don't know if I managed to say the right things last night.

[Grantaire]

We leave for Paris at dawn.

So I learned it's hard to play cards against a consulting detective, even when he's not trying to win.

Anyone thinking about keeping those Poker nights going?

Joyeux anniversaire à toi Combeferre, mon cher ami.



You may rely upon me to make absolutely certain that it is. Be ready at ten o'clock.

I can bruise. I knew that. I did know that. They fade quickly, over hours really. I don't know if they show up on the portait, I wouldn't be able to see But I like watching them fade. I know it's about as aimless as watching a fish swim around in their bowl but

-- but it's a change. It's a change in my skin, even a temporary one. Something all of you take for granted all the time. You don't know how boring it is, not aging. You fret about wrinkles or growing old, drooping bodies or gained weight -- but I... sit for hours and stare at a bruise because it's all I have.

[Tony Stark (616)]

Where do you want to go first, Virginia or Canada?

[Septimus Sm

[OOC Disclaimer: Stephen Dedalus is drunk, and a James Joyce character. Don't worry, this shouldn't make sense.]

In the blacks and the tans and the indigo-blues, the everliving stars, or stairs to heaven or a bedroom, all knowing and amaziful, and red, unheemed, hair down. Stuck stuck stuck the rain on bricks and pangs of water on panes of glass and pangs in my heart and pains of empty glasses.

oh nheun nhuen and a gunpowder plot, for tis' the season for treason, infidelity and rotted teeth. Oikkont, ken you, ninny? everargth every day. Every day. qwerty.

I don't know if it's the wretched weather, the prospect of another day spent in a city that seems to think fussing over what people put on their hot dogs gives it some right to a gourmand insouciant label, or simply that I'm finally getting old, but I absolutely cannot entertain the thought of rolling out of bed. I feel miserable.

And now I'm sharing it with you.

[Stephen Dedalus]

This doesn't usually happen when I can remember everything I've had to drink. I think you may have to go on without me. I know you can be entrusted with this particular torch.

Long violin sobs rock my heart in monotonous languish.

The French Resistance taught me the importance of dynamite and a clean getaway. For that, and for their friendship, I will be forever grateful to my comrades-in-arms.