| Speculation on future apps, lol what. |
[May. 10th, 2007|07:47 pm] |
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| | An episode of Voyager on the TiVo | ] |
Okay. To assist in my decision regarding who to app next time, I've decided to write up snippets of sample posts for every character I've been seriously thinking about.
The Lone Power ("Real" Name: Seth Lucian)
Waking up was a new experience for the Lone Power – It didn’t get incapacitated often. Oh, sure, Its avatars got defeated, sometimes killed, but many others survived and peddled the gift of death to the worlds. Being killed was always mildly annoying, but it was merely a workaday trouble anymore, like running out of toner. Every time that happened, It worked on a new way of playing the game. But this was different. For the first time since It got cast out, It felt completely and utterly defeated.
In fact, if It had been a little more familiar with human afflictions, It would say that It was suffering from a hangover.
What in My name is going on? It asked Itself, and then immediately wished It hadn’t. The question caused a budding headache to blossom into a beautiful flower of pain.
That was the first tip-off. Pain, and having a corporeal head with which to feel it, meant that It was in physical form. Judging by Its general shape, It judged that It was probably in Wellakhit or human form. Probably human – It felt slightly stockier and less inclined to wear gauzy, fancy garments than It would have if It were wearing a Wellakhit’s skin.
Thoughts were also coming more slowly to It than they should have. Normally, It wasn’t quite omniscient, but close enough. Now It could only feel one set of perceptions, and that began to stir up an emotion that the Lone Power didn’t recognize.
Fear.
What had They done to It? It was becoming redeemed; surely the other Powers saw that? And They had no authority over It. In fact, the only One who could have taken away Its colocational abilities was the One, the Supreme Entity to which all creatures, even the Powers that Be, were inferior.
It shook Its head and swung Its legs out of the bed. Frowning, It plucked at Its shirt, which was a drab grey. There was a happy face on it.
Well, this wouldn’t do, this wouldn’t do at all. It stared at the shirt, and simply thought it otherwise into Its usual attire (in this form) of a dark suit and crimson tie.
Nothing happened.
Frowning again, It actually willed Its outfit otherwise. Nothing. Then, getting desperate, It closed Its eyes and willed really, really hard to have a suit on. When It opened them, It thought that the fabric may have gotten a little bit darker, but otherwise there was no change. That was more than strange; it was positively mystifying.
Damn and double damn…
Jean Prouvaire ("Real" Name: David Lily)
A firing squad should be enough to kill someone.
But apparently not, as Jean Prouvaire found out, slowly stirring into wakefulness on a sort of bed. Where am I? I'm not in any pain...is this heaven? he asked himself woozily. I felt them...all the bullets pierce me. I can't possibly be alive, can I? Then again, Combeferre was a good doctor; perhaps he was still alive, after all.
He certainly felt alive enough - breathing, a pulse, being able to feel the scratchy sheets on his skin --
Wait. He opened his eyes. His shirt felt different, and the sleeves were short. He'd never seen a fashion like that before. What was more, his waistcoat seemed to be gone, as well as his cravat. And he didn't have any minor cuts or scrapes anymore, either. Curious.
There was little light in the room, save for a thin strip filtering in under the door of the room he was in. Jehan crossed to the door, and tried to open it. Nothing. Apparently he'd been locked in somewhere. This place was far too clean to be any prison he knew of. He'd never actually been to one, but there were stories, horrible stories.
Why would anyone lock me anywhere if this isn't a prison? Surely they would have been able to see that the boy -- for that's what he was, little more than a schoolboy -- posed no threat to anyone, even with a musket.
"Hello?" he asked, and was quite surprised to find that the language that came out of his mouth was not French, but English. English, of all languages. He understood a few words, but nothing more, so why was he speaking it? If it had been Italian, or Latin, say, he could assume that he'd been struck on the head and now spoke in another language by default.
But English?
"John Ryder" (alias, real name unknown, "real" name: Azrael Sinclair) (Yes I am being obvious with his first name, shove it)
It had been a good few days, he thought drowsily. First there had been the man whose name he'd stolen - that one was a boring kill. The man had barely fought back. He'd gotten bored of North Dakota soon after that, and decided to drive down South. Why not?
There was another one down there, too. Not great. That was the problem with people anymore; they lacked spirit, they lacked some fucking fire in their veins that made them want to keep on living.
And then the sky had opened up, and the rain had poured down. In New Mexico, that was a weird thing. But he kept on driving through the night. That is, until, irony of ironies, his car broke down. Of course it hadn't actually been his. He'd gotten it off the man from North Dakota, taking his car along with his name. Too bad about that. So he'd stood outside of the car, waiting for an easy mark, or waiting to die. Whichever.
The Oldsmobile 442 (nice car, he remembered thinking) had come down the road so fast that the driver, probably an idiot college kid, had to throw the car into a 360 just to avoid hitting him. He had been all ready to play the sorry man whose car had broken down (in earnest, for once), but the Oldsmobile had sped away. Shame about that. He finally got to the gas station, and that car was there. Although he didn't believe in such things, this had to be - had to be - fate.
And then the fun had started. His favorite part was when he snapped the cell phone in two with his bare hands. It was always so funny to see the looks on their faces when they realized that their precious fucking technology had been broken beyond repair, and no help was coming, not ever. After that...it had gotten less fun. He'd had the boy wrapped around his little finger, his switchblade poised above the girl's eye, until that dumb college shit had slammed on the brakes and sent his head into the windshield. Once he'd come to on the side of the road, feeling like half the skin had been flayed off of him (being thrown out of a car at 75 mph will do that to you), he decided to follow them, no matter what the cost. This...this was how it was fucking done.
He'd had the good fortune to be picked up by a family of devout, evangelical Christians. Sheeplike folk, but nice enough. He would be helping them more than anything. After all, they wanted to go and see their Savior in Heaven, right? They should have thanked him for speeding along the process. Well, they probably would have, if they'd been able to speak.
The police had managed to think that the kids were the ones who'd done the murder, which made his life so much easier. After killing every policeman in the station (it had been a good day), he'd decided to go and terrorize the little boyfriend, who was huddling down in the cells like a scared child. Pathetic. He'd taunted him a bit, then ran off - no fun killing someone who was in cuffs and behind bars, after all. Sending that pickup truck over the cliff at them had been a stroke of genius, though admittedly not as much as killing that cop and making it look like the bitch girl had done it. What was probably his proudest moment of the day was when he'd taken out the helicopter with a handgun.
It had been ridiculously easy to capture the boy once the couple had been separated. Really, they had no common sense whatsoever. What followed was one of his more creative ways of killing someone (after a failed attempt to solicit sex from the Bitch, but he preferred not to think about that). The boy had pulled apart like a fucking Christmas cracker. His only regret was that he hadn't been able to see it, but the aftermath was extraordinary. All because the Bitch hadn't had the guts to shoot the damn gun she'd held to his head. He'd practically fucking asked her to do it, even.
Prison had been all right, for the brief time he'd been incarcerated. Slitting the guard's throat with his handcuffs had been fun. And then the Bitch finally decided to fight back.
Which brought him back to where he was now. Fuck, he shouldn't even be alive. The Bitch had shot him twice through the Kevlar, and the last thing he remembered was her putting the shotgun to his head.
Oh, fuck, had the Bitch not killed him? What was her fucking problem? What did he have to do to bring out the darkness in her? He was frustrated, incredibly frustrated.
Where was he now? Probably somewhere deep in the bowels of some institution. Maybe a federal penitentiary. Ooh, that would be fun to break out of.
Fuck yeah. Bring it on.
So. Input?
(Expect a recap of The Hitcher next post, bee tee dubs.) |
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