Former IC Thread [The Exodus of Fables]

[Elle Joyner]

Senator John Sharp

City Hall

​

Emerald City. An ever moving, ever evolving metropolis of bedlam. Mobs, gangs and drug rings reigned, little wonder given the corruption deep within the heart of the law enforcement, and at the center of it all was a man so dastardly, so cruel… utterly devoid of even a shred of common decency, morality or good will. A self-absorbed, egocentric deviant… a monster.


And the people loved him. Senator John Sharp was less than halfway through his first term and his popularity had never been higher. He had the citizens wrapped around his pinky finger. Of course, it was easy to be loved when you were a brilliant con artist, and those who really knew him... who knew his true nature would hardly complain, given his penchant for taking the uttermost care of his staff. Or putting a bullet in the back of their heads…


Standing before the podium, listening to the murmur of the media crowd gathered below, John smirked, shuffling his notes. Among the throng of scoop-hungry journalist wolves were the mayor… Oz McKing, looking pinched and nervous as always, and his lovely wife Senka, as well as Guy Gisborne, John’s sallow faced, sinister chief of a security, a man who’s ties with the mob had proven measurably beneficial. The speech was another sap-filled piece about community and family values… the usual schlock the media vultures and idiotic sheep lapped up with fervor. The last speech he had given had brought him up another twelve points in the polls.


Tapping the mic, John watched with a hollow smile as the crowd fell quiet, all eyes trained on him.


“Good morning, Emerald City… I stand before you today, a man plagued by concern, torn by indirection but determined to bring to you the solution to these tribulations which have for too long afflicted our precious city. When I was elected, I admit I found my hands often times tied by the political nonsense one in my station inevitably comes up against, but I will stand idly no more. You deserve better. You deserve the solidarity and strength of a community… the safety and structure of a city where your children can grow and flourish in peace, with unlocked doors and open hearts. You deserve better, Emerald City, and that is what I am proposing. That… from this moment on, will be my foremost goal. You deserve a family, and that… is what we shall become!”


Applause erupted from the crowd and John grinned…


Wrapped, good and tight…


~~


Roxanne Copper

The Shady Oak Motel

​

She’d had the dream again… the one in the cottage. She’d woken, covered in a sheen of sweat, her breath sucked from her lungs by a strangled scream of panic. For a moment, for only a moment, she could still see them huddled on the floor, their torn, broken bodies… cold, sightless eyes staring up at her, boring into her, their cries for help, for mercy ringing in her ears.


Her client, sound asleep beside her, his snores rumbling from his wide set nostrils, did not stir as she shifted, her bare feet hitting the carpeted floor of the motel room. She tugged the sheets around herself, and unbidden, a tear slid down her cheek, making a small puddle on her bare thigh. The images faded from her mind, as they often did, but only gone, not forgotten. The atrocities that were committed that day, no matter how hazy the details, would never be forgotten.


A second tear followed the first and Roxie caught it with the back of her hand, brushing her cheek dry. The client had paid in advance, so she had no obligations to stick around, but the idea of leaving the bed, let alone the motel made her stomach contract, and so she laid back down, her eyes staring blankly into the darkness of the ceiling.


It was another two hours until light bled through the canopy of curtains shut over the window, the foggy haze bringing promises of another rainy dawn. Roxie walked out of the motel with a splitting headache, but no other remnants of the dream lingered. A cup of coffee and she’d be good as new…


A brisk chill cut through the air and she pulled her sweater down over her hands, shivering. To the left, a car pulled up along the curb, slowing to a crawl beside her. With a sigh, she glanced over, catching sight of the middle aged man behind the wheel, his wrinkled suit and red rimmed eyes evidence of someone who had spent far too long in a bar. His gruff, liquor-logged voice called out as the Buick came to a stop. Rolling her eyes, Roxie stopped as well, bending down to look in through the passenger side window.


“How much..?” The man repeated, punctuated by a repulsive belch.


“…Sorry, Sugar… I’m off duty. You swing by later tonight and we’ll talk.” She straightened and waited, grateful when, a moment later, the car rumbled to life again and pulled off down the street.


Some days, her job was difficult… Other days, it was hell.

 

[Syrenrei]

Marian Greene (Maid Marian)

The Written Word book store
​

As Lucille Trevor, her female writing persona, Marian did some publicity for her new novels when they did well enough. With advances in plastic surgery and her success, there was little need for a disguise- most assumed that her apparent agelessness was good skin care, a lot of botox, a beautician, and cosmetic doctor on speed dial. Claire Falk, a distant relative and her manager, had tried to impart on her numerous times the importance of book signings. Marian did enjoy seeing all the happy faces and was flattered to have their praise.


Her hesitation came from the bitter taste of inevitable parting and the chasm between herself and her readers. While she tried to create connections between them and their past, she could not divulge her immortality. It was a secret that was carefully kept and the only burden her heart dared not explore even in literature. As much as she wished to become close with every singular fan that waited in foul weather to have her scribble a fake signature on a page- it could not be. It was an invitation to heartache on one side or another. As she slid into the polished wooden chair her gaze slipped over the sea of eager youthful faces. In a blink of an eye they would be old and with a breath they would be gone from this world.


There was little to do except to try to make the most out of these fleeting experiences. Perhaps one story of the ancient lady's history would give them inspiration to do more than she ever had. One sentence or phrase could transcend sex, ethnicity, and age, leap off the pages, and forever change the course of history. They could find a kindred soul buried within the text and though they could not be confidants in person, perhaps the whispering between lines would offer a lonely existence some consolation.


A smile rose on her lips. Lucille Trevor favored a dark, wine-colored shade to compliment her skin tone and match the earthen hues of her eyes and hair. Centuries of practice gave her veritably flawless application of make-up: her eyelashes looked both long and soft, an impeccable long black line from one corner of her lid to the other, the faintest splash of rose below the crease, and eyebrows that had been carefully groomed and filled with powder in exactly the right shade. It was a beautiful shield from the solitude that gripped her each time she was forced to withdraw in conversation or decline an invitation. It was her armor when the sun was high in the sky and justice could not yet be openly meted out on the streets.


Claire tapped Marian's shoulder gently. "I told them we will stay until five, but if you want to extend the time let me know." Claire attended every event with Marian not only as her manager but also as her friend, her family, and as her guardian. Despite fervent protesting from her elder, Claire insisted on carrying a fire-arm and enrolling in defense classes as Marian's fame steadily rose and a whole new slew of 'crazies' came around. The sharp features and open threats of Claire had thus far deflected two enamored stalkers, one obsessed interviewer, and a conspiracy theorist that alleged she was Shakespeare. The accusation she was the famed playwright was horribly amusing- doubly so since she had once written a few letters of adulation to him and received no response.


"I understand. Don't look so worried, Claire. If you wrinkle your brow like that you'll get a wrinkle just like me." Marian laughed lightly when Claire gave her a flat look. Agelessness meant that Marian did not have any wrinkles to speak of. Her manager gave a slight smirk and sigh before she waved to the book store employees at the doors that it was safe to open and begin the line. Marian picked up one of the five brand new ink pens that had been gifted to her for the signing and flashed a charismatic smile at the first girl that approached. The girl was no more than sixteen, roughly the age Marian had been when she was swept up into the adventure and romance that was Robin Hood.


"Hi, I'm a huuuuuge fan," she gushed. "Oh, this is so exciting! Can you write my name in there? It's Gabby Collins. That's Gabby with a G-A-B-B-Y. The love story in this was soooo amazing! Who was your inspiration for Robin Hood? Are guys like that real?" Marian had already been signing when the words caused her pen to stop, creating a blob of saturated ink for the 'i' in Lucille. With another wry grin she finished her signature and raised the tome as she met wide, innocent, blue eyes.


"Absolutely. They're just hard to find, that's all. I'm sure you'll find someone, Gabby. Just be sure you don't let them go too easily when you do. Promise me that, okay?"

 

[RhiaRaye]

Family. What a nauseating notion. The fools that stood around her were blind. They believed in the man's pure intentions, had faith that their community would grow into some lovely, happy family, that there would be safety and prosperity in abundance. Could they really not see what happens in the city around them?


The crowd around embodied everything Senka hated about people. Nothing but ignorant fools so eager to find the bright side of everything, they failed to see the darkness. That was better for Senka and her purposes, though. Those who could not see the darkness were easily manipulated by it.


As much she hated to join the display, she had a reputation as the Mayor’s Wife to put on a good show. She joined in the applause with the rest of the crowd, managing to place her most charming smile on her face. Most of the residents of Emerald City knew she wasn’t the cheerful type, but that didn’t mean she shouldn’t play the game with the best of them.


While the din of the assembly could mask her voice, Senka turned to her husband. “You see how confident he is? You should try that sometime.”


He answered with a small noise of affirmation; about the same kind of reply he usually gave Senka when she was trying to elicit a reaction from him. What a pathetic little man. Senka turned away from him, the way she preferred to be, as the applause died down. Sharp’s speech would soon be over, and it would be time for them to go home to their own family.


What a useless word.

 

[Dusky]

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Gwen

The Ticking Clock​

She’s only been at work for an hour, and she’s been working this job for who-knows-how-long, but her feet are already paining her.


“’Nother booze!” shouts a drunk near her. She smiles at him and takes his glass. When she started, she would hem and haw, wonder if she cut the man off. Now she knew the rules better. Never turn down a purchase when it’s handed to you.


She walks behind the bar, heels clicking in time with her practiced gait. She avoids shooting a look of envy at a group of girls with far-away looks in their eyes – thoroughly Dusted. Far-away, nice as it may be, will do nothing for her sanity. As if to challenge this thought, her hand twitches – just a little, but her grip on the drunk’s glass that she had been about to refill slips. Swearing, she tries to catch it as it tumbles down, to no avail. She stands petrified as it shatters.


A second passes, and she reminds herself that the music is too loud and the clubbers too high for anyone to notice or care about her fumble. She grabs the dustpan from behind the bar and sweeps the mess up hastily. Sliding it into the wastebasket as she passes, she goes to get another glass. As she’s filling it, she feels a nudge on her backside. She sighs exasperatedly. “Yes, Smee?”


“You’re on in fifteen, don’t you need to get changed?”


“Yes,” she says, trailing off as she concentrates on the rising level of beer in the glass. As she finishes filling it, the bartender takes it from her.


“I’ll cover your tables; go.”


Though she knows it is not an act of kindness, she thanks him and scurries off, a feeling she has become well-acquainted with rising up in her stomach. A Molotov cocktail of anticipation, dread, and guilty excitement – she is about to dance.


On the stage is a single chair, artfully knocked over.


The dressing room is a flurry – she stuffs herself into her outfit. The theme seems to be “forest sprite” or something along those lines. Her outfit is a mess of vines and leaves – placed elegantly, provocatively.


She stalks out onto the stage, smiles upon her audience, grabs the chair. She is ready.

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​

 

[Teh Frixz]

Laci de Clegane (The Sheriff of Emerald)


The Written Word book store



​

Fortune had finally decided to rear it's stupid little head. After a length of time probably close to a decade, someone Laci actually cared to meet was making an appearance in Emerald. Not some triple A celebrity fad or some asswipe of a civic leader but an actual honest to god author. Last Author that came through nearly got throttled...by herself no less. Sassy Mormon woman. No, this writer was the real deal and the topic was right up her alley.


Literally. The Tales of Robin Hood? Hell, she was there and it impressed her. Still had the usual problems, making John out to be the bad guy, Hood some roguish hero, and worst of all, her Father dragged down through the mud and no mention of her except some hinting in the foot notes.


That was the other reason why she was here today and not out on patrol or deep into the stills back at the office. This Lucille Trevor, a no name by most standards, not even a strong background popping up, had managed to get her attention by telling the story almost perfectly. It was enough to get her curious and Laci had to see it for herself.


Book in hand, the mountain clad in a black top and jeans, strode through the crowd.


Her size was a gift from her father. The large man passing his genes on to his large and muscular daughter. She had the build of a fighter, nose obviously broken a few times and a tough look to her face and since the style seemed to change again, she'd been wearing her hair down. It was only a matter of time before it had to go back up, the styles seemed to change faster than she ever thought possible and since she refused to use a computer or cellphone, it was a habit to have to read to catch up.


Before long Laci made it to the front of the line. Some bubbly teeny bopper in the way that had no clue how to speak to an adult. If she had acted that way when she was a child? Despite times changing, it still irked her how humans were developing.


All it takes is a tap on her shoulder. The girl whose name was spelled G A B B Y turned around to see Laci looking down with a smile.


"Let us not take all day little one. The line is long and some people have important things to ask"


Laci gave the well practiced look handed down from her mother, the same look that precluded a switch being ordered to fetch for whippings when she misbehaved. The girl Gabby grabs her things and quickly moves off with nary a good bye. The girl's things are barely off the table before Laci drops her own copy down. Tossing her hair back, she wrinkles her nose and smirks before speaking.


"Surprisingly good stuff Ms. Trevor. Where'd you get all your info? The sources you have don't cover most of it and I can't believe all of this was just your fantasy"


Laci was happy with her words. Direct, layered, and with just a hint of menace. Making people nervous was something of a skill for her. Nervous people laid things bare and with author, she wanted it all hung out to see.

​

 

[Erica]

Archer Robert Moore (Robin Hood)

​

Spoiler

Headquarters for the Merry Men



​

The never-dusted blinds sliced the evening light into precise lines that cast ever-shifting shadows across the wooden floor. Outside the brownstone apartment that served as the Merry Men's current headquarters, Emerald City pulsed with its own rhythm, set to the asynchronous beat of desperation and depravity. Three weeks in the city and it still felt foreign to the dark-haired man sitting in the wingback chair behind a worn executive desk. The chair and the desk, like him, had seen better days. And, like him, they still served a purpose.


Archer Robert Moore, most commonly known as "Rob", sat staring at the hardcover book in front of him. It had lain there, mocking him, for the better part of two days. He had ignored it in favor of the requisite discussions and errands that came with his work. (A good theft took planning, a good con even more so.) As the sun had set, the phone calls had ceased. All that remained now was to await Johnna's call to confirm the meet had been set. In the quiet, the book's taunting grew harder to ignore. Why had he bought the bloody thing anyway?


Oh, that's right. The girls.


At the train station downtown, a pair of teens or twenty-somethings (it was hard to tell; they were too young for him) had chatted excitedly. One of the pretty young things with long brown hair and longer tan legs had held a book in her lap. Rob had noted them as pretty pieces of the scenery while waiting for a contact. They would have remained scenery if he hadn't caught part of their conversation.


"Is that the latest one by Lucille Trevor? I've been meaning to download it."


He knew the name. Marian used it for her historical fiction. The popularity of her work had grown over the past decade, and now there was a buzz about her latest book. The one about their story. She supposedly lived in Emerald City - not that that had influenced his choice to come here - but he had purposefully avoided news about her and the book so far. They were here for the Senator. It was best to avoid temptation and complications.


The brunette with the book in her lap had turned to her companion and smiled in camaraderie, her voice bubbly with excitement. "Yes! The Robin Hood one, although she adds her usual something extra. It has the swords and fighting, of course, but... She writes Robin so... romantic."


A smile had came unbidden to his lips. He made himself walk away and focus on the task at hand. Yet when he left the station, his fingers found the ring hanging on the chain around his neck, and by the time he returned home, he had a copy of the book under his arm.


Now he reached for it as if it might bite. He had only read one of her stories. Nearly a century had passed since then and he had avoided the others since. It had been too painful to hear her voice in the text. Would it be more or less so to hear their story in that voice? "Up for the challenge, or glutton for punishment?" He muttered quietly to himself.


Turning to the first page, he shook his head. He was weak, that's what he was.


.

“The Last Drop” Coffee Shop

(not far from The Written Word Bookstore)


​

In the mid-morning light, a tall dark-haired man once known as Robin Hood stole another three packets of sugar from the coffee condiment station, pocketing them before he tucked a book under his arm and claimed the two cups of coffee he had procured. One cup, for him, was black. The other contained so much milk and sugar that it hardly qualified as coffee. He had to tell the girl behind the counter twice to fill it mostly with milk and a dash of coffee. He had poured sugar in it as well, long enough to start thinking about diabetes, and then added a little more. It still might not be enough. He appropriated another packet of sugar for good measure.

In place of his once-customary hood, Rob wore a brown leather jacket over a grey t-shirt and faded jeans. Opting for the dress and demeanor of the modern everyman, he hoped to blend in with the crowd. Unfortunately, that didn’t always happen. A pretty young blonde smiled at him as she reached for a stirrer. “Is that for your girlfriend?” she asked coyly. Her heavily mascaraed eyes darted to the book under his arm before glancing around the small coffee shop, as if seeking said girl for assessment.


He smiled. “Yes, although I tell her she doesn’t need so much sugar. She’s sweet enough as it is.” Following the cheesy statement up with a wink, he enjoyed the complex expression that washed over the girl’s face as he turned away. That mixture of romantic longing and disappointment was one of his vices. Even if he wouldn’t follow up on it, he had to admit, it was nice to be wanted.


It was a white lie, meant to avoid complications. He only hoped Johnna didn’t learn that she regularly played the role of his girlfriend in such situations. He would never hear the end of it once he recovered from the beating. Johnna, or “Little John” as the stories erroneously referred to her, possessed a gentle soul but a mean right hook.


Once outside, he strode the short distance to the corner where he had promised to meet Johnna. As usual, she was running a few minutes late. He didn’t blame her. They had been out late the night before.


Behind the barred windows of the pawn shop on the corner, the flickering light of a small television caught his attention. The thing looked like a relic from decades ago, so much so that undoubtedly the shop owner had turned it on as proof that it was in working order. Set against a backdrop of gaudy jewelry, knickknacks, and handguns, state Senator John Sharp’s face looked out at him. The Senator was gesturing as politicians do, with his thumb and fist, speaking with mock passion. Rob couldn’t hear him, but undoubtedly the message centered on the safety of the city and upholding family values. As the Senator finished and started grinning at the crowd’s reaction, Robert glared at the screen. It had been centuries, but the man looked the same. He even had some of the same lackeys.


Admittedly, that made things easier. Targeting Guy’s network would get them valuable information on how best to take down the Senator. It wasn’t exactly wise to cross the mob, but he and his Merry Men were no strangers to upsetting the local authority. They had been in the city for a few weeks now, scoping out Emerald City and its players. The city was a cesspool of corruption, drugs, and depravity. He had been right to assume that oppression and misery would follow wherever Prince John had ended up. He only wished he had considered sooner that the villains of his story might be blessed with immortality along with the heroes.


A splash of blue in the window’s reflection drew his gaze from the television. He turned to smile at the petite azure-haired girl who had been his friend for almost as long as he could remember. Holding the cup of doctored coffee out to her, he grinned. “Morning. Learn anything new from our find last night?” He looked over his shoulder at the television in the pawn shop, which now featured a newscaster commenting as a clip of the Senator’s speech played in the corner of the screen. “I, for one, would like to wipe that grin off his face.”

 

[Ashurbanipal]

Captain Hook
The Ticking Clock - Backroom


Fingertips dance across wood stained and smooth: dark, tall, and heavy with history, those old fingers slide down toward the lower right corner of the desk and finger the weathered initials carved there.


J.B.D


A noteworthy author in the early to mid 1900s, Jebediah B. Derrister died violently in a confrontation with bootleggers during the rum-running days of yore in Emerald City. Threefold are the marks he left on this world: a daughter, a compilation of his most prolific and lurid writings, and a bloodstain that seeped into the initials and left them stained.


His desk was considered an antique even in its own time, fashioned in a classic style, elegant in the greased movement of its drawers, robust in its overall thickness and ample compartments. It's an old-timey desk, the sort you expect to see an influential man sitting behind, analyzing employee reports, looking over political decisions, or chewing artfully on a pen as he contemplates the nature of power.


James Hook, naturally, got it in a steal. A piece of art like this shouldn't be in a museum; the best things in life are taken from others. And while he will contemplate the nature of power, a few minutes from now, at this particular moment he is engaged in something far simpler: the basking in of power, without the burden of thought, drawing deep on twin cigars held in his opulent trident-like holder.


So sweet, he thinks, it's criminal.


The Main Club

The Ticking Clock itself is an icon of the modern night scene, the city's most popular club. The bass line shakes the walls, the lights are bright and in soft blues and greens, and the girls not on the stages are held in high cages, suspended above the throng, the pirate king's captured booty; they shake and dance and tempt, and the lights frequently highlight them, the way they sweat and the way they twist, ignorant of the people below.

The best things in life are also kept from others.


As the Captain walks, the lush smell of imported tobacco as heavy on him as the brine of the sea, he passes through shadows that dance like the girls in swirling patterns of ornamentation, bringing to life the floor and walls of his crowded establishment; he would note, if asked, that by all accounts a particularly sea-shell-like swirl pattern has observably more pleasant influence on those under the influence of the Dust for reasons he is not quite sure of.


Nevertheless, when so influenced, the Ticking Clock seems to twirl, the loops of light blending with those places its absent until all the world is round and in motion.


For everyone else, the club is distinctly not a circle, and despite being both dry and full it's accurately called a watering hole--after all, between the sea-green floors, the electric blue of the counters, and the way the ceiling itself is painted to ripple and the walls are like waves, walking into the Ticking Clock is not unlike walking into an underwater kingdom.


So come, one and all, and drown your sorrows.


Come, one and all, and pay tribute to Neptune.

 

[Elle Joyner]

Little John

Johnna woke to the hum of traffic, the pulse of the city, a living entity of light and sound. Her studio apartment faced east and sunlight streamed across the ragged wood floor through the large industrial windows, incandescent arms creeping up and over the edge of her bed. Her eyes flickered open and with a huff of weary irritation she breathed the tangled web of azure blue hair out of her face.


Last night had been their biggest success since coming to Emerald City, but today was, in a lot of ways, easily more important. Today, Robin would come face to face with Marian and quite possibly, everything would change.


After a quick shower, Johnna slipped into a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt, before pulling on a hooded sweatshirt. She took the elevator to the apartment lobby and stepped out into the brisk, early morning air. It wasn’t a long walk to the intersection where she was to meet Robin, and she found him there ahead of her, early as usual. Slipping up beside him, she looped an arm through his and with her other hand, freed him of the cup of coffee held out to her.


“Good morning, oh Captain, my Captain"

Taking a sip from the cup, Johnna lay her head on Robin's shoulder with another yawn, gesturing to the television sets, "I see the putz is at it again. Is it just me, or does it totally look like he got work done? I should write the tabloids..."


Straightening up, she shook her head and took another draw of coffee, pulling a face at the taste, before continuing on, “As for the info? You aren’t gonna be disappointed. This guy is dirtier than the undercarriage of a street sweeper. The apartment, itself… it’s the perfect gallows to hang him on. If his wife finds out about it... he’s finished. And the dossier… Let’s just say this guy has enough skeletons in his closet to start his own dance troop. If we’re gonna take Gisborne down from the inside, out… I think we found the key.”


Releasing his arm and taking a step back, Johnna grinned, “Nothing that can’t wait till after the book signing, though…”

 

[Ayl]

Sebastian W. Scathelocke

Emerald City Train Station

The night went by swiftly as the sun rose up, greeting the new day with its scarlet rays, whose holy mission was to obliterate the last shadow of darkness. The train arrived in station, and people made way for those already embarked to get off the long, steamy vehicle. Among those who were coming out was a man dressed rather fancy for a traveller. With medium, curly hair, covered by a grey hat to guard his face, scruff instead of the full-grown beard he'd usually wear, a vest that would match the hat’s color, over a shirt unbuttoned at the neck, black jeans, freshly-polished shoes and wielding a gorgeous, black wooden cane, with handle made of silver, Sebastian strolled through the crowd, occasionally making way with the help of his walking instrument.

The day was promising to be one without any weather surprises. Excited by his ultimate goal, Sebastian forgot his umbrella back at the hotel from which he had checked out the evening before. Such a silly thing to do, but it couldn't be helped. He just had to buy one from the nearest store. Of course, he scolded himself for his carelessness. If he was going to accomplish the purpose for which he came here, he must be more responsible and mindful of his actions. One mistake could cost him dearly.

Cabs were waiting outside the station's main gates, ready to drive any freshly-arrived. Heading for the one at the back of the line, Sebastian's eyes caught the sight of a newspaper stand that was bathing in the sun. Stopping in his tracks, the lone wolf decided it would be a good idea to grab the local paper. After all, knowledge was power, even moreso when you are in an alien environment! The coin he fished from his pocket went rolling into the reserved socket, and the window's lock opened with a click, allowing the tall gentleman to grab one of the many neatly arranged bundles inside.

By then, the light was strong enough for the newspaper to be read on the spot, thus Sebastian took a quick peek inside. His gaze was immediatly caught by a title belonging to an article which was beautifully edited, as to attract potential readers. The title itself wasn’t something jaw-dropping.

“Book signing at local bookstore” laid written in bold words across the top of the text box. What did pique Sebastian’s interest was the photo of the person that was supposed to be the author. It was the spitting image of Marian, although the text claimed her name was "Lucille Trevor". It was no surprise she had taken an alias to write her books. Afterall, "Sebastian" wasn't his real name either. He took it because he felt his real name, William, carried too much bad memories with it to bear.

“What a coincidence…” the man mumbled under his breath. A strange feeling gripped him, as if he knew something was about to happen soon, which would inevitably involve him as well. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he knew it was going to be huge, and entirely unrelated to his personal quest.

Wrapping up the paper and placing it under his arm, Sebastian resumed his walk towards the cab he eyed earlier. After making sure the driver was free, he boarded the back of the vehicle. “Where to, sir?” the man at the wheel inquired.​

“The Written Word Bookstore, please. There’s a hefty tip in for you if you get me there fast.”. If there was one thing Sebastian learned over his long lifespan, it was that money was always a deal sweetener.

 

[Elle Joyner]

Tinkerbell

The Ticking Clock

​

Azure light pulsed across the dance floor, shadowed silhouettes writhing in time to the pounding rhythmic beat of electronic techno. At the bar, the pixie-haired girl downed her forth Silver Bullet and tipped the glass upside down, fixing the bartender with a coy grin.


"...What was that you were saying? No way I could drink how many shots?" She asked, and the man frowned before rifling in his pocket for a tenner, handing it over. Isabelle pocketed the cash before she rose up onto her knees, leaning across the bar surface with a languid stretch, "You're lucky you're cute, Kyle... Cause you suck at betting."


Collecting her bottle of Dos Equis, Isabelle slipped off the stool, making her way along to the end of the bar where a railed off half-balcony gave a full few of the club floor.

​

Her eyes roved through the crowd slowly, and a smirk slid to her lips as she caught sight of him, winding... no... slinking his way through the thrashing forms, fluid and graceful, a lion among lambs.


James Hook... Just the scoundrel she was looking for.


Hopping the banister, dropping the five or so feet to the dance floor, Isabelle parted her way through the throng, her tiny form bouncing back and forth, bumped by the sweaty, wriggling bodies. She caught sight of the debonaire rogue near the stage and as she neared him, her eyes only briefly locking on the figure on stage, before rolling. Little Darling... The skank.


Approaching Hook, she whistled, high and long, through her teeth.


"Busy night..."Slinking up beside him, she rocked back and forth on her heels and toes, grinning, "I have something for you..."

 

[Sir Raime]

Sharpened fingernails scratched against peeled paint and cracked tile in the darkness of a bare room, shredding it up even more than it had been before. A figure prowled and paced in the darkness, growing more and more agitated with every growing moment. He had torn apart the couches, the lighting fixtures, all the expensive furniture that once graced this room, yet it failed to sate his desire, no, his need to spread panic and sow confusion in the minds of the infirm.


He simply couldn't take the agony any more! The figure, black as night, writhed on the floor in agony, howling in frustration at his current condition. There was nothing he wanted to do more than find that little green waste of flesh and reduce him to nothing more than a massive red smear all over the walls of his own home. The pink and crimson of the sniveling coward's innards would form such a breathtaking contrast against the noxious, diseased green of his decadent dwelling and....


Damn it all! He simply could not wait any longer! If he stayed in that room for so much as another second, he would go.....mad.


"Madness...how wonderful! I'll go pay one of those merry madmen a visit! Oh, just where is that silly hatter these days?" The monster that haunts the dreams of children hummed cheerfully as he opened a creaky, weathered door and slithered out into the city. His eyes gazed into the web that linked the minds of the masses, picking out a few strands of black ephemeral strings that sang with paranoia and confusion like a trapped animal. He gently grabbed onto the thread and followed it, slithering across the city as fast as he possibly could.

After half an hour of skulking, he jumped through a building's window and saw a bed. His instincts called out to him, coercing him to crawl under it. He peeked his head out from his hiding place and examined the place he had entered. It was a drab and uniform room, no doubt one of a mental hospital. Straightening out his hooded form, he spied a girl lying atop the bed, Looking at the nightstand beside her bed, he read a nameplate bolted onto the piece of furniture.


"Why hello there, Alice." The Boogeyman grinned, leering down at the girl.

 

[Syrenrei]

Marian Greene (Maid Marian)

The Written Word book store
​

There was something in the countenance of the woman before her that was vaguely familiar. Marian sat quietly a moment in contemplation as she tried to coax some remembrance out of her mind. It was of no use. The dark blemishes of time were once more rearing their ugly heads and she was unable to make any connection. Having known so many people over her lifetime meant that sometimes she would get a 'false positive.' A face would itch at her memory only to have merely slightly similar features to someone long dead. With a mental shrug of her shoulders she dismissed the nagging feeling and tried to focus on the query on hand.


For most the imposing figure of the woman before her would be intimidating. Marian, however, was courageous and brave to a fault- whether it be a veiled conversational/social threat or one of a more physical nature. More than any other trait she possessed, her daring was passed down in the tales with excited gasps about how such a young, noble woman that was expected to be meek managed to do so much. The heroine wasn't sure what curiosity possessed this stranger to speak so boldly or to what aim. She was not unnerved, however, and her shoulders thus remained relaxed and her tone casual. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Claire's posture become rigid and the icy blue gaze narrow. The 'child' would not spring into action without a direct need to do so but she was annoyed and wary.


Would Marian proclaim to be the ageless maiden of yore in front of the gathered crowd with such little prodding? Hardly. This was neither the time nor place to reveal any secrets regardless of the benevolence or malevolence involved. This was an age of cell phones that could photograph and record on a whim. Even this small book store was a stage. Her words were the culmination of a decade of practice in strange questions, some edging close to a hidden truth, as she attended all these signings to promote her words. The tales, she believed, were more important than her privacy. Eventually she would perish and only these tomes would persist as evidence of the glory of the past. "Sources? I'm afraid you have me at a loss. While I did employ some research into this tale, it could never pass as journalism and I did not intend it to. I took certain artistic liberties with what I found."


It was all truth. Marian knew herself to be horribly biased in the Robin Hood tale in particular as she was a participant. More importantly, in all the years of her continuing education she had never endeavored to be a reporter of any sort and was somewhat ignorant of the tenants of journalism. While all of her historical fiction had more fact than she would ever admit aloud, only this recent publication had a first-hand account. Most of the rest were based on recollection, second-hand accounts, scribbled journal entries, and the like- causing her to need to improvise where there were gaps. With the Robin Hood tale she had made the entire journey more pleasant for the reader: changing some of the physical descriptions, making Robin more sympathetic during their quarrels, omitting their immortality, and other such alterations. Hell, if Robin realized she made him cry in chapter three instead of stalking into the woods after a disagreement he might have a few choice words for her.


"After all, I'd have many less fans if they didn't live happily ever after- don't you agree?" Her direct dark gaze flickered for the briefest moment to that of a profound melancholy before she snapped her fingers in an epiphany. "Ah, I thought I recognized you! You ran for the sheriff's office, did you not?"

 

[Snek]

The Chesire Cat,

Chess Velices

​

This place was the most vexing environment Chess had ever seen. It was both utterly beautiful, and despicably corrupted and filthy. It was both a battlefield, and a sanctuary. It was both home, and enemy territory.


It was all rather conflicting, to state the obvious.


That isn't to say, that the Chesire Cat wasn't used to inconsistency. Quite the opposite, in fact. The problem was the type of inconsistency. You see, the inconsistencies he consistently encountered were consistently inconsistent. Even things that were inconsistently consistent were consistently manageable. But, when it came to the city, the place was inconsistently consistent about its consistent inconsistency of being inconsistent.


Needless to say, city life did not suit Chess.


But that was okay. Chess didn't suit the city, either, as well as most of the people living in it. There were only a select few people that truly suited him, and those were the March Hare, and the tailors.


Tailors. They suit him.


Eh, pearls before swine. In any case, it was Felicity O'Hare that he was on his way to meet at that very moment. The route to the rendezvous point involved several twists and turns through the dangerous back alley streets, some detours included to dodge around seedy establishments such as the Ticking Clock, others simply because Chess was in the mood for detours.


Speaking of detours, Chess was rather fond of them. He was most usually always in the mood for detours, because detours often distracted him from his current path and offered some refreshing change. Chess usually found the ability to change course a useful one, and utilized it as often as he could find the opportunity. It was simply too boring to KNOW what lay ahead. That takes out all the fun. So surely one can find more enjoyment in partaking in a detour every now and again. And if what you found ahead of THAT path was undesirable, why, then one simply has to detour again. They always say that getting there is half the fun, but, let's be real. Getting there is often no fun at all, or at least much less fun than one previously expected, but the journey is the fun part. In the journey, you are still headed towards a place that is not nearly as exciting as you imagine it in your head, but at least you have the luxury of swimming in your fantasies for the duration of the trip. In one's mind, any destination can be fantasized to be an exhilarating and desirable place to locate oneself, and thus detour their perceptions away from the undesirable reality that surrounds them.


But, of course, it seems we have stumbled upon a detour of our own, and I am sure that your train of thought is much too wrapped up in detours to appreciate the irony of the moment, so we shall move on. Where were we? Oh right, detours. No, no wait, that's not right. Ah, yes, the meeting. Of course.


It didn't take very long to reach the scheduled spot, and there was no one there when the Chesire Cat arrived. He did so silently, of course, the same way he always appeared, except nowadays it was usually for a much different reason. He was used to being the first one there, so Chess resigned to rest awhile until she arrived. He seated himself upon a small pile of black garbage bags, jerked back to his feet when he heard gunshots in the distance, and then, after a small period of silence, slowly sat back down on the pile and closed his eyes, quietly singing the first few lines of his favorite poem to himself.


"'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe


All mimsy were the borogroves, and the momeraths, outgrabe..."

 

[Ozmic]

The Huntsman - Hunter Madson

Abandoned Building - Back-alleys of Emerald City
​

"I'm getting tired of this game, Marley," came a quip from behind one of the pieces of scattered furniture strewn about the basement of the abandoned apartment complex Joseph Marley called home. The impromptu owner of the place snarled at the words and spat onto the ground.


"You're going to have to come out some time, fucker, if you want to get this poor girlie away from me," the wiry male snapped, clutches tightening around the shoulders of his captor - a just-past-teenage lass clad in dingy white shorts and a t-shirt depicting some weird logo of a store. The girl sobbed defeatedly, casting glances downward now and again at the gun tucked in the waistband of the junkie's trousers. "I have half a mind to just drag her outta' here, long as you're taking."


"Fine, I'm coming out. Just keep that piece tucked away and we can discuss this like gentlemen, alright?" came the reply. Finally, the owner of the voice stepped into view, brushing a bit of grime from his grey jacket as he made a cautious approach. Looking over the other male and the girl, Hunter gave a sigh and took in his surroundings. They were far from ideal, moreso than the usual buildings he found himself in, but the taller male hadn't gotten much of a say in the matter when Marley had tugged the lass with him... right into familiar territory.


"Nancy," Hunter started, looking right at the girl and ignoring her captor for a moment. "My name's Hunter and your family sent me. Joey and I are gonna' have a little chat and this will all be over before you know it." He smiled a little, but there wasn't much sincerity behind it. In reality, he was getting more and more on edge by the second, but he didn't want to risk having the junkie blow the girl's head off in a fit of stupid.


Talk about a ruined paycheck.


"Don't call me fuckin' Joey, asshole!" the skeleton of a man screeched, pointing a finger at him at first, then reaching down towards his pants. "Ain't nobody called me that since I was a kid and I'm not gonna' have that shit spreadin' around cause some cop started it!"


Hunter sighed and rubbed his brow. "First off, I'm not a cop. Where the hell'd you get that from? And second, mind keeping your hands to yourself and off your crotch for a minute so we can talk this out? I don't like guns and if you keep reaching for that, I'm gonna' get nervous."


Marley laughed, a shrill and annoying sound that Hunter grit his teeth against. "Oh, the big bad man don't like guns?!" he snarled, quickly tugging the piece free and waving it around like a maniac before pointing it at him. "And just what. Do. You. Plan. To. Do. Huh, peckerhead?"


In a flash, the man in the grey jacket rushed the other and, shoved both him and his captive to the side, sending the both of them reeling. Before the smaller man could react, Hunter had the gun and twisted it around. His eyes were slits of rage as he brought the gun down onto Joe Marley's right hand four times.


"I. Don't. Like. Guns," he stated with every strike, punctuating the blows with his words.


Leaving the man on the ground writhing and sobbing, Hunter got back up and helped the girl to her feet, pulling her toward the door as she began stammering a series of thank yous through sobs, hands grasping at him and seeking comfort as he led her toward his car.

"Cut the shit, lass, and compose yourself. Fer' God's sake, you're acting like an idiot," he snapped and shot her a glare as he opened up the passenger side door of his beaten up Buick. "I'm not here to play hero, I'm here to get you back to your parents and get a paycheck. This isn't a damned fairy tale so buck up and stifle it. Plenty of tears to be shed when you meet up with the folks again..."


Shutting the door behind her, the larger male sighed and got in, starting up the beast of a car and letting it idle for a minute before he pushed it into gear. It had been a long night of tracking this girl down and he was being an asshole again. Rubbing his head a little, the words of an old friend trickled into his subconscious. 'You've changed so much, Huntsman...' they taunted, and he pushed them away with a sigh, turning to his passenger as he put the car into gear.


"Listen... Nancy, right?" he started, letting a beat pass before he continued. "Yer' welcome. It's been a long night for the both of us, probably worse for you - sorry for the delay, so what say we get you back to yer' folks, hm? Chin up, kid, everything's gonna' be fine." He smiled at this, doing the best to ignore the fact that he was lying to himself with that smile - not that she needed to know that. After what she'd been through, some false optimism could go a long way... or at least the few blocks to the 'drop site'.


- - -


Arriving, Hunter killed the engine and opened his door, looking around warily at the disgusting scenery. What used to be a nice few blocks, alleys and all, had fallen to decay as the city expanded around it. What had been left was a blackened and wrecked pit of disgust. Homelessness thrived, as did all manner of criminal activity. The Old Huntsman wondered if the law had ever stepped foot in the place to try and take it back... but he doubted it. Too much work, not enough time.


All the time in the world couldn't put the outskirts of Emerald City back together again.


Smirking a little at the thought the man strode over to another car, a nicer and newer model, and waved the girl toward them. "Alright, Chuck. I got yer' daughter back in one piece safe an' sound," he said bluntly, then cut off the attempt at another thank you. "Yeah, you're welcome. Your kid already covered that part of it."


Taking the outstretched envelope from the mostly-rolled-down tinted window, Hunter slipped it into his jacket pocket and rapped on top of the car. "Pleasure doing business with you fine folks. Keep a better watch on 'er, man. No tellin' the kinda' crap that goes on around here if yer' not more careful." Shrugging a little if it had been the most normal conversation in the world, the male shoved his hair out of his eyes and moved back to his car, hardly noticing the others speed away. He didn't blame them. Getting out of this hellhole was always a freeing activity, even if it managed to be temporary.


Meaning to do just that, he started down one of the many alleyways he always took, finally ending up on a side street. A car in front of him, a newer - and yet worse off - looking Buick slowed down to a stop to ask a question to a lovely woman that Hunter could only assume was an off-duty working girl. The male grunted his disapproval and was about to pass when the other car pulled away. Starting off again, he nearly passed her when he caught a glimpse at her face and froze, pressing the brakes hard and knocking himself into the steering wheel.


More words came to his mind immediately upon seeing the face. "You should be visiting someone else. Someone nocturnal. Like a mole – and just as blind. What color is rage? Would you be the same color knowing she's sold her soul?"


"Red," he groaned aloud and scrambled from the driver's seat to the outside of the car. He stared at her for a second before speaking again, voice raspy and foreign sounding to him. "By gods... it's really you."


"Red Copper."





@Elle Joyner

 

[Teh Frixz]

Laci de Clegane

Sheriff of Emerald

​

Just a fantasy. Some whimsical words that managed to stir up old memories and take her back to the endless woods full of fresh air and adventures. Laci's gaze drifts off slightly as she drifts into a daydream.


The harsh smell of weak bodied men and women stuffing into a mall brings her back. The oily tang starting to get to her.


"Yeah...the election. Didn't just run, galloped. Elected Sheriff. Actually.." Laci reaches into her back pocket, pulling out and flashing her ID and badge.


"Sort of runs in the family." She holds a tone of pride with a hint of contempt. Judgement she brought down on anyone that didn't earn something through martial ability at least once in their lives.


"Shame about the sources, I thought you had some tweedy little guy crawling all over old ruins to find the odd scroll describing the whole debacle." Laci chuckles. "I'd have liked to meet him. It's to Laci Clegane by the way" In a casual way she sets her copy down and slides the book to Marian.

​

 

[Elle Joyner]

Roxanne Copper

He was following her. It wasn’t unusual. In a city like Emerald, there was no limit to people in her profession, but for some inexplicable reason that didn’t stop the John’s from drooling after her like lost puppies. There was something about her particular occupation that gave men the idea she was more object than person, and normally, Roxie couldn’t care less, but for some reason, when that Buick pulled up alongside the curb again her already thin patience tore like a sheet of paper.


Frowning, she turned to face the drunk, as he clambered out of the car, “Look, buddy! I told you already, I’m off—“


She arrived late, again. She hadn’t wandered… not since the incident the year prior. But the weather had been so beautiful, the sun so warm and she had been in no hurry. The sun had dipped below the horizon by the time the cottage came into view, the first streaks of twilight painted across the orange and pink sky. She hadn’t meant to stay, but Gran would insist, and in truth, Red never minded the company. She would fix Red a spot by the fireplace to sleep, and all would be well.





The cottage was dark… It should have been the first clue. Gran never shut the shades. Even at night she preferred the sheen of moonshine, over darkness. Red should have seen it, she should have known, but it had been a long walk and as night began to fall, she found herself eager to be indoors.





She knocked first, she always knocked first. Granny didn’t respond, but it wouldn’t have been the first time she’d fallen asleep waiting for her granddaughter to arrive. Pushing open the solid wooden door, Red stepped into the dank, stale front room and slipped, dropping to her hands and knees in the puddle of dark, crimson ooze.





Confusion and disgust mingled in her mind as she straightened upright, her gaze lingering on that puddle, on the stain on her hands… it wasn’t like Gran to leave a mess like that. But then, Gran couldn’t have left it… Gran was dead, a shredded, mangled muddle, in the corner, her blue-grey eyes staring at Red in wide, glazed shock. Beside her, the woodsman, Gran’s oldest, dearest friend lay more mess than man, but she recognized the parts of his face that were still intact…

The scream stuck in her throat as her legs gave way, her eyes fixed on the hulking figure in the opposite corner, the yellow glow in those eyes… eyes too human to belong to such a beast… glistening with hunger… with rage. He was watching her, studying her.





Claws… knife like, scraped across wood… leisurely, almost… like a cat, stretching in the sun. He was going to kill her, there was no need to rush…





Trembling, backing up against the cottage wall, Red braced herself. Awaiting the inevitable with an odd sense of disconnected sorrow…





Then, all at once, the door slammed open and he came pouring in out of the darkness, a behemoth, axe poised high overhead, dark eyes simmering with pure, unbidden fury… Her guardian. Her Hunter…


Sucking in a breath, her eyes locked on the man beside the Buick, Roxie stared, silent. His hair was shorter, his body leaner, but otherwise, there was no mistaking who he was. The man before her was a ghost… a dream… a memory. He had no right, existing in the open… but there he was, flesh and blood, a reminder of everything she had spent so long repressing. A reminder of all that she had left behind, with that damnable red cloak…


This wouldn’t do at all.


Taking a step back, her hands, shaking uncontrollable, dove into her purse and gripped the hilt of the small hunting blade she kept there, her head shaking back and forth as she pulled it loose, holding it with a stupid carelessness.


“That… that’s not my name.” She whispered, barely audible, her grip on the knife tightening, her knuckles turning white, “I’m sorry… You… you must be mistaken.”

 

[Erica]

Archer Robert Moore (Robin Hood)

Between the “The Last Drop” Coffee Shop and “The Written Word” Bookstore

​

Despite the headache of both distinguishing her from the crowd and making her memorable, Rob had to admit that the blue hair suited Johnna. She had always been larger than life, like a splash of color against the backdrop of a muted world; now she looked the part. Luckily most of Emerald City would not bat an eye at her brightly colored locks. He smiled at her as she claimed her cup and her place beside him. For his part, he couldn’t drink his coffee until she released him. The book under his arm made that a difficult endeavor, and spilling hot coffee was not in this morning’s plan.


Her report was encouraging. He showed his appreciation for the information and her enthusiasm with a nod as he finally took a sip of his coffee. When she mentioned the book signing, he rolled his eyes and attempted to revert to the prior subject. “We’ll have to play it slow,” he replied. “Gisborne’s no fool. If he knows we have an in with this guy, he’ll cut him loose. We’ll keep looking for cracks to exploit in their organization.” He smiled and added, “It’s not like we don’t have time,” before taking another sip.


This pattern had been long established. He shut down conversations about Marian immediately. The book had given the subject new life, though. Johnna and the other Merry Men had mentioned it to him multiple times before the girls’ conversation at the train station had convinced him to succumb to the temptation of reading it. Johnna in particular had increased her hints about seeing Marian as soon as he declared they would be visiting Emerald city. She had made a sport out of it, and he hated to encourage her. So this morning he behaved as had become his custom: he dodged the issue.


Johnna fell into step beside him. "Call me optimistic, but I'm a little tired of chasing these guys through history. I'm looking forward to taking them down, once and for all."


Rob grinned, surprised that his deflection had worked. She must not have had enough coffee yet. "That's the goal. And I like how you're thinking. The best weapon against a politician is a scandal. If we can get to Gisborne, we can discredit Sharp; strip him of power." He shifted the book to his other arm as he took another sip of his coffee. While he missed many things about the past - most notably the clean air of the woods of Lockesly, he had to admit that he loved coffee. So much so that he couldn’t imagine living without it now. Thank God Pope Clement VIII had liked the stuff. “Devil’s drink” indeed.


“And once we've got Gisborne out of the way, our dear Senator John doesn't stand a chance. We've seen it before... he can't function without his posse behind him. It's only a matter of time--" Perceptively Johnna's eyes shifted and her lip curved in a knowing smirk, her gaze returning to his. "...You fought me tooth and nail about going to the signing... but you still brought a book to sign? You are a regular prat, Rob.”


Rob reached into his pocket and handed over two of the packets of sugar as they walked past stores ranging from computer repair shops to delicatessens. Johnna took the packets without hesitation, tore them and poured the contents into her “coffee” as Rob retorted. "It's customary," he said with a smirk as they continued down the street. "Besides, if I didn't bring it, they'd just think I was there because my girlfriend dragged me along." He knew he was pushing it, but it was better to distract her than to let her start focusing on Marian again. He didn’t know what to expect if Marian saw him. Hell, he didn’t know what to expect when he saw her, but he damned sure wasn’t going to discuss it ahead of time like some pre-game countdown. Not even with Johnna. So he shot Johnna a meaningful glance and wiggled his eyebrows, knowing it would likely piss her off.


The thing he loved most about Johnna was also what he loved least about her. She knew him too well. She made a face, narrowing her eyes, "Girlfriend. Yeah right. The day you get that desperate, Rob, is the day I'll know you've finally lost your mind. Now, are you all done stalling, or would you like to maybe discuss the weather for a bit?"


They had reached The Written Word. A small poster in the window advertised the book signing with Lucille Trevor. Marian looked out at him from the advertisement; the same photo that he had seen a dozen times on the book jacket. But this time she was inside the store. Feeling his stomach lurch, he paused to shield his eyes as he looked at the sky and kept his smirk firmly in place. "Now that you mention it, it is looking like a storm might be headed our way..." he teased.


Johnna grinned and nudged him in the ribs, shaking her head, "Inside, oh Fearless Leader..."


“Anyone ever tell you that you can be bossy?” he quipped as he tossed his half-empty cup of coffee in the trash and opened the door for Johnna. It was time to face the music. He just had to manage to keep his distance. Or, at the very least, he was determined not mention chapter three.


[Robin/Johnna dialogue devised in collaboration with @Elle Joyner]

 

[Kairo]

Alice - Alicia P. Dodgson

Emerald City Mental Care Facility


Mental State: Deteriorating





Please. Not yet. Just until March gets here. Please.


But Alice could already feel the madness eating away at the edges of her sanity.


The mask March had brought her was almost gone, the last piece clinging to a spot on her right cheek, but that piece, too, was slowly being reduced to nothingness. She pressed her fingers against it, willing it to stick, wishing for it to blend into her skin and permanently be a part of her.


She tried to focus on other things: the feel of the starched sheets under her back, stiff and harsh on her skin; the walls that kept her in, the color of old bone; the grey floor with a detailed history of abuse, cold on her bare feet; the dark ceiling, water-stained. Alice anchored herself to the here and now. She couldn’t risk thinking of the past or the future — memories and imagination had an unstable effect on her gradually decaying sanity. She couldn’t let her mind stray, especially not with this new presence that had crept up from under her bed. The urge to satiate her curiosity was great, but she smothered it and kept her eyes closed. She needed to be calm.


Breathe in…and out. March will be here. And what’s the worst that could happen? You’ve been through this before. You’ll be all right.


She felt like she could hold on a little longer, but then the dark presence spoke, and though only a few words were said, Alice could hear in it the wail of a thousand dead children. Panic flared up, and with it, she felt the final piece of her mask fall.


“No, no, no! Not yet!”


She covered her face with her hands even as she knew it was hopeless; the light was already dimming, vanishing into a tiny, tiny point. Alice felt herself sinking faster and faster and faster and faster and…and...


Slowly, slowly-slowly. Open your eyes. Slowly-slowly.


Midnight stared down at her and it had teeth. Was it going to eat her? She would taste horribly awful, unseasoned as she is. Felicity always told her she was sweet as honey, but how would she know? She had never ever taken a bite.


Or had she? Felicity would never do that, right? She was her friend.


The girl stood up and checked her arms and legs. Satisfied, she counted her fingers and toes, and finally gave a high-pitched squeal of delight that could shatter glass. She was all there, wasn’t she? She had not been eaten after all.


And...Oh! She had been rude to her visitor! Was it a girl or a boy? She wasn’t sure for it didn’t have any hair. But that wasn’t important. Where were her manners? And...and what was her guest's name? Oh, how embarrassing to have forgotten a name! But it's all right, it's all right. Tea would smooth things over. It always did.


“Would you care for some tea?” the girl asked, wide-eyed but unafraid.

 

[Prof Tatori]

Eugene Wick, the Genie


Emerald City Talent

​

Eugene sat in his dimly lit office sipping on his coffee, black as the early morning sky outside of his folded blinds, as he glanced over the usual string of updates from his sources across the city, a process that had become almost as much of a ritual for him as his early rising.


Everyone knew what was going on with John Sharp’s speech, but more interesting was who had attended and who hadn't. The usual Brouhaha of course, a more droll crowd you could not ask for; the mayor, his wife, half the city council and of course Gisborne skulking through the crowd. But where was Chairman Henry Giles? The chair of finances was, according to Eugene’s information, one of Sharp’s greater allies. Perhaps it was that some disagreement had arisen between them. The thought was enticing, where another man saw strife, Eugene saw opportunity.


Then another detail caught his notice, Lucille’s book signing at the New Words book store. That was today, he suddenly recalled. After a moment of thought he decided he’d have to send Jaclyn Marshall up to get a signed copy of her assuredly great novel, yet it was more to Eugene to potentially discover more about the enigma he saw surrounding the reclusive star. Of course, it never hurt to have a famous author’s book upon your desk, especially a local one who had somehow managed as of yet, not to be connected with his dealings.


Flicking back through his notices he saw that nothing new was developing in the harbor district and downtown was quieter than usual, the “good” senator’s doing no doubt. But then there was a notice about the Ticking Clock. Once again, his contact had failed to get anything useful about the business of the proprietor, Mr. Hook. Scarcely had another man managed to challenge Eugene in this fashion.


He was a man with an infuriating ability to cover his tracks; one Eugene had so far been unable to fully grasp. For such a well-built network of informants, they had failed utterly in finding a single piece of dirt on the wealthy man and no one was that good unless they had something to hide. Maybe it was time to talk to the good captain, see what he could learn face to face.


A smile crept across his otherwise cold features.

 

[Elle Joyner]

Johnna Little

“The Written Word” Bookstore

​

Finishing her own coffee, the cup followed Robin’s into the trash, a grin spreading to her lips at his last comment, “Only for the last six hundred years or so…”


With a wink, she bypassed Robin and stepped into the bookstore. There was already a small crowd gathered inside, but to prevent Robin from using this as an excuse to bail out, she grabbed him by the wrist and tugged him towards the end of the line, which had begun to circle through the stacks of bookshelves.


“Our girl is a popular one, hmm? I’m glad she’s doing well.” She asked with a smile, before looking over, gesturing to the book in his hand, “You read it, yet?”


Robin smiled at her quip, but in a distracted sense, an indicated that his wandering eye was, as ever, scanning for trouble. Johnna knew the feeling, and for a moment, let her own gaze traverse the crowd. But it was mostly women, giddy teens and harmless housewives, one of whom was looking at her as if her question had been something heretical.


Robin, ever the charmer, flashed his trademark rakish grin at the eavesdropper until she turned away, before he looked back to Johnna. "You won't let it go, will you? I'm here; don't push your luck. You look like a child about to try her first sweet."


Folding his arms over his chest, he looked ahead in the line as if he could see the end - and the future it might hold. "I know it ended happily. Isn't that how the story goes?"


It wasn't unlike Robin to get snippy when the subject of Marian was brought up, but Johnna wasn't phased, her lips splitting in a devilish grin, "Oh, it ends happy enough. But man... how about that chapter three?"


Robin didn't bat an eye, although his eyebrows dipped lower and faint lines appeared on his forehead as he looked at her curiously. "Why? What's in chapter three?"


Looking ahead of her, Johnna smirked and shrugged, "You should read it... You old softy. Line's moving."


Stepping forward, he looked at the book in his hands and then back to her. "I've always liked Little John. What's her take on him?"


Johnna made a face, pulled a book from the shelf beside her and whacked him in the arm with it, before casually replacing it, "Little John is easily the best character in literature, to date. Ass. Come on... we're almost there."


"Ow!" He feigned, after she had replaced the book, "You saw that, right?" He said to the women behind them in line, playing it up, much to Johnna's chagrin. "She's abusing me, and after I took her here!"


The women behind them chuckled, but the line had paused. A massive Redwood of a woman at the head of the line was chatting with the author. Rob winked at the women behind them, but his eyes darted ahead to the front of the line. They were close now, only a few people ahead of them... and Johnna was certain Robin's sudden silence wasn't over the outrage of being book-whacked. There was a multifaceted expression in those ancient eyes... For a heartbeat or two there was uncertainty registered, there, a wariness... but at the slack smile that curled the corner of his lips, a sort of stunned reverence overcame him. For all his vehemence over coming to the bookstore, Johnna knew he would not regret it.


Reaching down, she gave his hand a sudden, brief squeeze, her smile for a moment, tender, before she released him, stepping forward, "Here we go..."


And as the pair of women ahead of them moved out of the way, Johnna stepped in front of the table, grinning, "Why, hell, Miss Trevor... You're as pretty in person as you are on the cover."


[A collaboration post, brought to you by Elle/Erica Collab Inc.]

 

[Ayl]

Sebastian W. Scathelocke

The Written Word

The city was flashing before Sebastian's eyes bit by bit as the car was gliding on the main road. It was quite the drive from the train station to the center of the city, which meant Emerald City was rather large. That could've been troublesome for Sebastian, as his target could've been virtually anywhere. Sebastian chuckled at the thought. Afterall, he had all the time in the world. The thought of being immortal had the double effect of both amusing and saddening him. Joke aside, the thought of outliving everybody he'd come in contact in was quite a downer. No real bounds could be formed, no one to confess his dark secret to. His fate was shared by his former comrades, the Merry Men, but alas, he'd left that life behind long ago. That, and his real name of Will Scarlet. Once out of the lush forests of Sherwood, "Will Scarlet" died and was replaced by "Sebastian Scathelocke".


And "Sebastian" was the one who would finish what "Will" couldn't. Over six hundred years, the former Merry Man endured what a normal human couldn't possibly imagine. A veteran of 4 grand wars, Sebastian survived and bested every obstacle life threw in his life, each time emerging stronger and more determined. So far, the amount of men that had died at Sebastian's hand were many, but the ones he kept count of were but three. Three persons he hunted over the centuries and whose miserable lives he ended without remorse. Just as they did to her.


Lost in his mind's depths, Sebastian didn't even notice when the car stopped. It wasn't until the driver addressed him directly that he came to his senses. " 'Ey, mistah! You a'ight? We're 'ere!". With a simple nod, Sebastian reassured the man that he was just fine, at the same time reaching for his wallet. It didn't take long for the cab to dissapear between the tall buildings in the distance, as the former customer stood in front of the open doors that led inside the bookstore. "Well, no need for a hat inside, I suppose!" he whispered softly to himself, as he elegantly took off his hat, holding it against his chest with his left hand, the right one already busy gripping the silver handle of his cane, which depicted a dragon with its mouth open, threatening an imaginary opponent with its sharp fangs. A bit flashy, admittingly, but becoming of him.


With sure, confident steps, he walked pass the threshold of the store, only to witness a line before him that would stretch all the way from the entrance to a desk at the other end of the shop. With a subtle whistle of impress. "Well, I certainly wasn't expecting this many fans!" he snickered. Since he came empty handed, having no copy of the book, Sebastian decided it would be futile to attend the line. To be completely honest, he didn't even know what he was doing there in the first place. He just got carried away by a whim as soon as he saw Marian's photo in the paper. His gesture wasn't necessarily out of character, but so far he never acted without a reason. It was almost like something pulled him there. A feeling he couldn't explain, the likes of which he'd never experienced before.


Deciding it was best to stick around and see what would happen, Sebastian carefully avoided the line, twirling his cane sideways between his fingers, playful, while admiring the volumes displayed on the shelves. His curiousity got the better of him, although, and with the corner of his eye he glimpsed at the front desk, where he spotted the one he recalled as Marian. Apart from the hairstyle and some other accesories, she looked the same as she did all that time ago. At the moment, from what Sebastian could tell, she was engaged in conversation with two fans. One was a rather tall man, almost as tall as him, the other a small girl. For some reason, the strange couple reminded him of someone, but a shake of his head banished the thought.


It couldn't be them. The chance of all of them being there at the same time was too improbable. And yet, it bugged him, more than he would've liked to admit.

 

[Ashurbanipal]

Captain Hook
The Ticking Clock - Main Floor


"A very busy night, my dear," Hook agrees, pivoting casually on a heel to open himself up to Isabelle, leaning back against the stage with lazy ease. A lion among the lambs, indeed, the Captain is one whose every movement is languid; this is a man who does not run, or rush, or fret in motion, because everything goes his way. "But I'll always make time for you." The corners of his eyes wrinkle as he smiles warmly.


In the shifting light, for a moment he looks rotten, blue-green and bloated in the manner of a drowned corpse, his teeth sickly stained and his eyes sullen. Why does he always smell like the sea?


The horror fades. Hook leans forward and gives his little fairy a fatherly pat on the head, walking away from the stage, and from the performing girl upon it. He is a silhouette passing through the crowds, blackened and looming, making a path for those who follow in the way a good Captain ought. A light step, a fake hand on a shoulder pushing two fond and drunken men aside, a broad curve around the bar, and then a straight shot forward through a curtained-off stairway leading up into the VIP lounge. Here, the music is a little quieter, the lights are a little less frantic, and the overall mood becomes more personal, intimate, and conducive to the sort of backroom deals and activities Hook enjoys--bribery, blackmail, prostitution, drugs.


A hand on the small of Isabelle's back directs her through a small doorway past the stairs into one of the upper area's private booths. Hook's own, in fact, designed in such a way as to be memorable and remarkable: expensive leather, fine drinks, an old-timey aesthetic in the tables and chairs and decorations.


Similar to his office, albeit more casual and open to guests. A model ship in a glass bottle marks the table, and next to it is an ashtray.


"Might I get you a drink, dear? A smoke? Please, have a seat."

 

[Elle Joyner]

Isabelle

The Ticking Clock

​

Whether he meant it or not, Isabelle never turned her nose up at a compliment from Hook. He was good to her... so good to her, and she was, in her own way, grateful for that. At the very edge of her mind, where reason still existed, she knew that her dependance on Hook was, at best, irrational... He was a pirate, still, deep down inside. And pirates could never be trusted. But he cared for her, in his own, unconventional way, and he would never leave her alone like Peter had.


True, she had the only forumla for one of the vices which kept Hook's enterprise running, but she liked to believe she meant more than that...Though it didn't keep her from holdin the recipe close to her chest, just incase.


She followed him to the back room, glancing back over her shoulder only once, to the girl on stage, hoping Wendy was a panicked mess watching her wandering off with Hook, alone. It was stupid and petty, but then... Isabelle never claimed to be anything else. Her abject disdain for the pretty dancing girl was hardly something she bothered to cover up, even if Wendy was Hook's clear favorite.


Inside the VIP room, she pulled herself up onto the private bar, hooking one leg over the other with a smirk, "You know me too well to think I'd ever turn down either."

 

[Ashurbanipal]

The Big Bad Wolf
Emerald City - Bad Neighborhood





The car with the broken muffler rumbles like a train beneath the traffic light. It flickers and fades when the colors change, and with a dying man's last gasp the car pushes ahead, shaking through traffic.


A trio of teenage gangbangers are gathered around a homeless man on a deserted street. One of them has a phone camera and is recording the other two as they shove him around. It's a new game they play -- provoke the homeless into starting a fight, and then smash them for the internet.


It's a sweet fire when her vein is pierced, and the heady rush that follows makes her forget the needle was shared, if she ever cared. She trances out in a room, warmed by a threadbare blanket and the body heat of the others cramped into the old room.


He groans, and his voice breaks, and he pushes forward--


The boy cries as his mother throws another pan at his father; he rears up like a horse, alcohol on his breath, and his hand comes--


You fucking asshole! Fuck you! Learn to drive! Come on, I'm late! Screw you! God, people here don't know how to--


Wolf breathes deep of the city's joys. His heart fires like a gun against his chest, his throat burns, his eyes blink in the glare of headlights, and he is alive, alive and hungry, he is alive and hungry and immersed in this cornucopia of flesh.


A swig from a stolen paper bag. Toss it, hear it shatter. A halfhearted complaint. Toss it, hear it shatter.


Another night in the city, and the Wolf is on the hunt, cigarette between his teeth, blood on his knuckles, and murder in his eyes. He's received a tip-off from one of his flock; the lambs make offerings as though to the gods of old, directing the detective to smoke like incense and bodies like cooked meat.


Another crackhouse. Unimportant. Who the fuck cares about the junkies? But there's a prick hiding out there, word is. A pimp who hasn't been paying up. He doesn't pay Wolf, mind -- Wolf's never accepted bribes.


But he hasn't been paying up, all the same, so now Wolf knows where he is. Forget money. It's too late now. The monster knows where he is. The door breaks and Wolf stalks in through a cloud of dust and fragments of shattered wood. The electricity's been turned off, but his eyes glow red like the burnt end of his cigarette, and he sees, he knows where to turn, what floor to stop climbing the stairs at; he smells him, tastes his fear, gets off on it, and the monster will take his pound of flesh.


A man screams, a man cries, a man is made a victim, and a victim's torments are legion.

 

[Sol]

Mr. Mulligan




It seems that the 20th and 21st centuries were nothing short of busy for Matthew Mulligan. It had taken him five years after the end of World War II to track these Merry Men down but it took all of five minutes for them to bring him back into the fold. Except he there were only three of them before he arrived. Robin Hood, Little John(na) and Alan-a-Dale, were the only ones who responded to the call and yet they made it this far with just those three? Somehow that was impressive in its own right.


Much had no intention of falling behind. He was the slow one before, but not now. Not anymore.


He had woken early in the morning to do his daily routine, which had been reduced to nothing but jogging around the block a dozen or so times. It helped the blood flow and it would probably help him concentrate on the task he set for himself. He didn't bother shower as he left his bed and settled for putting on a windbreaker over his pajamas, which was nothing more than a simple shirt with a character print on it and a plaid pair of pants. It was probably six in the morning and he doubt anyone really cared about appearances. He'd have breakfast after he finished work which meant breakfast would probably show its face at around 12 noon.


They had spent three weeks in this Emerald City and no sooner had they set finished refurbishing the Brownstone to suit their needs, they had begun working. Matthew assumed the goal was to humiliate Prince John again, except this time it'd be on public. A live stream that'd destroy the man's reputation to the general public. Even a few hundred years into the future some people just never change it seems, that man definitely deserved a high-five to the face with a chair on a live stream to the rest of the world.


The Merry Men acquired a lead that would possibly help them take down the Senator, except that lead had ties to Guy Gisborne. He was a vicious killer back then and most the stories were right up until a certain point. Archer managed to defeat him once but even then it looked like a close fight. Now that man was probably a part of what looked like an underground syndicate, it wouldn't be a stretch to say the guy owns the syndicate. It was knowledge of this that prompted Matthew to delve deeper into this case. They would need to be prepared. After all, Guy of Gisborne was a killer first and foremost, it didn't help that he probably had a small army to throw at them too.


Since he had begun serving alongside the Merry Men again, Matthew had been looking into a acquiring powerful enough mobile devices that he could use. It surely would not beat a self-built computer set-up but a gaming laptop did a passable job at least, which he invested in with what he had earned through developing apps and plugins. True enough there was profit to be made doing jobs with the Merry Men but multiple income sources were always useful. It had been decades since then and Matthew was surprised at how quickly his respect for them returned after the first turbulent decade with them. There was just one last thing he needed to do.


Matthew didn't need to leave his room to know that he was last man in the Brownstone left. Alan was probably out chasing skirts for no better reason than just because. Johnna and Archer were probably out looking for more leads on the Guy case. He left them to their work as he sifted through the files and dossiers they had compiled over the past weeks. In the end Matthew ended up calling up a contact he had made during the first day in Emerald City, a used cars dealer. All the movies and games he's watched about heists usually involved getaway vehicles and guns. It was a shame that he couldn't find an arms dealer to acquire a few weapons from, even pistols were better than nothing. It was a pain in the ass but Matthew would probably have to get a gun the legal way.


After reviewing the case one more time, he found himself finishing earlier than expected. It was 11am and the Brownstone was already deserted save for him and the heated protests coming from his laptop. He switched off the device and went to have some semblance of brunch, which was nothing more than a sandwich made from whatever he could find in their fridge. The magic of making a sandwich was lost on him after doing that over and over for the past centuries or so, it was exciting back then since he was being innovative but now it was just routine. After wolfing down his snack he took a cold shower and changed into his usual outfit. A button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up along with a pair of dark blue jeans and a pair of black canvas shoes.


"Alright, alright....deep breaths, Mr. Mulligan, deep breaths."


Matthew faced the mirror in the bathroom and began clearing his throat. He was rehearsing this for a long time already but always chickened out before. Not this time, not when they would go toe to toe with an established killer. He needed to set the record straight with Robin Hood even though he was perfection incarnate. Keyword: was.


"Archer. I just want to say that for a very long time I have been discontented with how you have been acting in the years following our dissolution. I looked up to you and you became a hollow shell of a man that cared for nothing but drowning in an ocean of vice. I want to get this off my chest today."


Matthew slowly threw a right hook at the space between him and the mirror.


"Oh and do you have any connections with arms dealers nearby?"


That was it. He just needed to summon the backbone to hit his childhood hero.


After checking that the brownstone was secure, Matthew Mulligan left as well. 50 or so years since seeing him again was probably more than enough time to summon that backbone he so sorely needed. Now the next problem was were the hell Archer disappeared to. First thing was first though, he needed to go pick up that Audi at the car lot his connection mentioned. A few days ago a letter arrived at the Brownstone that had Matthew's name on it. The handwriting was familiar and there seemed to be something else in the envelope as well, keys to a car. The letter detailed some directions to a car lot and a specific day in which he was supposed to arrive there. Of course the letter came in at an opportune time since he was the only one in the Brownstone that day, just like this morning.


If they needed a getaway from Guy of Gisborne, then it was appropriate that they do it in style. It was a shame he couldn't coerce a Lamborghini from his contact but he was impressed the guy managed to produce an Audi.


It smelled of a trap though. It was entirely possible to find Guy in that car lot instead of the Audi. Still, it was a risk worth taking and what's life without a little bit of risk?