Rhiannon McIvor, Charis and Evan Thomas
Rhiannon was relieved by Imiel's reaction to her suggestion. The fact that he knew how to get there was simply a relief - she thought little of his familiarity with the route.
"Well, transit would be an excellent way to see more of the city! I'm afraid I haven't seen anything more than this street." she realized how sad that sounded as she said the words, but she reminded herself that she'd been told not to get comfortable. The way things were going, though, the less she was concerned about following SHIELD's rule regarding how she should conduct herself in their dimension.
And so, with resolving to strike out on her own (sort of) and planning what she'd need to grab for a day out, Rhiannon was a little distracted when Annie presented her with her picture. Of course she stopped and bent low to take the precious paper from the girl at her eye level. Of course she took time to look it over and smile at the little vignette. Her mind glazed over the colour choices Annie made in her drawing. All kids picked whatever crayon they liked for whatever they liked. Pink skies, purple horses, green skin.
"Thank-you sweetie! This is so special! Let me put it up on my fridge so I can see it every day."
And she meant it. Her hand gently smoothed the page as she affixed it to the appliance. She smiled at the caricatures and opened to door to grab some juice boxes. Snacks, sunscreen, wallet, phone, keys - that suddenly struck her as silly and she left them on the mantle. What was the point of locking the door when they could clearly be abducted from their home without anyone ever using the front door. Everything was tossed into a large tote and slung over her shoulder with ease as she tucked a pair of sunglasses on top of her head.
Conversation was light and easy with Imiel and Rhiannon felt the weight lift from her spirit with every meter of distance between them and their current home. The city, though just like any other city, felt bright and new. That's not to say that everyone seemed to be feeling the same way. Charis was as sullen as she had been since waking up in a SHIELD hospital. Ewan was also strangely quiet. Perhaps the two of them were chatting away and she just wasn't allowed to hear them. She hoped so.
"It's weird not seeing statues of Superman everywhere."
Though Rhiannon had been looking at her daughter when she spoke, she was still surprised by the girl's sudden observation. She was prompted to look around, realizing that Charis was right.
"Actually, I haven't seen any statues to superheroes thus far - is that something that isn't done here?" she asked Imiel, her local expert. She assumed there must be superheroes as they'd met one at SHIELD yesterday. Also the whole 'mutant' thing seemed similar to the 'metas' at home in that the topic was uncomfortable, but the public appreciated the ones that helped them out and took selfies with their kids.
Welcome to the Suburbs. Population: Odd.
Re: Welcome to the Suburbs. Population: Odd.
A pair of cloaked individuals
They arrived out of a pool of darkness in an alleyway among wooden boxes of wine bottles and cigarette butts. Their dark robes floated over the debris and the pair stepped into the southern French sun. Turning as one, oblivious to the heat and to the fact that they were not dressed like locals, the pair proceeded to walk the streets until they arrived at a rental property. The first robed figure to arrive rapped at the door.
"Orla Knox? Mother of one Marshal Knox? Our mistress wishes to speak to you - may we come in?"
They arrived out of a pool of darkness in an alleyway among wooden boxes of wine bottles and cigarette butts. Their dark robes floated over the debris and the pair stepped into the southern French sun. Turning as one, oblivious to the heat and to the fact that they were not dressed like locals, the pair proceeded to walk the streets until they arrived at a rental property. The first robed figure to arrive rapped at the door.
"Orla Knox? Mother of one Marshal Knox? Our mistress wishes to speak to you - may we come in?"
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Monkey Kitty
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- Joined: Thu Oct 29, 2020 7:31 pm
Re: Welcome to the Suburbs. Population: Odd.
Imiel
Imiel found he really, really liked Rhiannon's kids. They had said he and the girls were like family; maybe he could request to be Uncle Imiel someday.
“That's an interesting observation,” he told Charis. “It sounds like this Superman is a very beloved person on your world?”
He nodded to Rhiannon. “Things are definitely different here. Reactions to our superheroes can be… volatile. When they save the day, people love them. They get treated like celebrities. There's merchandise - you know, t-shirts, action figures, trading cards, that kind of thing. They have fans, they have admirers.”
His face clouded a bit. “But it's terrifying how fast people turn on them. You probably heard what Jameson is going through in the media right now; they couldn't wait for an excuse to tear a virtuous man apart. And it's been worse than that. There was a thing a few years ago - before my time - called the Sokovia Accords, where the government tried to take control of the superheroes, and those who resisted were imprisoned or had to live on the run.”
He sighed. “Superheroes aren’t the worst off, though. Mutants are even more distrusted and feared. And aliens…”
Annie was looking out the window. He couldn’t tell if she was paying attention. He wasn't going to risk finishing that sentence.
And the president declared all aliens enemies of the state, who can be killed on sight.
The bus creaked to a stop. A group of passengers got on. It was getting more crowded. Some people were still moving down the aisle or grabbing rails to steady themselves to stand as the bus abruptly lurched back into motion, lightly tossing the passengers around. A man nearly bumped into Rhiannon; the hand he put out to steady himself grazed her blouse between her shoulder blades. “Sorry,” he muttered as he moved farther onto the bus.
"But yeah,” Imiel said, returning to their earlier subject. “I'm pretty sure Jameson - say - doesn't have a statue.”
Imiel found he really, really liked Rhiannon's kids. They had said he and the girls were like family; maybe he could request to be Uncle Imiel someday.
“That's an interesting observation,” he told Charis. “It sounds like this Superman is a very beloved person on your world?”
He nodded to Rhiannon. “Things are definitely different here. Reactions to our superheroes can be… volatile. When they save the day, people love them. They get treated like celebrities. There's merchandise - you know, t-shirts, action figures, trading cards, that kind of thing. They have fans, they have admirers.”
His face clouded a bit. “But it's terrifying how fast people turn on them. You probably heard what Jameson is going through in the media right now; they couldn't wait for an excuse to tear a virtuous man apart. And it's been worse than that. There was a thing a few years ago - before my time - called the Sokovia Accords, where the government tried to take control of the superheroes, and those who resisted were imprisoned or had to live on the run.”
He sighed. “Superheroes aren’t the worst off, though. Mutants are even more distrusted and feared. And aliens…”
Annie was looking out the window. He couldn’t tell if she was paying attention. He wasn't going to risk finishing that sentence.
And the president declared all aliens enemies of the state, who can be killed on sight.
The bus creaked to a stop. A group of passengers got on. It was getting more crowded. Some people were still moving down the aisle or grabbing rails to steady themselves to stand as the bus abruptly lurched back into motion, lightly tossing the passengers around. A man nearly bumped into Rhiannon; the hand he put out to steady himself grazed her blouse between her shoulder blades. “Sorry,” he muttered as he moved farther onto the bus.
"But yeah,” Imiel said, returning to their earlier subject. “I'm pretty sure Jameson - say - doesn't have a statue.”
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Monkey Kitty
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- Joined: Thu Oct 29, 2020 7:31 pm
Re: Welcome to the Suburbs. Population: Odd.
A Few Minutes Earlier
Two men waited at the bus stop, a few paces away from the crowd of commuters headed downtown.
One was older, shorter, dressed in a tweed jacket and dress slacks. The other had a grey hoodie and jeans, and his black hair pulled into a ponytail.
“You have to get that sword,” the older man whispered.
The younger man was staring off into the middle distance. It was often impossible to tell if he was listening, which infuriated the older man.
“One of the sisters must have it,” he went on. “I thought they were twins, but it must have been bad intel. One is just a child. It must be the adult sister who carries it. They wouldn't just leave Excalibur lying around the house. It has to be on her person. Find it. Take it from her. Bring it back to me.”
No response.
“Are you listening?”
Still no response.
“Hey!” Faster than one would expect a man of his age to move, his hand shot out and gripped the younger man's chin. “Are you listening?”
Impassive eyes. A nod.
“Then get. That. Sword.”
***
He got on the bus. Swiped his ticket. Scanned the passengers. He could recognize her by her red hair.
Her outfit didn't offer much concealment for a weapon. He didn't think she could have it hidden under her skirt, not sitting like that.
It was either along her spine, or in her bag.
He moved forward with the rest of the passengers, slowing his pace to time his approach with the lurch of the bus. He pretended to trip, put out a hand to ‘catch himself’ on her seat–
His hand met only fabric. No blade. No sheath.
Her bag, then. He couldn’t exactly make another attempt.
“Sorry,” he muttered, and moved away from her group.
When they got to wherever their destination was, he would try again.
Two men waited at the bus stop, a few paces away from the crowd of commuters headed downtown.
One was older, shorter, dressed in a tweed jacket and dress slacks. The other had a grey hoodie and jeans, and his black hair pulled into a ponytail.
“You have to get that sword,” the older man whispered.
The younger man was staring off into the middle distance. It was often impossible to tell if he was listening, which infuriated the older man.
“One of the sisters must have it,” he went on. “I thought they were twins, but it must have been bad intel. One is just a child. It must be the adult sister who carries it. They wouldn't just leave Excalibur lying around the house. It has to be on her person. Find it. Take it from her. Bring it back to me.”
No response.
“Are you listening?”
Still no response.
“Hey!” Faster than one would expect a man of his age to move, his hand shot out and gripped the younger man's chin. “Are you listening?”
Impassive eyes. A nod.
“Then get. That. Sword.”
***
He got on the bus. Swiped his ticket. Scanned the passengers. He could recognize her by her red hair.
Her outfit didn't offer much concealment for a weapon. He didn't think she could have it hidden under her skirt, not sitting like that.
It was either along her spine, or in her bag.
He moved forward with the rest of the passengers, slowing his pace to time his approach with the lurch of the bus. He pretended to trip, put out a hand to ‘catch himself’ on her seat–
His hand met only fabric. No blade. No sheath.
Her bag, then. He couldn’t exactly make another attempt.
“Sorry,” he muttered, and moved away from her group.
When they got to wherever their destination was, he would try again.
-
Monkey Kitty
- Posts: 769
- Joined: Thu Oct 29, 2020 7:31 pm
Re: Welcome to the Suburbs. Population: Odd.
Orla Knox
Orla cautiously opened the door... but was delighted to see grave and serious figures clad in robes. These were her kind of people! Something interesting was undoubtedly about to happen.
"Yes, I'm Orla Knox," she said with a slight preen - pleased they'd heard of her. But, of course they had. Noncommittally, she added, "And yes, Marshal is my son. Please, do come in and make yourselves comfortable."
She did her best to hastily analyze their tone before deciding whether to further claim Marshal. If they liked him, of course she would take credit for him... but from their tone, she decided to distance herself.
"Marshal and I are estranged," she added. "I did the best I could with him, but unfortunately he took after his father in the end. Vile man that he was. I can only hope Marshal's choices will take a turn for the better someday."
And it had better happen soon. There was a superhero who was long overdue for the death he deserved.
She smiled. "But yes, your mistress. Of course. Who will I have the honor of addressing?"
Orla cautiously opened the door... but was delighted to see grave and serious figures clad in robes. These were her kind of people! Something interesting was undoubtedly about to happen.
"Yes, I'm Orla Knox," she said with a slight preen - pleased they'd heard of her. But, of course they had. Noncommittally, she added, "And yes, Marshal is my son. Please, do come in and make yourselves comfortable."
She did her best to hastily analyze their tone before deciding whether to further claim Marshal. If they liked him, of course she would take credit for him... but from their tone, she decided to distance herself.
"Marshal and I are estranged," she added. "I did the best I could with him, but unfortunately he took after his father in the end. Vile man that he was. I can only hope Marshal's choices will take a turn for the better someday."
And it had better happen soon. There was a superhero who was long overdue for the death he deserved.
She smiled. "But yes, your mistress. Of course. Who will I have the honor of addressing?"
-
Monkey Kitty
- Posts: 769
- Joined: Thu Oct 29, 2020 7:31 pm
Re: Welcome to the Suburbs. Population: Odd.
Jameson Bryant
"Mr. Stalwart?"
Jameson had to suppress a flicker of stress; they were under time pressure, and the multiple interruptions were making him nervous. But of course, that was something no one else could possibly know, and he didn't want to be rude to someone who was undoubtedly well-meaning.
"Hello, Agent Coulson. What can I do for you?"
"I've got something to run by you. I'll walk with you." He fell into step beside Jameson.
"Okay," Jameson replied... sincerely hoping this wasn't another bid to marry him off to some stranger...
"Well, it's more of an offer, really. You may be aware of a certain superhero team that have been - well known, in the past, but they've gone their separate ways and a number of them are out of the game for good. The government is getting a little ansty about that, especially with everything going on in the meantime. We're under some pressure here to rebuild the team and recruit some new blood. Your name was one that has been coming up. So, what do you say? Interested?"
Jameson's heart was pounding. "Are you... are you asking me to be an Avenger?"
Coulson's smile was all the answer he needed.
"So uh... what would that entail?"
"Oh, I’m sure you get the gist already. Saving the world, and all that. Showing up at headquarters Upstate when called upon. You know - hero stuff."
"...Hero stuff."
"Mhm. Not so different than what you do already. There is... one small catch, though. This is a Security Level Six assignment. You would have to pull out of certain... other projects you've taken on."
Jameson blinked at him. "Other projects?"
Coulson just nodded, and waited for him to catch on.
It took a moment, but eventually he did. "You mean Marshal."
"Yeah. I'm sorry, Jameson. I know that's not a choice you wanted to make. But there's just no way the higher-ups in Washington are going to risk letting him that close to something like this. Believe me, I tried every argument I could think of. I promise you, though, we'll make sure Marshal is well cared for no matter what."
"I see. Agent Coulson, I am honored by this offer. I know how much this means. But I..."
His mind flashed back to how he'd felt last night, his arm wrapped around Marshal as the other man reckoned with his past and sobbed. How he'd felt when Imiel embraced him with such gratitude just for not treating him like a hostile intruder on the planet. And he knew, deep in his heart and with utter conviction, where he belonged.
"...I already have a team," Jameson finished. "And it's the right fit for me. So I'm afraid I'm going to have to decline your offer."
Coulson raised an eyebrow. "And you really think they couldn’t get by without you?"
Jameson shook his head. "Nah. They'd be fine without me. I'm just not sure I'd be okay without them."
"If that's your decision."
"It is. Thank you, sir."
They shook hands and parted ways.
"Mr. Stalwart?"
Jameson had to suppress a flicker of stress; they were under time pressure, and the multiple interruptions were making him nervous. But of course, that was something no one else could possibly know, and he didn't want to be rude to someone who was undoubtedly well-meaning.
"Hello, Agent Coulson. What can I do for you?"
"I've got something to run by you. I'll walk with you." He fell into step beside Jameson.
"Okay," Jameson replied... sincerely hoping this wasn't another bid to marry him off to some stranger...
"Well, it's more of an offer, really. You may be aware of a certain superhero team that have been - well known, in the past, but they've gone their separate ways and a number of them are out of the game for good. The government is getting a little ansty about that, especially with everything going on in the meantime. We're under some pressure here to rebuild the team and recruit some new blood. Your name was one that has been coming up. So, what do you say? Interested?"
Jameson's heart was pounding. "Are you... are you asking me to be an Avenger?"
Coulson's smile was all the answer he needed.
"So uh... what would that entail?"
"Oh, I’m sure you get the gist already. Saving the world, and all that. Showing up at headquarters Upstate when called upon. You know - hero stuff."
"...Hero stuff."
"Mhm. Not so different than what you do already. There is... one small catch, though. This is a Security Level Six assignment. You would have to pull out of certain... other projects you've taken on."
Jameson blinked at him. "Other projects?"
Coulson just nodded, and waited for him to catch on.
It took a moment, but eventually he did. "You mean Marshal."
"Yeah. I'm sorry, Jameson. I know that's not a choice you wanted to make. But there's just no way the higher-ups in Washington are going to risk letting him that close to something like this. Believe me, I tried every argument I could think of. I promise you, though, we'll make sure Marshal is well cared for no matter what."
"I see. Agent Coulson, I am honored by this offer. I know how much this means. But I..."
His mind flashed back to how he'd felt last night, his arm wrapped around Marshal as the other man reckoned with his past and sobbed. How he'd felt when Imiel embraced him with such gratitude just for not treating him like a hostile intruder on the planet. And he knew, deep in his heart and with utter conviction, where he belonged.
"...I already have a team," Jameson finished. "And it's the right fit for me. So I'm afraid I'm going to have to decline your offer."
Coulson raised an eyebrow. "And you really think they couldn’t get by without you?"
Jameson shook his head. "Nah. They'd be fine without me. I'm just not sure I'd be okay without them."
"If that's your decision."
"It is. Thank you, sir."
They shook hands and parted ways.
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Monkey Kitty
- Posts: 769
- Joined: Thu Oct 29, 2020 7:31 pm
Re: Welcome to the Suburbs. Population: Odd.
Another letter, until recently tucked under the paperweight on Virginia Thornton's desk. Dated one week ago.
Dr. Thornton,
I admire the dogged persistence with which you've been working on getting the recovered HYDRA technology functional. Brava!
I must say, though, I stand by my opinion that HYDRA's approach to the creation of super soldiers was fundamentally flawed, and as such there are limits on how much your own work can elevate it.
This is to say nothing of the serum itself; as you well know, far too many of the variant formulas have catastrophic mental and physical effects.
But I speak here of the process of maintaining an operative. Code word activation is both far too vulnerable to unauthorized use, and difficult to maintain as the subject's will attempts to resurface. The necessity of constant wiping of the mind for maintenance purposes and the the requirement to use cryo storage for the soldier between missions to avoid the original personality breaking through significantly diminishes the utility of the soldier.
All this to say, I believe you are (apologies!) barking up the wrong tree attempting to repurpose their technology.
The future of super soldiers lies in sorcery, not science. I hope that you will pay me a visit to see my own research. I believe you will be most intrigued by the possibilities. I have eliminated many of the barriers you have been butting your head against for so long. I would be happy to provide a demonstration at your convenience.
Sincerely,
Edmund Thompson, M.D.
Dr. Thornton,
I admire the dogged persistence with which you've been working on getting the recovered HYDRA technology functional. Brava!
I must say, though, I stand by my opinion that HYDRA's approach to the creation of super soldiers was fundamentally flawed, and as such there are limits on how much your own work can elevate it.
This is to say nothing of the serum itself; as you well know, far too many of the variant formulas have catastrophic mental and physical effects.
But I speak here of the process of maintaining an operative. Code word activation is both far too vulnerable to unauthorized use, and difficult to maintain as the subject's will attempts to resurface. The necessity of constant wiping of the mind for maintenance purposes and the the requirement to use cryo storage for the soldier between missions to avoid the original personality breaking through significantly diminishes the utility of the soldier.
All this to say, I believe you are (apologies!) barking up the wrong tree attempting to repurpose their technology.
The future of super soldiers lies in sorcery, not science. I hope that you will pay me a visit to see my own research. I believe you will be most intrigued by the possibilities. I have eliminated many of the barriers you have been butting your head against for so long. I would be happy to provide a demonstration at your convenience.
Sincerely,
Edmund Thompson, M.D.
Re: Welcome to the Suburbs. Population: Odd.
The McIvors
"Yeah, he's a super powered guy from another planet who lives on Earth after his blew up. Everybody seems to like him." Charis was kneeling on the bus seat, staring out the window, speaking into the glass. She was trying. Trying so hard to be excited as she knew normally she would be to go exploring a new city. But her dream haunted her.
It was nothing. Just a stupid weird dream. So why did it feel like there was something bad about to happen? The bus lurched and she smacked her forehead into the glass. She stifled a shout and instead turned herself around and smiled at Annie. Maybe that smack to the head was what she needed. It was time to put the dream aside and focus on a nice day out. Besides, she didn't want to ruin sweet Annie's day by being grumpy.
~~~
"It is shame that as much as some things are different between our worlds, some things are the same." Rhiannon sighed. "People and their heroes. I was rather hoping that one of these worlds would get things right."
Someone fell toward her and she arched her back in response, willing herself to keep calm and keep her resonance to herself. The man barely brushed her and she recalled what it was like to ride public transit. She confessed that she was more familiar with trains than buses. Still, they were on their way someplace lovely - together.
"Oh well, I suppose it is up to us to try to make the world we're in a better place."
Ewan was strangely quiet, but Rhiannon assumed it was due to the crowd. He had a hard time with the idea that he could bump into someone. His white cane did tend to act as a sort of shield, though. People tended to step around it more than around him, per se. HIs head turned as though he were following the man who bumped into her with his eyes. She would need to ask him about that.
The museum stop came quickly enough, fortunately. Rhiannon was relieved to get into the fresh air and while she ensured her own children made it off the bus, she also reached out her hand to Annie to help her down the steps and onto the sidewalk. It was a grand building and she found herself smiling up at the marble and glass structure, shielding her eyes with her free hand. Belatedly she realized she'd stolen Annie away and turned toward Imiel and offered to pass his own child back to him. She didn't mind holding Annie's hand, of course. She loved the contact. But she couldn't hold the hands of her own children. It was a point of contention - especially between her and Charis. Fortunately, her daughter was also distracted by the museum building - a smile finally on her gloomy face. Perhaps she wouldn't mind for a little bit.
They stepped in through the front doors. Charis was still looking up at the vaulted ceiling, Ewan was turning his head this way and that listening to all the conversation, and Rhiannon was staring straight ahead at a glorious concert harp. She tucked Annie's hand onto the handle of Mia's stroller as she dropped the tote bag off her shoulder and held it out toward Charis. She dropped the bag without noticing whether or not the girl caught it and moved forward as though in a trance.
Rhiannon's skirt fluttered in an invisible breeze as she walked through the barricades around the small dias. A museum staff member noticed her as she stepped onto the platform, and moved forward with hand outstretched and mouth open - but he seemed to change his mind and simply stood at the edge of the barrier, watching her carefully. She flicked the edge of her skirt outward with her left hand and dropped daintily onto the stool. Her face was fairly glowing as she looked up at the immaculate instrument. Her hands rose elegantly into position and she played a few notes. They echoed through the atrium. Rhiannon was lost to the music. The wonderful music. Her spirit and voice rose as one.
I've met some folks who say that I'm a dreamer,
And I've no doubt there's truth in what they say,
But sure a body's bound to be a dreamer,
When all the things he loves are far away.
And precious things are dreams unto an exile.
They take him o'er the land across the sea
Especially when it happens he's an exile,
From that dear lovely Isle of Inisfree.
And when the moonlight peeps across the rooftops,
Of this great city, wondrous though it be,
I scarcely feel its wonder or its laughter...
I'm once again back home in Inisfree.
I wander o'er green hills through dreamy valleys,
And find a peace no other land would know.
I hear the birds make music fit for angels,
And watch the rivers laughing as they flow.
And then into a humble shack I wander
My dear old home and tenderly behold,
The folks I love around the turf fire, gathered.
On bended knees, their rosary is told.
But dreams don't last
Though dreams are not forgotten
And soon I'm back to stern reality.
But though they pave the footways here with gold dust,
I still would choose my Isle of Inisfree.
~~~
Charis found herself following her mother forward, though she dropped the heavy bag unceremoniously at the edge of the barricades. She looked so...happy. Maybe this was really what she needed. Having no musical outlets had been harder on them all than she'd ever thought they might. She felt a bit angry that her mother got this peace. That anger dissipated with the song.
Hot tears dripped down her cheeks.
((OCC: The Isle of Innisfree was written by Dick Farrelly))
"Yeah, he's a super powered guy from another planet who lives on Earth after his blew up. Everybody seems to like him." Charis was kneeling on the bus seat, staring out the window, speaking into the glass. She was trying. Trying so hard to be excited as she knew normally she would be to go exploring a new city. But her dream haunted her.
It was nothing. Just a stupid weird dream. So why did it feel like there was something bad about to happen? The bus lurched and she smacked her forehead into the glass. She stifled a shout and instead turned herself around and smiled at Annie. Maybe that smack to the head was what she needed. It was time to put the dream aside and focus on a nice day out. Besides, she didn't want to ruin sweet Annie's day by being grumpy.
~~~
"It is shame that as much as some things are different between our worlds, some things are the same." Rhiannon sighed. "People and their heroes. I was rather hoping that one of these worlds would get things right."
Someone fell toward her and she arched her back in response, willing herself to keep calm and keep her resonance to herself. The man barely brushed her and she recalled what it was like to ride public transit. She confessed that she was more familiar with trains than buses. Still, they were on their way someplace lovely - together.
"Oh well, I suppose it is up to us to try to make the world we're in a better place."
Ewan was strangely quiet, but Rhiannon assumed it was due to the crowd. He had a hard time with the idea that he could bump into someone. His white cane did tend to act as a sort of shield, though. People tended to step around it more than around him, per se. HIs head turned as though he were following the man who bumped into her with his eyes. She would need to ask him about that.
The museum stop came quickly enough, fortunately. Rhiannon was relieved to get into the fresh air and while she ensured her own children made it off the bus, she also reached out her hand to Annie to help her down the steps and onto the sidewalk. It was a grand building and she found herself smiling up at the marble and glass structure, shielding her eyes with her free hand. Belatedly she realized she'd stolen Annie away and turned toward Imiel and offered to pass his own child back to him. She didn't mind holding Annie's hand, of course. She loved the contact. But she couldn't hold the hands of her own children. It was a point of contention - especially between her and Charis. Fortunately, her daughter was also distracted by the museum building - a smile finally on her gloomy face. Perhaps she wouldn't mind for a little bit.
They stepped in through the front doors. Charis was still looking up at the vaulted ceiling, Ewan was turning his head this way and that listening to all the conversation, and Rhiannon was staring straight ahead at a glorious concert harp. She tucked Annie's hand onto the handle of Mia's stroller as she dropped the tote bag off her shoulder and held it out toward Charis. She dropped the bag without noticing whether or not the girl caught it and moved forward as though in a trance.
Rhiannon's skirt fluttered in an invisible breeze as she walked through the barricades around the small dias. A museum staff member noticed her as she stepped onto the platform, and moved forward with hand outstretched and mouth open - but he seemed to change his mind and simply stood at the edge of the barrier, watching her carefully. She flicked the edge of her skirt outward with her left hand and dropped daintily onto the stool. Her face was fairly glowing as she looked up at the immaculate instrument. Her hands rose elegantly into position and she played a few notes. They echoed through the atrium. Rhiannon was lost to the music. The wonderful music. Her spirit and voice rose as one.
I've met some folks who say that I'm a dreamer,
And I've no doubt there's truth in what they say,
But sure a body's bound to be a dreamer,
When all the things he loves are far away.
And precious things are dreams unto an exile.
They take him o'er the land across the sea
Especially when it happens he's an exile,
From that dear lovely Isle of Inisfree.
And when the moonlight peeps across the rooftops,
Of this great city, wondrous though it be,
I scarcely feel its wonder or its laughter...
I'm once again back home in Inisfree.
I wander o'er green hills through dreamy valleys,
And find a peace no other land would know.
I hear the birds make music fit for angels,
And watch the rivers laughing as they flow.
And then into a humble shack I wander
My dear old home and tenderly behold,
The folks I love around the turf fire, gathered.
On bended knees, their rosary is told.
But dreams don't last
Though dreams are not forgotten
And soon I'm back to stern reality.
But though they pave the footways here with gold dust,
I still would choose my Isle of Inisfree.
~~~
Charis found herself following her mother forward, though she dropped the heavy bag unceremoniously at the edge of the barricades. She looked so...happy. Maybe this was really what she needed. Having no musical outlets had been harder on them all than she'd ever thought they might. She felt a bit angry that her mother got this peace. That anger dissipated with the song.
Hot tears dripped down her cheeks.
((OCC: The Isle of Innisfree was written by Dick Farrelly))
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Monkey Kitty
- Posts: 769
- Joined: Thu Oct 29, 2020 7:31 pm
Re: Welcome to the Suburbs. Population: Odd.
Others
The man in the tweed coat was texting furiously.
Virginia, why aren't you answering me? You need to get your patient back in hand immediately, he is compromising all of our
A location alert popped up on his phone. So his operative had successfully tracked the targets to their destination. Good. It wouldn't be long now.
Distracted as he was, it took awhile to register the place name attached to the location pin.
…A museum.
Oh no. This could ruin everything.
Text message forgotten for the moment, he shoved his phone in his pocket and hailed a cab.
***
The young man in the grey hoodie followed his quarry at a distance, careful not to attract attention. It was easy to blend into the crowd. Stopping at displays but not really seeing them, using the glass to catch reflections instead. Stalking past priceless and irreplaceable artifacts without a glance, keeping his target always in sight…
At least, until he reached the watercolor exhibit.
It was just a small collection of paintings, a traveling exhibit of the works of a fairly obscure 19th century French impressionist.
The young man stood transfixed for nearly twenty minutes, staring at each painting, barely blinking. Eventually, he came to a landscape that was displayed at his eye level, a field of vibrant orange flowers painted in bold, confident brush strokes.
His hand moved of its own accord - piloted by some long-buried muscle memory - tracing the lines and daubs in the air as if with an invisible brush…
“Hey!” the security guard called out, rushing over to him. “Hey, what are you doing?”
The young man turned slowly, as if struggling to transfer his gaze from the field of orange flowers to any other subject, including the person who was now angrily addressing him.
“I… I think I used to be a painter,” he said haltingly.
“Dude, what's wrong with you? Are you on drugs or something? You need to move on, or I'm going to have to ask you to leave the museum.”
The young man didn't answer. His gaze drifted back to the wall of paintings. The guard stepped in front of him, blocking his view.
“NOW! Get moving.”
The young man nodded, and walked out of the small gallery with only one brief, longing backward glance. Once he had stepped through the doorway, whatever trance had held him was broken. Whatever memory had been trying to surface was gone.
There was only one thing left. Get that sword.
***
He had snagged the bag while she was distracted. It was easy. Just a barely perceptible dip to grab it and sling it over his own shoulder, without even breaking stride.
In the corridor, he opened it - no sword.
That was obvious with the most superficial of glances. No need to go through the rest of her belongings. Everything else remained untouched. (The juice boxes did provide a moment of temptation - he suddenly noticed how thirsty he was, and they got an extra look before he closed the bag and reaffixed the clasp.) Nothing else she might have had fell within the mission parameters.
Get the sword. Nothing else was required.
He dropped the bag on the counter at the Lost and Found desk and walked away without a backward glance, not noticing that he'd left a tiny smudge of his blood behind on the shoulder strap.
The man in the tweed coat was texting furiously.
Virginia, why aren't you answering me? You need to get your patient back in hand immediately, he is compromising all of our
A location alert popped up on his phone. So his operative had successfully tracked the targets to their destination. Good. It wouldn't be long now.
Distracted as he was, it took awhile to register the place name attached to the location pin.
…A museum.
Oh no. This could ruin everything.
Text message forgotten for the moment, he shoved his phone in his pocket and hailed a cab.
***
The young man in the grey hoodie followed his quarry at a distance, careful not to attract attention. It was easy to blend into the crowd. Stopping at displays but not really seeing them, using the glass to catch reflections instead. Stalking past priceless and irreplaceable artifacts without a glance, keeping his target always in sight…
At least, until he reached the watercolor exhibit.
It was just a small collection of paintings, a traveling exhibit of the works of a fairly obscure 19th century French impressionist.
The young man stood transfixed for nearly twenty minutes, staring at each painting, barely blinking. Eventually, he came to a landscape that was displayed at his eye level, a field of vibrant orange flowers painted in bold, confident brush strokes.
His hand moved of its own accord - piloted by some long-buried muscle memory - tracing the lines and daubs in the air as if with an invisible brush…
“Hey!” the security guard called out, rushing over to him. “Hey, what are you doing?”
The young man turned slowly, as if struggling to transfer his gaze from the field of orange flowers to any other subject, including the person who was now angrily addressing him.
“I… I think I used to be a painter,” he said haltingly.
“Dude, what's wrong with you? Are you on drugs or something? You need to move on, or I'm going to have to ask you to leave the museum.”
The young man didn't answer. His gaze drifted back to the wall of paintings. The guard stepped in front of him, blocking his view.
“NOW! Get moving.”
The young man nodded, and walked out of the small gallery with only one brief, longing backward glance. Once he had stepped through the doorway, whatever trance had held him was broken. Whatever memory had been trying to surface was gone.
There was only one thing left. Get that sword.
***
He had snagged the bag while she was distracted. It was easy. Just a barely perceptible dip to grab it and sling it over his own shoulder, without even breaking stride.
In the corridor, he opened it - no sword.
That was obvious with the most superficial of glances. No need to go through the rest of her belongings. Everything else remained untouched. (The juice boxes did provide a moment of temptation - he suddenly noticed how thirsty he was, and they got an extra look before he closed the bag and reaffixed the clasp.) Nothing else she might have had fell within the mission parameters.
Get the sword. Nothing else was required.
He dropped the bag on the counter at the Lost and Found desk and walked away without a backward glance, not noticing that he'd left a tiny smudge of his blood behind on the shoulder strap.
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Monkey Kitty
- Posts: 769
- Joined: Thu Oct 29, 2020 7:31 pm
Re: Welcome to the Suburbs. Population: Odd.
Imiel
Imiel was transfixed. By the song. By her.
Listening to her play and sing, he felt like he was seeing a side of her he had never seen before - no, not just a side. A window into a part of her soul she kept carefully hidden under the staid dignity of a queen. It was mesmerizing. It was beautiful.
She was beautiful...
He felt himself carried away by the song, drawn into the words of longing and love and home. The outside world almost ceased to exist for him...
Almost.
Because he wasn't alone in the bubble created by the music that wrapped around them. The children were here too. And he saw Charis was crying.
For a moment, that thought panicked him - what did he know about comforting a teenage-ish girl? But he told quickly admonished himself. You're a single father. It won't be too many years before you have to figure it out with Annie and Mia. Just give it a shot.
He tentatively put a hand on Charis's shoulder. "Hey," he said gently. "I know a lot of heavy stuff has been happening for you lately. A lot of things have changed. And you're being so strong for your family. No one can keep all their feelings inside all the time, though - no matter how brave you are. If there's any way I can help. If you ever need someone to listen. I'm here."
Imiel was transfixed. By the song. By her.
Listening to her play and sing, he felt like he was seeing a side of her he had never seen before - no, not just a side. A window into a part of her soul she kept carefully hidden under the staid dignity of a queen. It was mesmerizing. It was beautiful.
She was beautiful...
He felt himself carried away by the song, drawn into the words of longing and love and home. The outside world almost ceased to exist for him...
Almost.
Because he wasn't alone in the bubble created by the music that wrapped around them. The children were here too. And he saw Charis was crying.
For a moment, that thought panicked him - what did he know about comforting a teenage-ish girl? But he told quickly admonished himself. You're a single father. It won't be too many years before you have to figure it out with Annie and Mia. Just give it a shot.
He tentatively put a hand on Charis's shoulder. "Hey," he said gently. "I know a lot of heavy stuff has been happening for you lately. A lot of things have changed. And you're being so strong for your family. No one can keep all their feelings inside all the time, though - no matter how brave you are. If there's any way I can help. If you ever need someone to listen. I'm here."