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westcoastwonderlandrp · 7 years

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Catching Up with the Rebellion.

March 9th, 2017.

Sunlight bled pale indifference over the slanted windowsill. Aeron watched Max slither into his hoodie and turned the page of his comic book absently. Debating.

Comic books weren’t always his thing. They’d become a habit, almost, something he picked up from Max, who hoarded them in little sleeves of plastic and hid them places he thought nobody would find them in their crooked Victorian conversion. Aeron took quiet pride in the fact that Max allowed him the opportunity to read the books he held so dear—campy, colorful things that they were, with the same man in magenta and fuchsia declaring “equality for all mutants” on every other page, seemingly.

Looking from Magneto to Max, Aeron thought he saw some similarities. More in the defiant set of Max’s jaw than even in the wink of a gold Star of David disappearing under thin black fabric.

Max caught Aeron’s gaze in the mirror and smiled back at him, turning slightly.

“Don’t look so worried.”

“Who’s worried?” Aeron quipped back, closing the comic he’d been perusing back up and slipping it into its glossy plastic sleeve. “Not me. I know you can handle yourself. Whatever it is you’re up to.”

“Up to!” Max’s smile was lopsided. It bore resemblance to something much homier and knowing; more man’s best friend than wild predator. “That just makes me sound like I have a plan. A diabolical one.” Shaggy blond hair scattered in a canine shake as Max pulled his hood up over his head, chuckling faintly.

“You said it, not me,” Aeron pointed out, sliding off the edge of the futon-sofa with a quiet sigh. Max’s brown eyes sobered, though the rest of his face reflected in the hall mirror stayed warm and soft. It was so often these days that Aeron saw the ‘wolf peering out at him, not the man. It was in this instance he glimpsed it again—snooping behind a human mask of faintly-freckly skin and old, fading scars. Hesitantly, Aeron reached out to take one of Max’s hands. As if tamed by this, the creature—the half of Max he held in dark places like basements and crying sessions—backed off. Max returned to Aeron in the blink of dark brown eyes, in the soft curve of a knowing mouth. A squeeze solidified the steadiness and Max clasped his free hand over their joined ones, lifting Aeron’s digits to his lips.

“It’s only been a few months,” Aeron said finally. Max glanced up, lowering their hands. His thumb curved across Aeron’s knuckles, fingers tracing his palm. Aeron felt the ghost of a laugh breeze by his ear. It tickled. He lifted a shoulder to nudge the sensation away, eyes steadily fixed on the werewolf in secondhand Abercrombie.

“I know. But everything’s settling.” Aeron’s face hardened a little. “It is,” Max murmured, dark eyes earnest. “They’re rebuilding, yeah, but the guys at the top—it’s all smoke and mirrors. They’re trying to be bigger than they are. H, N--” He referred to the Handlers not by name outright, but by initial. Even in his own house, Max was meticulous. Methodical. Did Aeron not trust him even half as much as he did now, it might’ve been unsettling. As it stood, he simply accepted and absorbed it as another fact of Max. “They’re just figureheads.” Aeron was silent. “The real power is in the IDEA of them, not what they can actually do…”

“Please, just--” Aeron lifted his free hand, pinching the bridge of his nose. Max relented, the fire in his eyes fading to sparks of interest. The unmentioned weight of Aeron’s mother pressed upon them both. “…Just…promise me,” Aeron finished faintly, looking back up.

“I’ll be careful,” Max reassured the witch softly. Aeron cocked a brow and set his jaw. Max, noting the look and the sharp descent into hot water to follow should he break his promise, sighed a little. “I swear,” he added. Aeron squinted, then leaned in to press a kiss to Max’s forehead that imparted blessing as much as it did exasperation.

“You better be,” Aeron murmured. He felt the ‘wolf retreat reluctantly.

Their hands held together for as long as possible before Max turned away, leaving Aeron to the empty shell of a house, his music, and the comic books with their careful plastic coverings.

“Well, look at that.” His smile was shit-eating; a surfacing explosion detonated by fuses of bemusement. Rocks and hills moved before it. The world stopped turning momentarily. “Max and Marx, together at last.” Max crinkled his nose faintly. The bar stank of petrol and piss; of wayward sweaty figures and something not unlike asphalt in the Summer rain. An Englishman from the North sat adjacent to him on the bar, half-laid out on the scratched-up surface. Everything inside glowed red; the calm, pulsating red of something predatory. Something angry, but willing to wait. Max took a breath to steady himself and folded his hands on the bar, sliding into a seat.

“Doesn’t really work—seeing as Max is--”

“Your ‘first name’. I know, right?” The Northerner’s grin widened slowly, and he swung around from the bar, lifting his beer to his lips. “Not exactly the smartest move; mate.” Amusement faded sharply into icy judgment. Max felt a chill spike his spine. “Flipping the two…Derek.” Heat; retroactive and reactive, rushed through Max at the name-drop. “Derek Maxwell,” Russell continued, and lowered his beer to the counter. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Max felt the sharp pang of old and familiar anger—fingers curling and popping with a longing to grasp Russell K. Marx by either side of his head and drive his smug face into a well-positioned knee.

The satisfying crack of bone on bone was something Max could deal with. Easily.

Not the rest of this.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“Oh, so you’re a psychic now?” Max fired back before he could stop himself. Russell’s face never changed—cornered animals confronted with threats didn’t faze him much, apparently.

“Nah, mate, but you’re an easy read.” Russell swung back in his seat a little, arms slung over the bar. One hand motioned vaguely. “Look at you—wound up like a spring. A little more application of pressure…” Russell’s finger ghosted closer in the air. Max tensed; readying himself. “Bchew,” Russell feigned an explosion in motion and sound, hand flying open and fingers fanning. Golden light danced in his palm; briefly—so brief that it could’ve easily been a reflection of the lights around them, though Max knew that it was not.

“No more Mr. Nice Wolf.”

“This isn’t why I came to meet you,” Max mumbled, rubbing his nose. Russell watched him with bright hazel eyes; reddish in the all-crimson encompassing room. The hum of electricity in the air ran currents under their feet; wrapped serpentine around the stools. Patiently waiting. Outside; the traffic had picked up as rush hour began. Max caught a whiff of hard drugs on the lean figure to his left, something mean and unforgiving that had its teeth in Russ’s veins. Maybe Russell saw it on his face; maybe he was prepared to run, but whatever the case, he shifted positions and sat up with a lazy lift of his scuffed-up chin.

“I know. You came looking for an ally and you get…” Russell motioned grandly to himself. “This.” His face shifted slightly, hands folding around his beer.

“I have a stake in this, too, you know,” he said finally, much more serious than before. Max quieted, watching him with care. “I didn’t schlep myself all the way to the Golden Coast in the hopes of making a quick buck, no, I came because I’ve friends who’ve moved here.” He scanned the room and Max did too; though without turning. He listened. Scented. Let Russell do the looking.

“They’re planning something big,” Russell noted. Max glanced sidelong at him. “Something that’s drawing people here. Not just your Handling problem--” Max shot a look around swiftly and hunched up a little, tugging on his ear. Just a guy having a chat with another guy. Not a big deal. “But something else, too. Other players are entering the game, Max.” The werewolf felt another uneasy shiver shake his spine. Shadows seemed to briefly overtake the bar—the color of blood faded under the color of bruise. Russell glanced up, watching the lights overhead shake and rattle. The earthquake passed, and Russell sipped his beer again, glancing down once more.

“Here.” He reached under his coat and set a thin gray file on the bar between them. Max glanced at it, moments before it slipped beneath his sweatshirt for safekeeping. “That’s got the information on the…I can’t believe I’m sayin’ this—‘old gods’ y’asked for.” Russell tipped his beer in Max’s direction as Max rose away from the bar. “There’s been a shift in weather patterns; more bizarre incidents reported—even a resurgence of New Wave, New Age, whatever it is—paganism. It’s wild. Werewolves, witches, vampires…” Russell shook his head slightly, expelling a breath through his teeth. “Superpowers? Sure. Supernatural? Keep it on the CW, mate.”

“You’ll be in town a while?” Max asked, ready to duck out as quick as he came. He had places to be—Aeron to return to; graffiti messages to leave, and connections to make in the Mousehole. His chores for the afternoon into evening were far from over. And he’d already spent too much time being shady somewhere semi-public with someone already shady. Russell looked up from turning his bottle in his hand and smiled faintly, lifting an arm in a flippant shrug.

“Till the wind changes.” Max just stared. “Mary Poppins? No? Tough crowd,” the reporter mumbled, lowering his bottle with a ‘clunk’ against the bar. Max pulled his hoodie up and headed for the door, caught only by Russell’s final words—

“Max?” The ‘wolf on the lam glanced back at Russell, hugging the folder a little closer to himself. “It was nice to finally meetcha,” said Russell. Max blinked, then ducked out the door.

The time for pleasantries had ended.

The time for action had once more begun.

#plot post #also HAP BIRTH HEATHER

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westcoastwonderlandrp · 7 years

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they say newcomers have a certain smell.

#joe-wcw #emile-wcw #new project #and also: for angel

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westcoastwonderlandrp · 7 years

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hallo may i pls claim Dev Patel thankx

Yes absolutely.

-R.

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westcoastwonderlandrp · 7 years

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Hey! I've lost access to both of my WCW character accounts (Ellyn and Meresankh). I'd love to continue rp'ing with all of you. (Even though I've been dormant for quite a while now.) Should I create two new accounts, or would it be simpler to create one "hub" account for Ellyn and Meres (and any future characters)?

I think a hub account might be wisest!! We want you back too. ; ;

-R.

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westcoastwonderlandrp · 7 years

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the not-so-poisoned app(le)

On the streets connecting an art museum to a row of kitschy shops, tattoo parlors, a movie theatre, and coffee spot, I stood in awkward silence with a little old woman clutching a turtle in a tank. It wasn't that unusual, I guess. Not for San Francisco, anyway. Chinatown, all of it coalescing grudgingly around the harbor. I get poetic when I'm freaked out, okay.

I stood there, feeling stupid, for a good long while, one thumb absently tapping my phone. Somewhere, on the other end of the app that was more verb than noun, a handsome stranger was supposedly coming to see me. He lived in this city. A lot of handsome strangers did. And I'd met my fair share of them. They came and went (usually the former), but Emile had insisted I try to make one stick. I regretted, just a little, meddling in his love life. If only because it meant he turned around and meddled with mine. He was a relentless friend that way (and a few other ways). In all honesty, I don't know what I'd do without him. But going on a date had been something I did as like...a freshman. You know, back when I still had hope. Back before I realized I was just doomed to go back North to wine country and spend the rest of my life in a loveless relationship with work at my father's firm and whatever senator's daughter he deemed appropriate to marry me off to. Coming up on the last legs of law school meant wobbling ever closer to the noose. His was a big tie to fill. Seriously, dude dressed like it was still Mad Men up in here. I don't think he even paid attention when the 70s happened. He sure as hell didn't for the periods following. Note the lack of ladies at his law firm. But hey. Maybe it would pan out differently. This guy, Kam...he seemed really sweet. And he had the Emile stamp of approval. And green eyes. I think. A little difficult to tell. In some pictures on his profile, they even looked yellowish. But that was a nutty Twilight Breaking Dawn bullshit thought to have. The result of nerves, overactive imaginations, and the pressure of midterms. Kam was...he seemed fun. And he liked sports. And just. Was really easy to talk to. "I dunno," I sighed out loud. The old woman with the turtle gave a startled snort and craned her brontosaurus neck to look up at me; squinting. I smiled down at her. "Did I fucking ask?" Said granny. The turtle snapped its beak in agreement. I could see my eyes widening, but the hag in the shawl with the reptile had already begun to hobble away. It was only then I realized she had been sound asleep; likely waiting for somebody, too. Maybe the app was more popular than I initially thought. "Caleb?" Okay, so his voice was softer than expected. As were his eyes. And his hair; framed by a sunny halo. He had all the makings of Renaissance beauty wrapped in a small, fit frame. Holy shit. My brain went to a place just now. A place of romance novels with silk sheets and rose petals and a boatload of giddy garbage. And my stomach went straight into meadows full of butterflies. I felt my heart hit the back of my throat and nearly gagged. The resulting sound was a strangled blender one. Not an attractive first impression. "Are you...Caleb?" His half-smile was teasing; eyes crinkled from the fading light of the afternoon sun. I tried to find my voice. Think of something clever to say. Something nice. And smooth. Like a mocha latte with soy and something wicked in t. Whiskey maybe. Oh shit say something. He's staring at you--waiting! HELLO. "And you must be Kam-with-a-K, hey hey hey," I said with a dual unholstering of finger-guns. Oh holy Moses, why the fuck did I say that? He was smiling even more noticeably now; all rumpled curls and bright, bemused eyes. Why had I decided to commit to the Fat Albert approach? There was seriously no need for that nonsense. But he wasn't screaming and running in the opposite direction, that's for sure. And that had to mean something. Even if it meant he was enjoying the voyeurism that came from watching a seven car pileup. "That's me," said Kam. "Do we..." He half-offered a hand as I went in for the cheek kiss and we met in the awkward middle of an arm-grab and a bumping of jaws. Fucking fantastic. Why had I ever agreed to this? Emile was going to get such a noogie when I saw him again (I'd say "got home" but Emile had taken to virtually living in the library and offices on campus of late. Midterms, bro). "That was weird," I admitted. Kam's eyes crinkled with laughter. "We're totally nailing this dating thing." He crooked an arm with an overly-theatrical bow that seemed cut short by shyness at the end. "Shall we?" I swallowed all remaining fears and took his arm. San Fran was a safe city in that nobody looked twice at two guys arm in arm. Nobody questioned the bum on the corner or the howling in the pipes, either. So, in hindsight, maybe I could've been more cautious. But this was all about throwing caution to the wind, and I had every intention of being blown away tonight. ...mind out of the gutter, Caleb. And away we went. A totally normal date in an average city as performed by two basic dudes. Not exactly fairytale, but I could probably live without the Grimm elements, when all was said and done... Better to try and live normally rather than happily ever after, because let's be honest: who gets that these days?

Not many.

Not with all the wolves in sheeps’ clothing.

#happy belated birthday angel #\.v./#plot post #drabble #character intros #the perspective of an oblivious human tbh

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westcoastwonderlandrp · 8 years

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“We are not here to discuss your Isle of Misfit Toys, Norman.” The Handler’s smile was as sallow and thin as the rest of him–a mere suggestion of humor amidst a landscape otherwise devoid of emotion. Knocking his head against the glass-walled cell, the thing that wasn’t Roy watched through dull and narrow eyes as the intimidating woman carved from ice and hate towered over his tormentor; doing absolutely nothing to make him seem at all smaller. If anything, they appeared as monoliths before his cage–self-congratulatory statues cast in ivory, ushering in yet another new age. Glory be to they who held the keys to Hell.

“The academy,” Hyde continued, “is no more than a contingency plan should our ranks thin in the next foreseeable future. Our assets–” her dark eyes drifted briefly across the nave of glass boxes and cell blocks below in the labyrinth of bulletproof crystal, “are plentiful and our recruiters most thorough. I for one see no reason in addressing or acknowledging that particular waste of government funds until the next conceivable budget crisis, at which point I will recommend its complete disbanding. Excuse me–” Norman lifted both brows; waiting. Hyde lifted her phone, tapping the surface with smooth white hands. Roy (for lack of a better name thus far) shut his eyes tightly against a throbbing headache. His rations were the minimal efforts of a nervous nurse, and his thirst was monitored by an IV that both drugged and hydrated him. In his goldfish bowl of horrors, Roy viewed the pantomime of occurrences as placidly and distantly as any other menagerie creature. “There now. Where was I.” Hyde twisted slightly as she put away her mobile, not quite looking at him, nor addressing him, but spoke instead to Norman about him. “I’ve come because of your other science experiment.” Her manicured nails tapped the glass, sending a shockwave of repulsive electric energy through the cobweb mesh of wires obscured by the impenetrable glass. Roy, jolted, skittered back and clutched at his knees, eyes darting away from the blonde woman whose sole purpose seemed to be creating a gravitational amount of devastation wherever she went. The arm with the IV needle jammed into it singed; twinging horribly as he moved. Norman huffed a laugh between his lips and folded his hands behind his back. Roy could hear the shift of fine silk and practical cotton as he readjusted. He ran his tongue over his teeth, tasting blood from the lip he’d bitten in lieu of the electrocution. Never let them see you bleed, a voice whispered. An echo, he figured bleakly. Another memory not his own. Supplanted from Norman, no doubt, or buried too deep for him to extract in his current condition. Roy had to wonder if he’d ever had any other condition prior to all this. “He’s contained, quartered, monitored every hour of the day, with no memory available prior to the last reset.” Norman’s blithe monotone made Roy’s skin crawl. The old familiar feeling of sickness rose in the back of his throat, but the sorcerer encased in invisible walls made no show of his nausea. Hyde’s gaze drifted across the intricate front wall of his imprisonment before settling on him– Albeit, settle was too kind a word. Her eyes pinned him like dual daggers, sticking him sharply in place. His minuscule efforts to soothe himself (a rubbing of arms, a shifting of limbs, an adjusting of colorless cloth) stopped entirely, and Roy met Hyde’s gaze as neutrally as possible. “He’s dangerous,” she said at last, sidling a little closer to the glass. Roy remained immobile, his flat, shadowy stare scarcely flickering at all. Hyde tilted her head, hand poised to tap the glass again. Roy stayed seated on the floor, carefully curling his bare toes away from the pane of nothing but pin between himself and the woman in white. Her lips curved; a ghostly smile, before she exorcised it with a shift of her gaze–Norman got the worst of it this time; stony and unforgiving. “And he shouldn’t be taken lightly, Norman.” “I can assure you, he is not,” Norman responded coolly. Hyde thinned her lips, then stepped away from the cell at long last. Roy extinguished the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, and drew in a new one as subtly as he could through his nose. His heart thudded hard against his chest, an ugly reminder of fear of the unknown. “I want full results of your findings every week. The full report, Norman, none of your annotated cliff notes this time.” The Handler inclined his head ever so slightly as Hyde strode away, a queen in silver heels. “Starting this Friday until I say otherwise.” Norman waited a beat, then glanced sidelong at Roy. His face was unreadable and inhuman as he lifted his wrist to his lips; directing coolly– “Send Dag up here. We need to ramp up our efforts.” Roy shut his aching eyes. “Prepare for Phase IV.”

#plot post #long post

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westcoastwonderlandrp · 8 years

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Dear Governor McAlister –

You do not know me. You and I have not had the privilege to meet in person. I have been, of course, monitoring your actions as I do all major accomplices to our cause in positions of power. I have attended your banquets, listened to your speeches, approved memos you probably didn’t even know you signed off on.

I am Zelda; Zelda Bathory. Z.B. to most.

I am contacting you on behalf of The Academy for the Protection of the Unknowing; or T.A.P.U. We are a secret university located, currently, in an undisclosed area of the United States. It is our sacred and most important duty to uphold the quality of life for all beings, supernatural and mundane, for the benefit of all. We maintain borders, we track potential problems, and, for all intents and purposes, serve as the other side of law enforcement when the occasion calls for it—

And after that, there is me.

I am the PR head of this particular division; e.g., the Midwest. As someone born in Chicago myself; I can appreciate your frustration when the hub of your fine state is threatened. Threatened by no less than a paranormal entity; a primordial elder god classified as “armed and extremely dangerous” [as one would expect it to be when the annual bloodlettings no longer occur, but that is another issue entirely I am not at liberty to discuss at present].

I am not writing you to excuse the behavior of our agents. Although, I would like you to be aware that the one you referred to as “a tattooed meth head” just lost the love of his life. Absorbed her; actually, strictly by accident [and through direct orders—but again, I don’t have time to broaden that subject at present—so sorry]. As a result, he was emotionally compromised and not cleared for field duty, but we were down on numbers as one of our own took a most brutal “beatdown” from an undersea entity no less than three days prior.

Our numbers fluctuate day by day. Ours is not an easy task.

Regardless; he did behave irresponsibly by inevitably convincing the god to follow him down into the subway system—wherein he then attempted to overload it on the third rail power lines. He did in fact cause the twenty-five block blackout that downed a lot of communication with law enforcement officers. Oh, and the mid-city fire that happened immediately after. Moreover, the destruction and damages that followed were…inarguably exacerbated by the efforts of the MEDS team dispatched to Handle the situation. We do apologize for that. As I write this to you, repairs and compensation are already underway. By this time tomorrow, no one shall even know of the incident.

In a similar vein, I must apologize once more. As you read this, the alchemical osmosis taking place from your hand-to-page contact is erasing the past three days of your life. You will think yourself freshly arrived home from your trip abroad. You will not have had that argument with your wife you had yesterday regarding unexplained charges to the shared credit card. You will be as relaxed and unknowing as a kitten in the sun.

I respect how you do your job.

Please respect how I do mine.

And governor, don’t worry—

This letter will self-corrode and appear only as a US Weekly article.

With sincere gratitude,

- Zelda Augusta Bathory.

Zelda Bathory is a recent graduate of T.A.P.U. and continues her work as a correspondent between worlds. Her hobbies include cooking, videography, ballroom dancing, sewing, reading, and cycling. She currently resides in Illinois but travels frequently for work. You can view some of her publications at the Academy library under the nonfiction guidebooks section.

#plot post #are queue going to san francisco

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