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Entry tags:
Action - Semi OTA
Genessia City - Pan's Grocery checkout. Morning.
Oh, tsk tsk tsk. Young Theodore should've thought twice before picking up that egg. Now, for example, the lady behind the checkout will know exactly what he thinks. Like how well he's practiced his fake smiles and empty niceties for dolls. Yes, that means you, checkout lady. Ah, he's blushing now, hurrying out with payment and rushed apology, but there's no mistake. There's no hatred, for there's nothing there to hate. Just a gloss of cheer masking cold indifference. How healthy is it to spend so much time around dolls? He wondered how that might effect one's mental health. Would it be healthier to know, or go on believing in them?
He's thinking how irritating and dangerous this voice is, and how he might be free of it. Uncharacteristically, he hasn't spoken, thinking it vain to resist that way. He is correct. What will he do now before it says something really inconvenient? Is there an open field he can run to where none will hear? Fayren has much like that. There, perhaps, is peace, even if he does wind up breaking it.
For a holiday advent, he doesn't look very amused.
Fayren Forest - random clearing. Afternoon
What wondrous feats of superhuman acrobatics! "Inhuman" might be the better word. It's hard work, practicing these transdimensional maneuvers. Moving various, ever-changing shapes into and out of the void, with differing amounts of momentum. Stretching and extending his shape to make portals from every vantage point, then adding annihilation reactions on top of that for extra speed and force. Lord knows if the fibers weren't enhancing his brain he'd have given up in a fit of despondent nausea. If only this voice weren't so distracting!
Well, despite the little explosions and the voice overlaying them, it's quiet enough. No one's here to hear them, and none suspect the much, much bigger explosions that could appear just as easily. Just in case he ever gets really angry and decides to visit upon the world what God did to Sodom and Gomorrah. He wouldn't do that, of course. He's very moral; very cautious. There's no sense in blowing things to kingdom come. The system probably wouldn't allow it anyway.
Still, one must practice. He's very superstitious, in his way. He knows he's due for a real fight--probably due for a fight--some time this year. That he hasn't had one any year prior hasn't discouraged. And of course, he's not like the others; those pathetic, violent madmen for whom violence defined their lives and gave them meaning, however paltry. He's American. He's civilized. He'd gone to a decent college, and been educated better than most by his intellectual parents. Of course violence is a last resort. It's simply prudent to spend untold hours honing it to a point. Besides, most civilizations have such terrible, ruinous arms as a means of peacekeeping. His own country had used them twice, after all. Not that he really wanted to. "Just in case" was his sanctifying phrase. "Just in case."
But all's not well in the land of terrible weaponry he masters but doesn't use. That last boost was off the mark, and not for want of skill. Ever since the tearful departure of the one who made him so armed, the armaments had worn down, and he'd found not a smith or tailor in the world to mend them. How much practice can he afford? How many more atoms of matter can he annihilate before the fibers are annihilated too? Then he'd go back to being a largely powerless weakling; someone who couldn't stand up to any villainy whatever. Not with force.
That would never do. [OOC: Ted's being hassled by a narrator. The first part's OTA, the second can get dicey, so lemme know if you want to get in on that awkwardness.]
Oh, tsk tsk tsk. Young Theodore should've thought twice before picking up that egg. Now, for example, the lady behind the checkout will know exactly what he thinks. Like how well he's practiced his fake smiles and empty niceties for dolls. Yes, that means you, checkout lady. Ah, he's blushing now, hurrying out with payment and rushed apology, but there's no mistake. There's no hatred, for there's nothing there to hate. Just a gloss of cheer masking cold indifference. How healthy is it to spend so much time around dolls? He wondered how that might effect one's mental health. Would it be healthier to know, or go on believing in them?
He's thinking how irritating and dangerous this voice is, and how he might be free of it. Uncharacteristically, he hasn't spoken, thinking it vain to resist that way. He is correct. What will he do now before it says something really inconvenient? Is there an open field he can run to where none will hear? Fayren has much like that. There, perhaps, is peace, even if he does wind up breaking it.
For a holiday advent, he doesn't look very amused.
Fayren Forest - random clearing. Afternoon
What wondrous feats of superhuman acrobatics! "Inhuman" might be the better word. It's hard work, practicing these transdimensional maneuvers. Moving various, ever-changing shapes into and out of the void, with differing amounts of momentum. Stretching and extending his shape to make portals from every vantage point, then adding annihilation reactions on top of that for extra speed and force. Lord knows if the fibers weren't enhancing his brain he'd have given up in a fit of despondent nausea. If only this voice weren't so distracting!
Well, despite the little explosions and the voice overlaying them, it's quiet enough. No one's here to hear them, and none suspect the much, much bigger explosions that could appear just as easily. Just in case he ever gets really angry and decides to visit upon the world what God did to Sodom and Gomorrah. He wouldn't do that, of course. He's very moral; very cautious. There's no sense in blowing things to kingdom come. The system probably wouldn't allow it anyway.
Still, one must practice. He's very superstitious, in his way. He knows he's due for a real fight--probably due for a fight--some time this year. That he hasn't had one any year prior hasn't discouraged. And of course, he's not like the others; those pathetic, violent madmen for whom violence defined their lives and gave them meaning, however paltry. He's American. He's civilized. He'd gone to a decent college, and been educated better than most by his intellectual parents. Of course violence is a last resort. It's simply prudent to spend untold hours honing it to a point. Besides, most civilizations have such terrible, ruinous arms as a means of peacekeeping. His own country had used them twice, after all. Not that he really wanted to. "Just in case" was his sanctifying phrase. "Just in case."
But all's not well in the land of terrible weaponry he masters but doesn't use. That last boost was off the mark, and not for want of skill. Ever since the tearful departure of the one who made him so armed, the armaments had worn down, and he'd found not a smith or tailor in the world to mend them. How much practice can he afford? How many more atoms of matter can he annihilate before the fibers are annihilated too? Then he'd go back to being a largely powerless weakling; someone who couldn't stand up to any villainy whatever. Not with force.
That would never do. [OOC: Ted's being hassled by a narrator. The first part's OTA, the second can get dicey, so lemme know if you want to get in on that awkwardness.]
Pan's Grocery
Re: Pan's Grocery
[The voice fades, unhappily not because its presence or volume diminishes in the slightest, but because Ted's putting as much distance between himself as others as humanly possible. Sorry Billy, he'd love to chat, if not for this third party.]
no subject
[Billy gives some red bills to the cashier, taking his bundle of snacks and hurries after Ted.]
Wait! Hey, how are you doing that?!
no subject
[He says, picking up into a jog. The voice will not be deterred.]
He'd have said your name, but despite looking over your broadcast, young man, you didn't say. Thankfully he's kept to a strict regimen of cardio, and can outrun those half his age. But can he outrun destiny? Can he outrun fate and ruin? You hate to see him leave, but you love to watch him go.
[That right there is why he runs.]
no subject
Hey there. You don't need to run away. Like, it's weird but...
no subject
[Shazam pls. Ted looks at him with exasperation.]
...you have me at a disadvantage.
no subject
[A little defensive but he's trying to be friendly. He's still new and still feeling a bit out of place. Trying to make friends is hard.]
I'm Red... Thunderpunch.
[He really needs to find a better name. Freddy thought up so many but none of them seemed to work.]
no subject
Here I am, divulging my charge's real name, and he can't get one in return? Didn't anyone tell you not to screw up first impressions? And that's not all. Which one of you's the real identity? Huh? The minor, or this?
[He looked to the sky with learned ruefulness, then back at "Red".]
Loathe as I am to admit it, that question weighs on me too.
no subject
[He tries to explain, stumbling over his words a bit nervously.]
And I can... run really fast. As you saw.
no subject
[Though he can guess which one's likelier, given the contents of the bag and the nerves.]
Watch yourself around this one, "Mr. Thunderpunch". You're not the only one with a messed up alter-ego. Who knows what demented things I'll tell about next?
[Lord, Ted hopes it doesn't.]
no subject
Are you talking about yourself?
no subject
No, I'm talking about you. Try and pay no mind to the voice; it enjoys riling up.
It's rude to speak of people who are right there.
Case in point. I'm asking which is true, which is original: the form I'm talking to now, or the young man who for reasons I can only guess, followed me minutes prior?
Classic deflection. Always easier to talk about others when the self's under scrutiny, isn't it?
no subject
Although right now it's sounding more villainous.
[He notes of the strange narrator.]
Are they invisible or are you some sort of ventriloquist?
[A pause.]
Oh! And me? I'm... This--
[He pats his chest upon which the yellow lightning bolt glows like a neon sign.]
-- is not me. I mean, it is, but it's not... the original. You saw that in the food mart.
no subject
Ah, so if something annoys you, use violence. That's constructive.
Well, there's no need to appear to me as other than you are. I wonder...
[The story isn't hard to piece together, really. When this particular young man wants to help, he becomes that. And then uses another name when he does. It had all the markings of an unusual, if disturbing, comic-book logic.]
...the only evil afoot here, I think, is if it says something scandalous or impolite. Hence why I should probably be alone until it expires.
Yeah, that's the evil. Let's not dwell on the other thing.
You understand, I hope?
no subject
Shazam!
[A bolt of lightning comes out of nowhere and when the glare clears young Billy is back.]
It's just... you were running and...
[He shrugs.]
You can say whatever you want. I've probably heard worse.
no subject
He's certainly intent on not saying any weird stuff. Superhero or not, Ted has very strong feelings about involving the young in any adult situations. Or words, idiot narrators be damned.]
Oh, he's heard worse! Then there's no problem telling him about what the world's really like, is there?
[His eyes bare a brief flash of anger before returning to his usual mood.]
The voice isn't as honest as I'd like. Again, my thanks for the concern. Perhaps we may talk again later, once it clears up. How about your name before I go?
no subject
I'm Billy. Billy Batson.
no subject
If you value your life, you won't meet again.
[Ted gave an amused eyeroll, imploring one last time (as jesters do) to not take things too seriously, before bugging out to the woods.]