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When the bag finally comes off her head, Greta sucks in a breath, ready to resume the tirade she’s been firing off in intermittent bursts ever since these masked goons first grabbed her. She hasn’t the faintest idea why they’ve taken her — they haven’t asked for anything, or said so much as a word to her. They’d just pounced on her the moment she left her property, slung the bag over her head, and bundled her into a vehicle.
Now, of course, she regrets how well she’s managed to avoid them. If she had a better sense of what riding in a car was like, she could have done a better job of figuring out where they’d taken her.
Not that being able to see helps much on that front. It looks as if they’ve brought her to a theater. Or what’s left of one: she takes in peeling paint, torn upholstery, dust, and fallen plaster at a glance. She feels as if she ought to cough, just on principle.
But before she can cough, or speak, or attempt to wrench herself free from the two rogues who frog-marched her in here, a spotlight illuminates a figure onstage.
‘Figure’ is probably the most polite term for him. Good lord, what is his face even doing?
And then the music arrives, as it’s been doing all week, and even now, it’s a relief. It probably heralds an explanation. She has no interest in being polite or accommodating, but instinct and curiosity keep her from interrupting as the figure up onstage begins to sing.
‘Once upon a time’
So the story goes
I’m here to make it rhyme
I’m here to give you those highs and lows
That’s my thing: I’m here to provide you
With the chance to sing what’s inside you
Isn’t it sublime
To do away with prose?
The hands gripping her arms loosen, and Greta twists away from them, staggering a few uncertain paces towards the stage. “You—you’re doing this?” she asks, more perplexed than indignant. She’d been so certain it was a Darrow thing that it hadn’t even occurred to wonder if someone — or something — else might be responsible.
The figure cuts a neat little twirl and gives her a sly, cock-eyed grin.
Why you gotta ask?
I thought you would know
I bring the panache
But this just as much your show
What on earth is he talking about? Greta finds herself climbing up onto the stage, compelled by the music more than anything else. She is not afraid. She is confused and indignant and rattled, but she insists to herself that she isn’t afraid.
You called out, in all your frustration
I just answered your… invitation
Got here in a flash—
He takes her hand. He has no business taking her hand, but she can’t seem to pull herself away.
So here’s my cameo.
He pulls her into a spin, even as her brow furrows — what’s a cameo? — and then they’re dancing, and she doesn’t want to, but her body isn’t listening to her. He keeps singing about knowing how she feels, which is presumptuous at best, and she grows increasingly furious at how wrong this is, all of it — dragging her into the wrong story, yet again. She needs to stop this, she needs… and part of her almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of just wanting to talk, but that is the point she has reached.
When her dancing feet bring her within range of a dusty prop tree, she grabs hold of one of the branches and manages a, “Wait!”
The music pauses.
“What are you talking about?” She points a stern finger at him, panting for breath. “Just say it, don’t start the bloody number back up again.”
He looks taken aback for a beat. “Talking isn’t really my style,” he says, but then he shrugs. “You summoned me, girl. You’re wearing my token, aren’t you?” And then he gestures pointedly towards the necklace Thomas gave her.
Greta claps her hand over it, gawping. “I didn’t summon you!” she insists. The little figure on the necklace doesn’t even look like him, she thinks, somewhat hysterically.
He tips his head, hands spreading, helpless and unrepentant. “You Wished.”
She can only squeak at that. Because he’s right. And she should have known better. She couldn’t have known that this would happen — that she’d somehow call up a being who would make Darrow into something closer to home — but that’s the point, isn’t it? Wishes come true, not free.
And then the music swells, and she’s pulled back toward him, and through the blur of denial and self-recrimination and distress, she realizes he’s singing about taking her away and making her his queen, and Wishes aside, she definitely didn’t agree to any of that. But the music is building to a threatening crescendo, and then…
Nothing happens. They’re both in the middle of the stage, the spotlight glaring down on them, and Greta gets the distinct impression that someone has missed a very important cue. The silence isn’t stunned so much as terribly awkward.
“… Huh,” he says, releasing her. “That usually works.”
Greta takes a healthy step back and smoothes her hands over her skirts. She feels her phone buzz in her pocket, and her heart leaps into her throat, but she doesn’t dare reach for it. God, it’s probably Thomas. He’s probably wondering where she is. For a horrifying beat, she wonders if everyone will just assume she’s left if she doesn’t respond, but no, her phone still works, it’s still hers. They’ll know she’s still in the city.
“Were you, er… trying to leave?” she asks, as much to cover the faint noise of her phone’s vibration as anything else. “Because Darrow can be a bit, er, strict. About that.”
“Can it?” He looks pensive, if not perturbed, and a strain of music as sinuous as his smile weaves through the air.
If you're right, my options are narrow
Could I make a hell out of Darrow?
His hand curls in the air, and a chair slides across the stage to halt a few inches from where Greta’s standing.
Better take a seat.
Looks like we’re staying a while.
[ OKAY. Greta is stuck in an abandoned theater with a demon and his assorted henchmen. Feel free to treat this like a gathering for tag-teaming against said henchmen to a presumably epic soundtrack. I’ll also post a TL for actually destroying the big bad. OPEN FOREVER. ]
Now, of course, she regrets how well she’s managed to avoid them. If she had a better sense of what riding in a car was like, she could have done a better job of figuring out where they’d taken her.
Not that being able to see helps much on that front. It looks as if they’ve brought her to a theater. Or what’s left of one: she takes in peeling paint, torn upholstery, dust, and fallen plaster at a glance. She feels as if she ought to cough, just on principle.
But before she can cough, or speak, or attempt to wrench herself free from the two rogues who frog-marched her in here, a spotlight illuminates a figure onstage.
‘Figure’ is probably the most polite term for him. Good lord, what is his face even doing?
And then the music arrives, as it’s been doing all week, and even now, it’s a relief. It probably heralds an explanation. She has no interest in being polite or accommodating, but instinct and curiosity keep her from interrupting as the figure up onstage begins to sing.
‘Once upon a time’
So the story goes
I’m here to make it rhyme
I’m here to give you those highs and lows
That’s my thing: I’m here to provide you
With the chance to sing what’s inside you
Isn’t it sublime
To do away with prose?
The hands gripping her arms loosen, and Greta twists away from them, staggering a few uncertain paces towards the stage. “You—you’re doing this?” she asks, more perplexed than indignant. She’d been so certain it was a Darrow thing that it hadn’t even occurred to wonder if someone — or something — else might be responsible.
The figure cuts a neat little twirl and gives her a sly, cock-eyed grin.
Why you gotta ask?
I thought you would know
I bring the panache
But this just as much your show
What on earth is he talking about? Greta finds herself climbing up onto the stage, compelled by the music more than anything else. She is not afraid. She is confused and indignant and rattled, but she insists to herself that she isn’t afraid.
You called out, in all your frustration
I just answered your… invitation
Got here in a flash—
He takes her hand. He has no business taking her hand, but she can’t seem to pull herself away.
So here’s my cameo.
He pulls her into a spin, even as her brow furrows — what’s a cameo? — and then they’re dancing, and she doesn’t want to, but her body isn’t listening to her. He keeps singing about knowing how she feels, which is presumptuous at best, and she grows increasingly furious at how wrong this is, all of it — dragging her into the wrong story, yet again. She needs to stop this, she needs… and part of her almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of just wanting to talk, but that is the point she has reached.
When her dancing feet bring her within range of a dusty prop tree, she grabs hold of one of the branches and manages a, “Wait!”
The music pauses.
“What are you talking about?” She points a stern finger at him, panting for breath. “Just say it, don’t start the bloody number back up again.”
He looks taken aback for a beat. “Talking isn’t really my style,” he says, but then he shrugs. “You summoned me, girl. You’re wearing my token, aren’t you?” And then he gestures pointedly towards the necklace Thomas gave her.
Greta claps her hand over it, gawping. “I didn’t summon you!” she insists. The little figure on the necklace doesn’t even look like him, she thinks, somewhat hysterically.
He tips his head, hands spreading, helpless and unrepentant. “You Wished.”
She can only squeak at that. Because he’s right. And she should have known better. She couldn’t have known that this would happen — that she’d somehow call up a being who would make Darrow into something closer to home — but that’s the point, isn’t it? Wishes come true, not free.
And then the music swells, and she’s pulled back toward him, and through the blur of denial and self-recrimination and distress, she realizes he’s singing about taking her away and making her his queen, and Wishes aside, she definitely didn’t agree to any of that. But the music is building to a threatening crescendo, and then…
Nothing happens. They’re both in the middle of the stage, the spotlight glaring down on them, and Greta gets the distinct impression that someone has missed a very important cue. The silence isn’t stunned so much as terribly awkward.
“… Huh,” he says, releasing her. “That usually works.”
Greta takes a healthy step back and smoothes her hands over her skirts. She feels her phone buzz in her pocket, and her heart leaps into her throat, but she doesn’t dare reach for it. God, it’s probably Thomas. He’s probably wondering where she is. For a horrifying beat, she wonders if everyone will just assume she’s left if she doesn’t respond, but no, her phone still works, it’s still hers. They’ll know she’s still in the city.
“Were you, er… trying to leave?” she asks, as much to cover the faint noise of her phone’s vibration as anything else. “Because Darrow can be a bit, er, strict. About that.”
“Can it?” He looks pensive, if not perturbed, and a strain of music as sinuous as his smile weaves through the air.
If you're right, my options are narrow
Could I make a hell out of Darrow?
His hand curls in the air, and a chair slides across the stage to halt a few inches from where Greta’s standing.
Better take a seat.
Looks like we’re staying a while.
[ OKAY. Greta is stuck in an abandoned theater with a demon and his assorted henchmen. Feel free to treat this like a gathering for tag-teaming against said henchmen to a presumably epic soundtrack. I’ll also post a TL for actually destroying the big bad. OPEN FOREVER. ]
no subject
Date: 2018-05-10 03:39 am (UTC)From:Good thing too, as there was a hunt about to begin. Though their source had been reluctant to be known or to be of any further help, the simple knowledge that they were looking out for a demon was place enough to start. It gave him a trail to follow, one of facts and evidence, that told him where to set his nose.
And now he was following it to this warehouse.