(Twi) Twilight XI: School Days

[Draxx]

Hansel Brandt
Around the woods on the edge of the school grounds crept the dark man, carrying a torch, it's beams of light crisscrossing the ground. The sun was only just setting, and there was still more then enough light in the air to see by, so there was no real need of it. Occasionally, he'd stop, and sniff, lowering himself to his hands and knees, his nose an inch away from the ground. At last he was satisfied, and returned to his shed, where he too out a pair of petrol tanks mixed with two stroke oil he had always used to keep motors full. But now, Hansel had taught him a better use for them.

Circling the woods twice, he picked up some dry, dead limbs and sticks, snapping them into manageable sizes, then soaked them with the oil. He wanted it to burn hot and dirty, with plenty of smoke. Then he lit it, and watched as the flames began. In minutes, there would be a wall of flame, completely surrounding the grounds, and closing in. on them like a noose.

Two heathens, a dead-man and a girl who lay with foul spirits all dealt with. It was a start. Humming, he walks back to his shed.

[Cracklord]

Gary
The library doesn't react in any way you can perceive. That's to be expected, it's never been spoken to before, or even recognized as an autonomous being. It has no idea how to respond to the approach. Which is fine. You're not comfortable with lots of close contact yourself.
You step into your room, to find it's already occupied, and not by the roommate you've learned to tolerate. The room is dark, he's barely more then a black outline.
Sitting on your bed is a boy about your age, very slender but not physically fit, with dark black hair he pushes over his forehead, large glasses that reflect light such that all you can see are two white circles, nothing is visible of the eyes.His skin is pale, bleached by too much time under artificial light.
Beside him stood (although towered would be a better description) an enormous man, a veritable mountain of physical power, who's every movement ripples as his muscles flex. His limbs were gnarled like the twisted branches of ancient oaks, knotted with massive muscles and thews, each one that stood out distinct to the point of muscular over-development, the sinews like iron cables. His face is cold and hard, and there is a weapon holstered at his shoulder.
"Good evening, miseter Bell. I am lord Artimis Fowl II, although in an informal situation like this I can permit you to ignore my title. I have a few questions for you."

Cass, Soul and Maka, Willie
The wall of flames works as advertised, the couple of hundred square meters surrounded by a ring of fire that is rapidly expanding inwards, and for the third time that day the alarm goes off. At this rate, not even the prestige and power of the place will keep it from a formal investigation and possible shutting down.
Not that this matters to anyone in the woods, as, if they don't get out, they'll be too dead to care.
Beast and Smedry
They pull you off the wagon and through the tunnels, located by pressing a knot on the trunk of a dead tree in the middle of the forrest. They didn't go through with the threat of forcing you to wear a bag on your head, but then, they didn't need to. You wouldn't have a chance of identifying it on your own, or finding it.
The tunnels are dark and still, the air stagnant and dry. It's almost a relief when they come to the end and toss you in the cell.
The cell looked like some sort of flea market/junk shop with the stuffed heads of deer and other wild animals on the wall, and dozens of other examples of the taxidermists art in glass cases or stands all over the huge front room, even a stuffed, snarling Kodiak bear looming almost ten feet high on it's hind legs. The shelves were piled with miscellaneous junk and curios, an old pipe organ stood against one wall, and a grandfather clock the size of a phone-booth stood against another.
Some of it actually looked fairly interesting, a sailing ship in a glass rum bottle complete with it's own bottled storm, a conch shell the size of a tuba, a cabinet full of trepanned human skulls, some giant south american beetles that had been preserved and posed and dressed as a mariachi band. Fossils, interesting bits of rock, even a fully assembled velociraptor skeleton, and a stuffed crocodile hanging from the ceiling.
Wade Wilson stared directly at you, a pout hidden behind a layer of black and red cloth. His booted feet hung an inch from the ground, and his arms were chained to either side to evoke a pose of crucifixion, which is entirely too symbolic for a man like him. He's in good spirits, considering. They turned him the right way up for the first time in six years. He was getting so sick of hanging upside down.
His cell-mates were less happy. Deadpool might be taking his imprisonment contentedly (he's even humming off-key and out of tune, despite the pout), but to most people, a form of torture was to lock them up. A particularly harsh form was to lock them up with Deadpool.
"Hello! Your the first fresh company we've had in six years! We'll have so much to talk about! I am Deadpool, that one is Wicked John and… what's your name again?" Deadpool calls out, turning his attention to the ragged figure sitting in the corner.
"Zauriel." He says, his voice rich and melodic.
"Zauriel! How could I forget you? The only man uglier then me, and the only face I've had to look at for six years!" He gestured with the corner of his face at the man at the other wall. "That's Zauriel." He said, quite unnecessarily. "He's a fallen angel."
Zauriel was, indeed, far from good-looking. The over-all shape of his head gave the impression of his skull having been wrenched apart with a crow-bar, then crudely pieced back together at random by someone with no knowledge whatsoever of human anatomy. There were lumps where there should be none, craters where there should be lumps, his left-eye was a good quater inch lower then his right, and he had no ears or nose to speak of.
"Close enough for government work, I suppose. Technically, I am a hallower, a half human descendant of the Rephaim Grigori, who were among the second host of fallen angels. In retaliation for the lords of Heaven not having shared all knowledge with them, they, led by the titan Prometheus, stole the Book Of Forbidden Knowledge (now called the Book of Pure Evil), descended down to Earth and gave countless secrets to man. Most of them coupled with human women during that time, and my race was one of the many that issued from that begetting - though there aren't many of us left, or any of the races really. I am a descendent of, among others, the fallen angel Kokabel. He gave mankind the forbidden knowledge of Time and Science, and assisted the Grigori Penemue in giving children knowledge of the lonely, bitter and painful."
He sighed. "And yes, I am a direct descendent of Prometheus himself as well, the giant who assisted in the creation of Adam, sculpting his body from several handfuls of earth, then supplying the nerve-tissue. Then he was taught how to give the body life, which he left to all his descendants the knowledge of how to make man. It's that power, that sentient race-memory if you will, that's why I'm still here. It was woken up by some kind of survival-instinct, and forced to surface. And now I can't die. Oh, I can create, and heal, but I can't unmake anything. Including, unfortunately enough, myself."
"That's kinda exactly what didn't happen to me. I'm a black ops agent who volunteered for a government experiment when I found out I had stage four cancer!" He says. "Of course, to really understand my choice, I suppose you'd need an encyclopedic and detailed knowledge of my entire life. So, let's begin…"

[Colesign]

(Hey Cracklord: I'll respond to your post in a bit.

But first things first.

I just read the latest Dresden Files book.

Soooooooo many revelations!

One of the biggest revelations is truly mind blowing. Not going to spoil it, but I'll reveal one particular implication.

The Order of the Tower and the Fae's war...is a Big Mistake.)

Edit: a Good mistake in an awesome, plot development, big implications sort of way.

[Colesign]

Gary Bell

Gary's fine with the Library's shyness. He understands the need to back off for a bit and get used to the idea of interacting with a new person. He'll let the library wait a bit.

Then suddenly Artemis Fowl!!!

Gary Bell frantically tries to think of what to do. Bluff? Play up his lack of social skills? Run? Fight? Deduce? Order them out of his room because this is his room, and he doesn't like it when people violate his personal space?

What would Sherlock Holmes do?

Play it cool, act slightly rude to provoke his opponents, and get all the vital clues, he realises.

"You're not a Britannian Lord." He says, deliberately trying to narrow his eyes. "Well, you are, but you aren't an ordinary one. The ordinary ones dress up in weird costumes and hair styles and try to talk really loud. You're different, which must mean you aren't respectable."

Mind Google Time!

Leavenworth Smedry

[HE RETURNS!!!!!! I CAN SHOUT TOO!]

"Wicked John, Zauriel, Deadpool! So very nice to meet you all!" Smedry said cheerfully, especially for an old man in his buff, dragged along by guards. "I'm Leavenworth, and this is Professor McCoy! It's an honor to find myself in such distinguished company! We've plenty of time to tell each other stories, but hold for a moment! I think these guards are going to place me in my cell! I can't wait to see what restraints they'll try to bind me with! Clever locks, wards, chains, pits of acid–"

[Cracklord]

(To be honest, still haven't read Ghost Story. Myself and the Dresden Files aren't getting on as well as we used to. But I suppose I'll have to give it another go sometime in the coming year.)

Smedry, Beast
John, seated across the room rolled his dark brown eyes. John was a dead-ringer for Jack Horner. The same chin, same cheeks, same angular roguish features, hair pulled back in a messy pony-tail and an untidy jaw, even the same build. The two were too alike even to pass as twins, they were closer to mirror images. The features were a little off, John's was lined and more accustomed to grimness, while Jack was youthful and always set in a smile, though John still had something indefatigably cheerful and optimistic about him as well. Something that made it quite clear that here was a man who thought, no matter how bad things might look, things would sooner or later work out his way due to his indefatigable superiority complex and ever-present arrogance.
"Don't be fooled by the decor. This is your cell. And they don't need none of that to keep us in. It's all here. They're not sadists, at least the ones in charge aren't, and they don't want us to suffer. This is the place for their dirty secrets, the things they just want to forget about and pretend never existed. The black spots on the wondrous tapestry of creation." He taps a wall. "Place is locked up tighter then the fun parts of a nun, and the longer you stay, the less you exist, until you retroactively never even were, and all that's left never even leaves this is a bone-room." He smiled humorlessly. "This is a mausoleum, and all around you is it's former occupants, all their lives and histories and dreams reduced to so many curiosities after they got caught and edited away to nothing. You aren't going anywhere, so get used to swapping stories, as long as you can, and asserting that you still exist. Be good, and perhaps I'll let you in on my next escape attempt."
"Sixteen this month, and he's only gotten out of the room three times, the dungeon twice, and the castle once." Deadpool said, as though these were results to be ashamed of. "Tell you what, I'll only tell you the short version. They, they being 'The Man', are not so keen to play with puppets who can see the strings. Medium awareness gets you locked up and experimented on. Which seems a little unfair, since I became aware of my existence as a comic-book character made to enact violent fantasies against other imaginary creations by being experimented on myself."
John takes over without giving either of you time to respond to the tirade of nonsense. You guess that, while these people are obviously in a position to tell you a lot, the hardest thing will be to get a word in edge-ways. "So, a Smedry. Knew a Smedry once. Barnabas, his name was." John replied. "Any relation?"

Gary Bell
"And commoners are all ugly, rude and brutish. Don't insult both of our intelligences with foolish assertions and generalizations." Artemis replied in an amused, drawling tone of voice that is painfully patronizing. He might insult the notion, but he still clearly held you as an inferior, if not actively in contempt. You've come to recognize the signs. He's clearly a borderline sociopath, unable to empathize with other human beings, though quite good at manipulating them. Very dangerous for that alone.
"By the way, you have no doubt noticed a lack of reception. Butler has a small contained dampener field that cuts us off from the rest of the world, the better for keeping things private. Now, if you could stop wasting my time, we can talk about your future. You have a singular talent, and it would be a shame to squander it."

[Draxx]

Beast
Deadpool was bad. It was enough to make him want to just find a comfortable corner, close his eyes and ears, and wait to stop existing. Fortunately, he got over it. "Here. I'll break your chains." He says, walking over to Zauriel and Deadpool with the intent of getting them loose. He intends to get this over and done with as quickly as possible.

[Cracklord]

Beast
Zauriel waves you off. "I appreciate the sentiment, but I suggest you save your strength. We can't break these chains. Mine are made from the bones of a man who hated me completely beyond reason, so much it killed him." Zauriel says. "Nothing I do will loosen them, unless he's convinced letting me go will hurt me even more. They want me held here in place. And about every week, they send down some bagmen and take a pint or so of blood to use for their magic." He shrugs. "They need a fairly steady supply to refresh their runes. There's probably a few more of us, scattered amongst the prisoners in the other cells."

[AnimeKid]

Kidd

His eyes widen as the sister he was fighting was handed a gun, a weapon she seemed far more competant with. He grits his teeth as he thinks to himself, 'No choice, gotta do this. Sanzu Line One, CONNECT!' Now the half-strips in Kidd's hair weren't just for show. They represented the Sanzu river in Japanese Folklore. More important though was the fact that by connecting these lines he could increase his speed and power. WHile he could only connect up to two at a time there shouldn't be anything here that would force him to have to use all three, hopefully.

So with that boost to his abilities Kidd shoots forward with improved speed to weave around the bullets and bash Robin's skull.

Maka and Soul

Maka had stepped forward with Soul's Scythe form in hand before she stopped. She took a deep breath in though her nose causing her eyes to widen at the scent she caught. "Crap! Batgirl we need to get out of here. The forest is burning and fast. We'll have to deal with Edward another day."

With one last glare in Edwards direction she tries to escape the flames as fast as possible. She was confident that Edward would attack her as he would have to save his precious Bella if he didn't want her to be charred to a crisp.

[Colesign]

Leavenworth Smedry

Leavenworth listens to Zauriel. "Ah. They're using the really old magic. My condolences. And you say they're using the blood of multiple bound angels to fashion wards?"

That's interesting. Very interesting. Because there very well may be another new prisoner, taken by Jack personally, whose true nature he's unaware of. A prisoner whose blood could come in quite handy.

Leavenworth ponders whether Wicked John, as Deadpool called him, was a prison plant, designed to engineer escapes meant to fail so as to divert energy from plots that would actually work.

He pours over his mind for historical accounts, for stories of men named John. He examines John's feature, noting how they resemble those of a certain happy-go-luck ******bag.

He notes how despite not giving his last name, John seems to know he's a Smedry. Granted, 'Leavenworth' (being a prison name) is a common name for a Smedry/Free Kingdomer. But then why fish for information with the non-prison name 'Barnabas'?

He feels a tension in his gut suddenly, but masks it with his usual 'crazy old man' genial smile.

He has a suspicion...a hunch based on an old historical ledger he'd purused once, a ledger of famous blacksmiths, forgers, and metalworkers.

He nods solemnly to J...to John. "I won't not attempt to try to pull any escape attempts without consulting you on it, John. You have my word."

He grabs the bars and shakes them a little bit. "Even though the cells aren't elaborate...the metal of these bars are quite sturdy. I think they're...triple-forged cold iron? This that right?"

If John is who he thinks he is...

Gary Bell

Oh god, why is Gary constantly being surrounded by anti-social murderers?

This question goes unanswered as the anti-dampner field goes up, and...

...and Gary's head goes quiet for the first time in his life.

Quiet. No information streaming through his head. No Synesthesia of electromagnetic waves and frequencies of information streaming past his sight like sparkles of magic. No information to tap at a whim, no videos to pursue, no messages to listen in on, no beeps and buzzes of data to filter and interpret.

...It's. It's like going blind. Worse. It's like having your eyes ripped right out of your sockets.

Gary quivers, eyes bulging. Then he sort of...folds up on himself, sliding down against a wall, hands twitching madly, without making a sound.

[Cracklord]

Smedry, Beast
"I'd imagine so. I might not be pure blood, but my blood still works just fine. Not that you would know it. Trust me, this face isn't all that bad a representation of what an Angel actually looks like. Not all angels are those ethereal, white-robed, wondrous, golden-winged refugees from a beauty contest who get all the press in books and movies. Many of them - and I'm talking about the ones who sit by God's side and have His favor and love and respect and are the first to get tickets to the WWF Summer Slam - the good guys, capiche?-a lot of them are so hideous in their appearance they make Lovecraft' Great Old Ones look like playboy centerfolds."
"Oh, we're talking tentacles and dripping teeth and putrescent flesh all dark and oily with larval eruptions that drip phosphorescent goo."
On that pleasant conversational topic, Wicked John answers. "Might be. I figured they were just common pig iron, seventy nine dollars a tonne, and made in a clay mold." John replied, not exactly indicative of an advanced understanding of complex metallurgy. "But whatever they are, don't bother wrestling with them, you'll just hurt yourself. If you want to escape, it's easy enough. Ever heard of The Theory of Narrative Causality?"
Stories are important. People think that stories are shaped by people, but just as people are extensions of their environment, so do all things ultimately revolve around the same replicating themes. And stories have evolved. The strongest have survived, and they have grown fat. Stories etch grooves deep enough for people to follow, if you know how to find them. Of course, doing so can be extremely dangerous. Stories don't care who takes part in them. All that matters is that the story gets told, that the story repeats.
"That's all you need to know. So, about Barnabus? You have to be a Smedry, very distinctive bone-structure and you I never forget a mark…face. Barnabus could forget to bring things like nobody else I've ever met."

Gary
Artemis sighs, increasingly frustrated. He's certainly not particularly patient with those he views as inferiors. "If you do not demonstrate a more forthcoming attitude…" He begins, then realizes you're already in quite a lot of agony, as far as it goes.
"Butler? A reprieve seems in order." The hulking bodyguard inclines his shaven head, then adjusts the dial on the dampener app on his iphone. The worlds electrical signals return.
"There. I can be generous. But you don't want me to take it away again, do you?"

Kidd
The bullets, fortunately, appear to be ordinary terrestrial bullets. Military rounds, jacketed in iron, crawl past at a snail's pace as she tries, without success, to shoot you. You have a mean left hook. You send her off her feet and flying, to hit the ground ten feet away. If the laws of action and reaction had a say in things, her neck would be broken. Nobody was listening to them, however.
She gets right back to her feet, swaying a little but not overly damaged by the blow, and wipes some blood from her lip. For a moment she stares around, trying to get her bearings, and then finally gets steady.
"Kid packs a punch." She admits grudgingly, blinking a few times to try to clear her vision. "Should have brought bigger guns."
"Having trouble sis?" Hillary asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Don't worry, this is only round one." She says, and fiddles with her glasses.

Maka and Soul, Cassandra
There is no obvious way out, this fire was set intentionally, to burn hot in a closing wall before it burned out. You'll have to find some way through the flames.
Edward and Bella are milling about, confused, clearly with no idea what to do (at all).

[Colesign]

Leavenworth Smedry

"Ah yes. Narrative Causality." Smedry says. "A potent force...and one that can never truly be controlled or harnessed: lovely taste for ironic fate for those who do. I could point out that perhaps, I being the newest prisoner, might have just the thing needed to to pull off a climactic prison break..."

He pushes at the bars experimentally. "But that's rather arrogant and silly. I figure, don't waste time worrying about narrative, and forge on as best as I can."

"And whoever this Barnabas was...sounds like quite the Smedry..." Smedry says with a chuckle.

Freudian slip of 'mark' there...and enough of a knowledge of metallurgy to run a simple business...Wicked John...could he truly be the blacksmith of legend? Who used the tools of Saint Peter to trick the lords of hell into granting him amnesty, forbidden from entering heaven and hell...the bearer of a hollowed out turnip filled with brimstone to light his way among the borders between life and death. Wicked John...who has also been called Jack O'the Lantern?

Gary Bell

Gary lets in a hoarse breath as his Induction returns. Oy vey, that hurt. Almost as bad as a denial of service attack.

He gets to his feet, his eyes coming back into focus.

He stares at Artemis for a moment. So many conflicting emotions run through his head. Memories of games of cat and mouse. Of a girl that got killed thanks to the whims of a monster and a ruthless government agent. One emotion finally comes to the top.

He's tired of being manipulated and pushed around (and Geassed).

He choses his words carefully.

"You're cruel." He says finally. "I don't work for people who are cruel."

He opens a desk drawer and rummages through it.

"I need to find something hard to hold between my teeth. I don't want to bite my tongue out when you torture me again."

[Cracklord]

Smedry
If he's aware that you suspect him, he certainly makes no sign of it. He's got a regular head, no sign of any headless horseman shenanigans that you can spot, but then the Jack's are famous for their glamors. If he is, he might not even know it himself. "Long on words and short on imagination. You're a Smedry alright." He says, putting down the untunable guitar a little regretfully and folding his arms.
"John, we talked about this. We had an intervention and everything. Don't be that guy." Deadpool cautioned, more to break his uncharacteristically long silence then anything.
"Shut it. I'm working." He replies, without taking his eyes on you. "If you got some other idea, then don't let me keep you. But to make it work, you have to think a little wider. Simply move the problem around a bit, until you don't fit in the trap anymore and you just slide out."

Gary
Artemis holds up a hand, and Butler pauses, his hands an inch away from the pad. His expression is unreadable, but nonetheless you feel an impression of intense scrutiny, as though being weighed against some imaginary scale. Finally, he nods at you, and waves his hand vaguely. Butler acknowledges, and switches off the touch-screen. There will be no more call for it. "No need for such dramatics. Torture for it's own sake is not only distasteful and barbaric, it's squandering both of our time. I am not some monster who enjoys watching others suffer needlessly." No he's not. He's the sort of monster who doesn't feel anything at all, watching others suffer needlessly.
"Nonetheless, I am used to getting what I want. And that includes you. There are worse things then sensory deprivation, mister Bell, and ways of encouraging the rebellious to more useful, cooperative mindsets. I shall be here again tomorrow, and I rather hope you change your answer. Butler?"
The manservant opens the door, and the boy walks out, not paying you so much as another glance, leaving you alone. Just when things were starting to add up, someone new bursts in and starts threatening you.

[Colesign]

Gary Bell

Gary locks the door behind him.

Then he collapses on the bed with a sigh.

A thought occurs to him. This Artemis might try to hold someone hostage to get his cooperation.

Best take care of that ahead of time.

His Mom's constantly watched, Dr. Rosen is...Dr. Rosen. The rest of the team aren't easily spooked. Lelouch's moxie can match Artemis Fowl. That leaves...

He picks up his phone and dials Shiki.

Leavenworth Smedry

Therefore you are Kira!

"A Blacksmith puzzle metaphor..." Leavenworth thinks to himself. "Even if he is a sleeper agent, I mustn't do anything to activate his programming. Watch for the knife at the back..."

Still, he gives good advice.

Leavenworth Smedry looks around to see if there's any materials he can use to jimmy open the lock. Perform an abortive escape attempt to get a lay of the land.

Of course, then he realizes that even if Jack is a sleeper agent, he'll probably still tell the truth about the setup. To say nothing of Zauriel and Deadpool.

"I understand. To contribute to that, I obviously don't know enough about this prison to fashion any means of escape. Before I get in over my head...how is this prison constructed. Cells, chains, angelic wards, yes. But what other security measures are in place? Guards, barriers, traps, and the like?"

[I don't think Jack O'Lantern is a headless person. Is he?"]

[Cracklord]

Smedry
(Suppose it depends what version you read)
"More then you could imagine, I'd expect. Everything in here was once useful, afterall." Zauriel says. "John always uses slivers of bone from the skeletons when he tries." He adds, and indicates the It feels morbid, rifling through the brick-a-brack of what used to be people (if not always people in a sense that you'd recognize) to try to find something that can be used to pick a lock. And there's plenty that would get the job done. Indeed, you could have just thrown a brick and picked up whatever it hit, everything from hairpins to beetle legs to boxes containing monkey spiders that could be used to snag the key from the nail it's hanging on the other side of the bars.
You're beginning to see why John manages to begin an escape so often.
John picks up the guitar. "You're going about this wrong. You get out, and you go from being locked in a cell to locked in a prison. Some difference. What are you going to do then?" He says, his momentary lapse of interest seemingly fading. Is he still trying to help? Or is he worried you've gone off script and trying to wheedle more out of you?
"Couldn't say. It was a fair time ago when I was imprisoned, and the city above wasn't built, was only a dream in their eyes. But they knew what I was, and so they tossed me down a well, which I could never climb up from no matter how I struggled, even when my fingers bled and my bones cracked I could never progress." He holds up his twisted, stumpy fingers as demonstration. "They would draw me up to bleed me with ropes, and those were good days, for I would see the sun. It was almost like freedom. Now it is a cell, and I never see the sun, but they still bleed me." You find yourself wondering at Zauriel's sanity. His parentage may keep him alive, but it hasn't done much good preserving him, and his ordeal would make anyone snap. He certainly seems to dwell on the horrific things they do to him, though it's possible that really is all he does have to talk about, having been down here so long.
Deadpool shrugs as well. "Couldn't say. I was too busy trying to draw a smiley face on the back of my head in permanent marker. I'm sure it seemed like a good idea at the time." Is that how you sound to Hushlanders? You hope not.
"Lot's of narrow, lightless tunnels, all very claustrophobic and easy to get lost. Not much air, and the Bagmen wander about. If they catch you, they'll knock you out, drag you back here and you start again from scratch." John paused a moment, then shrugged. "You know what? I'll even draw you a map."
He walks over to the wall, and pulls of a sign that lists the rules in the prison.

1. Silence
2. Books must be returned by the last date stamped
3. Do not interfere with the nature of reality

Then he takes a piece of charcoal and starts drawing a mess of lines representing all the tunnels and how they all intersect. He's only getting started, and you can tell you're not going to have a clue what it says.
"…Then turn left 72º and walk seven and a half feet, and you should be in line with the secret door, that needs to be depressed about six inches and twisted three times anti-clockwise to open. Then turn and…"
His instructions aren't much easier to follow. It's worse then the labyrinth.

[Draxx]

Beast
Doctor Hank McCoy is less suspicious then Smedry, or maybe sees less to be suspicious of. Regardless, he's taking them all at their face value. Deadpool was a nuisance, who won't go away if you ignore but was of limited use. Zauriel was obviously more then a little mad, what with the isolation and the trauma of a rather painful sounding life. So the only one really worth paying attention to was John.

He doesn't have a clue who the man is, similarity to a certain **** nonwithstanding. He assumes he is some sort of evil twin (well, good twin) or something to that effect. It strains credulity a bit, but it's certainly not a coincidence, and while accepting this entire bizarre circumstance goes against his grain, so what's one more objection? He's not one to throw stones. He has an evil-twin (from another time-line) himself.

Unlike several of the more fantastic people he's acquainted with, he does not possess a photographic memory. Which is a shame, because the torrent of information sounds useful, but is harder to memorize then the the Dewey decimal system. So Beast memorizes what he can, hopes the rest won't get him killed, then pauses.

"…Bagmen. You mentioned them. What are they?" He says, wishing he still had Souske's guns. They could certainly make things easier. While on that train of thought, he walks over to the door, heaves his shoulders, muscles shifting under his skin like headless snakes writhing, then rips it off its hinges.

[Cracklord]

Beast
"Untamed nightmares forgotten by all but those who have written down everything, now trapped in cages of reason. Not the ones trapped inside your heads that you're used to and experienced about, pitiful echoes of themselves. I mean the first bad dreams that inspired those that followed, the first terrors that long to escape their imprisonment and walk and dance among you as they did so long ago, skewering victims in plain sight, ripping open their heads and laying their fears and worst desires out for everyone to see." Zauriel says, his mismatched eyes rolling up into his head so just the whites (more a dull, ivory color) were visible. Then he begins nodding, with the rhythmical regularity of a pendulum.
"A special effects flop creating unconvincing humans in strange suits due to our low budget for this part of the comic?" Deadpool offers, from somewhere outside reality.
"They're the guards. They live in Duffel bags and unfold when they are needed. They're slow, but once they get going they are more or less unstoppable, they're stronger then you can believe, and they can always find you. Then they'll drag you back, lock you up, and get back to walking around." John says, a little irritated given that you interrupted a particularly complex bit of explanation of how to activate the pressure sensitive panels that open the secret door.
He looks up when you rip off the door, and shrugs, stepping away from something that looks like a black scribble. Whatever he is, he's not a gifted cartographer. "Well, here's the map, learned one escape attempt at a time, getting a little further each try. Not that it'll do you any good as you are now, but we live and learn." He says, picking up his guitar, and resuming fiddling to try and get the strings right.
"You've got two of you, which is a start, and interesting enough in your own ways, I'm sure, but you want to get anywhere, you need someone a little more… leading man, and something on your minds a bit more going places then 'escape'."

[Colesign]

Leavenworth Smedry

Hmmm...Regardless of whether this John's a double agent, I need to provide this motely crew with something...something to give them some hope, and something to show them that I'm not a rube.

He smiles.

"You are right. Escaping is no easy task. Runes to bypass, Bagmen to avoid, a truly nightmarish maze, and...."

He shrugs. "Even if we escape from the prison of this building, we will still be trapped...in Idris itself, the Traitor Kingdom. Locked down, it's borders sealed, with no way to return to the Free Kingdoms."

He pauses. He strokes his mustache.

"Well, nearly no way. Professor McCoy and I...stumbled upon a secret flaw in the border. Perhaps we have no skill and experience in braving this prison, but we can offer you an option of escape...true escape, without having to hide for the rest of your life in Idris."

A thought occurs to him.

"Are there stations where these Bagmen reside while not on duty? Are there supply depots, locations where artifacts as well as people are locked down? Furthermore, who else do you know of who is imprisoned here?"

[Cracklord]

John blinks, then laughs. "Sure, plenty. But don't get ahead of yourselves. Like it or not, this is going to be a dry run." He gives you an appraising look. "You do it to yourselves, you know. You in particular, Smedry, You just can't help it. All your confidence and self-assertiveness. The universe hates imbalance, so creates massive complications to your life to try and give it a reason for existing." Being half-literal, John had a range of insights like that.
"He's like a brilliant scientist." Deadpool contributes.
"Anyway, when the Bagmen are out of use they store 'em in sheds on the edge of the grounds up above. They keep the knifejohns and the Doubling Rooks in the watchtowers." If the bagmen sound bad, the knifejohns sound worse.
"Once there was a city called Orqwith, in which a philosopher, dedicated his life to understanding things by observing it to the smallest detail. Eventually, he observed the smallest possible particle, the tiniest possible stable from which everything else is made up of. Then, in the spirit of scientific enquiery, he cut it in half to see what would happen, and created the knifejohns." Zauriel knows just about everything, but almost all of it is ancient legend and doggerel, and of limited use.
"Load of crap." John said smilingly, stretching idly. "That would be the scissormen, a different proposition altogether, and thankfully no longer something to worry about. They didn't adapt to the cold so well, and got sent back home wholesale. Knifejohns are just things from the space between spaces, who keep everything separated. 'Course, if you mess with them they'll flay you with a few snaps of their fingers."
He rolls up his crude and impromptu map, and tucks it in the back of the band of his pants. You already suspect him, but the pants don't help. Ancient lore of the Free Kingdoms set down by Taliesin the Bard himself warned against trusting men in leather pants. Then he heads back to his seat and resumes his attempts to tune his guitar. It's clear he's not going anywhere.
"Growing on you, am I?" He laughed. Something like avarice sparkled in Wicked John's eyes, that seemed to articulate, more clearly then words ever could, 'what a delightful rascal I am, plotting to stab you in the back just to keep myself in the game'. John was old, old enough to know himself thoroughly for what he was and is, but didn't care. If anything, he glorified in it, he was not ashamed and never had been, and when he looked in the mirror he was quite content to know he was looking at a liar, cheat and thief.
"Nice to make an impression, but sorry to say I won't cut it. If I were a bit more wet behind the ears, I'd take it in a flash, but it wouldn't do me any good. I know every inch of this place now. I know a hundred ways out. Every flaw in the defenses, all by trial and error. Now, I just have to wait for an opportunity."
He sighed. "Can't do it as myself, my own personal store of ka is more or less f*cked royally due to circumstances that have nothing to do with me, not that the wheel of fortune hasn't always been missing a few spokes where I'm concerned." John noted. "Regardless, I'm a spent force, so to get anywhere I need to ride someone elses coat-tails." He grins. "It's only a matter of time, sooner or later they'll toss in an inexperienced king or prince or something, prime material, and I'll be able to take on a role as his mentor, or trusted servant or something, and all my preparation will pay off."
He looks at the two of you. "Anyway, you two'll never escape. Stands to reason, there's no reason for you to be out of the prison, and the whole place is designed to keep you in. But you don't need to get out. Take some advice from an old bastard who was lucky enough to make his passion his occupation. In the castle above your heads is a room. And in it are the seven chief librarians, who are all that keeps the hundreds of factions and interests united to a single system. And in the cells, why there are as many enemies of those seven as you can imagine, all just as keen on bumping them off as you doubtless are."

[Draxx]

Beast
Beast is curious now. He can't help it, John just admitted to being immortal, and probably a cousin to Jack, if not actually the same thing. He was fairly sure he could learn a lot about the guy by asking John some more. The only thing that held him back was the fact that he knew most of it probably wouldn't be useful.

Lately, he'd heard some pretty stupid ideas about the nature of reality, and a pretty impressive fraction of some very long stories that he didn't even agree with, let alone want to hear. And if John started talking, chances are the other two would as well.

Smedry had been right, but when compared to these three his nonsensical explanation for the world seemed a solid and well-researched hypothesis, almost plausible. What's more, Smedry had turned out to be mostly right. He didn't think he could bear it if one of these three did on top of it all.

Then he paused, walked over to Deadpool, and ripped his chains off the wall. "Well, you're welcome to make your own way out as well, Wade." He says, with the forbearance of a saint. "You're meant to be good at this sneaking around thing, right?" He pulls out a deneuralizer and looks at it. "Normally I'd just use this, make anyone we run into forget me, but it's wired to human cognitive patterns, so I doubt it'll make anyone forget anything, or possibly everything."

He isn't seriously considering John's proposition. These seven beat everyone in these cells, so who's to say they couldn't just do it again? He was, strictly speaking, a government agent, and in this case he felt he had a moral imperative to return to base, give a rundown of the events, and send a SWORD hellecarrier into this world for some gunboat diplomacy.

[AnimeKid]

Liz and Patti

Seeing as Souske was unconcious the two sister decide to Kayla and Boomer back to the dorms. Along the way Liz stopped and looked back at the school building in alarm. She wasn't as adept at seeing souls as Kidd or Maka, however she could sense Kidd's soul pretty well from being his weapon partner for so long. She knew he was in trouble.

"Hey Mikalya can you get Boomer back to the dorms from here? Patti and I need to get to Kidd, he's in trouble. Make sure to lock the doors!"

With that Liz headed back towards the school, Patti right on her big sisters heels

Kidd

Kidd readies himself for Robin's next attack. She was a tough one that was for sure. He needed to finish this quickly before her other sister decided to interfere. Or before she decided to break out the heavy artillery. Kidd ran towards her once more, zigzagging in order to make himself a harder target to hit. Perhaps if he broke her glasses she could be convinced to back off?

Maka and Soul

Seeing no other way Maka closed her eyes and concentrated. Using the power of her grigori soul (Explained in profile) she used the one technique that could get them out of here. Positioning her scythe so that she was sitting on the shaft of it she willed it to grow strong angel wings, perfect for flight. Said wing burst powerfully from the sides of the scythe. Soul called out, "Hey Batgirl, hop on. This is the only way out of the deathtrap and it's express."

[Colesign]

Smedry

Smedry eyes John. "You very much believe in the power of story, don't you? Perfectly reasonable, I say: everything's a story if you think about it."

He takes advantage of all the junk on the floor to finally get himself a more-or-less pair of pants.

"But you cling too much to convention in my opinion: even if this story is the story you think it is...why do you think it'll turn out in the classic fashion? Haven't you heard of subversions? Deconstructions? Reconstruction? Genre shifts?"

He sits himself down in a meditative posture and closes his eyes.

"Plot twists?"

And on that cryptic note, Smedry stills his thoughts and meditates, focusing on the piece of his soul and mind that contains his Talent.

There's been nary a peep from it ever since the heroic spirit stabbed him with that dagger. But perhaps it hasn't been completely severed. Perhaps it just needs a good nudge, a bit of cajoling, a beckoning, a moment of contemplation, to bring it out again...

Or at least, that's what's Smedry's hoping. Because if not, he's going to look damn silly sitting there in a set of improvised tarp pants.

[Cracklord]

Smedry
You do your best to drown out all distractions, focusing on the tangled and confused part of you that makes you you, that is linked intrinsically to your talent. It's still there, of course it is. To separate you completely from it would destroy both of you. It's just that what was once a blazing fire so all consuming it made it's way into everything you did is now the smallest of sparks, slowly flaring back up. It's only a few ticks of seconds now, but like any muscle the more you use it, the stronger it will get.
John plucks the strings, his fingers cleverly dancing from position to position. The strings are loose, frayed and unresponsive, but he somehow blends their discordant jangling into something truly unique and memorable, something almost beautiful. "Ha. No such thing. Sometimes two threads collide, and the one with more power and momentum pushes the other aside to make it look as though it's changed direction, but that's not the same thing, and not much good to me. Need to get started before it matters which way the wind is blowing, if you catch my meaning."
"As for the others, they're just rehashing the same old material, because even the most extreme subversion or deconstruction couldn't exist without whatever it is they're making a conscious effort to try to downplay, which only strengthens the original material. There's a reason why they're called classics."
He sighs, and begins fiddling with the guitar again. "Which is what matters in the end, not the fresh spins. 'Course, it's not really stories as such, it's the material that makes them. Stories are just a useful formula for perceiving the world in order to make sense of it, like mathematics or philosophy or whatever. But once you hack away all the extraneous details people add for padding, the prose, the social flotsam, the flourishes they add to try to be different, and reduce it down to the bare bones that hold it together, you find the real stuff, the repeating motifs and archetypes endlessly observable in the world around, whether we are conscious of it or not. Things happen the same way every time, if you know what you're looking for. And they don't happen because they're meant to happen, or because we make them happen, they wait until they need to happen." He plays a few notes, then gives up before he turns it into something as a string breaks, and he begins repairing it.
"Take you. You're trapped here, and it's not because some hundred devious minds are working to keep you here, nor because of all the resources it takes to hold this place, or even because of the odds involved making it astronomical, you're simply here because, if you could just escape this prison the moment you got here, they'd be no reason for it to exist, so it wouldn't. Which is why, like I keep telling you, you won't get out until there is some reason for you to leave more powerful then the one keeping you here." He sits back, having finished fixing the string as best he can, and resumes tightening it.
"Which you better figure out quick, since you're not immortal." He adds with a grin.

Beast
Deadppol stretches. His muscles haven't atrophied during his long imprisonment due to a well-developed healing factor, and his mind hasn't degraded, since it was already in such bad shape. So really you're getting a bargain. You know, if you can put up with him.
"Sure, I can sneak up on anyone who's deaf or not paying attention to the sound of my voice. Or happens to be in a really noisy place. Then, I can stab them, or at least I could if I had swords. Or I could shoot them, if I had a gun. Which I don't. So where are we going?" He paused, considering something that didn't seem right. "Cracklord, you misspelled my name. Don't do it again, or I will karate-chop your family."

Kidd
Robin glares as she sights down the barrel of her gun, the bullets whizzing past you. She's hardly lucked it on the super-power lottery, and doesn't know many mystic techniques suitable for combat. She has a certain expertise at terrestrial martial arts, but she recognizes that they wouldn't be much use against you, she's an excellent shot but you're good enough to dodge the bullets, and the weapon she has that you're vulnerable to she has no experience with.
She does have lenses, but given the nature of her mission she brought all information gathering, rather then combat. So there is nothing for it but to keep shooting at you, and hope you get tired or slow down.

Liz and Patti
You run down the corridors, all but deserted this time of night, but don't get far. Something, some sense warns you, and out in the corridor ahead steps a figure, body in profile, silhouetted by the light. Of course, this sort of being always has to make an entrance. It has taken on the appearance of a tall, male adult, pale and delicately featured with dark eyes and hair, a knowing smirk and a dark silk tailcoat and waistcoat, slightly old fashioned even by the sensibilities of brittanian nobility.
"Good evening. I am a retainer to Light Yagami. My master has arranged your separation from your master, and it is in his interests to keep it that way. Regretfully not in a permanent fashion just yet, however I advise you to consider yourselves detained." His smirk widens. "Or I could always wipe the floor with you both and make you comply. Do either of you have a preference?"

[Colesign]

Leavenworth Smedry

[Wiggle your big toe...]

This works...I'd be suspicious if I'd gotten better already...yes...I can work with this.

Leavenworth smiles to himself, and picks himself up.

John's comment about 'immortality' only deepens his suspicions. Time to start working up schemes (complete with one-liners) to knock Wicked John out the moment he tries to pull a backstab.

"Master Deadpool." He says, stretching his sore muscles, then trying to jimmy the lock open. "If I could bother you with a favor...could you try to insult me? Repeatedly, and in great detail? I would appreciate it."

Arriving late...to verbal abuse. A utilization of his talent that requires precision,strength, and focus. The perfect exercise.

[Cracklord]

Smedry
"You are very pretentious, and wear a stupid flower that you aught to be ashamed of." Deadpool says. You can't pick the lock, because in the process of ripping it off the wall Beast damaged it.
"You are wearing a poorly fitting kilt of leopard print tartan," (actually a real leopard skin) "which is appalling even by the fashions I'm used to, and you smell of mothballs and wee." Deadpool cracks his knuckles. "Now, should I start insulting you?"

[Draxx]

Beast
He tolerates Smedry's eccentricity a moment (being out of the loop in the talent department), then drags him to a secluded part of the cell where he's reasonably certain they won't be overheard. John was obviously trying to manipulate them, being deliberately unhelpful to force them to depend on him, then refusing to help in order to get them desperate. Unfortunately, just because the crudeness of it was increasingly insulting, didn't mean they didn't need him.

"Let us assume he is not exaggerating about this dungeon." Beast said in a kind of fierce whisper. "Can we escape without his particular brand of lunacy?"

[Colesign]

Leavenworth Smedry

"Nnnng!"

He focuses, he musters all his willpower!

And when that doesn't work, he pulls a 180 and relaxes, letting go all of his ego.

And for a moment, Deadpool's insults seems to blur, to slow down, to fly past him rather than be heard.

The brief, brief, briefest of moments

"Don't let up, Mr Deadpool!" Smedry replies. "Show me what you've got."

And under the veil of the Merc with a mouth's tirades, he follows McCoy and talks to him silently.

"I'd say we'd have to," He replies casually, his whispers toned to only be audible to McCoy's much keener sense of hearing. He turns his lips away from everyone else, to prevent anyone from pulling a HAL 9000. "Since he's a plant meant to sabotage escape attempts."

[Draxx]

Beast
Beast was not as naturally paranoid and suspicious as the patriarch of the Smedry clan. Which wasn't to say he baselessly rejected his assumption, the man had been right more then once. But he felt that Wicked John was exactly what he appeared to be, an unrepentant rogue, liar and reprobate with an odd series of well thought out delusions, trying to get as large a hold on them as possible before he offered to help.

"Well in that case, I'll go talk him around. You keep on doing whatever it is you are doing." He says, then walks over to John, fixing a smile on his face. He thought he had John more or less figured out by now, but he wanted to keep a few things in reserve. "So, you were saying you need motivation. As it happens, I know a pair of kings who could use the assistance of a wise, steady councilor to advise them, and perhaps if you stay away from the light you might just pass as one. They're called King Boomer and Brady, of Kinkow."

Hansel
There was something sweet and right about fire, burning like a gate into hell, the destination of all those he had condemned to the flames. But he had only just begun. There were so many more scuttling about who would have to join them.

[Cracklord]

Beast
John's smile only widened. He'd ripped off one of the tuning pegs by accident, and was in the process of whittling a new one, each scrape of the knife removing another wafer thick curl of wood from something that had once been a tiny wooden soldier the size of your finger. And, presumably, an autonomous life-form complete with a history and separate identity. You wonder what sort of systematic abuse the instrument has suffered to get into such bad shape.
"That's wonderful for you. Play them off against each other. Back the weaker one, he'll owe you more. That'd be my advice anyway." Then he leans back "But there not doing me much good, out there in the wide, wide world. Nor my odds of escape." He crossed his legs, still whittling, and begins whistling s jaunty tune.

Smedry
Deadpool has realized it's open season. "Your mother has often mentioned my love-making skills exceed yours." He says. "And speaking of your mother:
Yo moma is so stupid, she thinks fruit punch is a gay boxer!
Yo mama's so stupid that she sold the car for gas money!
Yo moma's so fat when she takes a shower her feet don't get wet!
Yo Mama's so dumb she got hit by a parked car!
Yo mama's so old her social security number is 1!
Yo mama's so old that when she was in school there was no history class!
Yo mama so fat, she got more rolls then a pastry truck!"
It goes on like that for a while.

[Colesign]

Leavenworth Smedry

"Rggggh!"

Leavenworth grits his teeth under Deadpool's motherly assault, worsened by by personal memories of a mother whose Talent for colliding with things without looking led to some of the events Deadpool described actually happening.

He tries again. He tries with all his might. Then he stops trying.

And in that moment of desperate relaxing, his Talent stitches itself slightly back together.

"Mmm? Sorry, what did you say?" Leavenworth replies to Deadpool, having arrived late to Deadpool's most biting insult as of yet, involving his mother and a modified glockenspiel.

He smiles. His Talent isn't back up to it's bullet defying level yet...but there's some subtle things he can do with it.

"Much obliged, Master Deadpool. I'm going to carry off an escape attempt that will definitely go wrong. I'll tell you all about it when I get back."

Picking up a twisted stick from the ground, he goes sauntering off, whistling a brief tune.

[Cracklord]

The dungeons of Idris
Deadpools insults trail off. He has been forbidden from using the insult he has occasionally hinted knowledge of, the pinnacle of the 'your momma' school of insults, that it took him a year of watching only the most juvenile, immature hijinks to come up with, by the rules of this forum. But he's used just about every lesser 'Your Momma' joke in his formidable repotiare, and the majority have slid off you like water on the back of a duck. You're as ready as you'll ever be.
As Deadpool goes silent, from not far away all of you hear a raucous roaring, the sound, deep and throbbing at first like an organ beginning on a low note, then rose and became louder, and then far louder again, ‘til the earth and sky seem to be shaking with it. It went on and on, until it seemed as though it would extend forever, the broke off with a sound like the howling of a scattered wolf pack. It seems irrational that anything could be big enough to make that noise, and cruel enough to inflect it with such emotion, and yet you cannot believe it is anything less then what it sounded like.
To quote Shakespere, 'Something Wicked This Way Comes'.
"That'd be our warden. The big bad wolf himself. Guess you're on Death Row. Not prisoners at all. Bad news. He gets anywhere near you, he'll scatter your bones. Don't even try." John cautioned, looking up from his conversation with McCoy. Then he sighs, and hangs his head. "And… Ah, to hell with it. Must be getting soft." He gets up, and cracks his neck loudly, tossing aside the guitar, then walks over to the wall. Riffling around through the junk, he finds a few small, lethal looking contraptions, and a leather thong that he tie his greasy dark hair back with, giving him a faintly piratical appearance.
"Must be out of my mind. Time was, I'd have let you go out and die without batting an eyelid." He straightens his clothes a little. "Come on. I'll get you out. Just remember to send me a king or princess or something once you escape. I don't want to stay here forever." You're a little suspicious of his sudden reversal of attitude, however if something's on it's way to kill you, then what could possibly be the benefit of putting you through the motions anyway?
Zauriel waves as well as John and Deadpool head out into the lightless, cramped, damp tunnels that sit beneath Idris. "A warning. Perhaps you shall get away. Forget me, but there is a thing you must be warned of. The book the angels brought down got stolen and brought here by a group of men who decided to keep it's contents secret for their own benefit. I assume that was because they'd read far enough to learn about Greed, although I might be giving it too much credit, and it might just be the usual evidence that humans, when given a little real power, pretty much always turn into bastards. Must be glandular. But the book of pure evil has a will of it's own, that cares nothing for the plans of those who call themselves it's masters. Beware it. And forget me, I have been caged so long, any freedom I may have been capable of is long burned from my soul."

Gary
(Feel free to play Skiki. Indeed, feel free to play anyone, the less players, the less regulation, and unless I miss my guess we're down to three or four.)