the HABIT. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
whocouldwinarabbit) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
capeandcowllogs2012-11-13 06:13 pm
whocouldwinarabbit) wrote in capeandcowllogs2012-11-13 06:13 pm
Entry tags:
- damian wayne | robin,
- gilbert nightray | n/a,
- kanaya maryam | sylph of space,
- kyouko sakura | ophelia,
- minako arisato | the wild card,
- piccolo | n/a,
- rick bradbury | n/a,
- rin tohsaka | n/a,
- † aoi | the laughing man,
- † david xanatos | magnificent bastard,
- † jay | n/a,
- † ladd russo | white suit,
- † lenalee lee | n/a,
- † matt murdock | daredevil,
- † max gibson | batwoman,
- † n/a | the habit,
- † pamela isley | poison ivy,
- † sayaka miki | oktavia,
- † yuma tsukumo | unicorn king
THE GREATEST SHOW UNEARTHED
WHO: The HABIT whocouldwinarabbit and his eighteen lucky Rabbits.
WHERE: Yankee Stadium.
WHEN: Tuesday, November 13 afternoon onward.
WARNINGS: Not for the children. Graphic murder expected.
SUMMARY: THUNDERDOME.
FORMAT: Whatever our contestants would like.
"Rise and fucking shine, campers!" blasts the loudspeaker.
Eighteen bodies. Not a bad turnout. He's hauled them into the locker rooms to wake up together, tied balloon strings to their wrists, the balloons Skittles colors. Angora, some say in sharpie, Flemish Giant. And all have a smile drawn on, bunny ears on top.
"You're probably wondering what the hell you're doing here, right? Wonder no more! Welcome to the Trials, rabbits. Time to feed the HABIT."
The crowd roars in response, their fists in the air. They're not nearly enough to fill the stands, not hardly, the count's barely crawling up to a hundred -- but it's the impassive eyes of the cameras set up around the stadium that matter. These idiots are just for the noise of it.
"Now, see, the rules to this game are real simple. All you gotta do is kill everybody else. That's it! What could be easier, right? Knife in the brain. Sword in the guts. I don't care how you do it, just do it, meat. Look at it this way: the Porter'll bring you back good as new. So... what's keeping you? Besides, hey... the winner gets a prize."
HABIT laughs tinnily through the sound system, over the sound of the crowd. "If one of you makes a break for it -- go ahead! I encourage it, make your move -- but you will notice that there's no escape. Can't have you spoiling my fun, now can we? The good people up there in the stands paid twenty-nine ninety-nine for a show, and by fucking golly, they're gonna get it."
"Now... if you'll look at the balloons for your group assignments. Flemish Giants, why don't you come on out here? No, no, hey, don't be shy. Being first is a big ol' honor. So show us some blood!"
He hits the music, and opens the doors.
whocouldwinarabbit and his eighteen lucky Rabbits.WHERE: Yankee Stadium.
WHEN: Tuesday, November 13 afternoon onward.
WARNINGS: Not for the children. Graphic murder expected.
SUMMARY: THUNDERDOME.
FORMAT: Whatever our contestants would like.
"Rise and fucking shine, campers!" blasts the loudspeaker.
Eighteen bodies. Not a bad turnout. He's hauled them into the locker rooms to wake up together, tied balloon strings to their wrists, the balloons Skittles colors. Angora, some say in sharpie, Flemish Giant. And all have a smile drawn on, bunny ears on top.
"You're probably wondering what the hell you're doing here, right? Wonder no more! Welcome to the Trials, rabbits. Time to feed the HABIT."
The crowd roars in response, their fists in the air. They're not nearly enough to fill the stands, not hardly, the count's barely crawling up to a hundred -- but it's the impassive eyes of the cameras set up around the stadium that matter. These idiots are just for the noise of it.
"Now, see, the rules to this game are real simple. All you gotta do is kill everybody else. That's it! What could be easier, right? Knife in the brain. Sword in the guts. I don't care how you do it, just do it, meat. Look at it this way: the Porter'll bring you back good as new. So... what's keeping you? Besides, hey... the winner gets a prize."
HABIT laughs tinnily through the sound system, over the sound of the crowd. "If one of you makes a break for it -- go ahead! I encourage it, make your move -- but you will notice that there's no escape. Can't have you spoiling my fun, now can we? The good people up there in the stands paid twenty-nine ninety-nine for a show, and by fucking golly, they're gonna get it."
"Now... if you'll look at the balloons for your group assignments. Flemish Giants, why don't you come on out here? No, no, hey, don't be shy. Being first is a big ol' honor. So show us some blood!"
He hits the music, and opens the doors.
no subject
The solution comes to him then, dawns on him in a way that makes him almost believe it had been planted in his head for forever. Slowly, he takes a breath. It's ragged, hard, through his mouth so he doesn't have to inhale the heavy metallic scent of Xanatos's blood.]
You have to get out of here. You have to survive and you have to find whoever it is that's behind this insanity.
[And with that, he tosses his weapon aside.]
no subject
Or maybe that's just his own selfish survival instinct talking, jumping at the chance to walk out of here alive. ]
I will. [ His voice is low, and it sounds like as much of a promise as he can make it. Slowly, Bradbury takes one step towards Matt, then another, reaching a hand out - like he's offering it to shake. ]
I can knock you out, before I - [ He swallows, hard. ] --so you don't feel it.
no subject
He takes off his glasses and sets them on the ground beside the mace, and with open eyes he begins to pray.]
Heart of Jesus, once in agony, have mercy on the dying.
no subject
Amen.
[ His hand turns to rest against the side of Matt's neck, fingertips on skin and Bradbury shuts his eyes, trying to remember how to do this - the only thing he had to offer, a quick and painless death. All it takes is a push from his mind to knock Matt unconscious. Before he can crumple, Bradbury's leaning forward quickly to wrap a forearm around Matt's neck, the other hand coming to the back of his head and shoving it forward sharply. His muscles bunch tight as he brings to bear all the force he can manage.
By the time he lets Matt go, the other man isn't breathing, and his head lolls at an inhuman angle. Bradbury slowly gets to his feet and straightens, staring at the crowd, then turning his head towards the cameras.
Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner. ]