capeandcowllogs | So we rode down to the river where the toiling ghosts spring

Entry tags:

So we rode down to the river where the toiling ghosts spring

WHO: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and the Shade
WHERE: The mean City streets
WHEN: Late at night, on Friday 4/26
WARNINGS: A little violence, nothing major
SUMMARY: Shade agrees to help Sherlock and John impress their new buddies
FORMAT: Tagger's chioce, starting with para!

It had been too far long since he'd done this. At one time, many years in the past, he'd effected a costume, something lean, keeping himself looking just the picture of a man who lurked in the shadows. No, now he never dressed quite that simply, and instead dressed in his full, usual regalia. Sometimes, he would add a splash of color. Tonight, the only color was the white at his throat, the cravat he kept looped around his neck. He'd made a promise to aid a pair, and while he was hardly the sort to often do such things, it was invigorating, getting out like this. He'd taken hours to prepare, like he'd done long agao, practicing in front of a mirror, gesturing, letitng his shadows spread from his fingers and take form into fantastic, terrifying creatures, things humans could never conceive.

But it finally came to be time. The shadows he stepped into, pulling his hat low over his head, and hoisting his cane, he took to the streets, slipping between the shadows here and there, like a ghost. He would wait, until he found them, before he would slip forward completely. Instead, there was the slightest flicker in the deepest, darkest parts of the City, while he sought them out. They'd only hashed out the slightest of details, only enough that he would be able to slip from here to there close to where they should be showing up.

When he did see them, the Shade almost seemed to appear, smoke and shadows curling and clustering around him before they disippated around him, effecting a grin that was all villain, the look of a man who'd once done a job and enjoyed it. His grin split his face, and he tipped his hat, almost gentlemenly.

"Evening, gentlemen."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

People could accuse Sherlock of many things, but not knowing his theatrics is not one of them. After weeks of preparation, he and John were finally ready to infiltrate the ranks of the Phantasm. However, if they wanted to earn their trust and respect enough to meet with the upper echelons with the group, they needed to do something truly impressive.

That was where inviting the Shade came in. The Phantasm didn't have many villainous encounters under their belts, only murdering and maiming common street criminals. With the subtle use of all of their powers, the three imPorts were about to seemingly upset that balance.

Sherlock watched the group of Phantasm members on their patrol from within the darkness of a nearby alleyway. They'd been tailing them for about an hour until a suitable place to stage this fight presented itself, and now was the time. Sherlock lowered the large, tinted goggles he'd made for his costume over his eyes. Dressed from head to toe in black, he was a bit imposing himself. His hair was slicked back to disguise his typical mop of curls, and the long coat and dress clothes were exchanged for a leather jacket and black jeans paired with a tattered, flowing black scarf. He left the mask off for now, as the vocal distorter wasn't ideal for hiding. Sherlock adjusted his cloth gloves affixed with small razors for fingertips and looked at John.

"I think we'll let him toy with them for a few minutes. It'll let us see what they can do, and we'll probably end up looking like better saviors."

Not to mention, he had a feeling the Shade was going to have fun with it, so no need to rush. Sherlock smirked.

"We may learn to be glad that he's retired."

Compared to Sherlock's dark, brooding costume, the design John was wearing was much brighter and more simplistic than his friend's. Although he would never admit it to anyone, it was actually an attempt to match the motif of the original dynamic duo and he thought he had done a bang up job recreating it.

He had ditched the hoody, choosing a navy jacket with a bright yellow emblem emblazoned on his back, along with dark blue jeans and the converse shoes he had been determined to break into the evening Batwoman unexpectedly dropped in on them. He was wearing fingerless driving gloves and flexed them thoughtfully as they waited for Sherlock's acquaintance to reveal himself to the group they had been following tonight.

"Looks a bit extravagant, doesn't he?" John remarks casually over his shoulder, lowering his mirrored sunglasses down to have a better look at The Shade. He knew little to nothing about the man helping them out tonight and slipped them back up his nose with a sigh.

"Something tells me I don't want to know what his day job used to be." His brow furrows as the Phantasm members flank him and become aggressive. "How do you even find these people?"

Edited 2013-04-28 15:41 (UTC)

He'd caught their sight, and he was well aware that the boys were there. Excellent. He'd hate to overshoot. Not that he would have, with the way the boys were crowding around him. He didn't think much on it, reveling in the deep darkness that curled at his fingers and spread from them like gobs that dripped and then dissipated into the air.

The men flanked him, coming from both sides, but if that were a concern, the Shade didn't show it. Instead, he laughed, a bit jauntily. "Really?" he asked, tapping his cane against the hard concrete of the street, even as they continued forward. Shade didn't seem to think it was much of a concern, the way he simply didn't do anything.

"Come now, didn't anyone tell the lot of you to stay in after dark? You never know what might be lurking in the shadows."

Ah, one of his favorite parts had been the banter, but these sorts didn't even make a peep, beyond uncoordinated shouts, which after his words, slowly started to shift to screams.

The shadows seemed to elongate, pulling them out from under, even while small forms crawled and slithered from the darkness, their faces not of light, but of a shade lighter, creating ghoulish grins and screams that were silent, and yet the imagination could fill in the holes. The darkness seemed to undulate wherever it was dark enough, the ink of the black so dark it absorbed whatever it found, drawing it in; to a place where it couldn't escape.

The Shade just laughed as they were drawn up, screaming and struggling against the darkness, any number of dark grins and faces stretching wider, becoming more gruesome by the moment, dark stretches of ink and black slick that drew between their teeth and from their jaws, dripping to congeal onto the roadway.

"In this case, visiting New Jersey."

Sherlock watched the Shade work with a sort of muted awe. These powers were beyond what he could ever hope to do with shadows. Even he could recognize when someone is better at something-- otherwise he wouldn't have appealed to him for help.

He almost wanted to let this go on and abandon the plan; it was fascinating, and the Phantasm group probably deserved it in some way. Still, he didn't make his getup for nothing. Sherlock took his mask from inside his jacket and looked at John.

"Hope you're ready." He put the mask on and drew himself up to his full height. It was their turn to enter the stage. Brandishing a flashlight, Sherlock charged out into the street, moving with an urgency he certainly didn't actually feel. When he speaks, his American accented voice comes through the mask in a garbled way.

"Let them go."

Edited 2013-04-28 21:29 (UTC)

It was definitely an impressive display and even John found himself gawping stupidly as the men were caught in his snare, too stunned to properly respond. When Sherlock turns to him, he nods and grabs the cricket bat propped against the wall – again, the choice was a conscious effort to resemble an amateur vigilante – before he follows Sherlock out into the fray, baring his teeth and wielding the bat in front of him like a sword.

The night echoed with the Shade's laugh, taking extra care to make it more cruel and biting than it would ordinarily be. A villainous cackle, actually. His hands danced, using his cane like a conductor's wand, directing the symphony of shadows as they swooped, and you could almost imagine the howls that would accompany them, if it were a true theatrical production.

"Ah look, we have guests!" he announced, turning toward Sherlock and his partner, the shadows holding one of the members upside down by his head. The Shade patted his cheek, patronizing. "Perhaps they've come to save you? How noble of them."

The ground beneath the two erupted with dark shadows, tentacles of inky black, but while they appeared to twist and dodge and try to get at the two of them, the shadows only seemed to barely miss them every time. Due to their efforts, obviously.

Sherlock took great pains to be convincing as he weaved through the shadows that weren't even going very close to him. He had to wonder how this would look to an outsider; two men dressed like a haunted scuba diver and a deranged cricket hooligan rushing an old man who might have wandered off the stage on Broadway.

He shined his flashlight on some of the shadows holding the Phantasm members, and regardless of it actually being effective, their grip seemed to loosen slightly.

"Don't think we'd just stand by and let an imPort walk all over us," Sherlock growls through his mask.

"Yeah. We're going to take you out, imPort!"

John adopted a different approach compared to his companion. Jumping back from the shadows, he lifted his cricket bat and whacked the tendrils of darkness away with a loud shout. They dispersed upon impact – clearly due of his efforts – and he continued with this method until he reached the Phantasm member closest to him.

"Come on, mate. Grab my hand!"

If anything, the flashlight and cricket bat made the shadows turn away, like screeching swaths of darkness that shivered and then slipped back into the darkness where they came from. Like receding tentacles, but then came the next ones. The ones holding the men from Phantasm didn't disperse. If anything, they seemed to tighten. No need to make this too easy, after all.

"I thought you very well may. You can't stand against me, you see," he explained, utterly matter-of-fact in his phrasing. It wasn't boastful, simple truth exemplified, but after a moment, he tapped a chin, reminding himself that he was a villain now, and he would have to fall back into old, very tired habits.

"Who can truly stop the shadows, hm?"

With that, he waved a cane, and from the shadows came figures, demonlike in nature, small, more like devillings, really. Their gaping maws and wings propelling them to "attack" the foes, their scratches, when they hit, seemed to only slap a black residue onto their skin, instead of actual scratches.

Sherlock easily mimed injury when the shadow creatures came towards him. The cover of his mask let him grin deviously without reservation. Both John and the Shade were getting almost too into character. The plan was working better than expected, with the Phantasm members openly cloying for John's help and watching the duo combat their new foe with wide eyes.

He grabbed a monster clutched at his scarf and threw it to the ground. After stomping it ruefully with his foot, he tossed his scarf behind him with dramatic flourish.

"Who better than The Shadow himself?"

Admittedly a terrible name, but it fit the motif of general ineptitude.

When The Shade sends his creatures after them, John temporarily abandons trying to rescue the members by fighting his minions instead. Rather animatedly too. For someone Sherlock described as an atrocious actor once, he was getting into character a bit too much and kicked the monsters scrambling for a piece of him.

When Sherlock reveals the moniker for his superhero-self, he raises his cricket bat in front of him and backs away slowly from the creatures, hissing to his friend under his breath.

"The Shadow? You're seriously going with that?"

The Shadow? The Shade repeated the both of their questions with his own, although the internal question wasn't voiced. Instead, he opted to just laugh at him. Of all the titles, to name one so similar to his own, well, he was rather amused by it.

The Shade, still at the center of this entire mess, looked from "The Shadow" to his companion, taking a few steps back as the shadows beneath him formed steps, and then a rather elaborate seat of dripping shadows for him to sit on. He tipped his hat to the both of them, his smile quirking even while he leaned back, pointing now to his companion.

"I believe your companion doesn't like the name!" he barked, even while the dark creatures still seemed to come from nowhere. The Shade was truly a master of looking formidable, even if he wasn't truly aiming for harm. "And what do you call yourself?"

The figures congealed into a mess, before stretching and growing, soon becoming less of a miasma of creatures, and now just one hulking shake. If it had a voice, it would have roared, and it mimed the action, even if there was no sound.

Sherlock glares at John, not that he can see it behind either of their tinted goggles. He draws his gun and unlatches the safety, but still manages to hiss at John around his mask.

"Oh, shut up." The poor quality of the name was intentional.

That would be an argument for later, though, as the giant shade lurches before them, sinister and reptilian. Even if it isn't a real threat, Sherlock moves closer to John defensively.

"Hope you've been practicing your swing."

Edited 2013-05-28 02:17 (UTC)

"I thought you were joking! Come on, don't you think that's just a little bit cliché?" But perhaps this isn't the best time to discuss his lack of creative innovation. Just as Sherlock moves deftly to cover him, John mirrors him by shifting on his feet and holding the bat protectively out in front of them.

"The Mad Batter!" John reveals his own superhero name but scarcely a heartbeat passes before he changes his mind about it. "Oooon second thought, disregard that. I'm still thinking of one."

And to answer Sherlock's question, he swings wildly at the colossal mass of shadows. No point in doing this half-arsed.

The shadows seemed to burst like bubbles of pus on contact, more of the darkness dripping to splatter and make large dark pools on the ground. The Shade just watched from atop his throne with from what the gentlemen still trapped could see, was prideful amusement.

Far too confident.

He laughed, in response. "The Shadow and The Mad Batter? Really? I'm surprised you two could draw two brain cells together between the two of you!"

And the monster growled, and then sifted into a dark pool of black under another hit to the large mass. The Shade finally stood, and the pools of ichor just seemed to draw closer to him. The only ones left were those holding the men hostage.

"Can you really expect yourselves to deal with an immortal?

Sherlock almost wished he was an observer to this spectacle rather than a participant; he'd never seen the Shade so within his element and using his powers to such an extent like this. As fascinating as it was, they had to wrap up their act before it started to seem too conveniently acted.

"There's no such thing as immortality, not even for your kind."

He raised his gun and took aim, but hesitated for a moment to fire. Sherlock really hoped the Shade was as bulletproof as he claimed.

The Shade laughed.

"Bullets?" he asked. Spreading his arms wide.

"I was shot hundreds of times through my years. There's no bullet that I've been shot with that could kill me!"

And the Shade surged forward, one moment yards away, now only feet. The trappings of his shadow fabric dissipating into the dark night. He chuckled, low in his throat.

"Go ahead, boy. Try it."

If someone didn't know Sherlock better, they would believe he really was stepping back out of fear. Beneath his disguise, Sherlock is absolutely thrilled. He mocked superheroism and villainy, but even he could never deny a little bit of theatrics.

Hearing all of that is also reassuring in a way. The Shade's given his consent, so it's out of Sherlock's hands now. Well-- sort of.

"You got it."

Sherlock fired, gunshots ringing out into the night as piercing his eardrums. His aim was never as good as John's, but at this close of a range, the bullets would easily pierce the Shade's chest at various vital points.

Edited 2013-06-04 05:19 (UTC)

The Shade, at first, didn't react. He drew out the moment, letting the bullets hit, still grinning at Sherlock like that cat that got the cream. In fact, he was like such a beast, enjoying the very moment, letting the sharp sense of pain hit him in the chest. He didn't fear bullets, he feared so little these days anyway.

Instead, he embraced it, his immortality. He let them hit, drew them in, let the bullets hit him full on. No need to even fake this part. He could of course, or at least he could have mitigated some of the worst of the bullets, letting them pass through, but instead, he let them hit, and sink in.

Bursts of black slick spilled from his back, his chest, exploding outward. He choked, a small stream escaping from his mouth, to tumble to the ground. "No!" he managed, pain genuine.

Oh, but he disliked this, but there was little for it. First, the shadows slipped from the men he'd been holding. Their traps and prisons lifted, and the shadows seemed to shrink, the night suddenly becoming brighter. Or maybe he'd just made the night darker. The stars seemed to come back into focus, the moon seemed to cast a light brighter than it had been all night. The streetlights glowed brighter.

The shadows seemed to stretch outward, away from the light. Like they were trying to escape, instead of being so powerful that the just encompassed everything.

The Shade couldn't respond in any other way, too much, and the ruse would be up, so instead he slid to the ground, leaving a rather stylish corpse that slowly started to break down into wisps of shadow fabric, deteriorating before their eyes. Flake by cautious flake.

It would take a few hours for him to truly disappear, and then heal from the wounds.

Sherlock could tell immediately, that aside from the utterance, the Shade was not faking this reaction. He hadn't realized immortality meant a reformation after each supposed death. He would have been a bit more hesitant about asking his shadow mentor if he had.

As the Shade deteriorates in front of them, Sherlock glances urgently at John for a moment. He breathes hard through his nose, and it registers with a sinister rasp through his mask. No, now would be a poor time to break character. He would have to trust Shade would rebuild himself.

Putting on a flippant air, he returns to John's side, tucking his gun away with a showman's flourish.

"Looks like the bit off a bit more than they could chew here, didn't they?"

Unlike Sherlock, John chose not to wear a mask that concealed his facial features. He considered himself unremarkable enough to blend in with the members of Phantasm, many of whom were beginning to drop like raindrops to the ground and desperately scramble away from the Shade, as the man writhes in his death throes.

As a result of this choice, John's reaction to the deterioration unfolding in front of them is one of genuine – albeit horrified – awe... and perhaps a little uncertainty, which he conveys in the steady glance that he shoots in Sherlock's direction. Wasn't he supposed to be immortal? That was the whole reason he went along with this plot.

"... Something like that, yeah."

He would have to ask Sherlock whether or not he would come back later. He couldn't ask him here, especially with the boys beginning to crowd Sherlock, while he discreetly slips away to help a few members who are having difficulty coming to terms with what just happened.

Edited (the icon thing is annoying me) 2013-06-11 19:28 (UTC)

John couldn't see it, but behind Sherlock's mask and goggles, he wore the face of a magician who just realized his basket piercing swords weren't rubber. He was certain that if Shade wasn't actually dead, he'd probably relish that.

"You seriously killed him?"

The group of vigilantes approached Sherlock cautiously, and he quickly adapted a lackadaisical stance. He was hoping to portray the rough mannered, Byronic hero of he and John's duo, an archetype these fanboys seemed to cling to. As his tattered scarf fluttered in the breeze, it seemed to be working.

"He's an imPort. He could come back at any time. Next time bring a flood light, maybe."

A girl who had to be at most college age, dressed in distressingly provocative leather, giggled. Another man, dressed similarly to John but with more tacky colors, looked him over.

"Who are you guys? I haven't seen you out before."

"He's the Shadow and I'm... uh, name pending." John quickly handles the introductions as they congregate around Sherlock and he pulls a teenager (who is decked in a hideously loud jester motif) back onto his feet. He flashes him a reassuring smile and pats him on the shoulder.

"We're new to this.. erm... beat thing. We decided that we can't really sit back and let them do..." He trails off when he notices the girl in leather. It's hard to remain in character sometimes and John certainly wasn't an actor and he looks at her over his sunglasses.

But to his credit, he isn't the only one getting an eyeful - the boy ogles her too.

"Not the Mad Batter?" Sherlock asked with mock disappointment. At the very least, they both seem to have a better sense of costume design than their new peers.

"If the Phantasm is still recruiting, of course--"

"For guys like you, sure! God knows what would have happened if you didn't come along."

Sherlock nods while exasperatedly looking in John's direction. "You tending to the wounded, Miss Nomer, or are you going to stare at them all night?"

No doubt John would be sick of Sherlock's New Yorker accent by the time they wrapped this up.

"No, it's not the Mad Batter... and it's not whatever you just called me either, Shadow." John retorts hotly, putting emphasis on what he considers a lame moniker. It seems the thesaurus his Shadow picked up for nefarious purposes didn't make quite the impact on the doctor-turned-vigilante that Sherlock would have hoped for.

"I'm not staring – I'm admiring our new comrades in arms. We're going to be seeing a lot of each other from now on, right?"

There's a murmur of agreement among the vigilantes and John shoots him a look that telegraphs Told you so.

Sherlock snorts, which just sounds bizarre through his mask. It isn't his fault simple names like Ghost and The Shade were taken. Or that people in this group were terribly unimaginative.

Still, Sherlock rounds on the Phantasm and looks them over. A motley crew if he ever saw one-- all of them not unlike his clients from the so aptly named 'Geek Interpreter' case. They didn't seem particularly malicious, but that was what they were here to investigate.

"Then why not show us your patrol route. Hopefully there are less supervillains down the avenue."

He'd check for the presence of Shade's comm in the morning.

"Sure man, follow us. We'll give you the guided tour." The merrily dressed teenager John aided drawls and a ripple of agreement courses through the entire group. Mindful of the traces of the super villain drifting lazily up into the darkness, they set off in the opposite direction, rambling animatedly to themselves about the new assets to their team.

John waits until most of them are out of earshot – which is easy enough, considering all the excitement their little performance generated amongst the young members – and saunters up to Sherlock.

"That was easier than I expected."

Sherlock sighed internally-- it was going to be annoying to be shown all over the City when he'd spent the last eight months memorizing the place. He's relieved when John rejoins him, and he moves aside his mask discreetly.

"Told you I have reliable contacts even here. Hope you don't get tired of pretending to be overeager."

John would probably have an easier time of it than him in that department. As they followed the group that looked more like a comic convention than superheroes, Sherlock had the feeling that this was going to be a very long few weeks.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

So we rode down to the river where the toiling ghosts spring

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject