Participants:
| Scene Title | Backstage |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | One wants to hide, one wants to help, one wants to go home. |
| Date | December 29, 2009 |
Dreamscape: Hokuto's Lobby of Mirrors
"I don't see why we have to leave."
Lights glance off reflective surfaces, from gold gilding through to the mirrors that circle the room. It's a lavish little den, velvet on the furniture and wine in diamond glasses, and of course the women. This one has skin of a honeyed tone, golden under the glow of low lights, and rich mahogany toned hair that spills out from under a veil that conceals her face, if she even has one. Her lithe body drapes over Logan's lap, legs kicking up over the edges of the armchair both inhabit, back arched and hand up to card through golden curls. His eyes are hooded lazily as he runs a hand over her flat belly, certainly dressed up for the occasion, in that he's dressed down, naked from the waist up save for the coiling tangle of necklaces and bracelets, lags clad only in white silk and feet bare. A golden sword rests against the arm of his throne, which is draped in the skin of a lion.
He darts a mock-guilty glance to his more somber counterpart, mouth twisting in a smirk. "Think about it. He's not going to get us if we just stay here, now is he?" One long finger tangles in a lock of the woman's rich hair, toying with it. "And we've got all we could ever ask for."
"But it's not ours, and if she finds us, she'll— banish us, or something. Then we'll never get anything done," the other argues, suit striking black in the midst of jewel-toned luxury, precious metals. The split in his lip doesn't seem to hinder his ability to speak, or the signs of a head strike that should, by rights, leave him concussed, leaking blood into the black collar of his shirt. As he gestures towards one of the mirrors, the silver revolver beneath his jacket flashes into being. "And she said other people use this place too, you know. Come on, we're going."
"Then go," the other argues, voice suddenly vicious, leaning over the whore in his lap and showing teeth between words. "I'm staying. Shadow witch can join in if she wants."
Logan lifts his hands to his face, rubbing around eye sockets as he mutters, a muffled whine, "I can't fucking just leave you two behind. I don't even know what would happen if I did."
"We're 'ere for a reason, y'know." Both Id and Ego glance towards the third voice, the teenager who doesn't seem uncomfortable in this environment, if out of place in his polyester and denim and sneakers, long arms folded and slouching back leaning into a mirror. He's been observing the mirror situated on the roof above a currently empty futon, curiousity crinkling his brow, but now that he has their attention, he focuses his on them in turn, all pale eyes and pale locks. "She said Wendy's next, and what've we done? Nothink."
"Oh, yes, there's a good idea. Did you not see how well the last time went?" Id asks with a sneer, showing pearly white teeth as he turns his attention back to the woman in his lap. "My plan is better. Look, I found this and everything."
The younger, misleadingly identified as Superego, casts an accusing look at what seems to be the older of all three, in many ways, who only looks wearied to be in the middle of it all, and says nothing, posture stiff and expression aloof.
Taking his weight off the mirror, the teenager snaps at both of them with, "Maybe that's because you went on a sodding unicorn. That isn't how you do it! Just watch, would you?" By the time he's turning, there's not much for Ego to do other than reach, uselessly, towards where the teenage mirror image is vanishing through the shimmering surface, showing the faintest images of what seems to be a pool-side party of some kind, preternatural blues, before reflection of the decadent room shifts back into focus.
"One down, one to go," Id notes from his perch, and creases his brow when the other drives a fist directly into the mirror. It doesn't shatter, only proves to bruise knuckles when it bounces off, gaining a hiss from the darkly dressed man. "Careful, old boy, if you feel sorry for yourself any more than you already do, I might just kill you in your sleep myself."
The sound of his laughter, his own laughter, echoes pleasantly through the room.
