Once upon a time, there was a detective with shaggy black hair and eyes underscored by heavy application of dark eyeliner. He always wore loose, baggy sweatshirts and jeans, and sat with his legs curled up and his chin resting on his hands on his knees.
Once upon a time, there was a series of heart attacks that took down terrible criminals all around the world on a fairly regular basis. If it struck fear in any of the living ones, it didn’t show because they continued to kill and steal and on and on. It did arouse the consternation of a certain world agency who called in a famous detective to bring this killer of killers and others to justice.
Once upon a time, that detective with the shaggy hair and big eyes and innocent puppy dog appearance hunted down his quarry and chained themselves together in hopes of gaining proof for his suspicions. Once upon a time, he was correct and faltered, and in that moment his heart beat wildly as it had continued to do so lately.
Once upon a time, love for a human killed a death god(dess). But before that, she wrote down two people’s names.
Their hearts seized up as pain shot through their chests. They convulsed, spasming as ones shocked by hundreds of volts of energy.
And then they woke up.
Once upon a time, they had lived in a place where everyone was flat and everything was black or white and everyone understood what the other was saying no matter what country they were from.
But now, was not Once upon a time. Now was now. Now was this confusing clash of color and sound. Now was flashing lights and tightly packed warm bodies that made the detective claustrophobic.
Now was a hand latching itself onto his arm and tugging gently, but insistently.
The hand could belong to anyone in this sardine can. Sardine cans, he reflected, were probably just as damp and smelled as salty too. He followed it, cautious, unwilling. When he turned to call his aide, he could not find the aged, fatherly man anywhere.
He was pulled through the crowd by that floating limb for a good few minutes before finally coming out into a half-circle of six people. Under the clouded night sky in the flashing lights, it was hard to say who the hand had belonged to.
A single, short figure stepped forward. “Welcome, L.”
Can you see the Gordimer influence? *snort* I was thinking something along the lines of fantasy and reality blurring (yet again. Cliche it is, I know) and then we will have use of the many sharp pointy weapons in our armory that have yet to be revealed to y'all. Unless you've followed the link in my lj or seen the sketches in my book. Of course, if you can think if another way that is less cliche then let me know please... because I don't really write cliche well. (though how anything that revolves around our little group can be cliche is beyond me.... I guess it's the thought that counts. There's a connection in there, TRUST ME)