Post by malcolm on Dec 13, 2010 20:01:10 GMT -8
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
3:00 p.m.
Sad, really…work thinks I’m at home, and my family thinks I’m at work. Too bad for both of them I finished that work three days ago… Malcolm didn’t let the smug thought translate into an expression. Years, no, decades of training to control his emotions meant his face showed only what he wanted. The Marine expected no less when he was in the service, and living as an undercover muggleborn was just as exacting. The price for failure was higher, sadly. As far as the cartoonist could remember, the only person who knew his true blood status was his wife, and SHE suggested that he forge documents saying he was a half-blood.
The gardens here were rather nice. Peaceful even. Malcolm stretched his back slightly and began studying the foliage more intently. Pencil poised, he began recreating the leafy expanse in a comic panel. This, his latest project, would probably amount to nothing more than fodder for his resume. Honestly, nobody wanted to read a comic about a woman with the superpowers of a mouse. The poor mouse was underestimated. Never mind the phenomenal jumping and climbing abilities, the extraordinarily keen hearing and scent, and the sheer will to survive. Yes, Lady Mouse would never be a best seller, but pet projects rarely were. Besides, she was too dark of a hero for the main line publishers. They wanted paragons of virtue like Superman, or the ultra dark and brooding like Batman. Lady Mouse, like her animal namesake, stuck to the shadows. Hers was a world of political intrigue and espionage. She was a thief of information, and rarely got into the types of fights that other ‘supers’ got into. But, again with the pet projects and their success…
Steel’s real work was writing. This…this was a façade. He drew to think and thought to write. And, in writing, hoped to tumble an empire. The Flash was still growing. Most witches and wizards hadn’t caught on yet that his inflammatory words MEANT something. To them, right now, he was just an amusing commentator who ranted like their grandparents. It would grow. It would thrive. And it would catch fire and burn the whole world down.
Brushing away scraps of eraser dust, he looked up from his work. Someone had moved closer, he had heard them. Yet, he couldn’t see them.
“Hello?”
3:00 p.m.
Sad, really…work thinks I’m at home, and my family thinks I’m at work. Too bad for both of them I finished that work three days ago… Malcolm didn’t let the smug thought translate into an expression. Years, no, decades of training to control his emotions meant his face showed only what he wanted. The Marine expected no less when he was in the service, and living as an undercover muggleborn was just as exacting. The price for failure was higher, sadly. As far as the cartoonist could remember, the only person who knew his true blood status was his wife, and SHE suggested that he forge documents saying he was a half-blood.
The gardens here were rather nice. Peaceful even. Malcolm stretched his back slightly and began studying the foliage more intently. Pencil poised, he began recreating the leafy expanse in a comic panel. This, his latest project, would probably amount to nothing more than fodder for his resume. Honestly, nobody wanted to read a comic about a woman with the superpowers of a mouse. The poor mouse was underestimated. Never mind the phenomenal jumping and climbing abilities, the extraordinarily keen hearing and scent, and the sheer will to survive. Yes, Lady Mouse would never be a best seller, but pet projects rarely were. Besides, she was too dark of a hero for the main line publishers. They wanted paragons of virtue like Superman, or the ultra dark and brooding like Batman. Lady Mouse, like her animal namesake, stuck to the shadows. Hers was a world of political intrigue and espionage. She was a thief of information, and rarely got into the types of fights that other ‘supers’ got into. But, again with the pet projects and their success…
Steel’s real work was writing. This…this was a façade. He drew to think and thought to write. And, in writing, hoped to tumble an empire. The Flash was still growing. Most witches and wizards hadn’t caught on yet that his inflammatory words MEANT something. To them, right now, he was just an amusing commentator who ranted like their grandparents. It would grow. It would thrive. And it would catch fire and burn the whole world down.
Brushing away scraps of eraser dust, he looked up from his work. Someone had moved closer, he had heard them. Yet, he couldn’t see them.
“Hello?”