WELCOME TO DREAMWIDTH, HERO...

[she can't show her face, still streaked with her own dried bloody tears, so the voice function will have to do.

it's been days, and she still isn't sure she can do this. she can't feel, not really, but that doesn't mean she's ignorant of the pain she should be feeling. and that is what had gotten to her: that she could not properly mourn. not in the human way, at least. it tears her apart in a way she can barely conceal.

her voice is steady, even if it shouldn't be.]

Jack Bauer is dead.

[he should have had a great funeral, with a pyre burning into the darkest hours of the night. but he had been left in that stupid alternate world. if she had been there, she could have saved him. instead, he had died.

it was cu chulainn all over again.]

Something tells me he will not be coming back to this plane.

[someone is in dublin!! not that you would know, since she's sitting in a pretty nondescript pub. except for the heavily irish accented background chatter. in this environment, her own accent is much more pronounced. but even in the midst of the celebration, she hasn't put on any green; she's still in her customary white clothing.]

I hope you all had an excellent St. Patrick's Day yesterday. I certainly did. [she's interrupted by some guy coming by to drop another drink at her table. but she pushes it out of the frame because she is a TEACHER and she has a REPUTATION to uphold and an EXAMPLE to set. or something.]

I realize that I did depart a bit suddenly, and I hope none of you are too cross with me. [NOT THAT SHE'D CARE] Obviously, classes at the dojo are cancelled for this week. And even though it's spring break, my students from the Institute still have their reports on French warfare due when they return. I especially look forward to those on fifteenth century.

[no she doesn't she hates grading papers everybody is going to get a b probably. but someone insisted there be some sort of actual assignments in this class sigh.

the bartender yells something in irish and she yells something back before laughing and cutting the feed.]

[scatty is standing alone in some alley. it's dark, but there's a streetlight somewhere near. there's blood on her once pristine white shirt, and her cropped hair is a faded red thanks to the dust caught up in it. there is a very, very large hole punched straight through the brick wall closest to her. there are red streaks from her eyes running down her face--she's been crying. crying blood, from the looks of it. but aside from the tell-tale red, grimy trails down her cheeks, her face is dry. her voice monotone.]

Max Gibson is dead.

[a beat. it seems as if that's all.]

... Dead.

[as if she's trying to convince herself. another pause. then scathach clutches the comm in her hand, tilts her head back and gives a very inhuman scream, and throws it into the brick wall, ending the feed.]

[scathach is in some alleyway, near the hospital for anyone who might spot some familiar landmarks around there. her skin seems to be tight over her face, making the planes and angles of it seem unnatural. but her eyes are bright and wide, and there's something almost like a smile on her face. did i mention that there is blood all over her shirt?]

It seems as if the 'porter has no limit on from when she takes us. I've just found a man from Rome--Ancient Rome--in our midst. He asked about Emperor Commodus. In Latin.

[now she does smile, vampire teeth and all.]

Do you know how long it's been since I've heard someone speak Latin as a first language? Over a thousand years.

[she can't stop smiling. it's probably weird. she runs a blood-stained hand through her hair. some of it gets on her forehead.]

Incredible.

[ooc; this is backdated to 11 april in the late afternoon.]

[this is one irritated vampire]

Yes, alright, I get it. You all have a lot of emotions that you just can no longer contain. You need to share and whatnot. Wonderful.

But could you spew them somewhere else? Some of us can feel all of it, and it's annoying as hell.

I hope everyone is ready for the new semester. We'll be learning the basics of stealth, and will have a... quiz in a week's time. Be sure to bring socks to class tomorrow and wear light clothing, students. Other teachers are welcome to come observe, as always.


( encrypted to matthew murdock )

[this teenage vampire drama queen is looking so much better than the last time she posted on the network. she isn't so pale, and the circles beneath her eyes are minimal. she's sitting cross-legged in her dojo, as she has so many times before, actually smiling. she's trying to look welcoming, okay. she's even dressed like a normal teenager today. she's trying to lull all of you into a false sense of security. she clears her throat once, and then begins:]

To the students enrolled in my combat class at the Institute: I have decided that we will be going on a [short pause] field trip in two weeks' time. We will be going to the Metropolitan Museum of Art on the thirtieth of November.

I know that it may seem odd for a hands-on class like combat to go to a rather hands-off place like a museum, but it is important that you learn about the history and culture of the weapons and styles you are using. Since it would be impossible for every student to see every exhibit, they will be required to choose one or two areas to study. What will be done with the information they gather will be explained in the classes preceding the trip.

This trip is not mandatory, but if you decide to opt out, I will have to create an... alternative assignment for you to complete. [for the love of god, don't opt out]

You are only required to bring money for lunch, as the trip will be for the entire school day. I will require at least one other teacher or parent to act as a chaperon. Please contact me if you are interested.

[awkward pause]

Anyone who takes classes at my own dojo is also welcome to attend.

[FEED CUT]

[sent in an e-mail to her students a few minutes later are the following links:
the cloisters
heroic africans
arms and armor
arms and armor faq (with a special flag by misconception #2)
a permission slip with a note: "If you do not have a parent or guardian in the City, I will take responsibility for you for the day and sign the slip." because that's totally legal right]

[SOMEONE IS IN THE DANGER ROOM. but it's all boring and room-like right now. she's just sitting in the middle of the floor... surrounded by all kinds of weapons! not quite that many, but you get the idea. they're all in neat piles around her, and she looks so happy.]

School is starting. I'm sure my combat students, both new and returning, are just as excited for class as I am. I expect all of you to be in at least a passable physical condition. If you are not, I will make you so.

[she pauses, and then rifles around the weapons until she finds a book. she holds it up; the cover is covered with latin text.]

Also, Latin will be just as intensive as last year. I look forward to seeing all of you.

America is such a young country. Not even two and a half centuries old. A baby, by the standards of many other countries.

[a little smile.]

And the best at stirring up trouble, just like all younger siblings are. Wars every few decades, and a global stalemate that lasted almost fifty years. And you go through leaders like hotcakes.

[her face turns contemplative, as does her voice.]

But you wrested your freedom from across an entire ocean. So enjoy your Independence Day, you who call yourselves Americans. It was well-earned. Just be sure you don't forget how.

[this is scatty sitting on a roof ledge. there are some arrows in a quiver sticking out over her back, and a longbow resting in her lap. there are feathers scattered suspiciously all around her.

nothing about her looks happy.]

I hate birds. Especially pigeons.

They are good for only one thing.

[she pauses and then quickly pulls an arrow from the quiver, nocks it on her bow, and... AND THAT'S IT, POST OVER. the screen goes black.]

[the audio starts with a bit of static, and then the sound of metal sliding against metal, repeatedly. there's a pause, and then scatty's voice is audible, hardly a murmur:]

I'm getting too old for this.

[AND THEN THE RECORDING CUTS. just so everybody knows, her birthday is tomorrow! she'll be... 2519 years old (but that's just what she says).]

[this is scathach sitting on a rooftop, staring up at the full moon. the comm is next to her on the ledge of the building. her arms are wrapped around her legs, and her chin is on her knees. she looks every bit a seventeen year old girl.]

Time does indeed move quickly, and we forget. We forget things that happen, that are important. Even if we try not to. [pause.] Or should that be, we try to? Who knows?

[another pause. she seems to be thinking. gives something of a smile. her freckles are dark against her pale skin.]

One year. It doesn't seem like very long, does it?

[she reaches out to cut the recording.]