December 20. 11:30 AM.
Security Minion Number One was just taking a bite of his croissant and a sip of his coffee (yes, at 11:30) when he stopped and glanced at the monitor instinctively. The 11:23 bus was just pulling past the gates.
Security Minion Number Two glanced up from his paperwork, attempting to catch sight of the passengers aboard the bus, but it looked like a small load today. He went back to his papers.
Watcher’s Council; London, England
December 20. 6:33 PM GMT.
The phone rang and the secretary at the front desk answered it brightly.
The voice at the other end was not bright.
“Miss, please, calm down,” the receptionist chirped. “What seems to be the problem?” She paused. “Oh, that’s rubbish. Slayers can’t be men.”
Anonymous-Plot-Furthering-Watcher Number One looked up from the water cooler. “Male Slayers? Honestly, what will they come up with next?”
The secretary made a face and held the phone away from her ear. The individual at the other end seemed even less bright. She covered the receiver with her hand and whispered, “She says there’s someone calling himself the Slayer over in – what was that, Miss? Oh. They’ve covered the possibility of watcher having an identity crisis,” she told Anonymous-Plot-Furthering-Watcher Number One.
“Identity crisis? We are all quite secure in our identities,” Anonymous-Plot-Furthering-Watcher Number Two said scornfully.
“I even have a name!” called out Not-So-Anonymous-Plot-Furthering-Water Number Three, whose name is henceforth John Doe.
“Yes, yes,” said the secretary, rolling her eyes. “Whatever you say.” She returned her attention to the phone. “Miss, I will get back to you about this. Yes, I realize it’s urgent. Yes, yes. Goodbye.”
Four Point Orgy Lounge, FPOU
December 20. 11:37 AM.
“The Council hung up on me,” Ron said bitterly.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have called her a frocking stupid bint,” Kaylin suggested.
“She deserved it. I know Slayers can’t be men. It’s not my fault he doesn’t.” She aimed a dirty look in the Slayer’s direction. He ignored her and continued examining Candy’s crucifix collection, the remnant of several past FPOmas parties.
“Maybe he is a Slayer,” Caillean said thoughtfully.
“It’s not possible.”
“This isn’t the Buffyverse,” Caillean insisted. “It’s the… well, I don’t know what it is. If Candy could come up with the word and write it in, I’m sure I would. But that’s beside the point.”
Kaylin looked away from the Slayer’s arse and curiously at Caillean instead. “What do you mean if Candy could come up with it?”
“She’s writing the fic, isn’t she?”
“You mean our destiny is in the hands of an insane, coffee-and-heels obsessed, dead vampire Slayer who is currently residing in Hell?” Ron said slowly.
“It seems so.”
The three exchanged horrified looks.
Six feet under, Candy giggled and turned her attention to the football match Callie was watching with pained intensity.
The River Styx, Hell
December 20. 11:40 AM.
“I thought the Styx was in ancient Greece,” Scott said, reading the sign hammered into the ground.
“It is,” Charon assured him, beckoning him to his boat. “Pay the toll? Oh, ghost. I suppose you can’t. Hop aboard, then.”
Pleased, Scott followed orders. “So what’s this, then?” he asked, nodding to the river.
“Tourist attraction. Like the sphinx in Vegas. I get ten an hour and a free membership to the gym and pool for this job. It’s really all show. I’m Bernard, by the way.”
Scott glanced at the man’s name tag, which read Charon. “Ah,” he said. Bernard smiled amiably.
“Ticket?” he asked.
“Ghosts can’t carry tickets,” Scott reminded him.
Bernard wrinkled his nose. “You got on the bus without a ticket?”
“Ghosts can’t carry tickets,” Scott repeated. He shrugged in a what can you do? sort of way. “The driver didn’t seem to think it was a problem.”
“You’re not allowed past that station without a ticket,” the man replied firmly. “They would have come up with a way if you were meant to come here.”
“They?” Scott glanced around. The boat was moving through a series of underground caves and waterways. To the left, there was a heart-shaped opening labeled Tunnel of Love.
“The Powers That Be,” Bernard explained solemnly. “If you haven’t got a ticket, I’m sorry, but I can’t let you pass.”
“No buts. Off you get.”
“But—” Splash! “Oy!” He bobbed up in the water, casting Bernard furious looks. “You pushed me.”
“I did,” the man admitted. “No ticket, no passage.”
Scott wondered briefly how, if he was a ghost, he could splash or even fall, but he thought it best not to try and understand it.
As Bernard and his boat sailed away, Scott made his way to the edge of one of the caves and sat drying on a rock, thinking.
There had to be a way past all this nonsense. He could either look for the right entrance and get hopelessly lost, or he could look for the right entrance and find it. He weighed the odds, and decided that this seemed like the best possible plan.
Careful to float above the water, he took a look around.
The Tunnel of Love did not look inviting. It was decorated with pink hearts in a way that would have made Gilderoy Lockhart proud. It probably led to the Hell of Bad Fluff Fic Writers or some such.
There was another tunnel labeled with a long list of 0s and 1s, perhaps Computer Hell, and a passage, the sign by which read ~Dis iZ *H311* OMG lolz!~.
There were a number of dark, unmarked passages, and one, which had a footprint imprinted above the entrance.
Feet, legs, sex on legs… [Light bulb].
Triumphantly, Scott floated down the passage, silently congratulating himself on a job well done.
Also, since the last installment, there has been a pseudo-rip off of shoebox_project in the works. Basically, there is now an addition of some images to our mystery.
What's been done so far is located behind the following LJ-cut. I know Ronnie's working on an image of the gates of hell, so look forward to more. This should be interesting.
At the scene of the crime:
The deadly weapon:
The police report:
"Death by caffeinated beverage":
The deadly plebe fic of d00m:
Reviews are good. Good deeds bring good karma, which takes you to SoLM!Hell.