TwiLyghtSansSparkles

"Hello. I am. Baymax. Your personal. Party. Provider. On a scale of one to ten, how painful would you rate your boredom?"

Okay, Big Hero 6 was amazing.

Alas, if I had left all logic by the wayside, you would still be reading Lighthound ships. And if it were Nighthound flirting, Autumn would nuke the entire site from orbit. It's the only way to be sure.

I'm not sure it's "love" so much as "Okay, there's an Epic flirting with me, and she could explode my head if I don't flirt back…seems like the smart thing to do here is flirt back."

I can see this happening. Though what I really want is a re-enactment of the climax of Raiders of the Lost Ark, where the Ark is opened and God's glory is revealed and Nighthound has his face melted off. And it doesn't get better. New Autumn post up. There is never a wrong time for hugs. Not even when the town is being invaded by flying pigs and sentient pandas.

Many things had been on Autumn’s mind that day. With the panda invasion and the appearance of three new Epics, plus another whose power was as sparkly as it was destructive, she’d had precious few moments to pause and think. But as the sparkling Epic balanced Backtrack’s stolen glasses on her nose and hugged her from behind, one thought and one thought only drifted through Autumn’s head. Is she serious? It was not the first time an Epic had flirted with her. Nor was it the first time said Epic had been female. Precious few captured Epics dared flirt with Reader, but for some reason that escaped Autumn’s comprehension, most of them seemed to assume that flirting with the quite obvious good cop would convince her to bend the rules. The second she explained them, the City Guard’s prisoner would turn up the charm. But there was no prison. No Reader. If she wanted, this newcomer could probably turn each of their heads into a colorful explosion, then sit back and watch the show. She could convince the momentum twins to join her, blackmail Backtrack with his glasses, and skip off to try and take control of the town. She didn't hold all the cards, but she held some of the best. And here she was. Hugging Autumn. Pressing her cheek against hers. Flirting. There was only one thing to do. Two, technically, but one of those involved pushing the Epic away and ordering Bill and Jordan to fire, and that option made far less sense than the other. Autumn smiled and leaned into the hug. Everything had a strange pink cast from behind Backtrack’s glasses, including Backtrack, who seemed unsure whether to cry or demand his glasses back before crying. “I think it might be a bit too soon to talk about love….but if the city’s still standing when my shift’s over, there’s this great bar downtown.”

Okay, I know this probably isn't the question they wanted people to ask, but….who bought the Holy Grail, anyway?

They even got her castle right.

Well, I have a new pony for you all. I managed to get him to agree to something other than the default pony, but when I tried to give him a cool outfit….

Make it a nice one.

Nope. He's at Timeport's mercy. Or lack of it.

To mangle Dumbledore's quote: "Do not pity the Nighthound, mail-mi. Pity Ray, and above all, the one who must accurately record Nighthound's atrocities."

You could always summarize it after the fact. Turn it into a Noodle Incident by showing Timeport thinking about all the blood, the screams, being amazed at just how he managed to kill someone with a stapler…. Done right, it can make the scene even more horrifying (by leaving the details to the reader's imagination) and save your sanity.

Because as a writer, I have a responsibility to my characters. This responsibility compels me to be faithful to them, and to accurately record what they would do and ask of others, regardless of how morally reprehensible that thing might be. Also because I don't want anybody feeling sorry for him when he meets dark!Funtimes.

New Quota post up, along with a oneshot character I added to avoid writing too much from his perspective.

A little girl ran, trailing fear as her oversized nightshirt snagged on a branch, falling to the ground. She scrambled to her feet and didn’t bother dusting herself off, barely noticed the blood splattered across her face and arms and clothes. Her fear was less like a cloud of smoke and more like a miniature dust storm that carried her from the bloodstained porch through the neighboring yard, sobbing all the way. And then Timeport appeared. Blood covered him from hair to shoes. His battleaxe glistened with it in the starlight. His clothes dripped it. A massive grin split his face as he laughed, his eyes wild and gleaming. It was just too funny. Quota laughed. At some point he thought it wise to try and muffle it, but it didn’t do much good. He laughed so hard he lost his balance and had to lean against a tree to stay upright. “Calamity.” It was barely a wheeze when he got his wind back. “That was awesome. You landed inside—and then the dad—with the gun—“ Another fit took hold, and he sank to the ground, wiping tears. “Calamity. You’ve got to top that. Think you can?” Timeport nodded. The manic glint hadn’t left his eyes for a second. “Awesome.” Quota hauled himself to his feet, wincing at the pain in his ribs. He wouldn’t have been surprised to learn he’d cracked a few. He reached out toward the surrounding houses and felt little; many residents had vacated their homes at some point in the past, and the little girl was long gone. Bummer. And it would’ve been so much fun to watch Timeport finish her off. Then again, killing a small, unarmed girl wasn’t much of a challenge. Quota grinned, an idea taking shape. “There’s another Epic just outside our territory. Minor guy. Calls himself Mister Meh ‘cause he can make anybody feel—you know—meh. Uses his powers to make his slaves feel so meh they don’t care about running away or not. What do you say we make him feel a little something more?” Mister Meh felt meh. There had been a time, back before Calamity, when meh was not a word. Then someone somewhere had decided it had to be, and into the Oxford Dictionary it went. He didn’t know when, because at that moment, he didn’t care. He took a sliced carrot from a silver tray. He seemed to recall asking for mashed potatoes, but suspected his slave had seen the carrots and thought Close enough. Mister Meh chewed it, wondering if he really would have preferred mashed potatoes. By his second bite, he didn’t care. The carrots were fine. Crunchy, like carrots ought to be, and orange. Except for that one near the corner that was… Purple? “Blake?” The slave, who wore a tweed jacket over a pink blouse and a pair of torn jeans, sighed. “My name is Ricardo.” “Whatever. Why is that carrot purple?” Ricardo shrugged. “Dunno. ‘Cause it is.” “I didn’t ask for a purple carrot.” “Since when do you care?’ The question gave Mister Meh pause. Since when did he care? He had once eaten a bowl of pasta from a spittoon and hadn’t asked whether or not the spittoon was washed. It had seemed washed, but asking hadn’t seemed important at the time. “Since when do you care whether or not I get your name right?” Mister Meh sat up, looking Ricardo in the eye. “And since when do you care about anything enough to sass me?” Ricardo blinked. “I….” A sensation worked its way through Mister Meh’s chest. Cold and tight, it rose up inside him. He didn’t identify it immediately. It had been so long since he had felt it. So long since he had allowed himself to feel it. His powers had allowed him to push it down, cloaking all of those nasty emotions in a layer of carefully constructed apathy. Contentment married to hostility, that was what his apathy was. “Ricardo, do you feel something?” “Like what?” But the look in Ricardo’s eyes made it clear he felt the same thing as his master. Dread. As if on cue, Mister Meh and Ricardo both turned to the doorway. A young man wearing a green-grey cloak gave them a smile. “Hi. I’m Quota. Say hello to my little friend.” His friend had a battleaxe.

"I'm so miserable, I'm going to live out the rest of my natural life as a panda! Goodbye, cruel world! Hello, bamboo groves! SOB!" I have no idea if it's canon or not….

That's….what I thought. This is how I imagine Funtimes ambushing them. Not that it'll happen, but hey, a girl can dream, right?

mail-mi, after Timeport tells the girl to run, am I correct in assuming he'll teleport back over to Quota and possibly ask what's next?

I've still got over 12 hours to go, so I'll write Quota's post first and then ring in the new year with Autumn. And I'll work on Quota's death scene in my head. Nighthound's death seems like a good goal for 2016.

Happy New Year's Eve from the US! Aaaannnnnd now that I no longer have to worry about sleep, I'm ready to write Quota's response. (Anyone mind if I don't rewrite all the previous events from his perspective, and just have his response to them? No? Nobody wants to see Timeport's atrocities twice? Okay, then, we're good.)

For the first time since gaining her powers, Doctor Funtimes did not announce her arrival with a cheer and a shower of glitter. Doing that would mean letting everyone know she was there right then—which, while maybe useful, would be just as likely to turn sour. Besides, they would know she was there before too long anyway, and she'd need those few minutes between her arrival and everyone knowing about it to case the joint. Case the joint. She giggled, swiping a chocolate-covered strawberry from the snack table she'd teleported next to. She liked the sound of that phrase. Case the joint. Case the joint. It made her picture a briefcase walking into a prison or a smoke-filled bar or some other place shady enough to be called a ​joint and sit until someone suspicious sat next to him. And then the suspicious person would find himself attacked by a living briefcase. With teeth. Funtimes nibbled her strawberry. Well, she nibbled the first bite. That bite was so delicious she popped the whole thing into her mouth and chewed while grabbing for another. And another, just in case that strange stranger intent on slipping over to the table slipped the rest of the tray into his pocket. Did he have pockets? Maybe he did. Lots of Epics had pockets. She had heard of one who could always take an entire Sausage McMuffin out of his pocket, even if he didn't have a pocket, and eat it right there. By the time she reached her fourth strawberry (it didn't take long, since they were so delicious) she had seen several people who looked like they might be meaniefaces in disguise: The woman in a dress that reminded Funtimes of a Renaissance Faire (they always spelled it with an extra E, which Funtimes suspected was stolen from the band Staind) The man slipping and slipping toward the snack table, eyeing the nummy snacks with hungry eyes The woman dressed in a pretty sparkly blue dress that looked to be made of snowflakes (oh Great Noodly One she looks like so so much fun and I hope she's not a meanieface) The big lizard man and the hundreds of teeny tiny lizards that looked like smaller versions of the dinosaurs Lightwards had and used to make people bleed and wanted to feed Nathan to and what if the lizard guy was really Lightwards after meeting some genie and asking if he could be a lizard person for a while? Ice. Lizards weren't good with ice, and the lizard guy was walking toward the ice queen now. That was good, but what if she was charmed by his lizard face and his lizard hands and his weird lizard eyeballs? She had to make sure she wasn't. Had to make sure. Before Funtimes could think of a way to ensure the ice queen distrusted the lizard-who-might-be-Lightwards, another little lizard skittered up to the table. He looked at her through beady black eyes and tilted his head. "Ya don't look like yer from around here, lady." Funtimes blinked—talking lizards, not the weirdest thing ever, not since seeing Heracles in that chain mail bikini—and looked down at her dress. Still the same dress she always wore, poofy in the skirt and dyed every color she could think to put inside a water balloon. Still the same light-up socks that went to her knees, still the same mismatched Converse. She giggled. "And you look like you're from Lighty Lightwards." The lizard tilted his head the opposite way. "Who's that?" "Your teeth are shiny." "My…" They weren't all shiny. Not all of them. And she didn't fancy taking a shiny tooth from a lizard's mouth, but if he was from Lightwards and Lightwards had taught him to talk, then she had to find out how much he knew. Had to find out. Had to. She smiled, tilting her own head. "How'd you learn to talk?" The lizard backed a step, obviously not liking the way she smiled at him. "I…" "Want to tell me, or do you want to give me one of those shiny teeth?"

O.O He's protecting his friend. He must die before he strikes up a friendship with Nighthound! I don't think it's been revealed yet.

Remember that game of whack-a-mole Paladin would've played with Koschei? I'm picturing something similar with Lightwards and Timeport.

I seem to recall (from karaoke at a friend's party) that there was an old country song about a woman plotting revenge called "Gunpowder and Lead." "Remington, Gunpowder and Lead" has a certain ring to it.