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Post by D. Golightly on Sept 5, 2006 17:33:52 GMT -5
Any word on where Mark disappeared to? I thought his first issue of SHIELD was awesome, and I'm still hoping for more. Has he contacted anyone?
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Post by Cory W. on Sept 10, 2006 11:20:06 GMT -5
Mark pops up in here every so often and posts, but aside from that I haven't heard from him in a while. We're gonna have to track him down with some blood hounds! Fanfic posse assemble!
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Post by Mark Walsh on Sept 12, 2006 14:26:00 GMT -5
Ech, writer's block in a major way. The second issue stands half finished, as it has done for many months. The new fall quarter hasn't helped either. But it is still definitely on my list of "things that needed doing yesterday".
As a side note, if anyone has anything juicy on IRA history, send it my way. My vision seems to be inhibited by my lack of practical knowledge.
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Post by D. Golightly on Sept 12, 2006 14:42:38 GMT -5
Hopefully you can charge on through the blockage, as I'm really looking forward to your series continuing. Good luck!
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Post by Mark Walsh on Oct 2, 2006 12:10:09 GMT -5
Well, that took forever, but I'm probably sending in #2 this evening.
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Post by Cory W. on Oct 2, 2006 14:02:37 GMT -5
Well, that took forever, but I'm probably sending in #2 this evening. w00t w00t. Good to hear, Mark! I take it the issue's done or almost done then, huh?
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Post by Mark Walsh on Oct 2, 2006 16:22:02 GMT -5
Look in your inbox; you tell me.
As for the rest of you... a bit of a taste, if you're interested.
-------------------
Ororo had discovered that her new jumpsuit clung to her in all the comfortable places. How SHIELD had known her exact measurements was an issue she didn’t want to think about, but did anyway. For some reason, of all the little secrets she had tried to keep, of all the little privacies she had tried to maintain that were probably right now being picked over clean, it was the idea that someone had gone into her dresser and read her cup size that fixated her. It was typical of the way her thoughts had been running these past few days. Focus on the minutiae, the obscure, the irrelevant. It was all much safer than dwelling on the larger situation she found herself confined within.
What had happened in that room? Her new team had been troubled, dismayed, maybe even angry that they wouldn’t be allowed to kill a man. Ororo had heard it in their voices, the way they had automatically thought of their new “target”. They looked at the picture and didn’t see a man with a life and history, they saw an animal needing to be put down. How had Cassidy gotten those scars on his face? A childhood accident? A selflessly heroic deed? Did the man have any idea what was barreling down on him, about to violently shatter whatever he had known before? She had been afraid when Creed had shown them that picture. She hoped the others thought it was from the fear every rational person had of mutants. But no, it hadn’t been. She had been scared because in that moment, Ororo knew she was in a room surrounded by psychotics.
She was wandering aimlessly through the corridors, no destination in mind, just walking because… sometimes you need to walk. Ororo turned a corner and was confronted by a door, light shining through its cracks, voices filtering softly outward. A poster was hanging on the door, and Ororo thought she recognized the American city of Chicago. Crumpled pavement and buckled roads, there was broken glass everywhere. The Sears tower looked like a melted candle, dripping with blackened concrete. The words “Never Forget” had been printed in large, red block letters along the bottom . Twenty years past, most of the world was trying to forget the American Terror had ever happened, but here in Whiteground it was the soiled blood of life. Ororo knocked on the door.
The man who opened it was short, with runny brown eyes that peered out from behind thick-rimmed glasses. His uniform was all eggshell white, with a silver metal nametag reading “G. Ancic”. Head tilted lazily to one side, he wore his startled expression so naturally that Ororo expected it be his perpetual outlook.
“Umm, ah, can I help you?”
Ororo hesitated. What was she doing, knocking on this door? Even if this man wasn’t hard at work, what were the odds he’d talk to her, a mutant? But she couldn’t keep running around these corridors like a scared jackrabbit, to timid to even look people in the eye. She was here, in this place, now, and it was time for her to start facing up to that.
“Just passing by,” she said, trying to sound casual about it. Ancic stepped back from the doorway, bobbing his head as he did so.
“Sure, sure, come on in. Haven’t, ah, had time to go out and introduce myself to the rest of the staff yet. They sort of just rushed me in here.”
“Yeah, they do that.“ Ororo smiled at the shuffling technician, who didn‘t quite meet her eyes when he spoke. She recognized this kind of awkwardness. It was a little nice to be intimidating as a woman instead of being intimidating as… something else.
“Woah.” She stepped into the room, staring at the far wall where sheik black plastic mingled with bundles of copper wire and neon chronometers. Red lights softly strobed along the surface, giving the room faintly surreal lighting. Ororo felt Ancic’s breath over her shoulder.
“Yeah, it’s something, isn’t it?”
“What,” she looked around at the other, barren, walls searching for clues, “What is it?”
“A recording station.” He stepped past her, approaching the machine, and softly laid a protective hand over it. “Preserves the field team’s communications for later review.”
Ororo was tempted to ask exactly what kind of ‘review’ was being done, but stopped herself, unsure if she wanted to know the answer. Her every step would be watched now, and she instinctually understood that to be just good sense. She cast her attention back to the wires, and tried to give them a closer study. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” she said, completely certain she was right. Ancic nodded slowly, a knowing look in his eyes.
“Not many people have. The Russians have someone deep inside, churning stuff like this out all the time. Sometimes they throw a toy our way.”
The two of them grew silent, and the room was filled only by the soft hum of technology.
“Oh,” she shook herself, trying to clear her head, “Sorry, I’m Ororo.” Ancic’s eyebrows rose just a little, and her rocked back on his heels. He finally met her eyes, but only for a split second before turning his head away again.
“Oh, so, ah, you got left behind?”
“What?” It was not exactly the reaction Ororo had expected, but then, she hadn’t really known what to expect at all. Ancic motioned toward the immense machine.
“They’ve been talking about you.”
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Post by Cory W. on Oct 2, 2006 16:38:12 GMT -5
Hmm... I don't seem to have anything in my inbox or in my filter box, Mark. Did you send the issue to Colove007@aol.com?
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Post by Mark Walsh on Oct 3, 2006 13:50:02 GMT -5
Yep, it's in my "Sent Mail" folder.
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Post by Cory W. on Oct 3, 2006 21:43:36 GMT -5
Could you resend it, Mark? It's still not showing up on my computer. Thanks in advance!
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