(no subject)
There's a man in 202. He has gray hair streaked with white pulled into a very conspicuously neat ponytail.
He's looking at the maps on the wall, of the other worlds. He splays out his hands out on the Avatar world, his fingertips each touching a different Nation. He looks at Naboo, and the Disc vaguely.
Then his attention to Earth is slowly gained: he touches the burned, charred mark next to New York, fascinated by the malice there, almost as if it were burned into the map. He can tell that the mark was made purposefully; he doesn't need a microscope to tell that. No, no, this is altogether all too interesting.
Then notices the two names next to Amity Park, Illinois -- written in shaky, loopy handwriting. Bad handwriting. A boy's handwriting.
Vlad smiles.
He's looking at the maps on the wall, of the other worlds. He splays out his hands out on the Avatar world, his fingertips each touching a different Nation. He looks at Naboo, and the Disc vaguely.
Then his attention to Earth is slowly gained: he touches the burned, charred mark next to New York, fascinated by the malice there, almost as if it were burned into the map. He can tell that the mark was made purposefully; he doesn't need a microscope to tell that. No, no, this is altogether all too interesting.
Then notices the two names next to Amity Park, Illinois -- written in shaky, loopy handwriting. Bad handwriting. A boy's handwriting.
Vlad smiles.