(no subject)
WHO: dogabuse & formidophobia.
WHERE: Angelica's secret laboratory.
WHEN: Evening.
WARNINGS: None, except those inherently associated with the above characters.
SUMMARY: A talk.
FORMAT: Paragraph to start, whatever within.
She was busy, for a dead woman.
It was the first time in over a year that Angelica Einstürzen had been out from under the prying eyes of the law, and with death had come a certain sense of liberation. The heroes had been all too eager to accept her murder as a lasting act, justice or revenge. No one had come looking. Her work progressed uninterrupted, flourishing in secrecy. Being savagely torn into bloody broken pieces by her favorite son was a small price to pay.
(She loved and loathed Heine's betrayals, each one.)
Her laboratory became a sanctuary. Quiet, except for the hisswhirbeep of machines. Angelica was dressing, drawing the zipper of her dress up to her throat, pulling on her white physician's jacket. Six-fingered hands smoothed blond hair back from her face. Her color was just slightly pale, her movements naturally graceful but vaguely fatigued. Making the clones was always physically taxing, but after all these weeks, her distrust of the lull had brought her to reform her set. The new clone sat beside its sister, still covered in a faint sheen of biological fluids. Both were dormant, resting in a large mechanical contraption with oxygen masks over their faces and various monitoring devices connected to their skin, their veins.
WHERE: Angelica's secret laboratory.
WHEN: Evening.
WARNINGS: None, except those inherently associated with the above characters.
SUMMARY: A talk.
FORMAT: Paragraph to start, whatever within.
She was busy, for a dead woman.
It was the first time in over a year that Angelica Einstürzen had been out from under the prying eyes of the law, and with death had come a certain sense of liberation. The heroes had been all too eager to accept her murder as a lasting act, justice or revenge. No one had come looking. Her work progressed uninterrupted, flourishing in secrecy. Being savagely torn into bloody broken pieces by her favorite son was a small price to pay.
(She loved and loathed Heine's betrayals, each one.)
Her laboratory became a sanctuary. Quiet, except for the hisswhirbeep of machines. Angelica was dressing, drawing the zipper of her dress up to her throat, pulling on her white physician's jacket. Six-fingered hands smoothed blond hair back from her face. Her color was just slightly pale, her movements naturally graceful but vaguely fatigued. Making the clones was always physically taxing, but after all these weeks, her distrust of the lull had brought her to reform her set. The new clone sat beside its sister, still covered in a faint sheen of biological fluids. Both were dormant, resting in a large mechanical contraption with oxygen masks over their faces and various monitoring devices connected to their skin, their veins.