(no subject)
Characters: Angelica Einstürzen, Doctor Crane, possibly some floating witches.
Location: SECRET UNDERGROUND HEADQUARTERS SOMEWHERE.
Rating: PG-13 or something. Expect general skeeviness.
Time: BACKDATED! Shortly after Crane is busted from his imprisonment I am a terrible person
Description: One good doctor meets another. This is sure to be the start of something beautiful.
Science made people patient.
You had to be. You had to be willing to wait, had to be willing to try over and over, despite bad result after worse result after slightly better result. Science could be absolutely soul-crushing, and it either broke your resolve or tempered it like surgical steel.
Einstürzen was of the latter group. She was meticulous, and careful, and utterly patient. An overwhelming desire to see results - more, more, more - was kept in check by the frigid, unyielding pressure of promise. When you waited from childhood for the right thing, the right opening, the right chance to seize by the throat, you found yourself, a grown woman, quite capable of waiting. Passion was honed into a conviction that would not, could not falter. It became drive, and it was a feeling that the doctor was, on the whole, content to be carried by. It hadn't lead her astray so far, after all, and here she was, far away from the dust and the dirt and the filth.
Homely, almost. Her empire, rebuilt anew - she had to allow herself a short, sharp laugh. Such a lady of war she'd become, subjugating what lay before her. Supposedly, she had her allies to thank - these witches, these creatures of magic, a force she'd since attributed as a highly specific sort of science. It was easier to stomach that way, and she had to be adaptable, didn't she? Adaptability was important, provided it was on her terms. Besides, they were not without merit. The methodical approach some adopted was something she could respect, if not admire. Angelica had only ever admired the sheer, boundless potential of humanity, a force all of its own. Something to be manipulated, controlled, and ultimately improved upon.
Here, she had her endless, arctic white. Here she had temperature she could control, lighting she could change as she saw fit - here, things were precisely as they should be, precisely as she decided. The exchange, as she saw it, was fair. Like unto like.
Her foot tapped where she sat. Not out of a lack of patience, of course - such a failing was not for her - but out of disdain for tardiness in her underlings (because they were hers, whatever way you looked at it, it was all hers, would all be hers, not that she was grasping, not that she much cared).
And so she waited with the patience of an old woman, though she couldn't deny a thrill of anticipation, almost childlike. The figure in the chair was certainly one in her thirties - there was something inherently well preserved about her, and it was her presence more than her face which aged her, the imperiousness of her position, the cant of her head.
In the reverent silence of her conditioned halls, her underground palace, she heard movement and, doglike, turned her head to one shoulder, hair falling awar from her ear as if to allow for better hearing. She sniffed, legs uncrossing and feet planted on the floor to stand. Her form cast a hundred tiny shadows, scattered around her feet like a garment shed in one fluid movement. Her lips curled into a snarl, into a grin, and then into a smile, sweet than the situation perhaps warranted.
Things were getting moving now. And that was what she cared about. The moving. The potential.
Location: SECRET UNDERGROUND HEADQUARTERS SOMEWHERE.
Rating: PG-13 or something. Expect general skeeviness.
Time: BACKDATED! Shortly after Crane is busted from his imprisonment I am a terrible person
Description: One good doctor meets another. This is sure to be the start of something beautiful.
Science made people patient.
You had to be. You had to be willing to wait, had to be willing to try over and over, despite bad result after worse result after slightly better result. Science could be absolutely soul-crushing, and it either broke your resolve or tempered it like surgical steel.
Einstürzen was of the latter group. She was meticulous, and careful, and utterly patient. An overwhelming desire to see results - more, more, more - was kept in check by the frigid, unyielding pressure of promise. When you waited from childhood for the right thing, the right opening, the right chance to seize by the throat, you found yourself, a grown woman, quite capable of waiting. Passion was honed into a conviction that would not, could not falter. It became drive, and it was a feeling that the doctor was, on the whole, content to be carried by. It hadn't lead her astray so far, after all, and here she was, far away from the dust and the dirt and the filth.
Homely, almost. Her empire, rebuilt anew - she had to allow herself a short, sharp laugh. Such a lady of war she'd become, subjugating what lay before her. Supposedly, she had her allies to thank - these witches, these creatures of magic, a force she'd since attributed as a highly specific sort of science. It was easier to stomach that way, and she had to be adaptable, didn't she? Adaptability was important, provided it was on her terms. Besides, they were not without merit. The methodical approach some adopted was something she could respect, if not admire. Angelica had only ever admired the sheer, boundless potential of humanity, a force all of its own. Something to be manipulated, controlled, and ultimately improved upon.
Here, she had her endless, arctic white. Here she had temperature she could control, lighting she could change as she saw fit - here, things were precisely as they should be, precisely as she decided. The exchange, as she saw it, was fair. Like unto like.
Her foot tapped where she sat. Not out of a lack of patience, of course - such a failing was not for her - but out of disdain for tardiness in her underlings (because they were hers, whatever way you looked at it, it was all hers, would all be hers, not that she was grasping, not that she much cared).
And so she waited with the patience of an old woman, though she couldn't deny a thrill of anticipation, almost childlike. The figure in the chair was certainly one in her thirties - there was something inherently well preserved about her, and it was her presence more than her face which aged her, the imperiousness of her position, the cant of her head.
In the reverent silence of her conditioned halls, her underground palace, she heard movement and, doglike, turned her head to one shoulder, hair falling awar from her ear as if to allow for better hearing. She sniffed, legs uncrossing and feet planted on the floor to stand. Her form cast a hundred tiny shadows, scattered around her feet like a garment shed in one fluid movement. Her lips curled into a snarl, into a grin, and then into a smile, sweet than the situation perhaps warranted.
Things were getting moving now. And that was what she cared about. The moving. The potential.