Friday, December 16th, The Midnight Channel

[thepull_mods]

Who: The Port's Latest Shadow Televisions Stars! And Thousands of Home Viewers!
When: Midnight, Thursday December 14th
Where: In front of your Television Sets or Streaming NV TV. (Digital Cable? You'll still get the analog effect.)
Summary: Full Plot Details Here
Warnings: Please Put 'em In the Subject Lines As Necessary, Kids?

Comments

Warnings: Drug abuse

[caveatwalls]

Before the screen completely adjusts, the blare of an orchestra of chimes and discordant strings causes jagged edges in the snowy reception. It is calculated music, though, designed for making the ears bleed and the heart pound. When the violins pause in an uneasy lull, the screen turns to black. A lighter flares in the darkness, igniting the cherry tip of a cigarette

[sittingtype]

John might not be working at the moment, but he's still keeping to the odd hours attributed with that graveyard shift. He's spending his time productively, typing up his notes from the Luis case in the living room by the time midnight rolls around. The TV's on in the background and was broadcasting late night crap telly prior to twelve am, but the volume's muted while he works

[caveatwalls]

Sherlock is sitting in his armchair, comfortably hugging his legs, not working either. Unlike John, he's found the Midnight Channel fascinating up until now. Was it another effect of the Darkness? If so, how did it get all this information on people? Once twelve rolled around, he'd unmute it. As it turned out, the channel did it for him. The music was certainly different from the usual, and yet somehow familiar. Then the lights come up.

A shooting gallery in Shepherd's Bush. An endless stash of cocaine, his first truly difficult case, the hopeless stupidity of Lestrade's predecessor, Mycroft's meddling--

Sherlock is now sitting properly without realizing it. His hands grip the arms of the chair and his jaw is set. Everyone was seeing this. No, John was seeing it, that was more important. His head whips around to see his friend watching it just as sharply on the NV monitor. Sherlock doesn't say anything, but his eyes are wide, frantic. I don't do that anymore.

[sittingtype]

John closes his laptop as the show concludes on his NV and on the television set, plunging the flat into an awkward, tension-filled silence. Rather than catching him, John can feel Sherlock's eyes boring into him from across the room and he looks up, meeting his gaze and wetting his lips.

He's seen that wide-eyed, frantic expression on his face before and he straightens up, trying to defuse the situation, "... Someone's got a sick sense of humour."

Comic violence?

[asano_san]

[When the picture comes into focus, the stage is filled with loud colors and bright lights. Keigo is front and center, dressed in a tuxedo unitard that marks him as the host of the show and smiling.]

Welcome, welcome, welcome to…

[Each word jumps onto the screen as he shouts it.]

Make

Keigo

Cry!

[The title fades and he puts his thumb and index finger to his chin in a pose of thoughtfulness.]

But how will you do it?

[The smile returns. Keigo jogs around the stage, and as he runs by, segments rotate to reveal the instruments of his torture. His voice is full of excitement.]

Dodge ball? [A low brick wall stands behind a selection of rubber playground balls.]

Dunk tank? [It's a classic carnival dunk tank with a very large, impossible-to-miss target.]

Kickboxing practice? [A punching bag hangs from a stand with what look like straps at chest, waist and ankle height.]

[He flexes, which is not necessarily a good look in a skin-tight outfit.]

I'm ready and waiting!

[Even through the translation magic of the city, it's

[Reaction]

[asano_san]

[Begins with...]

[asano_san]

[Before turning into...]

[asano_san]

[And finally settling on...]

Warnings: Talk of suicide

[limitedrun]

[He looks exactly the same. Same dark clothes, same uncontrollable hair, same scars. It's Griffin in every way. He’s in a house, unfamiliar to anyone in Siren’s Port. It would be very homey if it weren’t for the upturned furniture and broken glass. There is a large, fresh puddle of blood staining the carpet. To the viewer’s left, there is a doorway to the kitchen. Another, larger puddle of blood is spreading over the tile. If one looks close enough, they can see pictures hanging on the walls in the background. An in shape but balding man, a very pretty, chesnut-haired woman, and an awkward, big-eared boy. The latter is clearly Griffin at a young age. This is his childhood home, or at least one of them. He's sitting in a stuffed rocking chair, his hands folded, fingertips pressed to his mouth. His head is bowed. He looks like he's about to give some bad news.

Then he looks directly into the camera. And with a tilt of his head, he smiles. It's sharp and wicked, too toothy and just wrong.]

Oh, hello. I didn't see you there. [He gets to

[bodyreads]

[Griffin...

She doesn't know him well. She doesn't know him well at all. But she understands that strange need to be a killer, the thrill of the fight, and how good it feels to just fight and let your entire body become a weapon. She knows. And to hear this, to realize how lonely and angry he is, and how he wishes people would stay away from him so he wouldn't hurt them--

Well. These might not be his real feelings. But it's a window into who he might be. The talk of suicide pings her terribly; she thinks of Lady Shiva and her own death wish.

She pulls on her costume and takes to the night to try and find him.]

[limitedrun]

[He's in a little, crap pub.

Griffin had seen what's going on with the NVs at night. These people, some he knows and some he doesn't, just spilling all the nasty little things going on in their heads made him terribly nervous. He worries for when he'll see himself on that screen, saying God knows what. Griffin doesn't even want to contemplate what damage he could do.

So he doesn't. He's sitting in a bar, nursing an exported beer. The TVs pop on and the show begins.]

Turn that shit off!

[Griffin isn't the only one demanding the change of channel, but the bartender just shrugs helplessly. He can't do a thing about it. At first, Griffin doesn't mind so much. It's not him, after all.

Then the scene changes and he sees the house.

San Diego. That night, of course. What other night would it be?]

Turn that fucking thing off.

[People around make the connection between the two. The walls start to close in on Griffin. He gets to his feet, standing so quickly that the stool gets knocked to the ground. He can only watch in horror. When his

[bodyreads]

[It doesn't take her long to find the place he's at; it's a usual haunt of his when she's seen him out. As she starts to get closer, she can hear shouts and screams from inside the bar. The lights go out. She throws herself from the building she's on and makes her way onto the roof of the bar, finding the easiest access point through the back.

The door opens and shuts, determined to keep the Darkness in and out. And then she hurries out into the main bar area.

The Darkness is flooding in, and with it monsters. One monster in particular. She hurries over to Griffin's side while the others make their way in a frenzy. She pulls out a batarang and tosses it at the creature spilling out of the TV.]

Griffin!

Jamie Pierce

[thepull_mods]

The camera is filming from a top a set of bleachers, looking down onto a chair on the floor of a school gymnasium. There's a halfhearted round of applause as a slightly overweight young man sits. He has a mess of dark, greasy hair, his face is pockmarked with acne. His clothes are dark and wrinkles, he seems like the kind of kid who probably has a bit of a smell.

"Thanks everyone for having me." He mumbles into the mic. "This is my first talent show, so be kind."

(The audience is surprisingly quiet for a high school crowd.)

"Hey, mom." He addresses the doll. "How was your day today?"

"Oh, fine. Except I saw some Newcomers again. You know how they are." The kid uses a more high pitched, wobbly voice for the doll, but really, it's a terrible attempt at ventriloquism: he's moving his lips quite obivously.

"No, I don't. How are they?"

"Lazy! Up to no good! Stealing all the jobs and putting ordinary, well-behaved kids out of school! Back in my day, academic scholarships were given to children with good grades, not to some bottom-

Warnings: Blood and death

[acemedium]

[There's static, as always, and then the image smooths out. Tonight, viewers, you're going to get a glimpse of one Maya Fey. Today her robes are dark (almost as if she were going to a funeral), and too big, so long she's barely avoiding tripping on them. On top of that, she's wearing a detective's coat. All around her, the ground is littered with bodies; corpses. Next to her feet there's a man, oddly enough, that doesn't seem to have a face]

Hey, Siren's Port! Thanks for tuning in, this is Maya's Crime Hour. [She leans a little into the camera] I'm Ace Assistant Maya Fey, investigating, along with... [She hops over the prone faceless man and walks a few steps, where a woman with long brown hair is slumped over against a wall. The smile on her face falters, and she looks between the woman off into the darkness, as if she's expecting someone to come.]

[No one does]

...Ace Investigator Maya Fey. That's right, I'm all on my own. Everything's on my shoulders now. I gotta do it alone. [One more hesitant glance between the woman and the

[voice]

[dancing_pierrot]

[Franziska is definitely starting to realize now that this program is no joke; so her calling on Maya's NV is rather repetitive and urgent.]

[voice]

[acemedium]

[She doesn't pick up. She doesn't pick up until the whole monster business has been sorted out, a few hours later, and she sounds shaky]

Hello?

[voice] 1/2

[dancing_pierrot]

[She's just so relieved when Maya picks up the phone that she's incapable of little more than just saying her friend's name.]

Maya Fey...