Pas de Deux: Adagio (Dalton and Anastasia)
Feb 1, 2011 0:38:51 GMT -5
Post by Jacob Dalton on Feb 1, 2011 0:38:51 GMT -5
<< <staywithme/wantme/focus>. It wasn’t important. It could wait… >>
Already mesmerized, it took little to keep Dalton’s attention. The urgent prompting to ignore the distraction was having its desired effect, and would resist almost any intrusion.
<< “SURPRIIIIIZE!” >>
Except perhaps that.
Something had happened: something he should look at. No, don’t: don’t. Anastasia’s attention had been distracted, but he couldn’t bring himself to look. He was in a haze.
Then the stream of profanity and words almost without meaning partly penetrated his sluggish brain.
<< “…rebound… …creepy Russian… English teacher! >>
English teacher. That was him. Somebody knew him: why couldn’t he look to see who it was?
Then that same voice pattering on, telling private details about Hammel: Darryl and Midori? And Shane? Gossip, or reporting?
All at once he was being embraced, then kissed: he was in such a stupor he could not even raise an arm to hold off the bizarre intrusion. And suddenly everything was both more clear and more confused.
Like the snap of a string on his violin, suddenly there was no more note of obsession imposed on his mind. Yet at the same time he fell under a wave of inebriation, a rush such as he had not experienced since the days of partying hard with his coworkers in the Fire Department. It was a rush that brought back unpleasant memories, reasons he had committed himself never to go there again.
What in heaven’s name…? He had barely sipped from his drink, yet he was virtually soused! Suddenly the image of the mostly empty Stoli bottle flashed before him. That undertaste in the tea… she had deliberately spiked it to intoxicate him!
The lingerie, when she had claimed to be getting ready to go out – then so many other images and thoughts confirming the cold, methodical planning behind this coerced seduction.
But what of himself? What on Earth had possessed him to act as he had ever since entering her door! Was he out of his mind?”
<< “…It’s an awful thing, this. Mind control… >>
Emiko! She had warned him, yet he had walked right into a trap!
<< …Without her proper control, <anger/fear/notNOW> spilled out like shockwaves from an earthquake… >>
The shockwave hit Dalton just as he realized the depth of her coercion, and that he was now nearly incapacitated in the lair of a terrorist: a terrorist bearing foul intent towards his students, his charges. A chill gripped his heart as he realized how his own gullibility had placed them in danger, then rage at this foulest of betrayals.
“You JEZEBEL!”
He was far beyond appalled. For nearly twenty years Delia had twisted his emotions, for his love returning only disdain. But this was yet far worse: to target his capacity to love in order to strike at those he loved?
The illusion had been strong, but more than that to reach into his very soul and _twist_ his actions to suit their wishes? And to use such an illusion to so vile an end!
<< ”Stay.”<stay> >>
He could hear the raw pleading in her voice: a want, a desire, a hunger for what he had offered. Then he felt the draw of her emotional control seeking to dominate him again. Only now that he realized what kind of an assault this succubus was using, his moment of doubt was swept away in the flood of rage she herself had already started within him.
With all the force of his anger he threw up a mental wall: a screen on which he projected an iconic scene of good opposing evil. A gray-bearded man in a robe stood upon a bridge above a chasm, swinging sword and staff in defiance of a demon born of smoke and shadow. The wizard struck the stone before his feet with his staff, and cried out with a determination that could never be thwarted:
“YOU SHALL NOT PASS!”
The force of his fury unleashed a ripple effect through his power. The very carpet about his feet laid flat all pointing away from him, pulled by his rejection of the very molecules of moisture within them. The vases on each side of the French doors shattered, their watery contents climbing the walls in globs like some gigantic frightened amoeba.
Having failed in mind control, she would surely resort now to force: or her allies would. Whatever knowledge they desired from him, he would deny them with every ounce of spirit he possessed. She thought herself secure in this den? Let him show her how temporal this flytrap of finery truly was.
At a snap of his fingers, the two globs of water shaped themselves into sharply defined wedges, still clinging to the walls. Like some gravity defying, racing bulldozers the wedges flew across the walls, aiming for every painting, every sconce, every article it was possible for them to dislodge. Their solid hits threw debris towards the middle of the room: paintings, glass, anything. The two wedges met and joined at the other end of the room.
Certainly none of the debris had been launched with such force as to make them effective projectiles. But the effect should certainly have proved distracting to say the least. Only here he still was, still in her lair, still so intoxicated it was a wonder he could even stand, let alone resist. Even in his befuddled state of mind he was quite certain that if they dragged him to some dungeon, he could never resist them for long. Which led to one imperative new goal:
“OUT!!”
With a gesture the watery wedge launched itself at the French doors, dead center. With a focus born of madness, he strengthened the wedge enough to shatter glass and wood, and propel itself onto the open balcony. The sudden draft of wintery wind and swirls of snow burst into the room like a howling banshee.
He staggered through the broken doors, straight for the railing. Were there hedges below, close to the side of the house? It barely mattered, but he knew they would break his fall. And “fall” it was: no graceful leap but a simple surrender to gravity, attempting to land on his back, as if on a cushion.
Hedges may be cushiony on the outside, but on the inside they still have branches and even trunks. Yes, his fall was broken: so were many of the branches, and their newly sharpened ends slashed through shirt and skin as he landed. As he half bounced, half-rolled off the hedge, his back was covered in lacerations and blood. At the moment he barely felt it at all. He staggered to his feet, staring momentarily back up at the balcony where her figure soon appeared, silhouetted by the light from the room. Then the rage seized him again, swirling though the murk of his mind to bring on words.
“Onward, Lot! No looking back! No pillar of salt for you!”
And so he staggered off into the storm.
Already mesmerized, it took little to keep Dalton’s attention. The urgent prompting to ignore the distraction was having its desired effect, and would resist almost any intrusion.
<< “SURPRIIIIIZE!” >>
Except perhaps that.
Something had happened: something he should look at. No, don’t: don’t. Anastasia’s attention had been distracted, but he couldn’t bring himself to look. He was in a haze.
Then the stream of profanity and words almost without meaning partly penetrated his sluggish brain.
<< “…rebound… …creepy Russian… English teacher! >>
English teacher. That was him. Somebody knew him: why couldn’t he look to see who it was?
Then that same voice pattering on, telling private details about Hammel: Darryl and Midori? And Shane? Gossip, or reporting?
All at once he was being embraced, then kissed: he was in such a stupor he could not even raise an arm to hold off the bizarre intrusion. And suddenly everything was both more clear and more confused.
Like the snap of a string on his violin, suddenly there was no more note of obsession imposed on his mind. Yet at the same time he fell under a wave of inebriation, a rush such as he had not experienced since the days of partying hard with his coworkers in the Fire Department. It was a rush that brought back unpleasant memories, reasons he had committed himself never to go there again.
What in heaven’s name…? He had barely sipped from his drink, yet he was virtually soused! Suddenly the image of the mostly empty Stoli bottle flashed before him. That undertaste in the tea… she had deliberately spiked it to intoxicate him!
The lingerie, when she had claimed to be getting ready to go out – then so many other images and thoughts confirming the cold, methodical planning behind this coerced seduction.
But what of himself? What on Earth had possessed him to act as he had ever since entering her door! Was he out of his mind?”
<< “…It’s an awful thing, this. Mind control… >>
Emiko! She had warned him, yet he had walked right into a trap!
<< …Without her proper control, <anger/fear/notNOW> spilled out like shockwaves from an earthquake… >>
The shockwave hit Dalton just as he realized the depth of her coercion, and that he was now nearly incapacitated in the lair of a terrorist: a terrorist bearing foul intent towards his students, his charges. A chill gripped his heart as he realized how his own gullibility had placed them in danger, then rage at this foulest of betrayals.
“You JEZEBEL!”
He was far beyond appalled. For nearly twenty years Delia had twisted his emotions, for his love returning only disdain. But this was yet far worse: to target his capacity to love in order to strike at those he loved?
The illusion had been strong, but more than that to reach into his very soul and _twist_ his actions to suit their wishes? And to use such an illusion to so vile an end!
<< ”Stay.”<stay> >>
He could hear the raw pleading in her voice: a want, a desire, a hunger for what he had offered. Then he felt the draw of her emotional control seeking to dominate him again. Only now that he realized what kind of an assault this succubus was using, his moment of doubt was swept away in the flood of rage she herself had already started within him.
With all the force of his anger he threw up a mental wall: a screen on which he projected an iconic scene of good opposing evil. A gray-bearded man in a robe stood upon a bridge above a chasm, swinging sword and staff in defiance of a demon born of smoke and shadow. The wizard struck the stone before his feet with his staff, and cried out with a determination that could never be thwarted:
“YOU SHALL NOT PASS!”
The force of his fury unleashed a ripple effect through his power. The very carpet about his feet laid flat all pointing away from him, pulled by his rejection of the very molecules of moisture within them. The vases on each side of the French doors shattered, their watery contents climbing the walls in globs like some gigantic frightened amoeba.
Having failed in mind control, she would surely resort now to force: or her allies would. Whatever knowledge they desired from him, he would deny them with every ounce of spirit he possessed. She thought herself secure in this den? Let him show her how temporal this flytrap of finery truly was.
At a snap of his fingers, the two globs of water shaped themselves into sharply defined wedges, still clinging to the walls. Like some gravity defying, racing bulldozers the wedges flew across the walls, aiming for every painting, every sconce, every article it was possible for them to dislodge. Their solid hits threw debris towards the middle of the room: paintings, glass, anything. The two wedges met and joined at the other end of the room.
Certainly none of the debris had been launched with such force as to make them effective projectiles. But the effect should certainly have proved distracting to say the least. Only here he still was, still in her lair, still so intoxicated it was a wonder he could even stand, let alone resist. Even in his befuddled state of mind he was quite certain that if they dragged him to some dungeon, he could never resist them for long. Which led to one imperative new goal:
“OUT!!”
With a gesture the watery wedge launched itself at the French doors, dead center. With a focus born of madness, he strengthened the wedge enough to shatter glass and wood, and propel itself onto the open balcony. The sudden draft of wintery wind and swirls of snow burst into the room like a howling banshee.
He staggered through the broken doors, straight for the railing. Were there hedges below, close to the side of the house? It barely mattered, but he knew they would break his fall. And “fall” it was: no graceful leap but a simple surrender to gravity, attempting to land on his back, as if on a cushion.
Hedges may be cushiony on the outside, but on the inside they still have branches and even trunks. Yes, his fall was broken: so were many of the branches, and their newly sharpened ends slashed through shirt and skin as he landed. As he half bounced, half-rolled off the hedge, his back was covered in lacerations and blood. At the moment he barely felt it at all. He staggered to his feet, staring momentarily back up at the balcony where her figure soon appeared, silhouetted by the light from the room. Then the rage seized him again, swirling though the murk of his mind to bring on words.
“Onward, Lot! No looking back! No pillar of salt for you!”
And so he staggered off into the storm.