14 | VISUAL | TAXON FOREST | LIKE A BED OF ROSES, THERE'S A DOZEN REASONS IN THIS GUN.

[poisonousparty.livejournal.com]

The visual flickers to Party, curled up in the back of his car, looking a cross between very confused, very embarrassed, and maybe a little scared. That's what you get when you push a witch into an oven, but he's not quite sure how to put that one in to words. He's used to killing people, but right now he's not exactly in Taxon's good books, never mind the fact that Mick sent a text and something tells him he should be sorrier than he actually feels about Drusilla.

"Uuuh..."

Yeah, that's a genius way to start. He clears his throat and tries again.

"So that glitch was a little low on the entertainment factor. With the killin' and the thees and thous."

Just don't mention you saw Gwen naked. Actually, don't mention Gwen at all. That's just a big no no.

"Fuck the aliens. Picking flowers is not my thing, thanks." And, in an odd tone: "Does everyone that die get put back together?"

03 | Visual | Hauntings of Things Passed

[the-bluethunder.livejournal.com]

"You don't look...all together well."

That voice. It comes from nothing, from air, but it is unmistakable, like a memory

(Wesley)

being replayed before her eyes and ears.

But the room is silent and empty and impossibly small. Only she exists inside its borders.  Nothing but falsities, tricks meant to distort her reality and dwell on what cannot be, nothing but--

"Phantoms," Illyria murmurs to the empty room. Disorienting, perhaps, for the human mind. An irritating invasion of unwanted memories, for her.  "This place is always changing," she muses, hands caressing empty air, as if analyzing invisible imprints. "Its makeup altered beyond recognition."  She stops then, brings her hand down, and turns away from the watching tablet, her voice low.  "You are a symptom of an uncontrollable disease."

"Now, now.  Manners."

A flash, then, of form. It was there, and then it wasn't. The intrusion fills her with uninvited uncertainty. The room is suddenly potent with the smell of alcohol; it makes her sick. She desires to leave . . .

. . . If only she were sure the ruse would not follow her.