Doctor Who RP - Episode I: The Pantomime Paradox
Apr 12, 2014 10:53:03 GMT -8
Post by Adlai Stevenson on Apr 12, 2014 10:53:03 GMT -8
Paris, France.
Sometime in the summer of 2014.
The gleaming full moon cast milky sheets of ghost light through dark clouds over the sides of the Pont d'Iéna, lighting the placid waters of the river Seine into a murky glow. Spanning the river, the historic bridge separated two, significantly more historic attractions; on the right bank, the Trocadéro, home of the Palais de Chaillot. On the left bank, the Eiffel Tower, the iconic, money-making landmark jutting into the sky like a skeletal pyramid.
Originally constructed in the early-nineteenth century by orders from Emperor Napoleon I (a curious little fellow, to say the very least of him, as another curious man would recall; kept himself particularly busy building an eternal empire, to forge the French capital into what it largely still was at the present time, only to be kicked out of it a few years later), the Pont d'Iéna had represented the ire of many a Prussian general during the war, having been named after a tremendous victory against them, at the cost of twenty-three thousand men and the brutal occupation of their homeland. Many a victorious army - sometimes returning, other times conquering - crossed this bridge, and many more would.
In fact, one army in particular had quite recently rolled in, and begun their occupation of the city of Paris. An army unlike anything the city of Paris has ever seen. An army not of this earth . . .
. . . not that Jean-Luc, the Public Safety officer, was aware of the invasion. He was trudging through his graveyard shift around the perimeter of the Eiffel Tower with bags beneath his eyes and a cigarette between his lips, thinking about texting his ex after meeting up with her for coffee and a shag a few nights back and lamenting whatever heinous act he committed or sleight against the higher-ups he made to land himself the foot patrol on a shift past midnight; beyond the occasional drunk or bum, utterly uneventful, and thoroughly boring. It was a surprise to him, how quiet the heart of Paris got, this late in the night . . . or early in the morning. It was that time that seemed to blend the two together.
It was no surprise that Jean-Luc was surprised, then, by the figure standing in the middle of the Pont D'Iéna. A square peg in a round hole, aesthetically speaking. Dabbing his cigarette into the ground and grinding it to cinder under the heel of his boot, the law officer investigated as only one could, when the only living soul in Paris saw another.
"Hey," he called out, moving closer. For a cop, he didn't sound very authoritative. "You there! What are you doing?"
The figure remained motionless. Jean-Luc moved in closer, bleary eyes narrowed in focus. Was he wearing a mask, or . . . wait, no, it wasn't a mask, it's paint! Face paint!
As a Public Safety officer of the Parisian Prefecture of Police, Jean-Luc was prepared for a lot of things.
A white-faced, blank-striped sweater-wearing mime in the middle of the street wasn't one of them.
"Uhh, monsieur?" he called again. "What are you doing out here?"
The mime turned about-face to look at him. Jean-Luc jolted instinctively, hand on his night stick. "A, uhh, a little late to be out here, isn't it, monsieur?"
The mime didn't answer. He simply watched.
The unease was starting to creep up the back of Jean-Luc's neck. He was the police, damn it all, he would not be made a fool of by some clown!
"Alright, monsieur, let's wrap it up," Jean-Luc ordered passively, approaching as amicably as could, while still retaining some semblance of command over the situation. The mime rebuked him with his silence. Jean-Luc frowned. "What, deaf and dumb? Let's go, get a move on, allons-y."
Despite himself - and despite the air of authority he was doing his best to put on - Jean-Luc couldn't look into the mime's eyes. Not for too long. He must have been wearing contacts, part of the act, or something . . . he didn't get a good look, but under the moonlight, he could have sworn they were pitch black. Inky, empty black . . .
Jean-Luc brandished his truncheon when the mime raised its white gloved hands in front of him, palms out and fingers flat. He held the weapon defensively, waiting for the street performer to give him an excuse to clobber to the ground. The mime's hands stopped before the patrolman, as if they were rested against a glass window. Jean-Luc's trepidation was quickly becoming indignance, and he raised his night stick for a disarming blow . . . which was never swung. Not all the way, at least.
Bewildered, the policeman's eyes widened as he batted his truncheon against the surface of some invisible wall, unyielding despite his best efforts. The mime was already on the move, slinking about, placing its open hands in a close perimeter around him. Jean-Luc charged, struck, and flailed some more, to no avail. Something in the back of his head told him that it was getting much more difficult to breathe.
Panicked, Jean-Luc threw himself against the four walls of his invisible prison, the claustrophobia sending him into a fearful frenzy. He screamed and shouted and cursed - nothing that could be heard outside his ever-shrinking box, not that there was anyone else around.
Jean-Luc managed a fleeting, fearful glance at the mime as it pushed against the walls, closing him in.
They were pitch black.
Inky, empty black.
The next morning, the city of Paris was a hustling, bustling metropolis, with a multitude of people speaking a multitude of languages doing a multitude of things. For the common visitor, one could get lost in the France's most populated city for days; cafes, tourist traps, and shops galore lining the streets, and enough art and culture to fill enough postcards to all of ones' friends and relatives. Not a single one of them was aware of the danger lurking in their midst, or a missing police officer.
Your story begins here, in Paris. You've been living your life, day in and day out, as any human being might; you've loved, you've lost, you've lived and you've learned.
But today will be the first day you opened your eyes to the universe. Today will be the first day you realized there was a war going on right under your feet.
Today will be the day you learn that you are not alone.
Sometime in the summer of 2014.
The gleaming full moon cast milky sheets of ghost light through dark clouds over the sides of the Pont d'Iéna, lighting the placid waters of the river Seine into a murky glow. Spanning the river, the historic bridge separated two, significantly more historic attractions; on the right bank, the Trocadéro, home of the Palais de Chaillot. On the left bank, the Eiffel Tower, the iconic, money-making landmark jutting into the sky like a skeletal pyramid.
Originally constructed in the early-nineteenth century by orders from Emperor Napoleon I (a curious little fellow, to say the very least of him, as another curious man would recall; kept himself particularly busy building an eternal empire, to forge the French capital into what it largely still was at the present time, only to be kicked out of it a few years later), the Pont d'Iéna had represented the ire of many a Prussian general during the war, having been named after a tremendous victory against them, at the cost of twenty-three thousand men and the brutal occupation of their homeland. Many a victorious army - sometimes returning, other times conquering - crossed this bridge, and many more would.
In fact, one army in particular had quite recently rolled in, and begun their occupation of the city of Paris. An army unlike anything the city of Paris has ever seen. An army not of this earth . . .
. . . not that Jean-Luc, the Public Safety officer, was aware of the invasion. He was trudging through his graveyard shift around the perimeter of the Eiffel Tower with bags beneath his eyes and a cigarette between his lips, thinking about texting his ex after meeting up with her for coffee and a shag a few nights back and lamenting whatever heinous act he committed or sleight against the higher-ups he made to land himself the foot patrol on a shift past midnight; beyond the occasional drunk or bum, utterly uneventful, and thoroughly boring. It was a surprise to him, how quiet the heart of Paris got, this late in the night . . . or early in the morning. It was that time that seemed to blend the two together.
It was no surprise that Jean-Luc was surprised, then, by the figure standing in the middle of the Pont D'Iéna. A square peg in a round hole, aesthetically speaking. Dabbing his cigarette into the ground and grinding it to cinder under the heel of his boot, the law officer investigated as only one could, when the only living soul in Paris saw another.
"Hey," he called out, moving closer. For a cop, he didn't sound very authoritative. "You there! What are you doing?"
The figure remained motionless. Jean-Luc moved in closer, bleary eyes narrowed in focus. Was he wearing a mask, or . . . wait, no, it wasn't a mask, it's paint! Face paint!
As a Public Safety officer of the Parisian Prefecture of Police, Jean-Luc was prepared for a lot of things.
A white-faced, blank-striped sweater-wearing mime in the middle of the street wasn't one of them.
"Uhh, monsieur?" he called again. "What are you doing out here?"
The mime turned about-face to look at him. Jean-Luc jolted instinctively, hand on his night stick. "A, uhh, a little late to be out here, isn't it, monsieur?"
The mime didn't answer. He simply watched.
The unease was starting to creep up the back of Jean-Luc's neck. He was the police, damn it all, he would not be made a fool of by some clown!
"Alright, monsieur, let's wrap it up," Jean-Luc ordered passively, approaching as amicably as could, while still retaining some semblance of command over the situation. The mime rebuked him with his silence. Jean-Luc frowned. "What, deaf and dumb? Let's go, get a move on, allons-y."
Despite himself - and despite the air of authority he was doing his best to put on - Jean-Luc couldn't look into the mime's eyes. Not for too long. He must have been wearing contacts, part of the act, or something . . . he didn't get a good look, but under the moonlight, he could have sworn they were pitch black. Inky, empty black . . .
Jean-Luc brandished his truncheon when the mime raised its white gloved hands in front of him, palms out and fingers flat. He held the weapon defensively, waiting for the street performer to give him an excuse to clobber to the ground. The mime's hands stopped before the patrolman, as if they were rested against a glass window. Jean-Luc's trepidation was quickly becoming indignance, and he raised his night stick for a disarming blow . . . which was never swung. Not all the way, at least.
Bewildered, the policeman's eyes widened as he batted his truncheon against the surface of some invisible wall, unyielding despite his best efforts. The mime was already on the move, slinking about, placing its open hands in a close perimeter around him. Jean-Luc charged, struck, and flailed some more, to no avail. Something in the back of his head told him that it was getting much more difficult to breathe.
Panicked, Jean-Luc threw himself against the four walls of his invisible prison, the claustrophobia sending him into a fearful frenzy. He screamed and shouted and cursed - nothing that could be heard outside his ever-shrinking box, not that there was anyone else around.
Jean-Luc managed a fleeting, fearful glance at the mime as it pushed against the walls, closing him in.
They were pitch black.
Inky, empty black.
DOCTOR WHO
The Pantomime Paradox
The next morning, the city of Paris was a hustling, bustling metropolis, with a multitude of people speaking a multitude of languages doing a multitude of things. For the common visitor, one could get lost in the France's most populated city for days; cafes, tourist traps, and shops galore lining the streets, and enough art and culture to fill enough postcards to all of ones' friends and relatives. Not a single one of them was aware of the danger lurking in their midst, or a missing police officer.
Your story begins here, in Paris. You've been living your life, day in and day out, as any human being might; you've loved, you've lost, you've lived and you've learned.
But today will be the first day you opened your eyes to the universe. Today will be the first day you realized there was a war going on right under your feet.
Today will be the day you learn that you are not alone.
