xp_logs | London Calling: Marie-Ange (Reply)

Marie-Ange is an unwilling participant in a traditional puppet show.

With the sun setting, Marie-Ange found herself far from where she'd set off from. Nowhere near the hotel, or the pub they had all met up in, and a few streets away from the nearest Underground station. It was just late enough that she considered dinner, and the comfort of her hotel room, and briefly considered hailing a taxi to get back.

Her feet weren't quite sore -yet-. But the evening was cool and quiet, and it wasn't as though the walk was very far, she'd decided.

The quietness of the previous street made the cacophony of the next block all the more startling. Marie-Ange hadn't expected to turn the corner and walk into a street fair. It was as if she'd passed through a curtain and where one moment she was surrounded by the sounds of the city - cars passing, footsteps and the low mumble of people's voices, all perforated by the occasional siren or honking horn; the next, she was enveloped in raucous noise.

It wasn't a block party - all the same sounds were there, but twisted somehow. Music that sounded like the band hadn't turned their instruments in years, shouting voices crass and too-loud with drink, and laughter turned to hysterical mad cackling.

From the shadows that littered the street, a group of people stepped out almost as one. They wore the markings of lower priests in a church, all dressed exactly the same. Ignoring anything and everything that went on around them they started out into the street; movements that were seemingly natural and flowing on first glance turned out to be slightly jerky and stiff with a second look.

Heads bowed, hands clasped before them in prayer, they walked as one. And spoke as one.

"Festum fatuorum."

"Festum stultorum."

"Festum hypodiaconorum."

As they hit the middle of the street, their heads jerked up and around in one motion, as if controlled by a puppet master, to fix upon Marie-Ange. They stared at her unblinking, not moving, perhaps not even breathing.

Marie-Ange had gone still before the priests saw her. It was against everything Remy had been teaching them to do - standing unmoving in the middle of a crowd meant you stood out - you were different, and therefore everyone noticed you -not- moving. The throng of people parted around her, like she was a pebble in a stream - as if they knew she was there only enough to not trample her, but not enough to prevent her from being elbowed, bumped and jostled.

As her eyes met the staring flat eyes of the deacons, the crowd fell back to the sidewalks. They pressed in groups against the buildings, climbed up on the hoods and trunks of parked cars, and huddled in clusters near streetlamps, as if they were seeking safety but were compelled to watch.

The deacons jerked upright as the crowds finally settled and they finally tore their unblinking gazes away from Marie-Ange. In their spastic, jerky movements, they headed towards the only opening in the crowd - all but one.

The crowd suddenly howled like a pack of dogs and pointed, their words twisting away in the wind. But the intent was clear. As the deacons reached their destination, their voices joined the crowd's sound and several seemingly unwilling people from around Marie-Ange converged upon the lone soul in the center. They grabbed him and moved him towards the other deacons, ripping, tearing - and it was hard to tell which was cloth fluttering to the ground and what was skin.

They thrust him towards his former brothers who encircled him, their voices rising above the now eerily silent crowd. "Prince des Sots," they shrieked over and over and over again until it was like nails on a chalkboard.

They were still staring at her, even while they cavorted around the abused deacon, circling him several times before Marie-Ange realized that while they moved, their faces kept turned towards hers, necks turning in degrees that they should not have been able to.

One more turn and then they stopped and stepped to the side. In the shadows, one could make out a seat of some kind and a body sat limply in it. It twitched and shuddered, the only thing that wasn't drenched in darkness was the rusted crown that sat upon his head.

When he gestured, silver strings shimmered from each finger and then he stopped moving. He was staring at her though there were no real eyes to be seen.

The crowd parted once more and an old weather-beaten wagon, a theater actually, came rolling into the middle of the circle.

Marie-Ange found herself alone, unable to move from where she stood. It was like a nightmare - not one of her precognitive dreams, but the cliche dream that people always talked about. Chased down by a monster and unable to move, rooted in place. This monster wasn't chasing her, but nonetheless, she couldn't move, no matter how hard she tried to pull her feet off the pavement, she remained in place.

She reached into her pocket, and took out her phone, and even though she had it barely open, before she could even make a call, her arm snapped away, out of her control, and the phone fell to the pavement. For a moment, it felt as if she was drawn taut, and then all of her muscles relaxed - until she bent to pick up the phone. And then once again against her wishes, she stood, arms now crossed in front of her chest.

Again, the brief tension and then control was returned to her, but before she could move again, or speak, the moth-eaten curtains on the door to the wagon parted.

From the inner workings of the traveling theater a high pitched giggle erupted and some of the crowd cheered - and some screamed in terror, turned and fled. Some simply vanished or faded away while others scrambled from their perches and ran on foot. Of the ones who remained, most had been cheering, and now yelled catcalls - but a few cowered, fixed in place just as Marie-Ange was.

The Lord in his chair gestured and a figure sprang from behind the curtains - it started out small, no bigger than a grown man's hand but as it twisted in the air, its body stretching out unnaturally. Stretching, twisting, until it landed in front of the stage, the size of a regular adult.

Its beady eyes fixed upon Marie-Ange and it giggled again, the noise shaking the theatre cart. In its hand it carried a large, twisted stick and Mr. Punch gave her a mocking bow as those left behind in the crowd started to woodenly clap.

Marie-Ange found herself removing her jacket to tie it around her waist, as though it were an apron and then giving a deep curtsy - and then control was returned to her as the monstrous puppet swung the stick around at her. With her jacket off, the tattoo on her arm was now revealed; as fast as she could, she had a staff in hand - straight and long and slender. She blocked the blow, and spun to use the other end of her staff to strike at where the puppet's legs should have been.

The staff swept under the robes too far before it stuck against something solid, and Marie-Ange was momentarily thrown off balance. She caught balance, tensing to expect another blow - and when none came, turning nearly all the way around to look for the puppet that was no longer in front of her.

Mr. Punch had leapt into the air, twisting, his heavy wooden head moving faster then the cloth body below - and then vanished. There was a collective sigh from the remaining audience - either from relief or something else, it was hard to tell. The curtains on the traveling theater slammed shut and even though they were made of fabric, the noise of them shutting echoed harshly through the air.

And then they were opening again, the giggling started and the crowd screamed once again in glee and fear though no more fled. Once more, the normal sized puppet was catapulted out until it stood right in front of her, bearing the stick and bowing once more.

Confused - and annoyed - Marie-Ange could only stare as once again, she was forced to curtsy in return. And again, she created a staff from the tattoo on her arm, but this time, it was a second too late. Her moment of confusion and disbelief had given the Punch puppet the advantage - the blows rained down on her, the twisted stick striking her hard on one shoulder, and then on her back and arms. The force of the blows dropped her to one knee, her eyes watering. The puppet looked like it was made of cloth and wood, but it hit with more strength then any real puppet could possess.

With every blow that hit, the giggling and insane laughter increased in volume and mania. For a puppet, it was certainly enjoying the beating it was giving out, enjoying the reactions of the crowd, the spectacle. "That's the way to do it!" It was the first time it spoke and its spoken words were almost as bad as the laugh. High pitched, nearly a screech but approving - and patronizing, in it's own way. Punch was quite pleased with how the play was going and the mad puppet showed its glee, laughing with every blow.

Marie-Ange rolled to her side, one arm up to protect her face, and the other digging inside the jacket tied around her waist. She was never without her cards, but retrieving them from her jacket pocket was not a simple task. After several seconds of awkward searching - and another smack from the stick across her arm and shoulder, she had one in hand and then in view.

She summoned the image directly in front of the theatre cart, creating a figure with horns, goat legs and leathery wings like a bat that faced the demented puppet. It ducked it's head like a billy goat and charged, horns first, at Mr. Punch. The puppet danced around, and for a few minutes, demon and puppet chased each other in circles around Marie-Ange. With a mental command from Marie-Ange, the Devil ended its pointless chase - the puppet moved just as fast as it did. It leapt over her, great wings flapping to get it into the air, and then dove, grabbing at the puppet's stick. The puppet struck at the imaged demon, but tripped; it fell, and flopped around on the ground, wailing great howls of anguish before rolling itself in a ball and disappearing.

Again, the giggling. And again the curtains slammed open with force, the puppet once more twisting and springing out of his home, his painted wooden box. There was a glint in his carved wooden eyes of anger and impatience, and the stage was reset once more. Mr. Punch tapped the staff against his shoulders and bowed, forcing her to return it like before. And then he struck again, the blows falling on the same places they had last time.

The paralysis that kept Marie-Ange from fleeing, or properly defending herself now seemed to carry over to her image of the Devil. She struggled, unable to fight back and unable to command the creation to do anything as the mad Mr. Punch struck her with his stick over and over again, until she rolled onto her stomach and covered her head with both arms. The blows continued, and as the puppet laughed, she felt her control over her image slip away, even though it was out of her sight.

"That's the way to do it!" he crowed at her, raising the staff to strike another blow.

Marie-Ange skittered away, getting away from the stick before it could hit her again, greatly relieved that she could once again move of her own volition. She barely got to her feet, still nearly bent double and ran towards the theatre cart.. As she ran, she undid the jacket around her waist, grabbing a few cards from a pocket before dropping it to the ground. Now behind the cart, she paused, not seeing the puppet chasing her, and only hearing the wooden laughter from the crowd, and waited.

And nothing came.

And so she waited longer - and the laughter from the crowd turned to catcalls and boos, and from the other side of the cart she could hear Mr. Punch making a noise that she was almost sure was meant to be the clucking of a chicken. A twisted ten foot tall monster chicken.

Marie-Ange waited a few moments longer and then crept along the side of the cart. She tucked all but one card into the front of her shirt, and animated the last, forming a pair of trees, and a gallows, and a man suspended upside down who twisted, silently climbed down from his tree and waved a noose at the gigantic puppet. Punch threw his arms in the air, nearly knocking himself over the head with the stick, and fled, running once again in circles.

The crowd screamed its approval as Punch fled from the hangman in ever shrinking circles. He wasn't able to leave, the crowd and the Lord wouldn't let him, and so around, around, around he went. "Ring around the roses" someone called out before the person was silenced abruptly. Punch was in a full panic, arms flailing as the construct chased him, the rope swirling fast overhead.

Once more around until Punch accidentally smacked himself in the head with his own staff. "Aha!" he yelped and faster than expected, he was twirling the stick around and behind him, taking the hangman by surprise. Between the constructs legs and jerked sideways meant the pursuer became the victim as he went sprawling. Before he even finished hitting the ground, blows were raining down on his body but even after the beating, the crowd wasn't satisfied. Neither was Punch.

Still holding the stick, Punch snatched up the rope and looped it over the hangman's neck, tightening it with a sharp yank. Whistling and humming under his breath, he dragged his prisoner back to the tree and tossed the rope and over. Hand over hand, he pulled the hangman up into the tree, hanging him slowly as he sang out "Aaaaashes to aaaaashes, we aaaaaall...faaaaall...DOWN!".

A sudden hush fell on the scene as the hangman swung briefly. A hush that was broken by the tinny ringing of a cell phone. Then another, and another, ringing insistently from the pockets of some of the crowd, although no-one made a move to answer them. The ringing gradually took recognisable form, each phone syncing with the others until they were all playing the opening bars of the same song. A song Marie-Ange knew well from Amanda's playing of it frequently when they roomed together.

Then the hangman dissolved into sticky goo and the Clash's "London Calling" cut off as if a switch had been thrown, and for a second, the echos of the song sounded almost like a woman's voice singing along, off-key and wrong. The song was never meant to sound confused, or tired - or though the singer was almost resigned to their fate.

London calling, now don't look at us
All that phoney Beatlemania has bitten the dust

And Punch, victorious, gestured at the side of the stage towards where Marie-Ange was. "The curtain won't drop until you play!"

The puppet couldn't be real. Marie-Ange had known that. But was the echo of Amanda telling her that the robed figure on the chair was fake too? Or that it needed to die for this to end? Bruised and tired and sore everywhere, Marie-Ange stared at the puppet for what felt to her like eight hundred years, until the crowd once again begin booing. She slipped one of the pair of remaining cards out of her shirt, and held it between her fingers, waving it at the puppet. Punch glided forward as Marie-Ange took a step back and disappeared behind the towering figure of the Devil. It was just the same as before, eight or nine feet tall with curling ram horns and cloven feet and a lashing tail that whipped around.

The demonic image charged, and Punch retreated, nearly tripping over his nonexistent feet in an attempt to get away. He dodged, rolling to the side in a flurry of robes and frenzied shrieks of panic. The Devil very nearly rammed into the crowd - who shuddered and took a collective step backwards - before reversing towards the puppet again.

Back upright, Punch bounced from side to side. "Can't catch me, can't catch me!" he taunted, sidestepping yet another charge but this time when the Devil managed to turn himself around the puppet was right behind him. A quick punch, and then another, so hard they were snapping the constructs head back with each blow - until his fist went right through the head. It exploded and despite the goo, Punch cheered, puffing out his chest.

"I beat the Devil, I beat the Devil! Huzzah!" he crowed and then turned on Marie-Ange. Like the last several times, she couldn't retreat. Unlike the last few times, she didn't even try, blocking several of the blows with her arms, until they grew too sore to hold up. Another strike from the puppet's stick to her shoulder and she collapsed, curling up on the ground with her head tucked under her bruised arms as the capering Mr. Punch hit her with the stick again and again.

The stick was on a direct course with the side of her face - and then it stopped, hovering mere inches from her flesh. Punch leaned over, head cocked, and eyed her out of the corner of his eye. Grinning, he straightened and chucked her chin almost gently with the staff. "That's the WAY to DO IT!" he cried, bowing once to Marie-Ange, once to the crowd and then once more to the Lord and his men and then turned and spun away.

As he leapt and danced around Marie-Ange, Punch grew smaller and smaller until he was the size of a normal hand puppet. He made a great leap onto the cart's miniature stage, and gave a bow and then turned and disappeared into the cart, the shutters closing behind him with a solid 'click'.

The crowd remained silent, staring at the stage in almost shock. The deacons stirred and over the silence there was the sound of a single clap as the Lord straightened in his chair. He lifted his head and brought his hands together once more, hard, hard enough that his crown shook slightly on his head. The strings attached to his fingers had previously been silver but had changed to a rusted blood color. He continued to clap as he twisted his head almost upside down while he stared at her and from somewhere in his darkened face, a shadow opened - his mouth was stretching wide but no sound came out.

Instead, one hand lifted, pointed at the miniature stage and crooked a finger.

And a small giggle from inside made the curtains shiver.

Still on the ground, Marie-Ange shifted and took her last card from inside her shirt, leaving one arm to protect her head and face. The puppet might be still inside the cart, but she was taking no chances. She let the card fall from her fingers, and from the picture painted on it's face emerged a shadowy black figure, in robes darker then anything the deacons or Lord on his chair were wearing. It turned to face the crowd, showing them a bleached white skull under the hood, and began to draw a weapon from nowhere.

Except that as Death reached toward his back, his form wavered for a moment, and though his fingers grasped something, it was a long indistinct brown trail of ectoplasm, dripping onto the ground. Death took a step, and the image buckled briefly, as though it were made entirely of gelatin.

The Lord's head snapped upright again with a sharp motion and then he was on his feet though the shadows tried to drag him back down to the chair. Pointing first at the specter of Death and then at Marie-Ange, the movements sharp and disjointed. His jaw distended to his knees but, only deathly silence erupted from the the dark depths of his throat. Sound followed but not a voice - the strings on his fingers brushed against each other and a sharp shriek echoed in the night sky.

And the deacons responded with a howl of pain and rage, half lunging towards Death and the rest towards the curled up form of Marie-Ange. Punch exploded from behind the curtains so fast that the entire theater rocked back on two of the four wheels, nearly overturning in the puppet's haste to obey its master. The crowd around them moaned and shuddered, unable to turn their eyes away.

Marie-Ange stirred, and despite her head pounding like the speakers at a Clash concert, mentally commanded her figure to once again draw it's weapon. But it was futile, the image barely responded to her wishes, robed covered arms rippling limply. She turned to push herself upright, and dropped under the heavy feet of two of the deacons pressing her to the ground with their heels. As they held her down, the warped Mr. Punch raised his twisted stick to strike her. She felt the puppet's robes brush her legs, and then a slight movement of the air over her head, as though the stick had missed.

Marie-Ange looked up to see Death, his skeletal arm holding the puppet by his throat should have been, where Punch's wooden head met sewn on robes. The puppet struggled, cloth thrashing around as though kicked by invisible legs, and he was thrown away, crashing into several of the deacons.

The sheer strength was exhilarating, in a way. The animated skeleton shoved one of the deacons off Marie-Ange's prone body without any effort, and it flew back several meters. The other fled, running pell-mell through the crowd until it could no longer be seen. There was almost no pain, except in a dull throbbing that felt both very acute and yet separated from her by the abyss. Marie-Ange moved with Death, reaching behind her to finally draw the long slender scythe, it's handle thick and solid in her hands. Hands that had no nerves, or even muscle or flesh, and yet she could feel the wood as though she were grasping it herself.

It took two impossibly long strides to reach the high seat where the Lord - the figurehead of this twisted play - sat, and he cowered, begging silently. Soundless pleas for his life, for forgiveness. That he was very sorry and that he'd gone too far, and it was futile because Marie-Ange couldn't read lips. She bent slightly and reached for the man's shoulder, bending him backwards over the arm of his seat, and raised the scythe.

Death cut with a single stroke, slicing through the Lord's throat, and he passed silently, unable to speak even in death. Around him, the seat and dais and theater cart disappeared, and the crowd thinned by over half. And then further thinned as the now freed spectators fled in confusion. The Lord of Misrule's body fell to the ground with a thump as the bony arm that had held it up also faded.

The thump was followed by a long groan as Marie-Ange painfully got to her feet, stumbling several times before she was entirely upright. The street was nearly empty now, only a few people milling around looking lost, all of whom seemed more interested in figuring out where they were, or making frantic phone calls than in the young woman collecting a discarded jacket and broken cell phone and several cards from the ground and limping away with the remains of the crowd.