Happy birthday Max! You should check out the other post you've label 'Ten Prompt', by the way Marc; it'll bring back memories for you :)
Ten Isobel Bonfontaine rubbed the static side of her face -- she'd had a stroke some ten years ago and the left-side of her face was now an immobile mask. It came in useful at times in her line of work -- a cross between a relic hunter and a bounty hunter -- and she'd grown used to it, but it still felt strange to rub part of herself and have it feel like she was stroking the stony, cold face of a statue. The echoing, dark expanse of the room around her was, she thought, most probably the central chamber of the Headquarters of the Council of Nastiness. She knew little about that organisation save that it had had its heyday ten years ago when Dr. Septopus was in charge and in the newspapers regularly. She was fairly certain that the Headquarters was located, physically, somewhere incredibly dangerous, but the entrance they had used -- that she had found, in fact -- had been relatively safe by her standards. She sat in a curved, cushioned chair that creaked under her weights and whose cushions gave up little puffs of dust whenever she moved, and watched as the tall, dark-haired man with a sallow complexion -- and more make-up than a movie star she was sure -- continued to interview people. "You're Perfect Ten?" he said to an androgynous looking person. Isobel had initially thought it was the reincarnation of David Bowie, then decided they were a woman, and was back to being undecided about them and not sure she really cared. "Obviously," said the person. There was a sudden gentle pressure in the room like when an aeroplane changes height abruptly and Isobel found herself convinced that Perfect Ten was the most beautiful person she'd ever seen. She tried to look closer but somehow it was as though she was dazzled by them and she could only close her eyes and fantasize. There was a flash of light, she was sure of it, but the odd thing was that, with her eyes closed, it might have been green. When she opened her eyes though the glamour was gone and the tall man was nodding and writing on a pad of paper. "Nice," he said. "But not Sylvestra."
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Happy birthday Max! You should check out the other post you've label 'Ten Prompt', by the way Marc; it'll bring back memories for you :)
Ten
Isobel Bonfontaine rubbed the static side of her face -- she'd had a stroke some ten years ago and the left-side of her face was now an immobile mask. It came in useful at times in her line of work -- a cross between a relic hunter and a bounty hunter -- and she'd grown used to it, but it still felt strange to rub part of herself and have it feel like she was stroking the stony, cold face of a statue.
The echoing, dark expanse of the room around her was, she thought, most probably the central chamber of the Headquarters of the Council of Nastiness. She knew little about that organisation save that it had had its heyday ten years ago when Dr. Septopus was in charge and in the newspapers regularly. She was fairly certain that the Headquarters was located, physically, somewhere incredibly dangerous, but the entrance they had used -- that she had found, in fact -- had been relatively safe by her standards. She sat in a curved, cushioned chair that creaked under her weights and whose cushions gave up little puffs of dust whenever she moved, and watched as the tall, dark-haired man with a sallow complexion -- and more make-up than a movie star she was sure -- continued to interview people.
"You're Perfect Ten?" he said to an androgynous looking person. Isobel had initially thought it was the reincarnation of David Bowie, then decided they were a woman, and was back to being undecided about them and not sure she really cared.
"Obviously," said the person. There was a sudden gentle pressure in the room like when an aeroplane changes height abruptly and Isobel found herself convinced that Perfect Ten was the most beautiful person she'd ever seen. She tried to look closer but somehow it was as though she was dazzled by them and she could only close her eyes and fantasize.
There was a flash of light, she was sure of it, but the odd thing was that, with her eyes closed, it might have been green. When she opened her eyes though the glamour was gone and the tall man was nodding and writing on a pad of paper.
"Nice," he said. "But not Sylvestra."
Greg - ah, thanks for that. I hadn't realized that was the last time I'd used that prompt.
A lifetime ago, really. Well, two little lifetimes.
Always enjoy a good two worlds colliding prompt response, and this was certainly no different. That flash of green was... an interesting detail.
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