Post by Aurum on Mar 28, 2021 1:10:59 GMT
THE MUSEUM
OCCULTISM EXHIBIT; "HISTORY OF THE WEIRD"
After walking through a majority of the exhibit, Aurum had reached the conclusion that witches hadn't the faintest fucking idea how to dress. No wonder they'd shoved hallucinogenic fungi up their cunts and gotten lost in the woods-- with those outfits, he'd have wanted to make a pact with an otherworldly patron, too. Maybe to get some fucking fashion sense. No amount of magic in the world could fix the cottagecore aesthetic, though. A shame.
The supervillain's sensibly-chuckled censure died in his throat as a faint sound echoed through the empty halls of the exhibit. It was almost jarring, the way it had snapped up his attention-- he'd never possessed the longest attention span, sure, but this was... odd. Very odd. Maybe it was the paranoia, or-- maybe it was something else, something else entirely, but as he stepped into the final room before the stair access to the basement of the museum, his gut began to turn. It was a creeping feeling, this-- this discomfort, a crawling beneath the skin as if he'd suddenly remembered that he'd forgotten something awfully important and hadn't the faintest idea what it was. Had Aurum been going the wrong way this entire time? Had something awful happened in the Gala? Besides the-- you know. No, no, that couldn't have been it. It was a sense of needing something-- a sense of urgency-- that bewashed him of this sickly feeling. Aurum stopped what he was doing and stood, hand pressed to his golden chin in apparent thought.
Something was... wrong.
His eyes scanned the room. Dioramas lined the walls, each housing and depicting various scenes and artifacts that each shared the similar thematic fate of being lost to time-- only to be recovered and brought here, to be put on display for the ignorant masses who hadn't the faintest fucking clue of their true potential. Dowsing rods, geometric puzzle-cubes, wands, pocketwatches-- as they were once lost, now they were found, only to be lost again. What a horrific fate, to fade away in plain sight of the world. No-- no. That wouldn't do. Why had he been trouncing about with such ignorance? In his singlemindedness, he hadn't even thought to consider the pieces housed within the museum proper-- who knew what sort of sleeping beasts lay in wait here, among the common folk? There was something of great importance. It was here. Right within his grasp. He was sure of it.
And then his eyes found the booklet, and he knew.
Hello there, love.
[attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;"]"I really don't blame them, you know."
Aurum remarked idly to his Saultourage as they passed a particularly garish exhibit on colonial clothing trends. [attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;"]"If I had to fuck the God-damned Quaker Oats mascot every day of my life, I'd kill my husband too. Wouldn't even need to learn forbidden knowledge to do it, either."
He stopped, for a moment, and observed a disgustingly simple overcoat. [attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;"]"Though if he was wearing that, I really would want to be as sadistic as possible, wouldn't I--"
The supervillain's sensibly-chuckled censure died in his throat as a faint sound echoed through the empty halls of the exhibit. It was almost jarring, the way it had snapped up his attention-- he'd never possessed the longest attention span, sure, but this was... odd. Very odd. Maybe it was the paranoia, or-- maybe it was something else, something else entirely, but as he stepped into the final room before the stair access to the basement of the museum, his gut began to turn. It was a creeping feeling, this-- this discomfort, a crawling beneath the skin as if he'd suddenly remembered that he'd forgotten something awfully important and hadn't the faintest idea what it was. Had Aurum been going the wrong way this entire time? Had something awful happened in the Gala? Besides the-- you know. No, no, that couldn't have been it. It was a sense of needing something-- a sense of urgency-- that bewashed him of this sickly feeling. Aurum stopped what he was doing and stood, hand pressed to his golden chin in apparent thought.
Something was... wrong.
His eyes scanned the room. Dioramas lined the walls, each housing and depicting various scenes and artifacts that each shared the similar thematic fate of being lost to time-- only to be recovered and brought here, to be put on display for the ignorant masses who hadn't the faintest fucking clue of their true potential. Dowsing rods, geometric puzzle-cubes, wands, pocketwatches-- as they were once lost, now they were found, only to be lost again. What a horrific fate, to fade away in plain sight of the world. No-- no. That wouldn't do. Why had he been trouncing about with such ignorance? In his singlemindedness, he hadn't even thought to consider the pieces housed within the museum proper-- who knew what sort of sleeping beasts lay in wait here, among the common folk? There was something of great importance. It was here. Right within his grasp. He was sure of it.
And then his eyes found the booklet, and he knew.
Hello there, love.
[attr="style","opacity:.1;display:inline;"]โ
Instantly, he was upon it-- the disquiet whispers within his mind sated as he approached the display case and shattered it with his wand, fingers curling upon the leather cover of the journal and ripping it from its tomb of mundanity. Why. Why had this, of all things, called his attention? Aurum's gaze turned from diary to diorama, and he read the inscription upon the plating beside the case.
Diary of Alice. A book of many things-- a grimoire of nightmarish thought, passed from place to place. Once thought lost, only to be found. If only they knew how true that sentiment was, now.
Idly, he pushed open the door to the staircase and began to walk down, slipping an engraved pistol off of his hip beneath the coat and skipping down the steps two at a time. As far as the intel went, the storage units they were after had been transferred here for safe keeping; the auction meant to act as a series of under-the-table transactions amongst the financially endowed. With any luck, these illuminati-esque fucks would still be down there.
As Aurum kicked open the door to the storage block, his hypothesis proved correct.
The basement level was a miniature warehouse of sorts, with larger shelves of crated goods lining the walls and floor of the place; dust-covers shrouded much of the place in an ethereal white, and there was an air of silence throughout the hall that almost brought a sense of calm to Aurum's fast-beating heart; sound was not the same as sight, however, and when he laid eyes upon the magnificence of the sight before him, his heart couldn't help but pound like a drum within his chest.
He'd walked in on their little fucking exchange and caught them red-handed.
The center of the warehouse-esque basement had been cleared and set with a white-clothed table, each topped with three different crates. Around this table sat maybe 10 or 12 people-- all robed, all shrouded in false fucking mysticism that was bound to break down the moment he shot one of them in the face. When he did just that-- raising his pistol and firing off a shot into the head of the first person who'd stood up and approached the Saultourage-- each of the patrons suitably panicked, ducking behind their chairs and standing off to the side. One man, however, was brave enough to step forward.
"What is the meaning of this disturbance?"
Aurum paused, almost in disbelief. He gestured towards himself with his own gun, barrel brushing against his chest.
He picked one of the cloaked figures gathered and shot them. It was rather unceremonious, and Aurum's cadence in speaking reflected the nonchalance of his cold-blooded murder.
"You will not get away with this, Gold One. You will not stop what is coming. We will find you-- that, I am certain of. Do you know who--"
Typical liberals.
He stopped a few paces away from the storage boxes, each big enough to fit under his fucking arm with how small they were. That was the nature of these types of items, weren't they? He could have all the firepower in the world, all the tanks and guns and helicopters and bases to make the United Nations shit their breeches a hundred times over, but-- all it took was some little sniveling, acne-ridden coward with an enchanted thimble, and all his work would be in vain.
God, he despised magic. It was for pencil-pushing, anti-social... nerds. Really, it was. Blegh.
Aurum examined the inscriptions upon each of the boxes and took the centermost container, tucking it beneath his left armpit and looking back to his Saultourage. They each had a gun dutifully trained upon the group of defunct Ivy League graduates, each sporting the same calm and collected smirk.
A moment later, gunshots filled the basement-- along with screams.
Instantly, he was upon it-- the disquiet whispers within his mind sated as he approached the display case and shattered it with his wand, fingers curling upon the leather cover of the journal and ripping it from its tomb of mundanity. Why. Why had this, of all things, called his attention? Aurum's gaze turned from diary to diorama, and he read the inscription upon the plating beside the case.
Diary of Alice. A book of many things-- a grimoire of nightmarish thought, passed from place to place. Once thought lost, only to be found. If only they knew how true that sentiment was, now.
[attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;"]"If I was named Alice, I'd turn to witchcraft too, darling."
The supervillain spoke to nobody in particular, clutching the journal and slipping it into the breast pocket of his coat before snapping his fingers at his group and gesturing to the stairs. [attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;"]"Let's get a move-on, yes? Only a tight window here, and while I am suitably slender, I'd rather not get caught between a rock and a hard place. Yes?"
Idly, he pushed open the door to the staircase and began to walk down, slipping an engraved pistol off of his hip beneath the coat and skipping down the steps two at a time. As far as the intel went, the storage units they were after had been transferred here for safe keeping; the auction meant to act as a series of under-the-table transactions amongst the financially endowed. With any luck, these illuminati-esque fucks would still be down there.
As Aurum kicked open the door to the storage block, his hypothesis proved correct.
The basement level was a miniature warehouse of sorts, with larger shelves of crated goods lining the walls and floor of the place; dust-covers shrouded much of the place in an ethereal white, and there was an air of silence throughout the hall that almost brought a sense of calm to Aurum's fast-beating heart; sound was not the same as sight, however, and when he laid eyes upon the magnificence of the sight before him, his heart couldn't help but pound like a drum within his chest.
He'd walked in on their little fucking exchange and caught them red-handed.
The center of the warehouse-esque basement had been cleared and set with a white-clothed table, each topped with three different crates. Around this table sat maybe 10 or 12 people-- all robed, all shrouded in false fucking mysticism that was bound to break down the moment he shot one of them in the face. When he did just that-- raising his pistol and firing off a shot into the head of the first person who'd stood up and approached the Saultourage-- each of the patrons suitably panicked, ducking behind their chairs and standing off to the side. One man, however, was brave enough to step forward.
"What is the meaning of this disturbance?"
Aurum paused, almost in disbelief. He gestured towards himself with his own gun, barrel brushing against his chest.
[attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;"]"Oh-- you didn't--"
He started, gesturing back towards the open door that they'd come from. [attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;"]"-- huh. You old fucks really must be hard of hearing, then, mustn't you? Well."
He picked one of the cloaked figures gathered and shot them. It was rather unceremonious, and Aurum's cadence in speaking reflected the nonchalance of his cold-blooded murder.
[attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;"]"I am The Gilded Mysterio. I am here to rob you."
He stated, emphasizing his identity and intent as if he were speaking to a batch of children. With the way they all sported fucking Halloween costumes, he might as well have been. [attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;"]"I've heard talk that you're all carting off goods-- important goods, useful goods-- and hanging them above your fucking mantles like the morons that you are, and I have come here to promptly reappropriate."
"You will not get away with this, Gold One. You will not stop what is coming. We will find you-- that, I am certain of. Do you know who--"
[attr="style","text-shadow:0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black,3px 3px black,4px 4px black,5px 5px black,6px 6px black,7px 7px 0px black;display:inline;font-size:3.0vw;"]KRAKA-KRAK.
[attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;"]"I'm sorry. Gold One?"
Aurum asked the now-fallen corpse in front of him, two bulletholes tearing through the cheap fabric of the robe and ripping out the back end of the man's body. [attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;"]"How fucking dedicated are you all to this little Secret Society bit, I mean-- come on! It can't possibly be worth that."
Aurum gestured to the fate of their comrade with his gun and scratched the polished surface of his skull with its ivory barrel, shaking his head and beginning to walk towards the three crates with an annoyed saunter. A few stepped forward as if to flirt with the idea of confrontation, but a glare from the supervillain halted them in their tracks. Typical liberals.
He stopped a few paces away from the storage boxes, each big enough to fit under his fucking arm with how small they were. That was the nature of these types of items, weren't they? He could have all the firepower in the world, all the tanks and guns and helicopters and bases to make the United Nations shit their breeches a hundred times over, but-- all it took was some little sniveling, acne-ridden coward with an enchanted thimble, and all his work would be in vain.
God, he despised magic. It was for pencil-pushing, anti-social... nerds. Really, it was. Blegh.
Aurum examined the inscriptions upon each of the boxes and took the centermost container, tucking it beneath his left armpit and looking back to his Saultourage. They each had a gun dutifully trained upon the group of defunct Ivy League graduates, each sporting the same calm and collected smirk.
[attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;"]"Deal with them. I'm calling the Uber."
Aurum stated, waving his hand dismissively.A moment later, gunshots filled the basement-- along with screams.