Young Writers Society

If Plice wanted to wake up in a sewer, all she would have to do is go down to a sewer, hit herself on the head multiple times so she would fall asleep in such deplorable conditions, and then wake up. She had done no such thing. She had never desired to do such a thing and she would like to keep it that way.

She was understandably annoyed when she opened her eyes to see not the familiar vine-covered walls of her room in her and Ollie's loft, but the grime-covered stone walls of a sewer.

A sewer.

Plice was insulted that someone thought she should be brought down here. Then she was angry, because whoever brought her down here would pay.

She got to her feet, but as she moved she realized something was horribly wrong. She was wearing armor! While Ollie may have dallied in monster hunting and worn some form of physical protection to keep her feeble human form from being disemboweled when she fought a particularly nasty beasty. But Plice, being of the noble and powerful shadow-vine fae bloodline, had no such concerns. Which was why her wearing bulky armor was something of an issue. Not only had whoever put her down here put her in a sewer, but they had also thought it necessary to dress her in this monstrosity.

Everyone who saw Plice knew that the skin-tight and revealing outfits she usually wore were so much better. Even Ollie(who, though being of a rare human bloodline, did not know how to properly dress herself) agreed that Plice's outfits were amazing on her.

Blood would run if she ever found out who did this to her.

Cursing this person from here to the Summer Court, Plice staggered to her feet, her movements significantly more clumsy since her newly acquired horrible outfit did nothing to increase her usual unearthly grace.

Once standing, Plice came to the horrible realization that she had something obscuring her face. She pawed for the thing and ripped it off of her, sending her ink-dark hair spilling down her shoulders. When she held up the thing to look at it, she found that it was a mask in the shape of a skull.

How terribly goth.

She tossed it aside in disgust and then realized something even more horrible about the armor. It was blue!

Ugh, thought Plice. Blue contrasts horribly with my lovely violet skin. She contemplated taking off the offending blue gloves, then realized that that would mean she would touch the grime around her with her bare hands. That would be the final straw in this already nightmarish basket.

Plice decided, in a great act of self-sacrifice, to leave them on. She was deciding on what best to do next(break out or look around for whoever did this to her and show them why King Oberon himself feared the shadow-vine fae) when a loud sound reminisce of a wall being destroyed in a fit of rage echoed through the disgusting tunnel and Plice realized she wasn't alone.

Brian Flanagan, fairy, Interdimensional Detective from The Court of Oberon, (Dimensional Serial Number #2488), laid his head upon the stack of forms he was supposed to be filling, letters smudging in a budding puddle of drool. He was not asleep. He had merely given up on even controlling the muscles of his face.

He felt a sharp poke in the back. With acrylic nails. Ow.

"Hey. Hey. I 'aint got all day. Get fillin'," chirped the receptionist. How did her voice sound so tinny, and so cigarette-grated at the same time? It must have been a gift.

"Guuuh," said Brian. He raised his head. "Ughh, how long have I been here?"

"40 minutes," said the receptionist. "Of which, you only tried for 8 minutes, and then you gave up."

Brian squinted blearily in the vague direction of the receptionist's sharp, thick eyeliner.

"No, nono, I'm just, I'm thinking, a'right?" Brian whined. "I just, gotta remember the names of all these people I barely 'member, who barely 'member me, and one's changed his name and one's changed her dimensional address and I, I think one got sucked into a wormhole last Thursday, pretty much all of them have changed their numbers at least once since I've met them and to be honest I'm not sure if any of them want me, to know what their new numbers are, except Paul, but I don't want to talk to Paul. Paul's a ponce."

"You're a ponce," said the receptionist flatly. "Fill the damn thing."

Brian flopped back onto the desk, the papers splashing under his cheek.

"'Kay," he said.

I want to be anywhere but here.



The desk disappeared. Brian fell on a cold, vaguely slimy floor.

"Ow.." said Brian.

He looked to the left. He looked to the right. It was concrete for miles, spattered with graffiti that was completely illegible but transgressive in theory.
Ambient noises pooled into the echoing chambers, such as skittering, dripping, and a piece of wall being blasted into oblivion somewhere in the near distance. Hmm.

On top of that, he was dressed in a vest modeled after a lion trophy, no shirt, and cheetah leggings. Very bold. Very contrasting with the green of his skin, but the only thing that being green had ever stopped Brian from wearing was the colour green.

Brian took one clue. He took another. He put them together, and approximated that he was here for a comic book rave in the sewer.

Brian tried to open his personal pocket dimension to see if he could still access it. He could not. So, a shady, forceful comic book sewer rave.

"I'll take it." said Brian.

The others in the sewer - who Rew had heard bits and pieces of - weren't exactly right near him. He couldn't see them. But he could hear them, and he could see a mask that had just been thrown away by one of the people in the distance. It was on the very corner of his vision. Giving the Reverse Flash another awkward smile, Rew quickly darted over to the mask in question to investigate it.

It was a skull mask.

Rew's face split into a grin. He had absolutely no idea who its original owner was, but this was a clear case of finder's keepers. If no one was going to use it, it would be a shame for it to go to waste. He picked it up off the ground and contemplated how he could work it into his outfit - only to remember his current outfit was weird and didn't make much sense to have a skull mask.

...Maybe he could save it for later then.

He looked up.

Now he had moved to grab the mask, he was close enough to see the mask's former owner. He gave her a hesitant, awkward smile and wave.

"Er, hi," he said, standing up straight. "Nice, uh, armor? And are you sure you don't want this mask? Because if you don't want it, I'd be happy to take it."

Tapusha frowned. Who is this idiot wrapped in...are those bandages? Several other loud noises happened as various people appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Oh god, this is turning into a scene from a damned comic book.

"Yo...bandages, you wouldn't happen to know where we are do you?" she asked," and does anyone have a knife?"

Bandages?

It took Rew a second to realize that the Reverse Flash was talking to him, and another second to realize he didn't really know the answer. He gave the mask's owner one last look before turning to face the Reverse Flash.

"We're in a sewer...?" Rew hesitantly suggested. That worked, right? He didn't know what sewer or where the sewer was under, but that was still a place. "And I don't have a knife. Or bandages. I think it's more like a sack on my face? I don't know, but it feels kind of weird-"

He caught a glimpse of his reflection.

He froze.

The water in the sewer was murky and the lighting was dull, but it was still good enough for him to get a look at himself. He walked a few more steps over to the water's edge, peering down at the person who stared back at him. He knew it was him, but the person didn't look anything like he remembered looking last.

"...I'm a scarecrow?" he questioned. This was new - even for the cult. He hesitantly reached a hand up to touch his face. He was missing something. He knew he was.

He glanced back at the Reverse Flash.

And then back at the water's edge.

His eyes widened as realization slammed into him.

"I'm not a scarecrow," he realized. "I'm the Scarecrow."

But what he was supposed to do with that information?

Brian stood next the fellow dressed as the Scarecrow, and looked at his reflection, as the Scarecrow looked at his. He leaned forward, and stroked his newly bearded chin.

"Hmm, not bad," said Brian.

The smell hit him first. The overwhelming petulant odor of sewage and mud. Of human stench and decay.

I must have been transported, stolen, nay! Kidnapped, and brought to the lair of one of the deceitful undead. A vampire has taken me hostage.

He thought this even before opening his eyes, but when he beheld the sight that laid just beyond his eyelids, he was only more sure of his assumption. Only those wretched creatures could possibly be responsible for bringing him to such a place. For laying him on the stone to marinate in the stench of the rive of sludge that flowed just beside, and it was only the undead who could stand such dark and drear.

With haste, he got to his feet and strightened to his full, magnificent height. The weight of a...was it a crown? He reached up to verify the nature of the weight that rested on his brow, and his hand met cold metal far above the top of his head, far higher than any crown he'd ever worn. Curiously, he grasped the cylindrical protrusion and lifted what he would soon discover to be a helmet off of his head.

It was made of gold, solid, pure, and wonderfully crafted.

His eyes lit up at the sight.

But they quickly dulled.

Voices echoed down the hall. Confusion, wondering, mixed with tones of casual comradery even as the words were lost in the echo.

His kidnappers. Surely they wondered about what to do with him. How to keep a person such as Connery Blight contained was surely the question at the forefront of their minds. Pathetically, though, they could not keep on topic long enough to discover an answer. The rotting brains of the undead were never good for anything.

Connery placed his helmet back on his head. Surely his attire - which was entirely grandiose, befitting his status as an unstoppable force of personality and master manipulator - was a gift from whatever gods, or members of his ancestry, now watched over him.

He then strode down the hall.

He would confront this situation head-on, and he would demand to be returned home. Immediately.

He rounded the corner and beheld his captors. All were dressed ridiculously. Costumes that weren't even fit for a first-year production of the Susical clung awkwardly to their unimpressive and - in the case of one - unnaturally colored bodies. They all looked awkward, confusion in their postures. Pathetic. There were members of the bewitched undead attending his university who were more intimidating.

"Identify yourselves," he demanded coolly.

"Identify yourselves," demanded the random human wearing a ridiculous two pronged crown-thing that contrasted greatly with the surroundings Plice found herself in.

Plice sighed. So many people, so many questions, so little time to reply. This was both tiresome, irritating, and annoying. Who was this human to think that he could just up and demand things from her like she was some sort of common creature that wasn't feared and respected across the Magi world.

Plice wanted to hurt him, but that honor was reserved for whoever had trapped her down here and stripped her of her magnificent powers. This two-bit dragonkin wannabe could poke his own eyes out with that ridiculous headgear for all Plice cared.

Ignoring him in spectacular fashion honed by years of clubbing and giving people the cold-shoulder in a way that was both noticeable and cut like a knife, Plice turned and addressed everyone who wasn't the dragonkin wannabe. "You," she pointed at the demon-scarecrow(what other kind of scarecrow could talk? Reanimates didn't posses the grey matter necessary to think, let alone talk). "Keep that disgusting mask. Please, it contrasts with my soul. In fact," she began systematically stripping armor until she was standing in nothing but a black top, leggings, gauntlets and thick boots that were much more her style. She dumped it all on the floor in front of the demon-scarecrow. "Take all of it. I beg of you."

"You." Next, Plice pointed to the woman wearing yellow. "You asked for a knife but would this ridiculously pointless sword work?" Plice picked up the golden weapon she had noticed on the floor when she was dumping her armor and deposited it at the woman's feet.

"And lastly, you," Plice leveled a purple finger at the dragonkin wannabe. There was another person in their merry little group, but they were green and thus not Plice's issue. "I do not know who you think you are, but," her eyes narrowed to tiny violet slits, "no one talks to me like that. If you do so again, I don't care who you might be or who you might know, powers or no, I won't hesitate to take that stupid hat of yours, shove it up your feet, and break every bone in your body while laughing." Then she smiled so sweetly flowers might have bloomed somewhere in response. "Got me?"

In light of present company, Brian decided that he would rather attend some other sketchy sewer rave, and quietly flitted around the nearest corner.

He stealthily smacked into an unfortunately placed support beam. Stealthily, he swore.

"Uh, I'll pass, but thank you for the offer-" Rew started to say with a hand raised, but his comment went unheard between the woman talking and the green man dressed like a caveman bumping into something around the corner.

He slowly put his hand down.

The newest person in their group - who was dressed like Loki - was demanding an introduction without giving one himself. Rew thought that was a little bit rude, but at the same time could understand the sentiment. He hadn't introduced himself yet, and Rew was usually on top of that.

He slipped in between Loki and the formerly masked woman.

"I'm pretty sure none of us wanted to end up here," he said, glancing between the two, "and I think we're all going to be stuck together for a bit. So it's probably a good idea to stay on good terms with each other, and, uh, maybe not fight each other in the first five minutes we've known each other for?"

He gave what he hoped was a friendly, encouraging smile, but he knew that the Scarecrow's mask/bag/face-thing totally ruined the effect.

"My name is Rew," he said. "I don't usually look like this, so I'm just as confused as you are right now. But I'm used to weird stuff, so I can help us get through this - once I, uh, figure out what's going on."

Suddenly remembering that the green caveman had sworn just a minute ago, he peeked around Loki and asked with his hands cupped around his mouth, "Are you okay?"

Tapusha instinctively stretched out her hand to let in fly into her hand before realizing she couldn't do that anymore. Deciding that punching the wall a third time in a row was probably not a good idea, she decided to bend down. When I get my hands on the moron responsible for this.

She picked up the short golden sword. Not her preferred weapon but anything was better than nothing. I'm going to have to ask if I can keep this. She nodded at the lady that had given it to her.

"Thank you. You have no idea how helpful this is." She reached behind her back and carefully cut out two slits near where her wings were tightly crammed into the fabric. Then she concentrated and slowly squeezed her wings out, doing her best not to scream "OW, OW" as the giant white things had to be bent at an unnatural angle."

As she was pulling it out, she remembered the moron that had come and demanded their identities. She let one wing carefully out and stretched. She shifted a little as the other one spread out, allowing it to whack into the horned moron, knocking him over.

"Ooops...didn't see you there," she said, tone not the least bit apologetic. She then turned to the lady who'd given her the sword. "You mind if I keep this?"

Plice regarded the woman in yellow with a long look. Plice's opinion of the woman went up significantly after seeing her whack that dragon-kin wannabe in the face with her wing.

Plus, she had wings. On top of raising Plice's opinion of her farther, that meant she was a Magi. Meaning that she was one of Plice's kin. Plice could appreciate that.

"Please," Plice told her. "Please take the sword. I beg of you. I do not wish to ever use weaponry. My shadows may be on the fritz, but that is not enough to make me get my own hands bloody." That was for beings like Ollie. "If the sword isn't enough, might I direct your attention to the pile of armor the demon-scarecrow doesn't seem to want or this strange shield on the ground?" Plice gestured to both articles of armor. "I will not touch any of it, so it is up for grabs!" she raised her voice at the end so that it echoed off of the stone and traveled away into the dark.

...Demon-scarecrow?

Rew tore momentarily tore his attention away from the green caveman, hoping that he was alright despite the noise that had just left his spot around the corner.

He looked back at the woman.

"I just said my name?" he said, confused. "It's Rew. And I'm not a demon or a scarecrow. I mean, I do look the part right now, but I'm not either one of them! I'm just..."

Rew faltered.

He couldn't feel the pull he usually could. A place like this should have been swarming with death; sewers weren't exactly welcoming places. And while he doubted it would have any ghosts, the lack of them was still a little concerning. He couldn't even sense them coming from above ground.

...Which probably meant this whole thing was messing up his soul, too.

Well, shoot.

"...me," he awkwardly finished, giving a smile that probably looked vaguely terrifying as the Scarecrow.

"Thank you," said Tapusha, "although I definitely have to give that armor a pass. Not going to be doing anything dressed in something that's as ridiculous as that. So, anything I can call you by?"

"When did the comic sewer rave turn into a clothing swap party," droned Brian from the floor.

Ew.

Brian promptly flitted up off the floor.


...Actually, he probably would have taken the shiny armour if he didn't already have a fabulous lion vest going on and was capable of felt like carrying the weight.