Fan Fic - Rainbows Have Nothing to Hide

[Beauregard]

Piece of paper con't

The person grabbed me back up, and shoved me in the seat. A pencil, freashly sharpened, was thrust at me. I could smell the wood. "Write," the person said.

I could barely see, or hear, or think. Total silence and total blackness replaced by noise. Spots of pink and blue danced over my visison. I felt like I was going blind.

I started coughing, half chokeing. "Whire what?"

"Everything," the voice said. "What it down. Now."

Me hands were shaking, and I couldn't focus. My first attempts to write were scribbles. Each time, a hand would slap down on the table, snatch the paper away and replace it, yelling, "Write! Write!"

And so I wrote. "I HATE YOU! I HATE THIS PLACE! WHO THE HECK ARE YOU! WHERE THE HECK AM I!"

The hand crumpled the message, and the person crouched. "I am not here to answer questians, I am here to tell you to sit here and write. Write every single thing. And do it now." The voice was so familiar.

"Write what?" I felt dizzy again, like I was going to fall down or throw up.

"You have so much to wrie about," the person said, suddenly quiet and thoughtfull. "So write dog-gamn it!"

And so I wrote. Hands shaking, pencil shaking and chipping I wrote all this. And now, I am done writing. I am done writing.

Every Goofy,
Scoot

The Other Journal, earlier, some place

I feel a terrable sence of guilt as I sit watching him in the prison. The computer in front of me displays heat-sensitive images, for the darkness is too black to see through. When he sleeps, deep sleeps, the computer detects it. Then I can deleiver food, or drink, or a torch.

I have a moniter checking his mind and brainwaves. His thoughts were controlled now. Definatly controlled. It was time to move him on to the next phase of himself.

I sharpen a pencil. Walk to the door, pick up a table and a chair. On the moniter he is running, with purpose, faster and faster. I hit a button. A sliding door in the wall opens.

Love,
Me

 

[The Count]

Aw man... I feel Sara's gonna kill you when she finds out the latest form of Scooter-torture... Brainwashing, or controlling his mind and thoughts to selective rememberances... Man, I hope this story keeps getting good.

 

[Beauregard]

Brainwashing? Quite the opposite I assure you...

--

Scooter's Journal, late or early, the room

The bulb is still on, but I am left alone. A new change of clothes. The chair and desk are here, as is some paper if I want it and the pencil. The door is closed, and there's not really any chance of escapeing anyway.

With the bulb on I can see the ceiling now. It seems pretty solid, and there's no way I could reach it. I asked the person what time it was, or where I was, or when. But there was no answer. "Have you finished?"

"Yeah, I'm finished." And I handed the paper over. The person took it, and left.

I am not tired now. And I don't want to run, or walk, or excersice. I just want to sit here with my newly found freedom of paper and pencil and write. So I will. I'm gunna write about all kinds of stuff because there is no one to stop me writing just whatever I choose. No limitations or hard walls to hit into, to knock me down, or hurt me. Ha! Hahaha! Kehehetehe! Nothing you can do! Mwahahah!

I can write a plot to escape, next time you come in I can smash this chair at you, smash smash smash and you can fall down, and I can run, run. Then what? If I don't know where the heck I am, how can I escape? There might be armed guards there, or lamps. Another castle to raid. Or they'd be luminous lights flashing along a hallway, and I'd get dissoriantated and fall alseep as I ran and then I'd be stuck and caught again.

Ok, not a good idea I guess. But I can still write about things!

Clay. Who is she? Why does she wear a hood? Perhaps under it, hides a face scared by flame, like the Phantom of the Opera.

That reminds me of a story, a true story. About the Phantom of the Muppet Theatre. Turned out his name was Uncle Deadly and that he was an actor, a pretty good one actually. There was this one time that I was onstage for an act, and I looked up and saw him standing above the backdrops, eyes closed, breathing in the scenes and the smells of the crowd. Another time, he was onstage with a tied up Piggy waiting for a train to come. Just an act, of course. Though it seems the kind of thing he would do. Something he wouldn't do though is this! But he did! I glanced upstairs once when I was checking props off on my clipboard. And there he was, thinking he was alone, with his finger up his nose, picking it no less. I laughed! I couldn't help it! And he gave me such a glare that I thought i would die right then, right there.

I wonder if I will die here.

(con't on next page)

 

[ReneeLouvier]

Oh man!! You have such ingenious ways of tortuing him!!! Wow!!!!

Uncle Deadly....with his finger up his nose....*laughing on the floor now* That's just so funny!!!!

 

[The Count]

And I suppose that image was conjured by your talk with Vic over in the Spammers thread? Rully like the rememberances Scooter's jotting down... Hope we get to find out more about this Clay person soon.

 

[TogetherAgain]

<head spinning>

<slams both hands against head, thus stopping the spinning>

...Woah...

Clearly, I have fallen far behind, but I caught up now, and... Woah...

Wow, the blackness, and the writing, and the person, and the other journal, and the "escape plan" and the different kinds of laughter written down, and the other journal, I was WONDERING how the other journal writer was watching, and the Skeeter memories, and "will you remember me..." and wow.

...Wow.

MORE PLEASE!

 

[redBoobergurl]

Good stuff! My time is limited today, but I like this story so I made time for it! It's great and fabulous and I wish I could comment more. I loved the scene with Skeeter. Ok, nagging time, more please!

 

[Smiles]

Hehehe Uncle Deadly.....

But wait! What's the oppostite of brainwashing? Braindirtying?

 

[The Count]

Well... Certainly hope there'll be more of this story posted soon. You know... Something I feel been's overlooked is... Who is this Mr. R character? Just what is it he holds over Clay... And now Scooter? Hope for answers or something soon.

 

[Beauregard]

Piece of Paper - CON'T

WRITING!!!!!!!!!!!! It's so fun! I am as free as a bird, as free as a kite, and high as a thing that's really high! Can't touch me! There is nothing in the world that can stop me from writing exactly what I choose. So what if I already said that on this piece of paper! Who's gunna stop me? No one and nothing!

I could even share my secrets here...there was this one time when I was backstage when I heard Camilla clucking and she -

COMMUNICATION CUT OFF DUE TO SOMETHING HAPPENING

The Other Journel, later, somewhere dark

He was writing again, and I hated to disturb him, but it was time. I pressed my hand against the palm-reading scanner, hit a button, and the wall door crunched open. I lowered my hood, and hit another switch. The bulb tinkled, and went out.

I could hear the boy, Scooter, thrashing back from the table, papers scattering, a pencil hitting the floor and cracking. And I could see him moving backwards, feeling behind him for the safety of a wall.

Not that a wall was safe. I closed my eyes, and felt more than heard him, and I breathed through my nose, the smell of his room where he had eaten and slept and breathed for such a long time now. My hands dropped to my sides. My cloak waved slightly in the breeze of the door.

I slid the open sleeve of my cloak back, pressed my finger to a control, and the door closed.

Then I attacked. And he did nothing.

I hated myself every moment of that first attack. I always do. Darn him, darn me, darm Mr R.

Love,
Me