Welcome to the Bottomless Closet

[jla-extras.livejournal.com]

The doors opened at 5:00 pm. Two women, dressed in Italian-design double-breasted jackets and pencil skirts, took invitations from each individual as they walked in through the large double doors.

The foyer opened up into a large, open space, with a crystal chandelier dominating the view of the front. The faux marble tile floors were picking up the multi-hued lights that were strewn along the banisters, up to the second floor lobby. A red carpet trimmed in gold led up the step, showing the buyers the way to the room.

Poinsettias alternated red and white along the pathway to the second floor. Tinsel and garland wound around the wrought-iron banisters. Chairs were set up in rows, but no one had chosen a seat as yet. They were still milling around, most by the two tables set up with the catering. Ice sculptures of Christmas trees chilled prawns and small dishes of caviar, while Champagne was carried on trays by young women dressed in black turtlenecks and chinos.

Conversations whirled and eddied like currents in a stream. A small group had conglomerated next to the edge of the makeshift stage.

“Any chance we can see what we’re bidding on?” A tall, bald man asked one of the security guards working the backstage.

“I’m sorry sir, the goods will be kept from the audience until they are up on the auction block. Those are the rules.”

“I never was one for rules,” the man grumbled. “Very well, I shall wait and let you try to surprise me. I hope for your sake that you will.”

***

The backstage area was cramped but not hopeless. There were a few tables, with items draped on, over, and under them, wherever they could fit. Then there were the few, the brave, the ones willing to be auctioned.

A short, stout, florid man with a yellow necktie poked his head in behind the curtain. “Ladies and gentlemen, the auction will begin soon. Please, make yourselves comfortable, but be certain to listen for when your name is called.”

***

"And Black Canary’s dancing shoes go for five thousand dollars!” There is a smattering of applause and a few groans of envy as the Cuban pumps are handed over to a slender redhead in a violet skirt and black blouse. “Our next item on the block is Hal Jordan, also known as the Green Lantern. Please, let us welcome him to our auction block!”

There is a smattering of applause as Hal Jordan takes the stand. Then, the bidding begins.

When it rains, it pours

[seriouslyevil.livejournal.com]

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Good Intentions

[blind-will.livejournal.com]

He wakes up, sort of, to the sounds he always hears. The screams, the promises that 'he don't mean it, he's just drunk' are quickly drowned out by the sounds from below. The sounds of the ghettoes. Traffic, people, shouts.
Unlike usual though, for some reason, he doesn't start awake. Then he realizes... its the music, 60's blues rising from one of the apartments down below him.

'Mothers, tell your children,
Not to do as I have done.
Spend your lives in sin and misery,
In the house of the Rising Sun.'

'I've got one foot on the platform,
One foot on the train,
I'm going back to New Orleans,
To wear that ball and chain.'

He smiles, before coughing. Blood.
That's ok. It reminds him of the music Tara used to play, when he could sleep. When he could wake up and feel invulnerable, because she believed he could do anything... in the morning.
Not feeling up to using the ring to rise in his usual fashion, he puts his hand down to help push himself up, and it slips, sending him back to lying down, slightly propped by a chimney.

A few moments of confusion, and he realizes its blood. His own. His jacket is still full of holes - tatters by now mostly. Somehow the ring isn't covering him in his 'costume' anymore. No more black leathers, just some old, comfortable things.
Then he realizes that almost everything he's getting is through sound and touch. The ring has plenty of charge left... its only been a couple hours, but its using everything it can to try and keep him stapled together.

And he smiles again. Its cold up here... a lot colder than he remembers space being. Thinking back, he realizes that his gambit against Sur was only half bluffing. The ring, without anywhere to go, just gives him the power to tilt at windmills. Things haven't gotten better. No matter how hard he's fought, the next time he goes out, everything looks and sounds the same.

And if he no longer keeps fighting with all his will... the real power for the ring, maybe it will be one less poor kid, and maybe then he can sleep.