Difference between revisions of "Template:Featured Articles/18-2024"

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<td valign="top">[[Image:Moa_longshot.png|left]]'''Moment of Awesome - [[Arthur Centino|Arthur Centino/Longshot]]:''' ''Missing his best friend, Arthur goes to [[Muir Island|Muir]] to convince [[David Haller|Haller]] to come home. [https://xp-logs.dreamwidth.org/4468721.html#cutid1 It doesn't go well.]''
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<td valign="top">[[Image:Moa_longshot.png|left]]'''Moment of Awesome - [[Arthur Centino|Arthur Centino/Longshot]]:''' ''With [[Behold A Pale Horse | Death]] in New York and [[Hope Summers | Hope]] down, Arthur steps in. [https://xp-logs.dreamwidth.org/4404458.html#cutid3 Showing how dangerous his powers can really be.]''
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The man's eye was pulsing steadily. Unseen, the threads of probability tensed.
  
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"Ahem."
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He let loose the dagger in a fluid flourish, and its handle bounced squarely off Death's forehead. Another lucky shot.
  
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It wasn't until the very end of that drag that the figure standing just enough behind him decided to interrupt.
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"Sorry," Arthur said. "I had trouble believing someone could be so melodramatic, and I figured you might not be real. Had to double check, you know?"
  
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It wasn’t even a proper clearing of the throat, either. He had actually said the word. Still, it was hard to tell how long Arthur Centino had been standing there. Waiting. The politely smiling man’s natural talent for appearing at ease made it seem like he belonged here on Muir, on this stage, like he was written for the part. Dramatically lit with his hands in his pockets, the usually rough, rushing wind made an exception to only gently blow his hair and peacoat behind him like this was, instead, something on the BBC.
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The dagger clattered to Death's feet as the Horseman simply stared at him, unimpressed.
  
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He held up a finger. Timing, especially in these moments, was key. Arthur took a long, appreciative inhale through his nose before turning his full attention onto Jim and the scene before him.
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"I take this to mean the two of you plan to persist until terminally prevented from doing so, then." With a heavy sigh, the Horseman rolled his neck and took a step forward. "Well, if we must, let's get it over w—"
  
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"You know," he began, "convalescence sure is a funny word."
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Death’s intent was the final roll of the dice needed. The taught threads pulled tight, and Arthur’s eye flared.
  
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Jim choked.
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One has a 1 in 15,300 chance of being hit by lightning.
  
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"Arthur?" he gasped once the hacking cough had been downgraded to merely streaming eyes. Like a student seeing a teacher outside of school, Jim was having serious difficulty processing the man's presence on Muir. Moreover, conventional flights between NYC and Edinburgh were at least seven hours, and that wasn't even taking into account the four hour time difference. The fact Arthur Centino was currently standing before him, looking every bit the perpetual morning person he was while Jim had "been thinking about" shaving for the last five days, briefly made the telepath wonder if he'd advanced to manifesting people besides those living inside his own head.
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A sharp boom interrupted the Horseman’s words, followed by a shrill approaching roar. Arthur picked up his pace as he crossed the distance to the fallen Hope.
  
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"It's mostly a thing in period dramas, I think," Arthur continued with his own train of thought — although the look on the man's face could have said any number of other things, namely 'Who else?' or 'Of course it is me' or 'You're the telepath here, Jim.' He turned, contemplatively, to stare out over the sea like the figure from some romantic painting. Did the man have a bad angle? Did probability manipulation mean one never had any bad hair days, or did they steal them from someone else? "You know," he said without any worry about the mechanics of any of that, "something rich nobles or Victorian people do to escape to the countryside. I just never guessed the 'con' part might be literal."
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Only 1 in 8 million people are struck by lightning twice in their lives.
  
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"What's that supposed to mean?" Never overburdened by melanin even outside of spending several heavily overcast weeks on Muir, Jim was suddenly grateful for the recent lack of executive function. Maybe the stubble would disguise the uncomfortably guilty heat in his cheeks. The telepath tossed away the cigarette and pulled his collar closer. "Working things out at the mansion wasn't practical. Charles knows me, and Muir has better facilities for powers issues."
+
His boots landed close to one of the few scattered knives that one actually struck true, somehow puncturing an intake to a discarded propane tank toppled in Hope’s show of telekinetic force. It hissed as it leaked vaporized gas.
  
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"Muir is lovely," Arthur conceded. "Moira and your father were very welcoming. Happy to see us, even. In fact, everyone here has been very happy to share how delighted they are that you have friends. It doesn't take a detective, or just an interviewer, to put together this puzzle." His eyes narrowed as he sighed. "Charles knows exactly how you're doing, but he's either too polite or too British — honestly, hard to tell what's happening with that accent — to say anything."
+
Now, the chances of being in a building collapse are hard to quantify.
 +
 
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Were the swaying walls in the abandoned structure caused by lines of forces, or a result of neglect? Had the previous flooding underscored years of a weakening foundation? Either way, the cracking of concrete joined the building cacophony.
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 +
They say the chance of being hit by falling space debris is less than a billion to 1.
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The roar crescendoed as everything happened at once. What has previously been only a streak in the sky above New York had steadily grown in size during Arthur’s stalling, the approaching remnant of a discarded rocket fuselage burning bright as it reentered the atmosphere. It struck right in the center of the improvised circle of knives. Right into Death.
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At the same time, the gathering forces of stress finally broke the nearby derelict brownstone. Sheets of concrete and drywall fell as the building collapsed into its sinking foundation.
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 +
Another strike of lightning was the cherry on top, igniting the gas in a sonorous THWUM.
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Arthur vaulted over reigning debris and rolled, scooping the redheaded girl into his arms to just miss being smashed by a slab of concrete. A slab that provided excellent cover for the small canister explosion.
 
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[[Category: Advertising]]
 
[[Category: Advertising]]

Latest revision as of 14:49, 27 April 2024

Moa longshot.png
Moment of Awesome - Arthur Centino/Longshot: With Death in New York and Hope down, Arthur steps in. Showing how dangerous his powers can really be.

The man's eye was pulsing steadily. Unseen, the threads of probability tensed.

He let loose the dagger in a fluid flourish, and its handle bounced squarely off Death's forehead. Another lucky shot.

"Sorry," Arthur said. "I had trouble believing someone could be so melodramatic, and I figured you might not be real. Had to double check, you know?"

The dagger clattered to Death's feet as the Horseman simply stared at him, unimpressed.

"I take this to mean the two of you plan to persist until terminally prevented from doing so, then." With a heavy sigh, the Horseman rolled his neck and took a step forward. "Well, if we must, let's get it over w—"

Death’s intent was the final roll of the dice needed. The taught threads pulled tight, and Arthur’s eye flared.

One has a 1 in 15,300 chance of being hit by lightning.

A sharp boom interrupted the Horseman’s words, followed by a shrill approaching roar. Arthur picked up his pace as he crossed the distance to the fallen Hope.

Only 1 in 8 million people are struck by lightning twice in their lives.

His boots landed close to one of the few scattered knives that one actually struck true, somehow puncturing an intake to a discarded propane tank toppled in Hope’s show of telekinetic force. It hissed as it leaked vaporized gas.

Now, the chances of being in a building collapse are hard to quantify.

Were the swaying walls in the abandoned structure caused by lines of forces, or a result of neglect? Had the previous flooding underscored years of a weakening foundation? Either way, the cracking of concrete joined the building cacophony.

They say the chance of being hit by falling space debris is less than a billion to 1.

The roar crescendoed as everything happened at once. What has previously been only a streak in the sky above New York had steadily grown in size during Arthur’s stalling, the approaching remnant of a discarded rocket fuselage burning bright as it reentered the atmosphere. It struck right in the center of the improvised circle of knives. Right into Death.

At the same time, the gathering forces of stress finally broke the nearby derelict brownstone. Sheets of concrete and drywall fell as the building collapsed into its sinking foundation.

Another strike of lightning was the cherry on top, igniting the gas in a sonorous THWUM.

Arthur vaulted over reigning debris and rolled, scooping the redheaded girl into his arms to just miss being smashed by a slab of concrete. A slab that provided excellent cover for the small canister explosion.

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