pickthemusic 1.1: Saints of Los Angeles
We are, we are the saints
We signed our life away
Doesn't matter what you think
We're gonna do it anyway
We are, we are the saints
One day you will confess
And pray to the saints of Los Angeles
- Saints of Los Angeles (Motley Crue)

POST-SERIES

He meanders through the throng of pulsating bodies like a shark through water. They mean nothing to him, the laughing voices, the hands, the slightly inebriated eyes. There's a song playing that he doesn't know, can almost not hear in the background, and he doesn't care to know, he's not the one picking the music, but somehow it works, whatever it is. Heavy without being suffocating. A dark beat that reminds his heart to keep on beating instead of dropping dead on the spot.

He smiles--no, he smirks, that vaguely amused, slightly determined, slightly demented look he has been perfecting--at anyone that tries to catch his attention. It's his party, after all. Nobody should be absent at their own party. It's a festive celebration. It's an occasion. It's a holiday.

These are the people easily bribed, easily won over. It is a tentative alliance, but the start of one nevertheless. When the day of his eventual takeover dawns on them, they are the ones that will allow him to with little complaint.

Things really start to heat up once he's properly initiated into the League, suited up in a darker look. It was partly for atmosphere. Red and black was a classic combination. Also, if he had a hard time getting blood stains out of his coat, well, they would probably blend right in. It fits more easily on him. It somehow becomes him. Like shedding old skin and embracing the new.

It's no small feat to take over an entire city, especially as large and notorious as Los Angeles, but he gets it done before the week is out.

Sometimes he likes to stroll down the streets with his entourage, consisting sometimes of the less annoying fans, sometimes of aspiring minor villains, sometimes allies, usually Moist. Moist never gets a notorious villain outfit of his own. He's affiliated with Dr. Horrible. That's enough to make people stay out of his way.

Anyone out and about when he does this, to survey the damage, to oversee his domain, show him a number of different reactions. They glare at him. They back themselves against the walls of buildings. They lower their heads, eyes glued to the ground, and hurry on by. Some wail, some scream in terror. In panic.

A woman throws herself upon her knees. She can't be more than fourteen. "You bastards!" she screams as they proceed by. "You bastards killed my brother! You killed this city!"

He's not sure why he stops or why he even bothers going up to her anyway. She's sobbing into her arms, bent over on the sidewalk. She's given a wide berth by everyone else, and nobody dares to come near when Dr. Horrible approaches. A small half circle forms a few feet around him, curious.

He sets his much improved and rebuilt death ray aside and crouches down. "Your brother?" he inquires, voice sounding something close to curious.

She nods but doesn't raise her head. "M-Matt... Matt...you killed him...! How could you do--?" Her voice catches, choking her as she lets out another keening sob.

A black gloved hand reaches out and delicately slides under her chin, lifting her face up. She's all fear and confusion and rage, mouth slightly agape.

"You must miss him very much."

She awkwardly wipes at her eyes and nods as he brushes aside some hair sticking to her face. "Y-yes...of course... And you--you took him away!"

He nods, very slightly, pursing his lips. "One casualty of many." It's a very solemn look, as if he feels her pain. He lets a finger tap against her cheek for a few moments before coming to a decision. "Would you like to see him again?"

His associates exchange glances behind him. "What's he doing?" murmurs Fury Leika, who had been curious to see his latest work in conquering the city and interested in his plans to go farther.

Moist shushes her. "Dude, just watch." The small crowd settles down somewhat, some crossing their arms and looking very much unconvinced.

The girl doesn't say anything. Her eyes are suspicious. They dart. But she doesn't pull away.

He leans in a little closer, lowering his voice. "I can do that for you, if you want. In fact--and here's the best part--I can make it permanent. Whenever you want, you can see your brother. Would you like that?"

She meets his eyes, but only for a second. Her mouth works without any sound for a few moments, and he almost cracks a smirk at how she looks. "I...yes. Yes, please, I'd do...I'd do anything, please!" The tears start flowing again, bending over low again. "Please, god, I just want to--"

"It's all right." He pats her patronizingly on the head and allows her a few moments of sobbing. "I can do that." He lifts her head up again. "I can do that right now."

With a flick of his finger, a small needle extends from within the rubber of his glove, pricking the girl in the neck. Her eyes go wide, followed by a gasp, and then a few more. She clutches at her chest, falling over on her side as he grabs his gun and rises to his feet. She lets out a few cries of pain, her fingers going white as they curl about her breast. At last, she is still, a look of shock fixed upon her face, arm falling limply to her side.

He turns to the group, slipping off his glove to show a small syringe clasped to the end of his middle finger. "A little something I came up with. Her heart has quite literally exploded in her chest."

As he pulls the glove back on, Fury can't help but step forward, glancing down at the girl--another body on the street for the citizens to clean up--and up at the Doctor. "You didn't have to make a big production out of it. Why her? What was all that about?"

He doesn't look at her as he starts back off down the street, the pounding of his feet on asphalt like a dark beat telling his own heart to keep on beating despite it all. "Call it an act of charity."