ATM II RPG

[Celuien]

Lûgnût screeched up to the gates of the Mount Doom Palace and Casino. The Hummer's engine had hardly stopped humming before Panakeia bounded out the door, a stormy expression on her face. The journey from Lûndûn had not been pleasant. Despite the deference granted their official vehicle, they still encountered the traffic jams, construction and road rage typical of a Mordor highway. The unpleasantness of the trip was compounded by Panakeia's dislike of Lûgnût and his/her/its constant blather about how many procedures were being broken by her unexpected journey. She didn't care about protocol. Her future with Anakron, the only true love she had ever known, was at stake. Regulations could go to Mordor, she thought, before recalling that they already were in Mordor. Her scowl deepened.

Panakeia strode up to one of the Palace guards, Lûgnût following a few feet behind. Where, she demanded to know, were the negotiations taking place? She was a member of the Grand Anakronist's party and needed to join him at once. A glare in Lûgnût's direction silenced any protest of her claims by him/her. Directions given, she pushed ahead without a word, contemplating what she would say to Anakron.

She didn't want to be angry. Experience told her that anger was the least effective way to deal with Anakron. He wouldn't understand, and would most likely dismiss her anger as unjustified hysteria. And maybe she was being unreasonable. Anakron was an important official, after all. He had responsibilities. She knew that when they began their relationship. As she pondered their beginnings at the end of the battle with A Slan, the werewolves, Anakron's death and return to the living, Panakeia's anger faded. Yes, she did love him. It would be enough, she decided, to see Anakron. That was all she really wanted. Now that she was here, they could meet after the day's negotiations concluded. The restaurants in the old Resort had been excellent. Roggie's reconstruction, she was sure, would not have neglected so essential an item. Their plans would not be disturbed too badly after all.

Panakeia reached the conference room. Her hand went to the doorknob, and a smile crossed her face in anticipation of seeing Anakron. She pushed the door ajar --- and saw red in every sense of the phrase. A blonde in a scarlet gown (too tight and revealing for a proper lady, Panakeia thought) perched on a table, evidently very trying her best to capture every man present in her snares. And succeeding. Panakeia was sure that Anakron was staring at the woman, and the fire heating her temper went from simmer to high. Unwilling to compromise her ladylike dignity, she swallowed the insults for the vamp that rose in her throat and addressed Anakron in a cool, level voice.

"Anakron. May I speak to you? Alone?"

Anakron's eyes widened slightly at the sudden entrance of the most unexpected Panakeia, dressed to the nines, which he rather approved of, though he thought that she should perhaps have used a little bit of make-up, but he certainly wasn't going to tell her how to perform her toilette. He had been expecting Skittles to re-enter, and found the sudden appearance of Panakeia quite pleasant by comparison.

"Of course." He stood, aware that the ambassadors gathered in the room were watching the two of them with sudden curiosity. Out in the hall, he turned and faced her. She seemed most put out over something. Anakron wondered if some Mordorian orc had done something overly anachronistic and bureaucratic and she had come all this way to complain to the grand anakronist himself. She certainly could have clout if she wanted it, but she either never thought of it, or did not consider it something she wished to involve herself in.

She was staring up at him, her arms crossed in front of her, a look of growing impatience on her face, her foot tapping.

You look ravishing, my dear. He thought of saying it, but thought it inappropriate in the current setting. "What?" he asked, a little ill at ease with how curt his voice sounded.

Panakeia shifted uncomfortably. Anakron's voice sounded terse, a bit short. But why? Was he upset over her arrival? Unhappy to see her? And that blonde - who was she? Was she the reason for Anakron's coldness? Panakeia trembled at the thought of losing Anakron to a mere vamp. But one question at a time, the most easily answered first.

"What?" she echoed in a trembling voice. "I came all the way from Lûndûn, and all you can say is 'what'? Not even a hello? Aren't you glad to see me?" She carefully avoided the crucial question of the woman in the red dress, hoping that Anakron would volunteer a satisfactory explanation before she needed to ask.

Anakron closed his eyes momentarily and felt tautness in his face, felt the muscle below his left eye twitch, and his lips draw down. Stress. He managed a smile so quick it probably looked like a grimace.

"Hello." He swallowed. "Of course I'm glad to see you."

He wanted to reach up and caress her face, smooth away the fear in her eyes, but it would not be appropriate here, with the powerful and influential casting glances their way. He kept his hand at his side.

"This is about our-" He couldn't bring himself to say the word here in this public place, that anakronistic word, date. "-arrangement. I'm sorry I had to break it. It couldn't be helped. These negotiations-" He left his sentence unfinished, nodding toward the room they had just left, willing her to understand.

Panakeia was now convinced of Anakron's displeasure. Despair began to work its way into her thoughts. That odd expression on his face couldn't have been anything other than distaste. Distaste. It couldn't be so. She longed to pour out her fears to Anakron. To be told, with a brush of fingers to her hair, that she was being silly, and to laugh at her foolishness after his reassurance.

But she couldn't. She thought again of the broken dates, of the woman on the other side of the door, and anger mingled with pride took possession of her actions. "Negotiations? Is that what you call this little business?" She pointed at the door. An empty laugh escaped her lips, and Panakeia was startled at the harshness of its echo in the hallway. "Oh yes. It all looked quite diplomatic, especially your friend sitting on the table. Most diplomatic. Is she the head ambassador? Of what nation, pray tell?" No sooner had the words been spoken then she regretted giving them voice. But they could not be undone. Panakeia stiffened, fighting the impulse to apologize.

Anakron was stunned. He stared at Panakeia. Was this the same woman he had found so engaging? So captivating? Jealous of a mere tramp whose dress declared to the world, 'I am using sex to get my way'? Anakron couldn't believe it. For the first time in a long time Anakron spoke before he had thought.

"Maybe I shouldn't be involved with any woman."

As soon as the words were out, he winced. How had he let himself say that? Of all the wrong times to say a thing, this was the wrongest. Anakron didn't even care that his thought was constructed in bad grammar. He waited for the inevitable bad reaction, flinching inside.

Shouldn't be involved with any woman? That last phrase stung Panakeia to the quick. Anakron did have doubts about her. That explained everything from the continually broken dates to his indifferent greeting, and she suddenly felt a drop slipping down the side of her face. Not wanting Anakron to see her tears, Panakeia spun on her heel and fled from his gaze. After wandering for a while, mourning Anakron's rejection, remorse for her rash words gnawing at her conscience, she found a bench in a lonely corner of the Palace and burst into sobs of misery.

[Diamond18]

“Can I have the pocketknife now?” Skittles asked, as Anakron’s girlfriend fled sobbing down the hall.

“Oh, yes, here you go,” said Igör, handing it over. This was perhaps not the wisest thing to do, but Igör had promised and he could not lie, so from freak to freak the knife went.

“Score!” Skittles said, inspecting the handle. “This is part of a limited-edition set of classic Disney pocketknives! I have all the others, but never could get ahold of Mickey-Mouse!” She pocketed the pocketknife (naturally) and gave Igör an enthusiastic pat on the back. “Thanks paleeoh!”

One of Igör’s eyes popped loose and went bouncing over to stare up at Dracomir, and Igör rushed over to pick it up before the Gondorian either smashed or evanesco’ed it. He plucked it from between Dracomir’s feet with a murmured apology and blew some dust and hair from it before reinserting it.

When he turned around, Skittles was nowhere to be seen, and he frowned. Anakron had rentered the room and sat down, looking rather gloomy, and Igör shot an encouraging smile his way. Half his face was still frozen into the frown, as it was rather hard to change expressions on the dot. Anakron caught the look and shifted away, trying not to look disgusted.

Meanwhile, Skittles was on her way again. She carried on an engaging conversation with Mickey as she wended her way down the many ominous, twisting, gothic halls in the Palace. She knew that she had an appointment with Roggie, and intended to visit him, but she felt like taking the scenic route to his chamber. She also knew that she was expected to travel with the others Alli had asked to speak with Roggie, but frankly all they seemed interested in doing was sitting around, looking at each other, and waiting for something to happen. Correction: looking at Lola. She found all this terribly boring, so struck out on her own and figured that the longer she wandered before finally turning up at Roggie’s door, the more likely the others would be there as well.

As fate would have it, soon she heard a quiet whimpering from a particularly dark and lonely corner, and pocketed Mickey to go investigate. She didn’t want to sully her new blade with blood, so she got out one of her trusty switchblades.

She found Pancake, that lady who had come to see Anakron, curled up in a tight little ball of misery on a bench underneath a pool table in a deserted billiard room, and so she hopped on top the table. Hanging herself upside down to get a good view of the pancake-lady, she said. “Hello there. Why so sad?”

“Oh go away,” the woman sniffled.

“Awww, whatsamatter, Pancake, hon? Why does the lady cry?”

“Panakeia,” she said between gulps, her upper lip stiffening slightly at the opportunity to correct someone. “My name is Panakeia.”

“What did the mean man say to you, eh?” Skittles cooed. “Nasty, mean Anakronism Conveyor. Want that I should hurt him? I make him sorry....”

“No, I should not like that,” said Panakeia, though Skittles thought she could detect the slightest bit of hesitation. “And please do not talk to me as if I am a baby. Really. I am old enough to be your mother, by the looks of you.”

Skittles affected a pout and made a clucking noise in her throat. “I wouldn’t hurt him much. Just enough to make him sorry.”

“No, thank you,” Panakeia said, firmly this time. She crawled out from under the pool table and straightened, fighting to regain a little dignity.

Skittles sighed. “So much for hell hathing no fury,” she muttered. “Okay, suit yourself.” She swung herself down from the table and shrugged. She sauntered out of the room, but paused in the doorway and inspected her fingernails, saying carelessly, “I could put itching powder in his trunk.”

“No,” Panakeia was unmovable. “If I want to put itching powder in his trunk I am quite capable of doing it myself, thank you.”

“Awright,” Skittles capitulated, and then decided to sprint down the hallway at full speed and see how far she could run up the wall before doing a backflip. She was quite pleased with the result.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron stood transfixed in the hallway, watching Panakeia disappear from view. Should I go after her? Don't be silly, you can do no such thing. Negotiations are underway, or soon will be, and you need to be here. What to do about Panakeia though? He sighed. Give her time. She'll come around. He did not believe himself.

He was aware of pairs of eyes from various onlookers in the hallway, as well as those in the room, all of whom had been listening to the whole thing. Anakron frowned in disgust as he thought of Lola watching it all in her wicked delight. Things had not started well at all.

He turned and entered the room again, willing the whole predicament to a corner of his mind to be dealt with later. He resumed his chair, noticing but not giving response to the stares of those in the room. He put up his legs in a fashionably Strideresque manner - the story was well known and the look quite becoming - threw his hood over his head, and stared balefully at the others, waiting for something - like Skittles - to happen.

He couldn't keep Panakeia out of his mind. What had that been all about? The canceled date, to be sure. Hadn't it? Surely it wasn't really about this Lola woman, and petty jealousies. Surely not! Not if Panakeia was the woman he knew her - well - believed her to be. Suddenly things were not nearly as clear as they had been. What in Mordor had it been about? His mind ran in circles as he watched the others.