evillurks: (Costume change)
On the seventh of January, in what is now 1992 in the Old Tiger's world, a gift shows up in Myra's home in New York. It's a fairly large box, neatly wrapped, and the less she ponders over that the better. On Christmas day a basket of teas and an elegant little dagger showed up, unmarked but too utterly familiar as a seasonal gift from him. This, so soon after, could make her suspect the sinister hand of someone else, but there is a small tag attached to the ribbon neatly marked with the characters Lăo hŭ.

Inside is a silk kimono robe, elegantly embroidered with a tiger. The very nature of the gift borders on daring a familiarity he is usually careful not to take with her, but it is an outer robe, at least. When she lifts it out there is also a small red envelope with a little money, of the sort usually given on one's birthday. It is not her birthday, of course, but on his centennial The Shadow has decided to take a somewhat backwards approach.
evillurks: (girasol ring)
There has been work for Myra in both worlds, over the past few years, but the older Shadow has been seen less by his agents, or at least by her, over the past year or two. Harry doesn't seem to have seen much of their chief, either, and the retreat might be a worrying one but the orders still come as usual, and there is still a relentless war on crime. Unseen and silent, The Shadow's hand shows in mobs gunned down unexpectedly and masters of crime meeting mysterious deaths. He's still hard at work, that much should be clear to his agents.

It's out of the blue, though, when Myra receives a PINpoint message in the very early hours of the morning. She may not even catch it until she wakes, and there seems to be no urgency. It's simply the address for the James Rettigue apartment, and '3:00PM'. It's from him, of course, without apology for a long absence of communication, nor any friendly social niceties such as asking how she's been. His mood and underlying motivations are impossible to guess.
evillurks: (writing)
A message is sent out to all city agents, via Burbank. Most will receive letters with the familiar vanishing ink. Myra and Ichi will also get the message by PINpoint text message, marked as from Burbank rather than The Shadow directly. Chaz Walters will have to make do with the more traditional paper method, but she at least should be familiar with the notice from previous years.

All agents be available on standby evening of October 30 for Devil's Night. Individual instructions may or may not follow.
evillurks: (profile)
The Shadow's gifts are sent out in the very early morning hours of Christmas day, by PINpoint. It is his last task after a long night of stalking the streets with Myra, averting a house robbery or two. He may have kept an agent working past midnight Christmas Eve, but this year no one can call him Scrooge (although they may blame Myra's player for the subject heading).

Courtney and her uncle Aloysius receive a nice tea chest with a selection of teas, and a book on the art of fighting with the Katana. It's never too early to learn a new weapon skill.

Victor receives a sumi-e painting set, with a proper ink block and brushes and a book on the art itself, and a bag of very good coffee beans.

Sarah Branigan receives a basket of baking supplies, a small assortment of teas, a bag of very good coffee, and a small jade sculpture of a rabbit. He has no idea what animals she likes, but he's more appreciative of her putting up with him on the medical front than he's willing to say aloud.

Metody receives a tiny knitted black stocking, appropriately sized for use as an ornament, and a very real human skull. Sometimes it's best not to ask, but The Shadow does have a collection of extremely odd trophies from his cases. Whoever the skull belonged to was dead some decades before The Shadow encountered his skull, at least.

Burbank and his assistant receive a huge fruit basket (so much of what they have to eat is whatever keeps well), and a stack of movies on videotape.

Ichi receives several bottles of sake and a warm, soft sweater, which he will find unexpectedly on the kitchen counter. Whether he's even aware there's a holiday seems debatable, so it may just be a pleasant surprise.

Harry, who knows his chief just well enough to anticipate the strange fit of generosity and beat him to the punch with a small gift earlier in the week, receives a mug full of subway tokens and money marked 'cab fare' to augment his more recently regained mobility, a few oranges, and a sweater.

Myra, who will likely sleep late after he's kept her up diverting burglars, will find a store-bought stocking on her couch. It contains a small can of mace, a plastic keychain that's meant to turn one's keys into a makeshift weapon against muggers and the like, extra ammunition for her Walther PPK, tea, and a small jade sculpture of a tiger. It's a strange assortment to be sure, but very clearly thought-out all the same.
evillurks: (cranston thoughtful)
The ordinarily spartan apartment is showing the signs of being inhabited by a man of limited mobility. It is not that The Shadow isn't capable of going up the hall to sleep in the bedroom, it's simply that he can't be bothered. Ever since leaving the Clinics, around the clock, his life has centered around the sofa and coffee table, and the kitchen. He is too fastidious not to put his dirty dishes in the sink, but papers have accumulated around his living room workstation until it forms a small disaster area. The PINpoint is central to the chaos, reading glasses tossed haphazardly beside it. Pens and pencils are scattered on the table and floor.

The Shadow himself is dressed in t-shirt and slacks, and looks comparatively put together apart from being sans shoes. He is attempting to gather the papers into some semblance of order as Myra arrives.
evillurks: (injured)
The recent hate crime is at last sufficient to break The Shadow's self-imposed physical restrictions. Although he knows the wound in his shoulder is very far from healed, he places the case above his physical well-being, assuming the work will be more tedious than strenuous, in any case. The police have no leads at all, as hate crimes are often committed by otherwise ordinary citizens. The neighbours are somewhat suspect, especially considering how late into the morning they reported it, but they are close-mouthed and fairly law-abiding community.
The Shadow is upon the scene the night after the crime, seeking any incriminating clues. What he finds takes the rest of the day's research to produce anything hopeful, but the next night he seeks out a teenage boy that has fallen under his suspicion. His approach is careful, but the boy reacts with first contempt, then fear at the questions that come from the very darkness around him.

When he runs, The Shadow does not hesitate to follow. The boy has a slight lead, but The Shadow's long strides carry him after easily, around a corner, dodging a dumpster, and vaulting over a low fence. He is nearly upon the boy at that move, but as he clears the fence his very breath seems to go very wrong within his chest. Rather than landing with soundless grace and catching the boy's clothes, he stumbles and fetches against the alley wall, gasping. As the footsteps vanish into the distance, The Shadow struggles for air and finds that breathing in feels like the worst thing he could possibly do. He fumbles for his PINpoint, pulls up the default coordinates for the Nexus Clinics, and pushes the button as he sinks to his knees.
evillurks: (profile)
PINpoint text message to Myra, early morning following visit to Cliff and Hawkeye.

Marsland and Hawkeye on level. Questions?
evillurks: (action)
((Following this.))

The elderly Shadow may seem, at times, to have mellowed. His social graces tend to vanish when it comes to work, however. Myra's PINpoint flashes a message around dawn, the day after their brief chat in the Nexus.

Scout mission successful. Report in as soon as available.

Whatever he has found, apparently he wants to discuss it. Urgently.
evillurks: (cranston thoughtful)
The appointment has been set for very early in the morning, a reminder that he keeps all hours, not just the late ones. The coordinates he's sent Myra land her somewhere that the very first and overwhelming impression is one of fog. In her day and age, only a daring pilot would dream of taking off in it, but this is a modern airport with a very small, if often unmanned control tower, from which it's already clear this is simply a low-lying and temporary blanket of mist that will burn off quickly once the sun is truly up. Already a watery light is filtering through.
The building at her back is a shabby hangar, and is no different from any she's seen in her own time, if just a little more weathered. On a private airfield, not much changes but the planes.

The Shadow, dressed in a button-down shirt, light jacket, and jeans, is holding two thermoses. It should be easy to guess the contents, but he looks fairly alert already. "Morning." He has either slept a little better, or is simply covering for it well. Possibly there is some combination of the two.
evillurks: (writing)
((Reposted/archived from Dear Multiverse on LiveJournal.))

A brown haired, brown eyed woman that looked to be in her late 20s walks into the main room with a perplexed look on her face and a small electronic device in the other that looks completely out of place with her era of outfit. She’s dressed from the 1930s in a light green dress with a purse slung over her shoulder. Her head is doffed with a small hat and she appears rather...touristy would be the best description. She’s trying to hide the fact that she’s no clue how she’s appeared here but as she looks up at the sign in the room the wheels behind her nearly-black eyes start to turn. The air of a lost tourist suddenly seems to fade as she regains her confidence. Myra is used to new and unexpected situations, she’s decided to treat this one just like the others, though, she has no clue where she is or how she got here. Not to mention she’s completely embarrassed for looking like a tourist. Had she known that this mission would drop her in the middle of, wherever this was, she would have picked something less garish. Holding up the small device she gives a quick glance at the strange conglomeration of characters. Anyone who looks up and cares to notice, recognizes the device and the sequence of numerals that are displayed on the front. They are coordinates for the Nexus.

“Why would anyone leave something like this sitting on a counter in an antique shop?”
Read more... )


evillurks: (Default)

January 2016



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