[OOM: In dreams.]

[mnt_raph]

INT. TENT THAT DREAMS OF BEING A STUDIO APARTMENT
The scene opens on the interior of Raph's tent as it exists at present, the scene is a desolate one. The camera pans through the space, starting with the front door flap and moving counter-clockwise through the space. As it travels through the living room/sitting area there is a brief pause to take in the one shred of magic still left on the roof: the Raph-shaped clean spot that claims the left-most cushion of the couch. The tour continues over the breakfast bar and through the galley kitchen, before coming to a halt on the remnants of what was once a bed.

Suddenly the alarm clock on the bedside table sputters to life, and the moonlight which bathes the room is augmented by the blue blinking display. The camera pivots to take in the face of the clock which blinks the time: 1:22 am. When it pans back to the bed proper, the bed is not only whole but currently occupied as well. A shirtless Human RAPHAEL lays on his back, his eyes closed.

Comments

[mnt_raph]

RAPHAEL
I can't get to sleep, I think about the implications of diving in too deep, and possibly the complications.

He turns to look at his alarm clock, sighing.

RAPHAEL
Especially at night, I worry over situations. I know I'll be alright, perhaps it's just imagination

He's clearly not going to be getting anymore sleep this evening, so throws off the covers, sits up, and hangs his legs off the edge of the bed.

RAPHAEL
Day after day it reappears. Night after night my heartbeat shows the fear. Ghosts appear and fade away.

Disgusted, he stands and exits the room, disappearing down the hall and into bathroom, closing the door behind him.

[mnt_raph]

A few seconds later he emerges from the bathroom clad in black, carrying a tan trench coat and fedora combo. As the camera follows him as he makes his way from the hallway towards the front door, we see that the tent has been restored to its former lived-in and fully-functioning glory

RAPHAEL
Alone between the sheets only brings exasperation. It's time to walk the streets, smell the desperation

He swings open the flat

EXT. NEW YORK CITY ROOFTOP, NIGHT TIME
The scene opens with RAPHAEL emerging from the tent, with the camera quickly panning to show the brilliant New York City skyline. When it returns to RAPHAEL, the tent is gone, having been replaced by a roof mounted water tower. RAPHAEL looks out upon his beloved city, and basks in its glory.

RAPHAEL
At least there's pretty lights, though there's little variation. It nullifies the night from overkill.

RAPHAEL dons his fedora and trench coat.

RAPHAEL
Day after day it reappears. Night after night my heartbeat shows the fear. Ghosts appear and fade away. Come back another day

Apparently displeased by his current vantage point, RAPHAEL begins the process of scaling the water tower.

[mnt_raph]

EXT: THE APEX OF THE WATER TOWER, NIGHT
RAPHAEL reaches the top of the tower not as Human RAPHAEL, but as Turtle RAPHAEL. His arms reach towards the sky, as he sings to the city at large.

RAPHAEL
I can't get to sleep
I think about the implications,
Of diving in too deep
And possibly the complications,

Especially at night,
I worry over situations.
I know I'll be alright
It's just overkill.

Day after day it reappears
Night after night my heartbeat shows the fear
Ghosts appear and fade away.
Ghosts appear and fade away.
Ghosts appear and fade away.

RAPHAEL falls to his knees, defeated.
End scene.

[henry-jones-jr.livejournal.com]

"ICCCE COLD BEER! ICE COLD BEER! LAST CALL FOR ICE COLD BEER!"

The repetitious cry sounds out above the prevailing background noise—a calm multitudinous babble. It comes from a stout black man with a large red cooler strapped to his chest. He's standing off to the left, at the end of an aisle of seats. The aisle is one of hundreds that have been tiered together to form a huge open air stadium. Each one is lined with spectators of all genders and ages, the majority garbed in variations of white with black pinstripes. There's not an empty seat in the venue.

Overhead, a few wispy clouds edge their way across an azure sky, and the sun shines down with perfect warmth.

Below is an expanse of green, scarred at the nearside by the white and brown of a baseball diamond. More people in white with black pinstripes are arranged around it, tossing a ball to each other in an orderly but relaxed fashion. From the mound, the pitcher is hurling another ball across an unprotected home plate. The thud of that ball hitting the catcher's mitt can be heard in the highest terraces.

Ahead, an immense video scoreboard is showing a vapid commercial for a local Harley Davidson dealership. Beside that is the incoming team's batting lineup, and along the bottom is the zero-riddled box score of the seven innings that have already passed. A closer inspection of these JumboTron graphics reveals that the New York Yankees are playing host to the Boston Red Sox. Which possibly explains the sell-out crowd packed into The House That Ruth Built on this balmy summer afternoon.

Indy nudges Raph's arm. "Last call. You need another?"

[mnt_raph]

Raph doesn't budge. No he's too busy keeping an eye on the next section over. The one that's clearly just a tourist bus from Boston resting their tourist-legs in Raph's Stadium. He can tell they're tourists because only tourists are so self-important in their disrespect of the natives to wear what some of these chuckle-heads are wearing.

Raph has been keeping a close eye on the two "tough-guys" in the Yankees Suck t-shirts ever since Security made them turn them inside-out at the top of the fifth. Where they were just annoying to look at before, now they're annoying to be around at all. Someone is going to have to put them back into their place...

[henry-jones-jr.livejournal.com]

"Suit yourself."

Seemingly oblivious to Raph's enmity and to any violence that might be pending, Indy hails the beerman and passes an antique medallion down the row in exchange for a new brew. The form of payment looks just like the headpiece of the Staff of Ra, but he doesn't seem to notice that either. He just takes a pull from the plastic longneck when it arrives, and leans back with a contented sigh.

[3rdtimelucky.livejournal.com]

A river moves sluggishly below a grassy bank. The water is clear and inviting. Damselflies hover lazily around the reeds at the shoreline, the sunlight reflecting a myriad of color off their iridescent abdomens. A kingfisher swoops across the sparkling reach. Other birds twitter and chirp their bright conversations in the background.

It's an idyllic scene. But there's something not quite right about it.

There's nary a breath of wind. Sunbeams dapple the shady turf through a canopy of oak and beech leaves, but they don't move as time passes. In fact, other than the glinting flow of the river and the wildlife, nothing seems to move. And then there's the colors, they look too flat and pastoral, almost as if they've been painted onto a canvas backdrop. How odd. Even the flight paths of the damselflies seem oddly cyclical, like they are on some kind of animation loop. And now that you mention it, they look kind of cartoony. As did the kingfisher...

"Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay,
My, oh my, what a wonderful day."

It's spoken in a relaxed voice, not sung, which is something to be thankful for, since the voice belongs to Goldilocks. And she can't sing very well, even in dreams.

She looks real enough, barefoot and dressed in cut-off denim dungarees. There's no branch of physics that can explain why her breasts aren't spilling out of the top half of the garment, but somehow, they aren't. Completing the rustic ensemble is the tatty straw hat that is partially shading her face, and the seeded stalk of grass poking out of her mouth. She's reclining on a log, one leg crossed over the other at the knee, with a length of fishing line attached to the big toe of her airborne foot. There's a cheap-looking buoy float at the other end of the line, not really bobbing in the water as it should be.

"This is the life, eh, Brer Turtle?"

[mnt_raph]

"Sumpin' like that, yeah."

The turtle in the overalls with the red bandana tied 'round his neck doesn't seem to be enjoying the fishing nearly as much. He's trying to bait his hook, but the wriggling thing in his left hand is not so inclined to meet the pointy thing in his right.

[3rdtimelucky.livejournal.com]

Goldy glances over and rolls her eyes good-naturedly at the dismal baiting efforts.

"You're doing it all wrong."

With minimal disturbance to her repose, she beckons him over.

"Bring it here. Let me show you how it's done."

[stilljustandrew]

Nearly sunset, high above the City. Two figures lean against the railing of the observation deck at the top of the World Trade Center.

Golden light reflects gemlike off the Empire State building, highest of the forest of spires to the north, and gilds the waters of the two rivers to the east and west, and is thrown back like fire from the torch in the Lady's hand far below.

"This place has such a great view," says Andrew, a little wistfully.

[mnt_raph]

"Ain't a better one to be found anywhere."

Replies a Raph who is clearly not considering other entries into this particular competition.

[stilljustandrew]

"Yeah. Hey, gimme a hand with this, would you?"

Andrew's frowning in mild concentration, reaching out a hand toward the pair of pre-WWII biplanes dipping and zooming around the towers like mosquitoes.

The planes haven't gotten any smaller, nor his hand any larger, but he manages to grab one (it buzzes angrily in his hand) and set it down carefully on the other side of the river.

[the-woodpecker.livejournal.com]

The first sound is crashing surf, crying gulls. The clink of glasses fades in slowly, along with low, humming conversation.

It's hot. Tropical. Like a sauna, except saunas don't have breezes that carry the scent of hibiscus and roasting meat to your nose like a taunt. There's a party, but you're not invited.

But it's a luau. Everyone's invited.

Lahaina Beach sparkles in the sun. The Lahaina Broiler's nonexistent walls and nonexistent clocks tell its patrons that it's half past Happy Hour so drink up, the view's fine.

Tequila sloshes into two glasses, and Bernard lifts his, his black-on-black Hawaiian print buttondown catching the dim bar light. When he speaks, he slurs just a bit.

"You're a fuckin' asshole, did you know?"

[mnt_raph]

A lazy eyebrow goes up.

"Really. Next you're gonna try an' tell me the sky's freakin' blue. You gonna drink, or you gonna squawk some more? I won fair an' square, an' you know it."

Raph picks up the glass, and gestures with it for emphasis.

"This whole poor loser thing o' yours ain't ladylike....did you know?"

His impressions aren't anywhere near as impressive as his brother's.

[the-woodpecker.livejournal.com]

Bernard rolls his eyes and pours the tequila into his lazy crack of a grin. "You cheated. I saw it."

He'd been cheating, too. But he's not a ninja.

[timsbooks.livejournal.com]

And this is the point that a pale arm drapes over Raph from behind, a warm form snuggling up against him.

"Mhmm, you awake sweetie?"

[mnt_raph]

"nnnope. still sleeping. go away."

He responds in a voice that isn't quite his own, in the way that most voices aren't first thing in the morning.

[balletrat]

Raph!

*Meg heaves a sigh, arms crossed in front of her, one toe-shoe-clad foot tapping impatiently.*

Everyone else managed to make it on time -

*She glances over to the barre where the rest of the class are standing primly, stiff legs pointed perpendicular to their torsos.

There's a stifled titter from somebody.*

And s'il te plait don't give me that 'my elephant ate my tutu' excuse again, because I have heard it far too often, bien?

[mnt_raph]

That stilted titter, what ever the hell a titter is, gets a death glare from the direction of a very dance belted ninja.

Raph considers trying to explain his tardiness and lack of tutu when he catches sight of the toe-tapping Meg. Complaining now will only result in one thing: extra practice doing things he can barely pronounce and has little chance of ever being able to spell.

He snaps his mouth shut and shuffles over towards his position at the barre.

[lord-of-dreams.livejournal.com]

Nightmare and fire and the end of everything's everything and pale hands that are so far from being her hands that they can only belong to the being on the polar opposite of her regard and emotionless fields of stars that burn through him as though to say haven't you spent enough time shirking your life? and the colorless lips open,

"Wake up."

[the_lioness]

Legends have to begin somewhere.

It's Midsummer or thereabouts, and the apple orchards are heavy with blossoms. Humming, Alanna pauses to pull on a branch and bury her nose in a large white flower before leaving the trees behind and scampering up a small rise. At the top, she turns to look over the valley, noting the locations of castle, river and forest with the eyes of someone used to battle. But it's not the valley or village she is interested in today; something about the foothills seemingly calls her in this direction.

With a decisive nod, she makes her way down the hill and up the next, pushing forward, moving faster, and then-

There's a moment when the air seems to crackle as she looks down from a hilltop higher than most. It shouldn't be here; there's no record of such a place on any map. The meadow is lovely enough, and the stream swollen with the spring rains, but the nearby village had surely claimed the best spot for miles around. It doesn't make any sense, and yet here it is.

Another village. This one brighter and newer than most, with colors enough to rival a rainbow. Gaping, Alanna automatically checks the swords at her hip and back. Elements of this place seem familiar -- the clothes, the merchants, the drinking tents, the lists, and certainly the knights in armor -- but for all that familiarity, something feels just slightly wrong.

Straightening to her full height, Alanna crosses the remaining distance to this strange village with determined strides. She circles around the left, hesitant to take the main path, and is peering at strange writing on the back of a tent when a twig snaps behind her. In the blink of an eye, she draws her sword and spins.

And simply arches an eyebrow.

"Raph," she says with a wolfish grin. "We have to do something about those clothes."

[mnt_raph]

"Yeah...I'll frickin' say."

He stands there in what can only be described as Ren-Faire Troubadour garb. Yellow tights clash against purple and green pantaloons. And the gold brocade,...don't ask him about the gold brocade.

The long yellow feather in his plush velvet hat mocks the very core of his being.

[capt_angie]

The strong, spicy scent of incense fills the dimly lit room. The walls are painted deep red and the floor is covered in soft, oversized cusions. And sitting in a meditative postition in the centre of the room is Angelina, dressed in what looks suspiciously like the gold bikini that Princess Leia wears in Return of the Jedi. She opens an eye and looks directly at him.

"Raph, if you don't meditate then there's no way we're going to win this Quidditch match..."

[mnt_raph]

Raph is reclined against one of the cushions, reading a motorcycle magazine.

"You meditate your way. I'll meditate mine."

For some reason he's dressed as a jockey.

[mnt_raph]

Did you hear that?" He stops mid-step. A chill runs down his spine.

"Hmm? What's that?" Her voice is light and playful with just a smidgen of disappointment around the edges when he stops. Gently tugging at their interlocked arms, she attempts to pull him free of both his stationary position and his thoughts.

"It sounded like an animal, like a growl. Comin' from over there in the shadows.

"Well I didn't hear anything. Did you Angua?"

The dog by his side strains on the leash, giving voice to the whine the woman won't set free.

"Don't worry, we'll protect you."

Raph turns away from the snarling unknown. He doesn't need the light of the full moon over head to know his woman is smiling one of her you're being pretty again smiles, by this point he can just tell. Their dog play bows, tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth. Looking at them both the anxiety begins to melt and the fear that gave him pause abates.
That growl in the darkness? Long forgotten.

"Oh you will, will you?"

"Don't we always?"

"Sometimes I get the feeling that you two constantly have me out gunned and out flanked."

"Now where would you get such a crazy idea as that?"

He grins.
"No friggin' clue."

The walk continues. The New York skyline glows in the gold of a summer sunset.