The Editor

Meme, 'Cause It's a Meme Ev'rybody's Doin' It

2008-09-15T01:44:59Z

Pass a Secret Note ✘ Meme

OOC: Another Meme~

2008-09-05T03:34:33Z

Snagged from not_from_mars.

Yes, so, again, not yet participated much in the RP Who community at large, but what the hell. Comments screened, anonymous on, etcetera and so-forth!

So, I don't know anyone who doesn't feel like they aren't getting enough feedback. So... let's give some. What do you like about my pup? What do you think could be improved? What things about them do you not understand that you'd like elaborated on?

Dreaming in Paradisa

2008-08-31T01:27:10Z

Canon: paradisa!verse.
Prompt: There's a plot just starting up in Paradisa that has characters' dreams becoming real/physical and visitable by other characters. I wrote the Editor's up, and it kinda went into ficlet territory. So here it is. This is the 'verse where he lived through the Jagrafess explosion and got killed by Daleks doing clean-up on the Satellite. The backstory hints, here, though, are all consistent with the canon I have in my head for him in any 'verse.
Characters: 376

It begins in the White House, Washington, DC. Except this isn't your modern DC. The White House itself is beaten, weathered, worn, its interior showing the signs of thousands of years of repairs, renovations, reconstructions, and redecorations. In places, the ceiling's fallen away—outside, you see a sky of sheet metal, ice crazing across its surface, snow falling from no visible source. Snowdrifts build in the corners, icicles hang from doorways, and snow dances across the floors in a cold, sourceless breeze.

Outside—and you'll eventually find your way outside, even if the path you take makes no sense--that's how dreams are—the landscape is modern D.C.-meets-future-dystopia. Very Blade Runner, some areas worn-down and dirty, some rich and bright and soullessly new. The metal sky hovers over everything, and the snow and the ice and the cold.

More importantly, people are dying. Everywhere. Human beings run screaming through the streets, rioting, crushing hordes of them. They're being shot and killed by green bolts of light—when they're struck, they scream, skeletons visible for a second like some X-ray-vision gag, and fall to the ground. Dead, steaming, melting the snow they fall in.

The shooters are Daleks—tin metal things like giant possessed saltshakers. Some of the time. Some of the time, they're the Ninth Doctor—a man with short, dark hair; a many-creased, crazy-wide grin, wearing a kind of leather jacket. Some of the time, they're other people, many people, including the Editor himself. Harsh mechanical voices yell "EX-TER-MI-NATE, EX-TER-MI-NATE" over and over, though the source seems to be the sky, not the Daleks.

You can fight your way through the riot, visit the wrecked ruins of the Jurisdistrict (Washington, DC's name in the year 200,000), try to help people. But wherever you go, the voices will be there. And the cold.

And every once in a while, you'll see three people in the crowd—a man, a woman, and a young boy, clinging to each other, yelling for help. They're well-dressed, wealthy-looking, and helpless in the way wealthy people become, in chaos. They look at you, and they yell. "Jordy! Is that you, Jordy? Come here! Jordaniel, come here! Help us!"

You can never get to them in time.

Director's Commentary Meme -- Spark

2008-08-30T04:20:49Z

As per savagestime's request! So, this was me going, I haven't written narrative for a character in ages, why am I suddenly wanting to write narrative for the Editor, let alone RP him? How do I go about filling in the holes in the cardboard character that the actual canon established, and make a real character--the character that I apparently want to play/write, that feels like it's there under the silly melodrama bit--out of this fellow, while at the same time incorporating the canon, not contradicting it?

But I needed to write to get a better handle on his voice, and I didn't want to start too far back in his timeline. No "when the Editor was a boy, back on Earth." That's putting the cart before the horse. Start recent, start close to canon. What was he doing for all those years before the Doctor showed up and things went to hell?

He was alone, and he was cold, and he had to take pleasure in the small things, was what I decided. Small things, like the look on someone's face when he shows them Max, or a moment of (literal) warmth in the cold.

And justprompts had a photo of someone smoking in a dark room, that little orange spark against cold blue--so I thought, hey. There's the heat. Write to that.

Max made such a wonderful distraction. One look up, and the recalcitrant party—the field agent who had learned too much, the broadcaster who had developed too much initiative, whichever run-of-the-mill little rebel it happened to be that day—froze. Froze, gaping, at good old ugly, growling, toothy Max, while the Editor quietly shut down his or her brain. The touch of a button, the subvocalization of a short code word, and the conscious mind guttered, extinguished, only the chip left in control. I used 'guttered' and 'extinguished' because they say 'fire'/'heat' to me It was so quick. So clean.

So cold. More of the theme--here's the Editor, the man with the freezing Midas touch. I also made him directly responsible for the deaths, but in a nice tidy no-pain-no-hands-dirty way. How the victims are 'killed' isn't shown in the episode, and I didn't want the Editor off the hook--he does the killing, not Max.

The Editor paced around the newest termination. A young man, this time—Walrence Penderson, I love making names up. I almost wanted to go write something about Walrence after this. the computer system named him. Managed to fight company mind control just enough to put two and two together and let his testosterone and righteous rabble-rousing get him invited up to Floor 500. The Editor has a really healthy disdain for impulse and recklessness. Yes, Doctor, that means he won't like you *at all.*

The gun came away easily from Penderson’s unresisting hand, and the Editor tossed it into a pile in the far corner of the control room. Let it rot there, metal and plastic snapping as the ice of the place got into its seams and expanded, cracking it into uselessness. The snow would cover it over, soon, freeze it into a solid block with all of the other weapons the Editor had collected over the years. See all the cold? Wearing things down, cracking them apart, destroying things but in this genteel blue kind of way. Nothing personal. Also, really, if he's been killing rebels and malcontents for 90-ish years, he ought to have a kick-ass collection of weapons in his control room. And here it is. He throws them away, because he *doesn't need* them. This is his place, he's in complete control.

Hm. Nice coat. Very retro. Long, belted, tan. Dramatic sweep to it. Oh, look. More of my choppy pseudo-sentences >_> And my LOVE OF LONG COATS. You know how much I like Ten's coat? A LOT. A LOT x another lot. But this coat isn't Ten-ish. It's more Sam Spade-y. Or maybe it is like Ten's coat. Hee. I could write something about that. It matched the rest of Walrence’s carefully-cultivated neo-noir image. The five-o’-clock shadow, the beyond-antique hat—what were they called, fedoras? Noir is awesome. I loves me some noir. And for the final touch…

The Editor smiled. Oh, fads, these days. He knew them all, followed them all—had, in fact, helped establish many of them, from here at the top of Satellite Five. He probably reintroduced hula hoops. And Hello Kitty. Which makes him really officially unabashedly evil. Anything to keep humanity’s mind off real issues, real progress.

But this one. Of all the things to make a comeback. And here I go, not saying what it is. Building up to it. What could it possibly be? Mirrored sunglasses? Beauty marks? What?

He plucked the cigarette from Walrence’s slack lips, admiring the glow of its slow burning, the curl of smoke rising into the chill air. And here's the cigarette! The little bit of warm in the cold.

“Don’t mind if I do, Walrence, old chap, don’t mind if I do.” My Editor tends to be a bit more literate-formal snarky than the canon version. I'm working on correcting this, in RP, but it seems appropriate here. He's being all facetious and good-old-boy-y. He took a long draw, felt the heat spread out through his lungs like blood in water. He's a shark! Well, yes, he kind of is. I like the simile, though. Savored it. Exhaled, and watched the gray tendrils rise to meet Max. Warmth is a novelty to the Editor. Very nostalgic, a luxury. This cigarette is like a little glass of liqueur--an indulgence.

“Come on, let’s find you a place at the table.” This line's to show how off-hand he is about this whole business. The killing folks, it's kinda fun, breaks up the day's business, you get over with it, you move along. Taking Walrence by one shoulder, he steered the brain-dead man over to the control console. “And don’t mind the smoke, Max.” The Editor grinned, took another deep draw on the cigarette, and pushed Walrence, skin already bluing with the cold, I mention Walrence going cold to connect, again, to how he's been 'extinguished' by the Editor. down into a chair. “I think I just put out the fire.”

And there it is, the Editor enjoying his sharky moment of proving how in *control* he is and of 'putting out' a human life. He stole the man's fire, metaphorically and literally. Most of his days, nothing happens, nothing really different. The killing days are landmarks. They provide some 'spark,' as it were. Hence the title--'spark' of life, sparks from the cigarette, etc.

And that's about it! I wrote this in...hrm, a written draft, typed it up, and then made revisions. An evening, I think. Now I need to write one of his dull days, I suppose >_> Though, really, I'm more interested in his far past, his early days on the Satellite, and his many possible futures. Which will doubtless show up on this here journal later!

OOC: Irrelevant Meme is Go!

2008-08-29T17:03:36Z

Request any fic of mine and I will provide you with a commentary/annotations, like a DVD extra.

Alright, so, being new and having only written two pieces (neither of which I'm exactly shot in the arm with yet :\ ), this meme isn't really relevant to me. Still! If you want info on either of 'em, go for it. Or you can ask me questions about this here pup and the thought process behind him in general, suggest things that might be fun for fic later, ANYTHING. Yep. I like to talk~

Paradisa Private Journal Entry #1

2008-08-29T05:28:47Z

Writing thoughts down is a liability—I've always known that, even back when I was a boy. If you write something down, other people can find it. They can connect you with it. Place blame, suss out secrets.

So why am I writing this down now?

I can't say. Maybe it's this place. It seems to thrive on communication, written and otherwise. This glorious benign anarchy everyone keeps telling me exists, all tied together by...small talk. Yammering, chattering, anyone's business everyone's business.

My business has always been my business. Even when I'm working for someone else—especially then—my council is my own.

Except, now I don't have any business, do I? I don't like seeing that out on the page, black and white, but it's true. This is a castle full of castaways, and if there's any organization here, it's cliques and liaisons. Nothing large enough to require management expertise. The only one I've spoken to who hints at any ambition is that Princess, Azula. I may follow up that lead, but not yet. I need more information.

Also.

How long? How long were the Daleks in my head? I was so careful. I knew what I was signing up for, I knew that the Powers That Be would try that trick, and I thought I'd defended myself against it. I thought. But whose thoughts were those thoughts? Mine, or theirs? When did they get in?

The first few deaths, those were mine, I know those were mine. I made those decisions. I remember making them, I remember the process, it made sense, and it still makes sense.

All of the other terminations followed the same logic. They were mine, too. I think. Even if they weren't, there was nothing wrong with the thought process that led to them.

But this "keep the human race from existing" idiocy? Where was I? Where was my mind? How, exactly, did I think not existing was a good idea? And why didn't I notice how stupid I was being?

The Doctor certainly noticed. And, yes, he would be here, too, wouldn't he? Bloody damned three of him.

I'm dead, the Satellite's dead, I've been brain dead for maybe close to a century. I want my life back.

((OOC: ACK! O_O ))

2008-08-27T15:05:01Z

Somebody's been logged onto this account that *wasn't me.* I think I must have left it logged on at work, and somebody came in and made my default icon...a blonde chick with eyeliner? WTF?

Anyway, if there's been any odd activity on here, that's what's up. That'll teach me to RP in my off-moments at work, I guess. But, geez, who'd screw around in someone else's RP LJ?

So. Paranoid now! @_@ My pup! My other pups! I don't want people misrepresentin' me, yo. Creeped out, and changing passwords.

Slogan Meme

2008-08-26T03:25:38Z

Snatched from not_from_mars.

It Takes A Tough Man To Make A Tender Jagrafess.

Generated by the Advertising Slogan Generator. Get more Jagrafess slogans.

Death and the Doctor Their Due

2008-08-25T05:48:17Z

Canon: paradisa!verse -- this is what happened right before the Editor ended up in Paradisa. Expect an alternate version for non-Paradisa-AU hijinks soon.
Prompt: oncoming_storms, Enemy at the Gate
Characters: 683

Today is the day he cheated death, clawing his way out from the scorched flesh of his former client. Standing in his control room, dark-blue suit stained purple by Max’s gore (it had already been too late to care about appearances, even then), he had been, for brief seconds, startled to be alive. Not grateful—for grateful you needed to believe in some kind of benefactor, and he never had. Only surprised, and pleased. Things had worked out for him, as they always did.

The one functioning display screen, when he’d gone to look, had shown him Cathica—Cathica the traitor, the shortsighted—Cathica, convert to the Doctor and his blind idealism. She was yelling to the panicking staffers of Satellite Five, railing at them to calm down, calm down, settle, settle, it was alright, she would tell them what was going on, what had happened, who they’d really been working for all along. He’d watched them begin to listen. Oh, Doctor, he’d thought, wouldn’t you be proud. Another Rose Tyler, another pretty little girl rising to the occasion, playing hero. They mold so easily.

He’d left the control room for only a few minutes, ransacking his private quarters for the few items he needed to make good his escape. It had all fit neatly into one bag—a very old bag. How many years had it been since he’d had to travel on business?

On the way back out to the elevator, he’d ducked into the control room for the last time, to make sure the route down to his private shuttle was clear. He’d had these escape plans worked out for years, secret from the Jagrafess and his banker clients; it wouldn’t do to muff it all now by walking headfirst into Cathica and an angry mob.

But, on the screen, Cathica was nowhere in sight, and the mob wasn’t angry. It was panicking. Worse than before. Screaming, shouting, long drawn-out wails and terrified shouted unanswered questions, as it roiled and crawled, fighting backwards, away from the other things on the screen. The things that weren’t human.

No one in the crowd knew what the things were. But the Editor knew—thanks to the Doctor. They were there, in the memories he’d stolen from the Doctor’s boy, Adam. One of them was there.

The people on the screen died. Skeletons arced backwards in green spasms of light, became people again—the bodies of men and women, crumpling to the deck, lifeless. The Editor flipped through the security feeds and found them on every floor, every level of the satellite except the very last, highest floors—the invaders killing and the people—the human beings—helpless. Dying.

They died uncomprehending. But the Editor watched, understanding, putting the pieces together, realizing who it was he’d been working for, all of these decades. Who—what—he’d represented.

Realizing he had no way out. They were almost here. The managers were on-site, shredding the documents, wiping the records, covering their tracks; they were protecting their interests. They were coming, up the elevator shaft, and there was no way out.

When they blew through the elevator doors in a shower of sparks, blue eyestalks swiveling to scan the room, he was waiting for them.

“Jordaniel Gyre, editor for Satellite Five since 199,913. A pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

“WE ARE THE DALEKS. WE DO NOT FEEL PLEASURE."

“It’s all mine, then. Now, there was this man, here, the--”

“THIS FACILITY MUST BE PURGED.”

“I agree completely. It’s the only thing to be done. This Doc--"

“EX-TER-MI-NATE.”

“No, listen, it was him! The Doctor--!"

But it was the last day—and it was too late. Far too late to cheat—and far, far too late to win.

Spark

2008-08-21T05:57:51Z

Definitely in beta. Still needs an arc.
Words: 400+
Prompt: justprompts, cigarette photo

Max made such a wonderful distraction. One look up, and the recalcitrant party—the field agent who had learned too much, the broadcaster who had developed too much initiative, whichever run-of-the-mill little rebel it happened to be that day—froze. Froze, gaping, at good old ugly, growling, toothy Max, while the Editor quietly shut down his or her brain. The touch of a button, the subvocalization of a short code word, and the conscious mind guttered, extinguished, only the chip left in control. It was so quick. So clean.

So cold.

The Editor paced around the newest termination. A young man, this time—Walrence Penderson, the computer system named him. Managed to fight company mind control just enough to put two and two together and let his testosterone and righteous rabble-rousing get him invited up to Floor 500.

The gun came away easily from Penderson’s unresisting hand, and the Editor tossed it into a pile in the far corner of the control room. Let it rot there, metal and plastic snapping as the ice of the place got into its seams and expanded, cracking it into uselessness. The snow would cover it over, soon, freeze it into a solid block with all of the other weapons the Editor had collected over the years.

Hm. Nice coat. Very retro. Long, belted, tan. Dramatic sweep to it. It matched the rest of Walrence’s carefully-cultivated neo-noir image. The five-o’-clock shadow, the beyond-antique hat—what were they called, fedoras? And for the final touch…

The Editor smiled. Oh, fads, these days. He knew them all, followed them all—had, in fact, helped establish many of them, from here at the top of Satellite Five. Anything to keep humanity’s mind off real issues, real progress.

But this one. Of all the things to make a comeback.

He plucked the cigarette from Walrence’s slack lips, admiring the glow of its slow burning, the curl of smoke rising into the chill air.

“Don’t mind if I do, Walrence, old chap, don’t mind if I do.” He took a long draw, felt the heat spread out through his lungs like blood in water. Savored it. Exhaled, and watched the gray tendrils rise to meet Max.

“Come on, let’s find you a place at the table.” Taking Walrence by one shoulder, he steered the brain-dead man over to the control console. “And don’t mind the smoke, Max.” The Editor grinned, took another deep draw on the cigarette, and pushed Walrence, skin already bluing with the cold, down into a chair. “I think I just put out the fire.”

((OOC: Five Things Meme/Prompt Thingie))

2008-08-17T03:13:30Z

I'm not usually a prompt-responder, but, what the hell. This is a new pup, and I don't have a handle on him yet. Perhaps this'll help out.

(Also! I appear to have picked up some Masters that I don't *think* I've threaded with. Hello! I'm assuming folks have seen the pup over at sixwordstories?)

Stolen from dameluckypants.

1. He's not aiming for the top, but he's not just a henchman. So far, characters encountering the Editor tend to assume he's either one or the other—a stereotypical Ambitious Villain/Megalomaniac bent on world domination and the acquisition of Ultimate Power or a minor henchman, a mindless extension of whatever Real Villain he might be serving. The truth lies somewhere between these extremes, as truth often does. In "The Long Game," the Editor's almost at the top of the power chain—he, for practical purposes, controls Satellite Five and manages the day-to-day administration of the facility; only Max and the banks he mentions representing stand over him. Now, were he the Megalomaniac type, he could probably deep-six Max at any time and take over full operations of the satellite; were he the total Henchman, he wouldn't have had the canniness and dedication needed to reach the position he's in in the first place, and he wouldn't be so interested in the Doctor and the TARDIS. The Editor may not know Shakespeare, but he's perfectly aware that "heavy hangs the head that wears the crown," and—to make another dramatic analogy—like Creon to Oedipus, he's more than happy to take the benefits that come with being Penultimate while dodging the death threats and responsibilities that being Ultimate saddles you with. The top position's not for him; he prefers a steady, predictable kind of boss who will delegate power to him and let him work things his own way. Power does call his name; but he likes his power long-term and subtle, rather than short-term, spectacular, and probably life-threatening.

2. Work is his number one. He's not in it for the money (though money's nice). He's...well, yes, he's in it for the power. Doing meaningless, rote work, that's for the real lackeys and henchman, the small-minded paper-pushers. Really, though, he's in it for the work. Years ago, he had a personal life, like any other human being; but he's long since given it up. Relationships only leach energy and attention away from work; and what satisfaction can anyone get from other people in the end? None. You can never understand other people and they can never understand you. They're selfish, grasping, needy. When they ask you to stay, they really mean 'don't change'; when they wish you luck, they only mean it so long as your luck doesn't exceed theirs. They cannot be relied on. Work, on the other hand, can be understood. It can be relied on. The skills you develop in good work, you can take with you anywhere. Careers can proceed. There are levels that you can move up through, doors to be opened, secrets to be learned. Yes, people have tried to tell him this is true of relationships, too, of people—but that's a bunch of idealistic nonsense. Standing (near) the top of a perfect system, exercising power over an entire planet without them even knowing, being in on the ebb and flow of all of the information in the human-known universe, and having gotten there himself—that's good. In the cold, alone, for decades, he's worked—and it's never bothered him. It's where he wants to be.

3. He's a pragmatist. In the same way that he doesn't (or at least, hasn't, for many decades) get attached to people, he doesn't get attached to projects. He's not sentimental. He may have worked for 90 or so years on Satellite Five, but he's more than happy to abandon it (and Max) when things look to be going tits-up. Satellite Five isn't the only place he could be the Editor, and he knows that. He won't run off from something at the first sign of trouble, but he'll always leave a sinking ship. It's a big universe, and there are other employers out there. Sorry, Max. For the same reason, he's morally flexible. Contrary to what Doctors, Roses, and others might at first think, he'd be more than happy to do "good" work—as long as the power and appeal of the position were as great as that of the "bad" work he's done before. It's a matter of weighing offers. If being "good" gets him in the door, sure, what the hell? He can always resign if his employers start expecting actual altruism from him. Oh, and revenge? No, thank you—what a waste of energy and time.

4. He has a past. One-episode characters (particularly villains/henchmen) get the short end of the stick, in TV shows; but, well, he has to have come from somewhere. He had a life on Earth once, he had ladders of bureaucracy to climb to get to the Editorship, he had years of chilly work as the Editor—hell, he even had a name. Has/had a family, too. Something had to make him the way he is; and that something, and any new experiences he has, can make him something else, too. He has to be written/played with the awareness of his having a full backstory; and a balance needs to be struck between keeping him to canon ("in character," as it were) and letting him change in response to new circumstances. In "The Long Game," he was largely a cardboard villain; fleshed-out beyond the episode, he can be a little bit more. It's a balancing act between "mwa-ha-ha-EVIL" and "I iz a real boy, look at my Issues and PITY." I'm going to have to work that one out.

5. He's a little goofy. The bit I have the hardest part with, so far. He mucks about with people, quips, has some fun with his work—he's played by Simon Pegg, for goodness' sake, he's not some kind of sci-fi Hannibal Lecter. If he were given a Koosh ball, he would play with it. He's not always cool, calculating, and on top of things—he'll get flustered, angry, bamboozled, facetious, tired, wrong-footed, maybe even doubt himself from time to time. Again, I have to watch this bit—while it's important to give him some range, I don't want him instantly going fuzzy bunnies, either. Nor do I want to always take him too seriously.

((Just for Fun))

2008-08-13T05:43:47Z

Why no facial hair, Tektek? C'mon!