Common Experiment #0507
Riddle Tongue
owner:
gallowsIt is hereby declared, by order of the Wizard, that the fugitive known as Riddle Tongue is wanted for crimes of heresy. The suspect is of average height and build, with notable scarring along his scalp, and was last seen heading west along the Yellow Road. Citizens be warned, suspect is extremely unstable. Do not approach. May be accompanied by others, including the war criminal Bellicose (alias "Silver Soldier"). Both men are thought to be armed and dangerous. Anyone caught sheltering or providing aid to enemies of the Emerald City will be arrested and tried for crimes against the Wizard.
If you or anyone you know has information on the above suspect or associates, please contact the Captain-General, Royal Army of Oz, or your local authorities.
wanted alive
for defamation of the wizard & treason
(prophesied the coming of Dorothy Gale)
Drip drip went the rain. Tick tick went his heart.
Overhead, a slice of light tore open the clouds, illuminating the sky and flashing a photo negative of the building tops. As the sun sank fully, the lone search beam was joined by others, until all across the city they cast their gaze.
Soon after, the curfew sirens began.
Tucked against the wall of an alleyway, a figure waited for the last tongues of daylight to vanish behind barbed wire. He was unperturbed by the rain, slowed to a drizzle, and the cold that came with it.
Tick -
One by one the street lamps ignited, dirty globes of yellow that cast shadows like funeral palls. Bellicose took advantage of them, sinking deeper into their folds as the patrols passed by.
The clouds continued to weep.
---
They found him before midnight, loitering by a darkened shop front.
"Citizen of Oz, please return to your residence. You are in violation of curfew. I repeat, please return to your residence."
Castor stared nervously at the loudspeaker mounted to a post, and let his fingernails fist into his palm. Beneath his feet, street gravel crunched with his shifting, tension coiling in his legs.
"Citizen of Oz, I repeat, you are in violation of curfew. Please return to your residence."
His stomach knotted and his brow grew damp. With more strength of will than he thought was possible, the nervous male turned to face the camera serving as the city's eye.
"No."
A pause, its silence only broken by the whir of a lens.
"Understood."
The telltale squeak of wheels, vicious and fast, erupted like gunfire around the corner.
Castor ran.
--- Caw.
He perched on the ledge of a rooftop, a sentient gargoyle not unlike like the crow perched on his shoulder. Behind him, the remains of a security camera sparked, glittering in shards of what had once been a search light.
The stranger smiled, reaching his fingers into dark wings, and plucked forth a long feather. He spun it before his face, shooing away the outraged bird, before allowing a gust of wind to sweep the shiny token out over city. Down, down it spiraled, above the unaware heads of pacing guards and whizzing bots.
Caw.
He stood, scattering his murder, and beneath the wail of a curfew siren, stepped off the edge.
---
They slunk into the alley after him, their distorted silhouettes thrown into relief against the dirty brick. Masters of the hunt, they toyed with their prey, eerie laughter nipping at his heels while their hunched forms lazed behind.
Castor quickened his pace, his feet guiding him blindly when his brain froze, and heard his life stall on the blood rusted turn of a wheel.
"Where are you going, bleeder!" Came the shrill titter.
"Get back here."
Behind him, metal whined in its sockets, while before him, the alleyway ended in a wall.
Chattered amusement raked down his spine, and all at once the prowling monsters were done playing. The Wheelers crowded around him, slinking near with catlike finesse and timorous thrill. Castor pressed himself against the condemning brick, cornered.
"Order in the court, order in the court!" Cried his hunters. They paced in half circles, eager and gleeful, and watched like children as Castor shrank in on himself.
"Do we have a verdict?!" Called one.
"We do, we do!" Replied the others. They were a blur of color, swooping about on four wheels, with leers carved in silver and eyes that burned bright.
"And how do we find our defendant?" Mused the judge, and turned with bare faced excitement to where Castor stood in statuesque fear.
"Guilty!"
"Excellent! And his punishment?" In mock consideration, three of them gathered in loud whispers and bent heads. After a moment, they separated in a burst of motion and excited shouting.
"Dead, death! Death to the bleeder!"
Teeth too large for its mouth bared as lips pulled back, a slow blood thirst shaped like sickle white spreading across their leader's face.
"Death to the bleeder." He confirmed.
An eruption of laughter swelled in the alley as the guards pranced in anticipation.
"Who first, who first!"
"Let the bleeder pick."
"Pick, pick!"
"What say you, bleeder?" Queried the butcher, "Who first?"
Castor swallowed, tasting bile, and swung his gaze around the four Wheelers panting for his death. "I-"
"Do you know," came a sudden drawl, cutting through the clamor, "what I hate most about Wheelers?"
"Who's there!"
"Is it their smell?" Answered a playful second, somewhere above their heads. Soft laughter colored the air as the surprised quartet scrambled to find the source of the new voices.
"No."
He pulled away from the building, a figure cut from the fabric of shadows, and let the mouth of alley serve as his backdrop. Legs braced wide, Bellicose contemplated his foes, his ax seated across his shoulders. In the dip of his shirt, the thick scar of battles once lost gleamed, bisecting the cavity where once his heart sat.
"It's how much they run their mouths."
"The Silver Soldier,." Hissed one.
"Traitor! Traitor!" cried the others.
Hysterics erupted, carved faces spinning and wheels grinding.
"Kill him!Kill him!"
"Nah," Interjected the voice from above again, scattering foe as he jumped from his perch to land amongst them. The new comer smiled, the sledgehammer a familiar shape in his hands, and cocked head to the side. Along his scalp, the scar was a devil's grin of pink, more battles lost and casualties taken.
"It's definitely their smell."
"Riddle Tongue!" shrieked one.
"Heretic!" cried another.
Hysterics erupted again, the loud grind of wheels nearly frantic.
Abruptly, with little fanfare, the six figures lunged towards each other.
Overhead, the Scarecrow's murder danced a riot.
---
"And how do we find our defendant?" Riddle Tongue echoed at last, when all that remained was gasoline blood and gore. Voice soft and fingers hard, he crouched beside the remaining Wheeler, fisting its hair with a grin too wide and eyes too flat. With a vicious snap of his wrist, he pulled the Wheeler's head back, stretching out its neck.
Standing before them, Bellicose stared at the broken thing so bent on terrorizing their city. He looked on its flattened, discolored face, and the fear plastered there.
Tick, tick.
"Guilty," Sentenced the Tinman, and buried his ax in the bared throat.
next
Overhead, a slice of light tore open the clouds, illuminating the sky and flashing a photo negative of the building tops. As the sun sank fully, the lone search beam was joined by others, until all across the city they cast their gaze.
Soon after, the curfew sirens began.
Tucked against the wall of an alleyway, a figure waited for the last tongues of daylight to vanish behind barbed wire. He was unperturbed by the rain, slowed to a drizzle, and the cold that came with it.
Tick -
One by one the street lamps ignited, dirty globes of yellow that cast shadows like funeral palls. Bellicose took advantage of them, sinking deeper into their folds as the patrols passed by.
The clouds continued to weep.
They found him before midnight, loitering by a darkened shop front.
"Citizen of Oz, please return to your residence. You are in violation of curfew. I repeat, please return to your residence."
Castor stared nervously at the loudspeaker mounted to a post, and let his fingernails fist into his palm. Beneath his feet, street gravel crunched with his shifting, tension coiling in his legs.
"Citizen of Oz, I repeat, you are in violation of curfew. Please return to your residence."
His stomach knotted and his brow grew damp. With more strength of will than he thought was possible, the nervous male turned to face the camera serving as the city's eye.
"No."
A pause, its silence only broken by the whir of a lens.
"Understood."
The telltale squeak of wheels, vicious and fast, erupted like gunfire around the corner.
Castor ran.
He perched on the ledge of a rooftop, a sentient gargoyle not unlike like the crow perched on his shoulder. Behind him, the remains of a security camera sparked, glittering in shards of what had once been a search light.
The stranger smiled, reaching his fingers into dark wings, and plucked forth a long feather. He spun it before his face, shooing away the outraged bird, before allowing a gust of wind to sweep the shiny token out over city. Down, down it spiraled, above the unaware heads of pacing guards and whizzing bots.
Caw.
He stood, scattering his murder, and beneath the wail of a curfew siren, stepped off the edge.
They slunk into the alley after him, their distorted silhouettes thrown into relief against the dirty brick. Masters of the hunt, they toyed with their prey, eerie laughter nipping at his heels while their hunched forms lazed behind.
Castor quickened his pace, his feet guiding him blindly when his brain froze, and heard his life stall on the blood rusted turn of a wheel.
"Where are you going, bleeder!" Came the shrill titter.
"Get back here."
Behind him, metal whined in its sockets, while before him, the alleyway ended in a wall.
Chattered amusement raked down his spine, and all at once the prowling monsters were done playing. The Wheelers crowded around him, slinking near with catlike finesse and timorous thrill. Castor pressed himself against the condemning brick, cornered.
"Order in the court, order in the court!" Cried his hunters. They paced in half circles, eager and gleeful, and watched like children as Castor shrank in on himself.
"Do we have a verdict?!" Called one.
"We do, we do!" Replied the others. They were a blur of color, swooping about on four wheels, with leers carved in silver and eyes that burned bright.
"And how do we find our defendant?" Mused the judge, and turned with bare faced excitement to where Castor stood in statuesque fear.
"Guilty!"
"Excellent! And his punishment?" In mock consideration, three of them gathered in loud whispers and bent heads. After a moment, they separated in a burst of motion and excited shouting.
"Dead, death! Death to the bleeder!"
Teeth too large for its mouth bared as lips pulled back, a slow blood thirst shaped like sickle white spreading across their leader's face.
"Death to the bleeder." He confirmed.
An eruption of laughter swelled in the alley as the guards pranced in anticipation.
"Who first, who first!"
"Let the bleeder pick."
"Pick, pick!"
"What say you, bleeder?" Queried the butcher, "Who first?"
Castor swallowed, tasting bile, and swung his gaze around the four Wheelers panting for his death. "I-"
"Do you know," came a sudden drawl, cutting through the clamor, "what I hate most about Wheelers?"
"Who's there!"
"Is it their smell?" Answered a playful second, somewhere above their heads. Soft laughter colored the air as the surprised quartet scrambled to find the source of the new voices.
"No."
He pulled away from the building, a figure cut from the fabric of shadows, and let the mouth of alley serve as his backdrop. Legs braced wide, Bellicose contemplated his foes, his ax seated across his shoulders. In the dip of his shirt, the thick scar of battles once lost gleamed, bisecting the cavity where once his heart sat.
"It's how much they run their mouths."
"The Silver Soldier,." Hissed one.
"Traitor! Traitor!" cried the others.
Hysterics erupted, carved faces spinning and wheels grinding.
"Kill him!Kill him!"
"Nah," Interjected the voice from above again, scattering foe as he jumped from his perch to land amongst them. The new comer smiled, the sledgehammer a familiar shape in his hands, and cocked head to the side. Along his scalp, the scar was a devil's grin of pink, more battles lost and casualties taken.
"It's definitely their smell."
"Riddle Tongue!" shrieked one.
"Heretic!" cried another.
Hysterics erupted again, the loud grind of wheels nearly frantic.
Abruptly, with little fanfare, the six figures lunged towards each other.
Overhead, the Scarecrow's murder danced a riot.
"And how do we find our defendant?" Riddle Tongue echoed at last, when all that remained was gasoline blood and gore. Voice soft and fingers hard, he crouched beside the remaining Wheeler, fisting its hair with a grin too wide and eyes too flat. With a vicious snap of his wrist, he pulled the Wheeler's head back, stretching out its neck.
Standing before them, Bellicose stared at the broken thing so bent on terrorizing their city. He looked on its flattened, discolored face, and the fear plastered there.
Tick, tick.
"Guilty," Sentenced the Tinman, and buried his ax in the bared throat.
