I'm becoming less defined as days go by. This is--a strangely fascinating process, to me at least. To everybody else, I suppose it's the exact opposite since you don't see me as much or as often or, let's face it, as me. I think. Part of me thinks that I’ll end up being nothing because of this whole process. Another part of me thinks that I'll eventually let all the peripheral parts of myself turn into mist that blows away to reveal the real hard bedrock of who and what I really am, and maybe the mists will enclose about me to confuse everyone, like an island in the fog, or maybe the mist will be gone forever and the truth of who I am will burn so brightly that people will start wearing sunglasses at night. Heh. I see that even if much about me is becoming less defined, my tendency towards hyperbole is unassailed. I don't know. I go to a restaurant these days, and I stare at the menu for an hour because I can't remember what I like or don't like or if it's even important. It doesn't really matter, though, since more than half the time the waitress won't even be able to see me to take my order. Or she sees me, rather, but doesn't find it interesting. In the end, the last time I went out, I just walked into the kitchen and lifted a plate and carried it back out with me to eat. I think the chef might have seen me when I touched the plate, but as soon as I lowered it below the level of his counter, I became--not invisible, but unimportant to him again.


Inspiration: "Only (Richard X Mix)" - Nine Inch Nails
Story potential: Medium
Notes: Could be a character, if supported by stronger characters. Not a story-carrier on his own.

How do you get the name Discoball? Well, you take drugs and go on a really bad trip, as my grandpappy would say, and you bash your face into a mirror. Let's not get into the deep-level analysis of what the drugs brought up, eh? Let's just leave it at this: now I'm straight-edge, and I've got a face cracked with scars that looked pretty ugly. I got sick of the pitying glances, so I went with inserts and piercings and tats and...well, pretty much anything I could think of. I don't get pitying glances anymore. It might hurt my job prospects some, but let's face it (ha-ha, see, I've still got a sense of humor), nobody was going to hire me for a receptionist even before I got a face full of mirror and the resulting jigsaw of scars. Basic medical wouldn't cover the plastic surgery to fix it, and besides, the idea of getting surgery to fix how I look felt--wrong. I came back to myself with a little bit more than a fucked-up face, you see. Well, I guess you don't see. I haven't showed you yet. Let's fix that.


Inspiration: "Here to Stay" - Korn
Story potential: Medium
Notes: Could be paranormal powers, could be mental for having crossed beyond, could be from some of the "inserts." Could be supervillain, superhero, or just a person with some extras. Eh.

Super-faded out of my mind, she whispered, as she sank back through the couch. Not into, she noted with some surprise, but right the hell on through. "What the hell?" Paul said., staring at her. Not just...the drugs, then. Paul was the sitter, the sober person there to make sure that nothing too truly fucked-up would happen. She felt she could fade right through the walls, and that was thought enough to make her put her hand out and watch it sink into the plaster. It didn't feel like air, it felt like plaster, but somehow it just all squeezed together and let her hand pass into it. "What is this stuff?" she managed to say, distantly. Some part of her brain was--

Inspiration: "Heaven Beside You" - Alice in Chains
Story Potential: High.
Notes: What is it? Why, a government experiment to produce superpowered humans, of course!

The shine in the dark alley was what caught her attention, she said later. It was the last thing she saw. Well, that was poetic license, used by all the newsies, the ones who didn't understand (yet) exactly what she was. Would be. Was becoming. Would always be becoming. She saw plenty of other things after that lone glint. She saw the stones of the alley. She saw the drug dealer sprawled against the wall, and his runner staring with big eyes at the shiny thing clinging to the dirty cement wall. she saw police flashers at the other end of the alley, and uniformed men spilling out of their cars and setting up a perimeter. She saw--and this was strange, she always thought--a little girl watching from a window high up on the wall. No little girl was ever found, but she saw her. And it wasn't like--


Inspiration: The shiny CDs I have up on my office walls.
Potential: High. At least the character.
Notes: So she's technically blind, but can still perceive something, somehow. And this is sort of an origin story. I'm not sure why this story has high potential, but it's got a pull to it.