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[is0latedthinker.livejournal.com]

(Backdated to August 17th.)

[Alan's tone is quite pleased as he makes his announcement.] Residents of the castle, I'm sure most of you heard the Doctor's announcement last week. If you haven't, you can find it on page [#]. It basically states that a program, Rinzler, was apprehended while attempting to break into Peace Patrol Headquarters.

Rinzler was initially a security program I wrote named Tron. He was reprogrammed by Clu and became a shadow of his former self; furthermore, an additional virus was recently added to his system, prompting his attempted break-in.

Fortunately, I was contacted, and with help from Gibson and the Doctors, I was able to remove the faulty code. I am happy to announce that Tron has recompiled and is back to his former self.

If anyone would like to confirm this with their own eyes, we are in my room, number 2111 in the Ira Tower.

[In a whisper, he prompts:] Tron?

[Then an identical voice speaks.] Greetings, Users.

(Is this a loss in which Alan thinks he's his program, or for real? You might have to see it to believe it. Open over the journal or in person!)

(no subject)

[save-the-souls.livejournal.com]

[Backdated to earlier today]

( Peace Patrol Members )

( Room Filter )

36; backdated to the 26th

[cheerupemoborg.livejournal.com]

[It was like going to sleep, he noticed: one second he'd been there, the next he was awake in his room, like it was all just a dream.

He wasn't sure if this was a good thing or not. On one hand, he remembered and experienced nothing - the kind of oblivion he'd wanted. And yet... Hank was upset. Upset that he'd been brought back, and felt so empty.

Like Hank had never accomplished anything at all.]

( Clark )

( Yuki Nagato )

So, Paradisa! What have I missed?

- thirty-ninth year waiting -

[nurse-boy.livejournal.com]

( River Song )

94.7 - with a rebel yell

[hard-talker.livejournal.com]

[so, residents, after a couple weeks of peace, you've been treated to a day full of juvenile delinquents and dead villains coming back to life. and now, if that weren't bad enough, you now get the sound of an engine being revved, LOUDLY, over the journals.

and the Eagles. oh, yes, do you ever get The Eagles. and loud, proud, gleeful cackling - the kind that only a seventeen-year-old at his worst can get up to]

HEY, KIDS, HAP-PY FUCK-ING MON-DAAAAAAAY!

[he stands up in the open seat of the re-appropriated Shelby Cobra and spreads his arms wide, not caring that he could fall out, with the way Nora's driving it. He's got his journal - and hers - duct-taped to the dashboard, so that they don't fall out or close, and everyone gets treated to this in stereo. there's also a full stereo system hard-wired to the back of the seats, near the trunk, so that all of City Royale gets an earful of everything they're saying and playing, too]

We've got a special treat for you all tonight - we're taking it to the streets! That's right, Happy Harry Hard-On has gone HARDCORE OLD SCHOOL. If I can't get home, I'll make it right the fuck here! And with a little help from my friends, maybe we can finally light the fire under your asses and send up the biggest, loudest, FOULEST FART-BOMB THIS PLACE HAS EVER SEEN!

[cue one masterfully edited .wav file of the nastiest fart noise ever recorded blended into the thudding bass whoomph of a nuclear detonation]

WHEW, or maybe I'll just kick it off myself! I KNEW we shouldn't have knocked the windows in on that Mexican place!

Now, I know what you're saying - I know some of you stuffed-shirted pompous assholes have been trying to flag us down all day, saying 'WHY, WHY, WHAT IS HAPPENING TO THE CHILDREN?' And I, as the voice of the people, the voice of reason, the voice of SANITY?! Am going to TELL you. No, we have not lost our everloving motherfucking chickenplucking minds, WE HAVE FOUND THEM. We are pissed off, we are fed up, we are absolutely through with the shit this place puts us through, and we ain't gonna take it NO MO-AH!

[a pause as they make a particularly close and fast drive-by past a statue in the Art District and he takes its arm off with a well-aimed swing from his nine-iron]

WOO!

FUCK THE CASTLE, FUCK THE SYSTEM, AND FUCK ANYONE TOO WRAPPED UP IN THEIR OWN LIVES TO NOTICE THAT THEY'RE SLOWLY GETTING SUCKED AWAY!

I heard, once upon a time, that this place got RAZED TO THE GROUND. You ever think that if we keep at it, it might just fuckin' stay that way? SO WHAT ARE YOU ALL WAITING FOR? Let's go, go, go! Get your implements of destruction, assert yourselves, make some noise, remember who the FUCK you are! Say it loud! Say it proud! Say it with as many FUCKs and SHITs and GODDAMNS as possible, because HEY! Sure, we got a God, but where the hell's he been, huh? DEATH AND DESTRUCTION AND LIES AND BULLSHIT and NO GOD IN FUCKING SIGHT!

What's that tell ya, HUH? HUH?

Ever wonder why they call this place Paradisa? Ten bucks says that asshole's responsible. And, hey! If there's one thing I know, it's that I don't care who they are: nobody tells HARD HARRY what the hell to DO!

This is OUR NIGHT, people - LET'S MAKE IT COUNT!

[honestly, this is going to go on all night long. he'll alternate between loud, crude rock music - think "mObscene" by Marilyn Manson, "Rebel Yell" by Billy Idol, and "We're Not Gonna Take It" by Twisted Sister, among other things - and more hollering of basic riot incitement and incendiary remarks into the journal, while he and Nora tear ass around the City Royale in one of Tony Stark's old, abandoned cars they stole from the garage earlier.

this rampage is mod-approved (thanks, Kayla!) and any heroic types are more than welcome to step in and try to stop them! ... and good luck to anyone who tries to get him to answer to "Mark" ...]

♩ 032 [dictated/action]

[marionette_purple]

[The journal catches the beginning of a piece being played on the violin, but that music stops as soon as it starts. Then there are more attempts, slightly different each time. An octave higher. An octave lower. Maybe a note or two lengthened.]

...Playing music is one thing, but composing music is another.

Is creating art always this difficult?

[Not exactly the most...creative one. But he guesses that it's as difficult it should be. Carl's in the music room (because what better place to try to compose music than a room dedicated to it?) with his journal next to him and a few pieces of (mostly blank) sheet music next to that. Open like an open thing.]