Disclaimer : Not mine, J. J. Abrams', you get the pic. I don't own anything in this story. Technically I don't even own the words, just the way they're arranged.
Title : Syd and the Cosmetologist and the Taxidermist and the . . .
Author : Ha ha that'd be me, *wink*
Summary : Sydney gets kidnapped by a multi-personalitied plastic surgeon. Some SV yumminess
Rating : I'm keeping it on the PG, but that's according to movie ratings and we all know how *cough* messed up those are
Dedication : To Bob. I love you, and you better review!!!
******************************************************************************
Sydney was surprised that the inside of a store called "The Celestial Light" could be so dark and gloomy. She looked around at the retro-décor. There was a cash register from somewhere in the 1920s, a desk and lamp from about the same era, and, most amazingly, there was a smoke induced haze in this room that felt as if no one had seen the interior in ages. Now that Syd thought about it, there didn't seen to be anyone in the store at all, not even an employee or owner.
A hint of something, maybe fear, maybe apprehension, welled up in Sydney's stomach. What was she doing here? Actually, she was shopping for Marshall, et al. She wanted to give him and his wife and his child a congratulations gift. She wanted to give THEM something unique and different, just like Marshall was, well, unique.
Sydney swallowed her "fear" and took a few steps into the store. She had faced villains all over the world, and a little store on 23rd street was not going to stop her now. A sparkling object caught Syd's eye in the midst of all the dark and dust. She stopped in her tracks.
"Ooo. Shiny!" she murmured in an almost inaudible whisper. She had to find it. Something was compelling her to go out on search for that gleaming object at the back of the store. She turned down the aisle, keeping her eyes on the source of the light. *BAM*
'Maybe I should watch where I'm walking instead of shiny objects,' Syd admonished herself, but inside she was nervous. She felt as if her body was betraying her. Her inevitable, amazing instincts were betraying her. She couldn't even stop running into stuffed bears.
Stuffed bear is not exactly the ideal term to describe this monstrosity of a creation. It looked as if a giant, constipated bear had a stroke and then got stuffed.
"Careful, Hunny. Maybe you should watch where you're walking," a grandmother type voice said out of nowhere. Sydney whipped around to identify the voice. Her instincts really were betraying her. She hadn't even noticed the other person's arrival.
The lady who was presently standing behind the counter was a grandmotherly type who reminded Sydney of the lunch lady at her high school cafeteria. Not the mean, old lunch lady with the hairnets, but the one who snuck you cookies when no one was watching.
"Yeah, that'd be a good idea." Sydney smiled tightly, but nothing could distract her from her mission. She had to find out where that light was coming from. She instantly started back down the aisle, this time missing the bear.
Knowing that the "lunch lady" was watching and that the light wouldn't be going anywhere soon, Sydney took some time to look up and down the aisle as she meandered down it. There was a myriad, no a plethora of items. Someone may ask what the difference between a myriad and a plethora is, but Sydney would be quick to answer that "plethora is totally a pimp-er word. Jeebus, get with the program."
Anyway, the store had a plethora of items for sale. There were gummy worms from the 1970s that had melted and re-hardened dozens of times. There were buttons and pins asking the important questions like, "Why are there so many songs about rainbows?", "Why can't we be friends?", and "Ha! You really think Elvis is dead???". There were deflated balloons that had been stretched out so one could read the famous quotations of, "Congratulations on turning 70", "Do you have a will?", and "Of course I love you".
Yet, in the midst of these odd scraplets of memorabilia of the good old days, there were even older, even better memorabilia. There were Louis the XIV desks and chairs. There were Faberge eggs just laying, or is it lying, there, right next to the tattered care bear figurines, but Sydney could not be bothered with any of that rubbish. She swiftly headed towards the light.
"Anything I can help you with, dearie?" The old lady was beginning to get on Sydney's nerves.
"No! I'm fine!" She said in a *slightly* clipped tone, but flashed a semi-smile to the lady in atonement.
"All right, dearie, but I have the perfect thing." Sydney turned.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you're looking for a special item, for a special man . . . Don't lie, hunny, I see it on your face. Oh, yes, you came in here for a 'coworker' or for a 'friend', but we know who you're really looking to buy a gift for, don't we? Yes we do, and might I add, he's a looker."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Sydney protested, but deep inside she felt herself being drawn away from the shiny object and into the old lady's gaze.
"Yes, you do. You came here for your boyfriend, and I know what you can get him. You need a love potion." Sydney started to protest, but the lady stopped her with the raising of her hand. "Yes, dearie, I know that he loves you, and you wouldn't trick him like that. This is a different kind of love potion. He won't even know he's been . . . hit . . . with it so to speak."
As much as Sydney tried to ignore the lady's words she couldn't resist the bait. The worm was on the hook, and the fish was heading right toward the line. However, Sydney is a cautious fish, and she took another look at her surroundings and the old lady. No longer did the old lady seem like a lunch lady. Now, she was more of a Cajun gypsy. Syd could see it in her wrinkled face, missing teeth, and delighted yet mysterious eyes. This woman had an agenda, but she was having a blast achieving it.
All of these things should have sent off a massive warning sign in Syd's head. A colossal cautionary sign that should have been complete with fireworks, a marching band, Justin and Janet, the works, but we have already established that Sydney was not herself today.
Sydney abandoned all thoughts of the shiny object and headed over to the incredibly old, scratched desk that stood as a counter.
"What is it?" Sydney asked using her professional, business tone, but there was a hint of desperation in her eyes.
"It's a candle. I placed a spell on it just for you, my dearie. One whiff of this, and he'll never want that wife of his again. Not that he does now, mind you, but this will . . . persuade him to return to the one that he *really* cares for. It's perfectly safe. It won't harm him a bit. You could examine it if you like. It even has a pleasant toasted mushroom scent."
One would imagine that with Sydney's extensive background in the CIA and other intelligence agencies, she would be mores suspicious of this rather hokey idea of magic and a curse, especially hokey magic and a curse that involved toasted mushrooms, but even Sydney began to believe the Rimbaldi prophecies after a time . . . well, kind of.
Sydney, once again seeming as if she were in a trance, reached for the candle and turned it around in her hands slowly. The wax felt warm as if it had recently been lit, and somewhere, deep in the core of the candle, there was a small flickering of light, a light as enticing as the one Syd had been following earlier. Sydney lowered her dainty nose to the wax and breathed in deep.
"Very good, Sydney. Now, we'll just put you to sleep over on this couch, all righty." The gypsy raised her voice as if it were a question, but Sydney is definitely smart enough to know that it really was rhetorical. Sydney cursed rhetorical questions as she drifted into unconsciousness.
The gypsy went to the phone and dialed. A man picked up almost instantly.
"The candle worked. She's out cold. Come pick her up as soon as you can. A knocked out chick laying on my sofa is definitely not good for business, or is it lying? Oh, who gives a . . ." and with that the not-so-nice-or-grandmotherly-or-well-anything-that-one-may-have-expected-from-previous-descriptions-oh-my-god-can-this-dash-dash-thing-go-on-any-longer gypsy threw down the phone, and started sweeping up the shop.
******************************************************************************
A/N : Sorry that this was pretty long and boring, but it took me forever to figure out how to set up this story. It'll pick up, as long as you like, well, there will be some weirdness.
Updated A/N : I edited two typos and added like 6 words. FYI.
Title : Syd and the Cosmetologist and the Taxidermist and the . . .
Author : Ha ha that'd be me, *wink*
Summary : Sydney gets kidnapped by a multi-personalitied plastic surgeon. Some SV yumminess
Rating : I'm keeping it on the PG, but that's according to movie ratings and we all know how *cough* messed up those are
Dedication : To Bob. I love you, and you better review!!!
******************************************************************************
Sydney was surprised that the inside of a store called "The Celestial Light" could be so dark and gloomy. She looked around at the retro-décor. There was a cash register from somewhere in the 1920s, a desk and lamp from about the same era, and, most amazingly, there was a smoke induced haze in this room that felt as if no one had seen the interior in ages. Now that Syd thought about it, there didn't seen to be anyone in the store at all, not even an employee or owner.
A hint of something, maybe fear, maybe apprehension, welled up in Sydney's stomach. What was she doing here? Actually, she was shopping for Marshall, et al. She wanted to give him and his wife and his child a congratulations gift. She wanted to give THEM something unique and different, just like Marshall was, well, unique.
Sydney swallowed her "fear" and took a few steps into the store. She had faced villains all over the world, and a little store on 23rd street was not going to stop her now. A sparkling object caught Syd's eye in the midst of all the dark and dust. She stopped in her tracks.
"Ooo. Shiny!" she murmured in an almost inaudible whisper. She had to find it. Something was compelling her to go out on search for that gleaming object at the back of the store. She turned down the aisle, keeping her eyes on the source of the light. *BAM*
'Maybe I should watch where I'm walking instead of shiny objects,' Syd admonished herself, but inside she was nervous. She felt as if her body was betraying her. Her inevitable, amazing instincts were betraying her. She couldn't even stop running into stuffed bears.
Stuffed bear is not exactly the ideal term to describe this monstrosity of a creation. It looked as if a giant, constipated bear had a stroke and then got stuffed.
"Careful, Hunny. Maybe you should watch where you're walking," a grandmother type voice said out of nowhere. Sydney whipped around to identify the voice. Her instincts really were betraying her. She hadn't even noticed the other person's arrival.
The lady who was presently standing behind the counter was a grandmotherly type who reminded Sydney of the lunch lady at her high school cafeteria. Not the mean, old lunch lady with the hairnets, but the one who snuck you cookies when no one was watching.
"Yeah, that'd be a good idea." Sydney smiled tightly, but nothing could distract her from her mission. She had to find out where that light was coming from. She instantly started back down the aisle, this time missing the bear.
Knowing that the "lunch lady" was watching and that the light wouldn't be going anywhere soon, Sydney took some time to look up and down the aisle as she meandered down it. There was a myriad, no a plethora of items. Someone may ask what the difference between a myriad and a plethora is, but Sydney would be quick to answer that "plethora is totally a pimp-er word. Jeebus, get with the program."
Anyway, the store had a plethora of items for sale. There were gummy worms from the 1970s that had melted and re-hardened dozens of times. There were buttons and pins asking the important questions like, "Why are there so many songs about rainbows?", "Why can't we be friends?", and "Ha! You really think Elvis is dead???". There were deflated balloons that had been stretched out so one could read the famous quotations of, "Congratulations on turning 70", "Do you have a will?", and "Of course I love you".
Yet, in the midst of these odd scraplets of memorabilia of the good old days, there were even older, even better memorabilia. There were Louis the XIV desks and chairs. There were Faberge eggs just laying, or is it lying, there, right next to the tattered care bear figurines, but Sydney could not be bothered with any of that rubbish. She swiftly headed towards the light.
"Anything I can help you with, dearie?" The old lady was beginning to get on Sydney's nerves.
"No! I'm fine!" She said in a *slightly* clipped tone, but flashed a semi-smile to the lady in atonement.
"All right, dearie, but I have the perfect thing." Sydney turned.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you're looking for a special item, for a special man . . . Don't lie, hunny, I see it on your face. Oh, yes, you came in here for a 'coworker' or for a 'friend', but we know who you're really looking to buy a gift for, don't we? Yes we do, and might I add, he's a looker."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Sydney protested, but deep inside she felt herself being drawn away from the shiny object and into the old lady's gaze.
"Yes, you do. You came here for your boyfriend, and I know what you can get him. You need a love potion." Sydney started to protest, but the lady stopped her with the raising of her hand. "Yes, dearie, I know that he loves you, and you wouldn't trick him like that. This is a different kind of love potion. He won't even know he's been . . . hit . . . with it so to speak."
As much as Sydney tried to ignore the lady's words she couldn't resist the bait. The worm was on the hook, and the fish was heading right toward the line. However, Sydney is a cautious fish, and she took another look at her surroundings and the old lady. No longer did the old lady seem like a lunch lady. Now, she was more of a Cajun gypsy. Syd could see it in her wrinkled face, missing teeth, and delighted yet mysterious eyes. This woman had an agenda, but she was having a blast achieving it.
All of these things should have sent off a massive warning sign in Syd's head. A colossal cautionary sign that should have been complete with fireworks, a marching band, Justin and Janet, the works, but we have already established that Sydney was not herself today.
Sydney abandoned all thoughts of the shiny object and headed over to the incredibly old, scratched desk that stood as a counter.
"What is it?" Sydney asked using her professional, business tone, but there was a hint of desperation in her eyes.
"It's a candle. I placed a spell on it just for you, my dearie. One whiff of this, and he'll never want that wife of his again. Not that he does now, mind you, but this will . . . persuade him to return to the one that he *really* cares for. It's perfectly safe. It won't harm him a bit. You could examine it if you like. It even has a pleasant toasted mushroom scent."
One would imagine that with Sydney's extensive background in the CIA and other intelligence agencies, she would be mores suspicious of this rather hokey idea of magic and a curse, especially hokey magic and a curse that involved toasted mushrooms, but even Sydney began to believe the Rimbaldi prophecies after a time . . . well, kind of.
Sydney, once again seeming as if she were in a trance, reached for the candle and turned it around in her hands slowly. The wax felt warm as if it had recently been lit, and somewhere, deep in the core of the candle, there was a small flickering of light, a light as enticing as the one Syd had been following earlier. Sydney lowered her dainty nose to the wax and breathed in deep.
"Very good, Sydney. Now, we'll just put you to sleep over on this couch, all righty." The gypsy raised her voice as if it were a question, but Sydney is definitely smart enough to know that it really was rhetorical. Sydney cursed rhetorical questions as she drifted into unconsciousness.
The gypsy went to the phone and dialed. A man picked up almost instantly.
"The candle worked. She's out cold. Come pick her up as soon as you can. A knocked out chick laying on my sofa is definitely not good for business, or is it lying? Oh, who gives a . . ." and with that the not-so-nice-or-grandmotherly-or-well-anything-that-one-may-have-expected-from-previous-descriptions-oh-my-god-can-this-dash-dash-thing-go-on-any-longer gypsy threw down the phone, and started sweeping up the shop.
******************************************************************************
A/N : Sorry that this was pretty long and boring, but it took me forever to figure out how to set up this story. It'll pick up, as long as you like, well, there will be some weirdness.
Updated A/N : I edited two typos and added like 6 words. FYI.
