applesaucemod: (Default)
[personal profile] applesaucemod
- Posts should be written in third person, present tense prose.
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rae_of_sun: (downcast)
[personal profile] rae_of_sun
Sunshine's first proverbial taste of a (comparatively) northern winter has left her, for the most part, unimpressed. The snow lends the city a sort of postcard charm, until it doesn't - the traffic churns it into a grotty mess, and even clean snow soaks into the hem of your jeans. And it's cold. There's really nothing to redeem the cold.

Which isn't to say the electric blanket hasn't done its best. And it really is fantastic, but it lives on the bed, and Sunshine can't live on the bed with it (tempting as that might be). So, she's thinking: more blankets. Maybe some additional cushions. More tea. More stuff that she can use to make the rest of her apartment feel cozy.

Plus, the winter solstice is approaching. That isn't what the locals are celebrating, specifically - or if it is, it's near the bottom of the pile of holidays that seem to coincidentally fall at about the same frigging time. What are the odds? Maybe she should just be grateful that most of the customs she'd expect to see have transferred over. She (and her pocketbook) would have survived a lack of gifts exchanged, but it would have been kind of depressing, and winter is depressing enough already. She can pick up a few things for her new bakeshop family, and her new rifty family.

Mid-way through her bundling process, it occurs to her that Spike might be in the market for some essentials. She fishes her phone out of her purse and fires off a quick text: I'm going shopping. Need anything?
has_a_horn: (what | ...)
[personal profile] has_a_horn
The door to the book store creaks loudly as he pulls it open, and as his eyes adjust to the gloom inside he finds a vampire staring at him from behind the cluttered counter. The man squints at the new arrival briefly, before announcing that the shop is closed. Gabriel just smiles at him and walks towards the back of the shop. "Don't worry, I don't want any books. Just looking for Aziraphale." This news seems to appease the vampire, who waves him on and then lies his head on the counter top to sleep.

After a minute of trying to navigate around books, Gabriel simply wings himself to the doorway at the back of the shop. Aziraphale can probably tell that he's here by now, so there's really no reason to knock before he pushes the door open and walks in.

Only, when he walks in, Aziraphale doesn't even seem to be awake. He's lying on the couch with one leg propped up along the backrest and a book covering his face. The room doesn't seem much better- there are wine bottles and detritus everywhere in various states of disarray. Obviously he should have stopped by sooner. He'd come because he's been missing having someone around that he can communicate with telepathically, but it looks like Aziraphale could use his help instead.

He steps in quietly and reaches out to gently lift the book off of Aziraphale's face. That done without waking him, he folds the book and sets it aside.

"Aziraphale?" Nothing. He pokes him with a finger. "Hey, Captain Plaid, wake up."
singthesong: (Travel)
[personal profile] singthesong
Lately, the Balladeer feels as though he's lost more time. December came faster than he thought it would. Perhaps that's natural with the way November ended. Life goes on, and the world has not waited for him to catch his footing again. It almost seems strange that they're still going deeper into winter; that blizzard felt so climactic that the narrator in him had half-expected a warm spring to follow on its heels. It would have made a lovely picture. But no - time here flows without regard to narrative convention. And with the winter season comes the holiday season.

It caught him off guard at first. He'd done nothing at all for Halloween, but that didn't matter given the lack of trick-or-treaters in his building. Thanksgiving...he'd meant to observe Thanksgiving. Things happened. But goddamn it, he is going to do Christmas. It's normal, it's traditional, and it's something that people seem to really love. It's supposed to make you happy.

He hasn't got any of the family traditions that're so important to others, but isn't that for the best? If he had a family, he only would have lost them coming here. There's still a few obvious steps he can take without one.

First off: gifts.

He isn't nervous, exactly. Even if all the advertisements seem to imply that he's doing this very late in the season, he's not too worried about it. If he got nervous over every new experience, he'd be a quivering wreck; this is exciting! He just wants to make sure he gets good things! It doesn't seem as though it should take very long. Doesn't he know what his friends like? This is going to be easy!

The Balladeer spends much of the day flitting about between shops in the less-expensive districts, bundled up in his winter coat and with most of his face buried in his new American flag scarf (which is cool, thank you very much). He hasn't accumulated a whole lot of shopping bags. Frankly, he's beginning to wish he'd brought Steven along after all. It might have been easier to bounce ideas off of someone. But then when would he buy gifts for Steven...?

He may be here for a while.
whaaaaat: (smile - wee)
[personal profile] whaaaaat
Dr. Jillian Holtzmann lands flat on her back, a stunned smile on her face. Whoops. She was not anticipating such a dramatic reaction. An exhilarated giggle escapes her, part of her brain already buzzing with the adjustments she'll need to make to prevent another blow-up like that. But she doesn't get very far before she registers, through her soot-smeared goggles, that there's open sky above her. Oh, shit. Was she actually blown outside? Good thing no one else was in the lab, but god, the collateral damage -- her toys...

She heaves herself up into a sit, one arm cradling the prototype for a new-and-improved PKE meter. There's an unseasonable nip in the air, sending a pulse of surprise surging through her. Is this... did she actually make it to Michigan? Her free hand shoves her goggles up onto her forehead, clearing her vision, and she sighs at the familiar skyline. Still New York. Michigan would have been a hell of a story to tell the rest of the team, though.

Then again, this is shaping up to be a pretty decent story in its own right. She's nowhere near headquarters. Whatever just happened, it sent her all the way to Bryant Park.

... It is really cold out. Granted, dicking around with the PKE meter was pretty distracting, and she didn't check the weather this morning, but this seems extreme for September. But hey, it's a short walk to Grand Central. She left her phone and wallet on her work bench, but Abby will take a collect call. It'll be hilarious. Collect calls are still a thing you can do, right?

Hell, worst case scenario, she can just walk. She's farther from HQ than a standard (survivable) explosion could send her, but she's not that far.

She looks down at the prototype. It's in a sad state, all blackened on one side, but most of the damage appears to be cosmetic. Once she's back in her lab (presuming it's not a smoldering ruin, but she's not seeing smoke or hearing sirens from that general direction, so that's promising), she'll have it patched up and polished in no time.

Holtzmann gets to her feet, not even bothering to brush at the soot coating most of her front (with the exception of a prototype-shaped clean spot where the PKE meter took the brunt of it). She probably looks like some kind of dystopian chimney sweep. Oh, well. She notes a passer-by's startled glance, and gives them a wry grin and a salute. "I'm okay!" she yells for good measure. "I'm a professional!" A few other strangers look her way, so she adds, "Don't try this at home, kids."

Well, there's the PR for today wrangled like a boss. Holtzmann flips the PKE prototype up to rest on her shoulder, then swaggers off towards Grand Central Station.
singthesong: (Travel)
[personal profile] singthesong
Winter is cold.

It seems obvious in retrospect, but the Balladeer had never given it a great deal of thought. Why worry about weather you won't experience? Presidents have a tendency to get shot in the capitol, during warmer seasons. Even as months passed in Manhattan, it took the sudden Rift blizzard for the full implications to sink in. Busking in the park isn't a good way to make money year-round, is it?

It's not the disaster it could be. There's other places. He sees people playing down in the subway stations all the time! So one day, when Steven is with Greta, he wanders alone down to the nearest one to set up shop. The environment is close, full of people and noise and heat, all reasons he never bothered to try this during the summer or fall. But it's not so terrible; he's played through worse, and he even sees a few people he knows passing through! Mostly locals, but Sunshine's bakery is nearby too. He gives her a quick smile and wave as she goes by.

For a few hours, it all goes perfectly well. The tips aren't as good here, but that's fine. They can get better. His focus on encouraging that response is strong enough that he doesn't detect any notes of displeasure approaching - not until he can already see the look on the policeman's face.

Apparently you're not actually allowed to busk in subway stations.

"This seems petty," he observes, torn between indignation and misplaced guilt as he's escorted out into the street. The police station? He has to go to the police station for something like this? "Haven't you got anything better to do? Like...like real criminals...?"

This should have happened to him in Dallas.

Rather than protest anymore, he just fires off a quick text before getting shuffled off. Self-pity and a fake ID won't get him out of this one.
has_a_horn: (finger pistols)
[personal profile] has_a_horn
On the morning of Sunday, the city is free of the heavy snow that had hit it the week before, and a gentle dusting of snow itsfalling. And, if you happen to live in one of the angel-run buildings, you'll find that the entire front of each building has been lit up in festive colors.



On the other side of town, Gabriel is taking a more hands-on approach to decoration. He has a ladder propped up against the side of the building and a big coil of multi-colored lights slung over his shoulder. If things to hang the lights on appear suddenly out of the brick front of the building as he goes, that's just a matter of convenience. Gabriel is in a good mood today. It seems a little strange to be decorating for a holiday that he's not even sure exists in the same way here that it did back in his own universe, but it's nice to be celebrating something after a month of grief and worry and bad decisions.

[ooc: come throw a snowball at gabe's head or help him decorate :3]
spiritofwinter: (melancholy | emo kid)
[personal profile] spiritofwinter
The snowball fight with Greta and Iman has revitalized Jack. It's December, and by all rights this is his season. He just needs to get his head back in the game; he knows for a fact that Manhattan can be tons of fun in a snowstorm. Now's the time to start, too -- with a little luck and a little nudge to the clouds here and there he could stretch a Tuesday night flurry into a Wednesday snow day.

The few people who can see Jack might catch glimpses of him hurtling through the sky late in the afternoon of December 3, whooping up a storm. Literally whooping up a storm, it turns out; aside from all the joyous yelling there's a definite chill in the air as clouds form and snow starts to fall, slowly blanketing the city in fluffy white.

Or…not so slowly. Jack's standing atop a low-rise building, surveying his work, when he realizes that something isn't right. The gentle but steady snowfall is picking up now, and a harsh gust of wind makes him clutch at his cane as it nearly knocks him off the rooftop. It only gets worse from there: as the afternoon wears on the clouds continue to gather and darken, the wind goes from a few gusts to a constant howling force battering against the city, and the snowfall comes so thick and fast that one can't even see across the street. By morning the city will be at a standstill, buried under the snow.


[And thus starts the Snow Day event! Due to the severity of the weather, characters will be unable to completely ignore this event, but anyone with a decent stock of supplies can simply wait it out at home. Otherwise, feel free to have the power go out at your character's residence, strand them on the wrong side of the city, etc. The weather will warm up throughout December 4 (April 18-21 in real time), leaving tons of slush for the next several IC days.

Please feel free to use this post for threads or to make your own. All threads that take place during the event should be tagged "event: snow day".
]
boneshaker: (you precious piece of shit)
[personal profile] boneshaker
Waking up is still a strange affair. He's only been in this new city and this new (free???? he's still not over that part) apartment for, what, three days? Four? Finding himself in this amazingly clean, comfortable bed, seeing the stark white ceiling and the pristine furnishings and the light pouring in through the glorious windows is all very bizarre. It still takes him a minute to realize.

This morning his entire body hurts like hell, which is a helpful reminder. He remembers being out last night, and getting into a fight! A real fight! He got his ass kicked and it was amazing.

He stumbles out of the bed and makes his way over to the bathroom, checking himself in the mirror. He's a mess. Black eye, split lip, a couple minor cuts along his cheekbone. Bruises on his ribs too. Everything hurts. But that's okay. It reminds him he's alive. He's really here, this is really happening. This gorgeous rich-people apartment is his. He's still not really sure how he feels about that.

Well, it doesn't matter, he doesn't have to stay here. Spike gave him the address of his workplace and Castor has every intention of visiting him. It might be a little desperate and clingy to go visit him first thing after spending the night with him, but whatever. Friends are good. He needs friends.

He gets himself as clean as he deems necessary, gets dressed and heads out, following the directions his weird fancy rich-people phone gives him. It's not too long before he gets there, standing outside the anonymous little bookstore, which really looks closed, or like it should be condemned, tucked in next to a really nice-looking bakery. The bookshop is uninviting at best, and though that tends to be more his speed than the bakery's posh atmosphere, he finds himself getting cold feet. Besides, he skipped breakfast. He's still got some money, he should get some food, right? Yeah. Then he can visit Spike.

He steps into the bakery and feels immediately out of place, but marches bravely up to the counter anyway. The woman behind it flicks a blisteringly judgmental glance up and down his person before asking if she can help him. He politely requests a cinnamon roll. He's never had one before. They're huge.

He carries the giant pastry gingerly over to the coffee counter, where a young man whose nametag says 'Joel' stares at him.

"Hi," says Castor pleasantly.

"Are you okay?" blurts Joel.

"What? Oh. Yeah." Castor smiles as if proud that Joel has noticed. "Yeah, it was just a fight, you know. No big deal. You should see the other guy."

Joel seems both alarmed and impressed by this information, which Castor finds hopelessly endearing. Aw, this guy. He belatedly seems to remember what his actual job is and says, "Oh, uh, what can I get you?"

"I have no idea," confesses Castor. "I don't know what most of these options even are."

"Uh... really?" Joel looks up at the complexly chalked menu hanging on the wall behind him. "Well... do you just want like a regular house blend?"

"Yeah, that sounds easy enough," says Castor. "Uh... dark roast, I guess?"

"Coming right up!" says Joel cheerfully. He manages only a few steps of the process before the bell on the door rings and he looks up and stops short, staring at whomever's just walked in with an expression that can only be described as deep longing.
andhiswife: (baroo)
[personal profile] andhiswife
It's getting colder. Snuggling beneath a blanket with Iman used to feel like something they could just get away with as summer's heat subsided. Now, it's more or less the default. Not that she's complaining - far from it, and she shifts a bit closer to Iman as if in defiance of that entirely hypothetical accusation - but it does serve as a reminder that winter is well on its way, and Greta's fairly certain her current wardrobe is not going to suffice. It's already dipped below freezing a few times. Before too long, it'll start properly snowing. She'll need a heavier coat, and boots - things she can't just knit for herself.

She also might be toying with the idea of trying jeans.

Thusfar, it's been an internal debate. Part of her is mortified by the thought of wearing something so unladylike, but she's less and less inclined to listen to any part of her that still measures things against the yardstick of her own universe. She won't be going back, so why should she trouble herself over what the villagers would think? Women in Manhattan can wear whatever they like. She could wear whatever she likes. She could start dressing for the century she's in, not the one she came from.

Well. She could, if she had the first clue where to begin.

Greta pauses her current knitting project - a scarf for the Balladeer - then glances sidelong at Iman. "How are you for winter clothes?" she asks, her tone as casual as she can make it.
bibliophale: (prissy as hell | fashionista)
[personal profile] bibliophale
It's been a long time. Right? Hasn't it? It's been a long time.

Passage of days is nothing to Aziraphale. He did without Crowley in a very real, very cosmic sense for a whole entire month, or was it two, he'll be buggered if he's going to be specific about these things - for that whole time, and he was, well, he was miserable, but he made it, right? Only because the Rift in all its bloody capitalized capitalization saw fit to reunite them, but details, details. Here's the point. The point is this. Aziraphale is drunk.

He's been drunk every day for several weeks now. He spends the bookshop's various erratic hours at the back, drinking, while Spike handles the absent business in his champion-like way. Every evening he sobers himself up, returns home to the room Crowley is no longer allowed to enter, and spends a wonderful bunch of hours with Melanie, having tea, cakes, and raw meat, reading books, letting her stroke his wings. That sort of thing. It's lovely and it exists in its own bubble, where no other thoughts are allowed to intrude.

This, though, the rest of it, is awful. He could spend more time with Melanie. It's not like his presence is required at the shop. But he goes there all the same. Sometimes to fawn over the modest collection he's acquired, mostly to wish Crowley would appear. Just slither in like he does. Hissing. Skulking. Lounging.

It's not that Aziraphale misses him, well no, all right, it's exactly that, it's that and a handful of change, he misses Crowley ridiculously, painfully, infuriatingly. What is he to do? Lucifer is still very much a Thing, as the kids are saying, and Aziraphale's not going home to Melanie with freeze burns on his face.

But Crowley is so very dear to him, a truth he evades as often and aggressively as possible, and yet, this itch is still there, this itch to do something impulsive and bloody stupid, something because something is, after weeks of nothing, better than another week of nothing.

This is how, somewhere in there, he winds up inside Crowley's flat with a half-emptied bottle of wine (his fifteenth) in his hand, fixing the demon with an abnormally pleasant smile and thrusting an index finger toward him in a specifically non-accusatory fashion.

"Oh, hullo!" he says as though he has absolutely no idea how he got here. "How's things?"
singthesong: (Stage Lights)
[personal profile] singthesong
Steven is finally gone, and the Balladeer is alone with himself.

He needed this. He hates to be alone, but he needed this. For days the knowledge (and lack thereof) of what he's done has been crawling under his skin like a physical itch - the one assassin he should be most familiar with, and all he knows is what Greta relayed to him second-hand, from a search somebody did on their cell phone. It's funny. It's really very funny.

One way or another, he ought to know everything about this lost assassination. Either it's his job, or it's his. So once he's alone, he takes himself to a library and gets out every reasonable book he can find, plus a few documentaries on DVD. There seems to be a lot of ridiculous conspiracy theories surrounding the whole thing; sadly, he can't quite convince himself any of them could be true. If Lee Harvey Oswald was a patsy, the Balladeer would never have any connection with him at all.

(The stop at the liquor store is an afterthought, a whim built on memories of a thousand morose drinking sessions he never joined. He wonders bitterly if Sam would laugh, and buys whiskey the man could never afford.)

He goes home and spends the day reading. At some point, he opens a bottle. He meant to eat something with it - that helps, right? - but instead he ends up putting one of the documentaries on to watch. He just needs to know.

He loses track of time.
has_a_horn: (considering | frown)
[personal profile] has_a_horn
It's been nearly a week since the TARDIS' abrupt departure, and Gabriel is having some trouble adjusting to the change. Johnny has helped immensely, but grief still weighs on him in a way that he can't quantify. Johnny isn't in the building now, gone for some reason or another he doesn't remember, and Scout is sleeping in on his bed.

Gabriel is sitting at the kitchen table and staring across the room at the Kandinsky print hanging on the wall. He lets his eyes unfocus. As he watches, the colors bleed into each other making the abstract shapes lose cohesion. He's thinking about what's behind the painting. After Lucifer had first arrived, he'd set up an angel banishing sigil in case Johnny were ever in the room without him there for protection. It's still there behind the print, drawn in his own blood.

He's been thinking about the sigil a lot in the past week. If it were his own universe, activating it would send any angel including himself back to heaven. Here, he's not sure of the effects. Would it send him back home, or crashing into the Rift? Or would it do something else entirely, something that he's not prepared for? What if it could give him a way into the rift- a way to follow the TARDIS back to wherever she is?

He takes a deep breath, knowing that he needs to try. And now, with Johnny gone, is the perfect time. The problem is that if something goes wrong or if it goes right enough that he slips through the rift, he doesn't want to leave Lucifer behind to hurt his friends.

He stands and walks to the door to wipe the sigil from the door, then drops down to remove the sigil from the front of the building. When he returns to the apartment, he shuts the door to the bedroom quietly, then walks to pour himself a drink from the bar. The painting and the sigil underneath it wait on the wall behind him while he calls Lucifer to come.
erratic_hematic: (talk to the hand)
[personal profile] erratic_hematic
Spike needs to let off some steam. The problem is that nobody is taking him up on his instigations, and he's been drinking too slowly for it too make much of an impact. He's been bar hopping for a little while now, but by the time he swaggers into Wilmot's, he's willing to take things up a notch. He doesn't want this to devolve into a round of drunkenly worrying about Sunshine's health even more than he already is. He doesn't want to worry more. He wants action.

He orders a bottle of whisky, pours out a full glass and downs it, then looks out across at the rest of the patrons while he refills his glass. There's got to be someone here who'll fight back.

He prods the first person to walk by him in the shoulder to get their attention. "Oi, you. You've got stupid hair."



[ooc: You can either let spike instigate or assume that it's a bit later in the evening]
royaldick: (Riding)
[personal profile] royaldick
Richard is so hungry. Stupid bats, eating all their food.

It's a good thing he's riding, because between the hunger and the remnants of the cold he's still fighting, Richard definitely wouldn't be up for walking all this way. He's almost dozing off on his horse, sniffly and miserable as they ride through the forest.

It's getting really cold too.

Actually, it's... getting really weirdly cold. Like it could almost start snowing.

Hold on, it is snowing! Just barely, little flecks of snow drifting down through the trees, not enough to actually cover anything, but enough to confirm how cold it is. The leaves beneath the horse's hooves are crunchy with frost.

Have they entered into a Snow Queen's realm or something? Because it really isn't the season. Richard is fairly sure there's no one like that around these parts, but he's been wrong, you know, on occasion. If that's the case, he'd better warn Galavant and Roberta that they should change their course.

Which... would be easier if he knew where they'd gone off to. Did they become separated while he dozed off? Damnit.

"Galavant?" he calls, then clears his throat, voice scratchy from his cold. "Gal, buddy?" He pauses, listening. "Bobby?" Still nothing but silence, and a cold breeze rustling the crisp leaves above him. Richard shivers, then reaches into his shoulderbag and pulls out Tad Cooper. He tucks the baby dragon inside his vest, where he can be kept warm by Richard's fever.

Well, nothing to do but to ride on. Perhaps he can find some more open area to see what's ahead. He calls out a few more times, until he reaches a stone road. That's peculiar, how did they get it all flat and even like this? They must have really talented masons around these parts.

Soon enough the forest opens up, and Richard can see the mountains ahead. The... very tall, very vertical, block-shaped mountains?

Really talented masons, then.

"...What the hell?" he proclaims eloquently.

Cut for flavour image )
singthesong: (Stage Lights)
[personal profile] singthesong
Morning dawns in a strange fog.

The Balladeer can't even remember getting out of bed, but he finds himself standing in the hall. He's already dressed, too...it takes a few seconds for him to register that as odd. He stares down at his sleeve. When did that happen? How did that happen? You might stumble tired out of bed, but it seems strange to have lost the entire process of getting ready. That can't be right. It can't be; something's not right with him. Thinking feels like swimming through molasses, like forcing his way through darkness into a time where he's not meant to be. It reminds him of his attempted escape, before he fell right into the Rift instead.

Is he getting sick again?

He sways a little on his feet, and squints hard at the wall with the effort of focusing. Should he just go back to bed? Sleep suddenly sounds very nice; he could sleep for a year. But after a second, he remembers - Steven lives here now. The kid will worry if he just doesn't see him all morning. It's not like him to sleep so much. At the least, he needs to find him and tell him that busking's off for today. Then he'll go back to bed.

The Balladeer nods in agreement with his own plan, and promptly regrets the movement as his vision blurs. The floor lurches beneath him. He catches the wall and takes a few deep breaths to steady himself. In and out, in and out. Okay. That's fine, no big deal. He's still standing. He's okay.

He shuffles into the apartment's little kitchen area. From the outside, it's obvious that he's not all there right now. His eyes are glassy, and he blinks at Steven in apparent confusion for a few seconds before speaking. "Hey, um..."

He can't remember what he meant to say. So instead he furrows his brow at Steven, as if expecting the answer to appear any second now.
boneshaker: (yeah whatever)
[personal profile] boneshaker
A young man stands by the fountain at Bethesda Terrace and smokes a cigarette. He has only just arrived, appearing several feet off the ground and falling flat on his back with a pronounced yelp. Apparently, one harried passerby tells him, this kind of thing happens all the time. Apparently there's a whole community of 'people like you'. He refuses to stick around and provide any more salient details.

Castor blows smoke into the crisp autumnal air. He's not entirely certain what to make of his predicament, except that it has saved him the trouble of the backalley scrap he'd just gotten himself into, so that's something.

Whatever city this is--New York? Chicago?--it's clean. Well, cleaner. Well, this bit is. And on top of that it's a park. Parks are the sort of luxury not afforded to his kind back home. That might be a good thing. It might also be a problem. Well, probably not a big problem. He's never far from garbage. Not really.

He finishes his cigarette and flicks it to the ground, crushing it gently under his shoe and absorbing the energy back from it. Cigarette butts are everywhere. There's not much life in them but he can make do. Every bit counts. He stuffs his hands deep into his coat pockets and pivots on his heel, studying his surroundings. What's he supposed to do here, wait around until someone comes to pick him up? Wander and hope he runs into somebody he can talk to? It's not a great plan, but he doesn't have another one. It occurs to him he might be in shock.

Whatever. Be like a shark. Keep moving.

As he wanders through the startling greenery, he casts his awareness about idly, trying to feel... something he can relate to. This is not an exact science. It's linguistics, and the vowels shift every damn day. He adjusts the parameters in his head. A weak excuse for a thought experiment: let's say this new place is a dumpster, and you've been discarded from your previous dumpster and tossed into this one. And let's say there are others like you. So find them.

Ridiculously, it works. As he moves through the park, there is some vague sensation of familiarity tugging him in an increasingly focused direction. It says 'this thing is in the same language group as you'. This thing is a person. He walks up to it. Them. "Hi," he says with a friendly grin. "This, uh, this might be a weird question, but when you came here did you do it by like... appearing out of thin air?"
literatimariano: (Inconspicuous with book)
[personal profile] literatimariano
Jess has pretty much scoped out every single bookshop on the entire island of Manhattan, or something close to it. He knows all the good places, weird little corners that have the most specific, enchanting things.

So the both good and bad thing about being in an alternate universe is that this no longer holds true. Some remain the same, but he keeps discovering new places that never existed where he comes from, whereas some of his old favourites are missing entirely. And then there's the shift of time that means some things would've been the same, but has changed in the past couple of years.

Having been here three weeks now, he feels like he's starting to get a handle on it, though. And books have, as always, provided a welcome distraction from the realities of his situation. He's gotten a tip for a place over on East 87th street, which is only fifteen minutes away from his apartment, so that's his main mission for today.

He's been told he should check out the bakeshop next-door as well, and once he sees it, he has no qualms about complying. He gets a coffee and some apple muffins and eats it there so he'll have energy for plenty of browsing afterwards.

And oh was that a good plan, because this shop is packed with books, and he foresees himself being here for several hours at least. He immediately braves the terrible lighting and dives right in.

[Find him in Glaser's Bakeshop or Aziraphale's Bookshop. Also, note Jess has an Interactivity riftpower, which means characters should find it really easy to start a conversation with him.]
andhiswife: (hurt)
[personal profile] andhiswife
Greta is standing just outside Iman's door, fist raised to knock, when she comes back to herself with an internal jolt and an external sway, as if someone had given her a light shove. Ruckus is by her side, the dog's warm weight pressing against her knee. How did they get here?

No. That's a foolish question. She remembers, of course she remembers, and so what if it's in pieces?

She remembers the sound the dog made, the way the creature rushed from one end of the apartment to the other and shoved her nose into any place small enough for a little girl to hide, circling and circling until Greta dropped to the floor and pulled her into her lap and made her stop, just stop.

She remembers pulling on her coat with promises of a walk, her tone almost normal, but her hands shaking. She remembers clipping the leash on and deliberately turning her back on the abandoned toys and crayon-scrawled wall.

Four lost in three months. Maybe she's still Cursed, after all.

She remembers crossing the Park at a brisk march, Ruckus keeping pace with her head low and her eyes wide and her ears tucked back. She doesn't remember consciously deciding to walk to Iman's apartment, but where else would she go, really, and how else could she get there with a dog in tow?

She remembers counting her paces, not as she did before, but a steady, one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, keeping tempo with a melody that stubbornly refused to reveal itself. She remembers trying not to think, and she guesses she must have succeeded.

She realizes, now, that she didn't remember to text.

And now she's knocked, and she doesn't even know if Iman is home. She must look a mess, hair in disarray thanks to the wind, face flushed, and she's absolutely boiling underneath her coat. She fumbles at the buttons with one hand, the other still clinging to the leash. When Iman opens the door, she drops her hand as if she's been caught out, relief and embarrassment washing through her and temporarily, mercifully obscuring everything else.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't even tell you we were coming. Are--are you busy?" Her stomach knots, because of course she is - one of the only reasons they were spending today apart was because Iman had things to take care of, here: chores that had been neglected during the time she was away.

The other reason… the other reason is gone. Greta presses her lips together in a thin line and swallows past the lump in her throat, waiting - wishing, for the first time since the Witch blasted their front door off its hinges - to just be told what to do.

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The Big Applesauce

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