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".
]
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 )
lonelyghost: (oh)
[personal profile] lonelyghost
He counts his steps. Everything here is very big. Too easy to get lost. So many people, so much hurt - too much. Cole wants to help, but he also wants to find somewhere quiet. Harder to bear alone, without friends to help him bear it, help him help.

People like to go to the Park. It's quieter there. Cole likes it better there. It's more like home.

Two hundred and thirty-seven steps, and he's made friends with a little bird. She's a sparrow, and she likes riding in his hand. He carries her gently along to where she wants to go. A friend of hers is hurting. He doesn't know if he can help, but he can try.

As they get closer she gets excited, because someone else is already helping. She loves them. He knows them. Her.

He observes Daine from a short distance as she heals the fallen bird. Will she remember him? Usually when he meets people in dreams they don't remember him later.

He steps a little closer and allows himself to be seen. The sparrow is already talking to her. He'll let her do the talking.
biscuit_powered: (human | thoughtful | chewing on thumb)
[personal profile] biscuit_powered
Though Asmodia's first foray into the life of an adventurer-for-hire was a resounding success, she's struggled since then to find something to do with herself. Life is...easy here, in many ways. She has a small box apartment in which to live, a pleasant rooftop garden in which to celebrate the sunrise on those mornings when she doesn't fail her goddess by sleeping through it, and an allowance that trickles down to her from the supposedly angelic (she seriously doubts it, but she's still waiting for causes and evidence to dispute it) owner of the building. What's hard isn't providing for herself. What's hard is finding a reason to drag herself out of bed in the mornings (or the afternoon, or evening, or middle of the night -- her sleep patterns haven't become the slightest bit more regular than they were back in Absalom). So far as she can tell there's no way home, where she tries to convince herself she's needed, and the bustling city around her is so far out of step with what she knows that she doesn't know where to begin to pick up the pieces. It's been a long time since she just lived for the sake of living, and what felt like freedom a decade ago in Nirmathas feels like purgatory now that she's had a taste of life as part of something bigger.

There is something happening around the city, though. Lately she's heard rumors from the neighbors of 'monsters' coming through the rift, though she has her doubts about some of these people when she's heard at least one of them use the words 'monster' and 'demon' interchangeably. She doesn't have any leads on where these purported monsters might be found, but if they're coming through the rift, Central Park is a decent bet -- and today, at least, her logic has paid off. All one needs do is follow the sounds of screaming, right? Or more like go the opposite direction of the people running away yammering about a 'floating worm' swimming through the air somewhere near the Sheep Meadow.

When she gets there, she's surprised to find that it is, indeed, a floating worm. Or a floating...squirmy thing. It looks almost aquatic, and despite hanging in midair and possessing a mouth that looks like something out of the Abyssal Plane, it doesn't seem to actually be doing much of anything. She edges nearer, casting a quick spell so she can check its aura -- there's a hint of enchantment magic here, but she can't make out what -- and after a moment's thought, she preemptively lays a hex of retribution on it before stepping closer, reasoning that the hex will only hurt it if it hurts her first. Biscuit hangs back as his mistress steps nearer, chittering uneasily.

"It's alright," she assures him, eyes fixed on the...thing. "I don't think it's even doing anything, it's probably just an animal from one of the outer -- GAK!!"

She probably shouldn't have gotten so close to it. That's the thought that goes through her head as it suddenly squirms forward through the air with a hitherto unseen speed. Her next thought, as it latches onto her neck, is that this is a really lovely day and that she really ought to remind Biscuit that she loves him more often.
i_jones: (it gives me a headache)
[personal profile] i_jones
This is it. Ianto has reached the end of his proverbial rope, the metaphorical straw that broke the camel's back. He can't take it anymore. He has had it up to here [not indicated, but probably a spot well above his head].

Aliens. He's going to go mad if he has to spend another day living with aliens inside of another alien. There was a nice period after Callie settled in where everything was a bit domestic and relatively quiet and nothing went unmanageably wrong. He wonders now if he wasn't just resolutely ignoring all the little things that were driving him so slowly up the wall that he hasn't noticed 'til now that he's at the ceiling. He can't even recover with a stiff drink because his house, which is actually an alien, won't let him near any alcohol, ostensibly for his health, which the house (the HOUSE WHICH IS AN ALIEN) claims he has been neglecting. So he's gone on a long walk (for his health) to the riftie Pub for a drink (for his mental health). It's refreshing and slightly bizarre to walk the relatively normal streets of Manhattan. The strangest people he walks past are a welcome change, just for being people. Even the unsettling man in the alley before the door to Wilmot's is some kind of a relief.

He orders a pint of cider at the bar and sits at one of the little tables, trying to soak in the warm and extremely human surroundings, and maybe work his stomach up for some definitely human food.
grabme: (AAAAAAAAA)
[personal profile] grabme
The thing about space is that, frankly, it's enormous. Bloody massive, in fact. Just so very much of it stretching in so many different directions, and here, right now, currently drifting among the assorted debris caught in the Earth's lunar orbit in a slow, forlorn arc, Wheatley finds himself thinking that space, space is just - well, it's terribly overrated, really. It all looks more or less the same, to be honest. Big, black, empty space, with a little dusting of stars here and there, nothing special, just a few pinpricks of illumination to highlight his current complete and unending isolation.

Not complete maybe. Not entirely.

"Space," hums a delighted, dopplering voice in his audial processor for the millionth time in - well, Wheatley's not entirely sure how long he's been up here, but he's certain it's been quite a while. Ages, in fact. Some very long, very lonely, very loud bloody ages. The shared link between his audial processor and his companion's has given him some company, he can say that much, some sort of radiowave variation to offset the noiseless vacuum of space, but it's not saying a whole lot in the end, as said company is not exactly the best or most engaging conversationalist. In fact, the only other personality core around has exactly one topic on hand to discuss at inarticulate and immense length, and that is -

"SPAAAAAAAAAAACE."


"Right," sighs Wheatley without much enthusiasm. "Bang on. Space. Got it in one. Loads of it. Don't ever plan on running out, no sir, we can check that one in the column of things that we have at our, at our collective disposal. Space." Wheatley has long since come to accept the fact that emotional modulation doesn't seem to have much of an impact on his hyperactive companion's extremely one-track mind - regardless of how angry he's gotten, how desperately he's cajoled or pleaded or politely asked or screamed for the other core to pipe down for just a sec, mate, just one bloody second, is that so HARD?, the space core remains, as always, blissfully, elatedly, happily unaffected, lost forever in its euphoric personal daydream.

"Yeah," says Wheatley, watching the star-studded perpetual night spin lazily past. "Yeah, look, mate - d'you mind keeping it down over there? Trying to reminisce here, terribly important."

It was all his miserable, miserable fault. He'd been greedy, and bossy, and monstrous, and he'd mucked things up so colossally that she'd had no choice but to launch him into the great empty vastness of space. Really, he doesn't blame her for that - who would? She'd made the best choice she could, and he'd - well, if he's honest with himself, which has become increasingly easier here, in space, with no one to listen or care for a word coming out from discarded, broken, tiny old Wheatley's vocal processor, he'd conversely made the worst choice.

Hence: the banishment. To space.

Until, suddenly, he's not anymore.

He doesn't get a great deal of time to adjust. He gets the briefest impression of white, intensely hot light, and the barest flutter oh god, it's happened, I've been knocked out of orbit, I'm about to fly into the flipping SUN, and then, just as abruptly, he's somewhere else. It's terribly bright, and something's wrong with his optic, something's got to be off there, because everything is just more than a bit wonky, and, most impressively - no space! No space at all!

Wheatley does not get very long to process the latest in this unforeseen string of events as he's dropped, literally, on top of something squirming and squishy and moving like it's got limbs and he's got limbs, and he realizes he's got limbs and realizes the person beneath him has got limbs and reacts in the only reliable way he knows and understands: he screams, realizes he's acquired an entirely different vocal processor and screams again, and tries, with absolutely no coordination behind the movements or any idea what to to do with his newly-acquired body with its variety of long, gangly limbs, to scramble upward and off and away from the person beneath him, all with the absolute maximum of volume available to his vocal processors.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
deadeyedchild: this is the best part (be silent)
[personal profile] deadeyedchild
[Immediately following this.]

Jay moves Tim's body to his bed. It's hard. He feels exhausted, like his body has been on ice the whole time he was 'dead', muscles needing to learn again how to work. Tim's heavy and Jay can't really lift him, can only sort of roll him awkwardly up onto the bed. It's absurd and undignified and he doesn't give a fuck.

In fact he feels incredibly numb. The initial shock and rage and sadness has fizzled down into nothing. He's running on autopilot, auxiliary power. He finds Tim's keys and takes the one for his apartment. He finds Tim's phone and calls in to his workplace. They actually remember him from that one time he called in for Tim before.

He tells them the truth this time: Tim is in a coma. He's being cared for at home.

They tell him they're going to have to let Tim go, but that, if things look up, he's welcome to re-apply. They seem like good people. Understanding enough.

Tim's phone ends up in his pocket. May as well.

He stands there staring at Tim for too long, until he realizes he feels like he's going to faint. He's hungry, thirsty, he feels sick. His body is both catching up to him and rejecting all of this. He doesn't want to leave Tim, not ever, but he has to. Just for a bit.

He stumbles out of the apartment, locks it behind him, sweaty and cold. He stares at his hands, which are visible and solid and pale and shuddering.

He staggers down a few flights and into the hallway, moving down it like he's in a trance, stopping finally outside Daine's door. He lifts a trembling hand and knocks.
postictal: (barely got a lid on it)
[personal profile] postictal
His head throbs, a single continuous pulse feathering into variations on the same painful theme.

Tim groans and feels his muscles clench as he tries to roll over. A familiar soreness suffuses his entire body, the kind of soreness that takes its sweet goddamn time fading out after -

After -

Well, shit.

All it takes is a cursory glance at his phone for Tim to groan again and slap the device down as he gets slowly, agonizingly, to his feet. He runs fingers over his clothes, through his hair. No twigs and leaves, no mat of mud and blood drying in stiff clumps. His skin remains unscuffed from the phantom tug of undergrowth, his clothing miraculously clean and whole.

And, most importantly - no mask.

Tim breathes out, long and slow, and tries to suppress the faint prickle of relief. Unless his less agreeable self has suddenly gotten way more meticulous about cleaning up after its habitual wrecking of shit, an eerie number-laden message on the network is all he's got to worry about. That'd be a first. He'd almost be grateful for the little bastard if it wasn't set on making his life fucking miserable every chance it got. Regardless, he'll count himself lucky when he can.

Everything still hurts by the time noon hits him square in the face with a bright burst of sunlight through the slats in the shades, and the hiss of crisp fall air. It's surreal that Tim has to remind himself that time is still a thing that exists; absurd as it is, the existence of anything outside his own problems always comes to him as a shock. Like, you know, the weather.

So Tim goes out and buys a Ouija board.

This is - so goddamn stupid, he doesn't think he has a word for it. It's stupidly optimistic. It's a stupid idea, period. But he's out of options, and he feels like an idiot buying something like this, some plastic board at the cheapest magical bullshit place he could find. It's this or ask Asmodia to play telephone every day, and he's about had it with dragging other people into his and Jay's collective shit. She's got better things to do - safer people to spend her time with, no doubt, who are less liable to catapult her life into a complete sanity-draining nightmare.

He enters the apartment, keys rattling over the door, and jiggles the wide, flat box with faux enthusiasm.

"Bought you something," he deadpans.

As usual, the apartment doesn't answer. He pauses in hopes for a gust of chill wind to stab at his shoulder, or for the roll of paper towels to dislodge themselves from the counter - anything that would confirm that he didn't just announce his stupid impulsive baseless purchase to an empty fucking apartment. Like a moron.
applesaucemod: (Default)
[personal profile] applesaucemod
 photo anigif_enhanced-buzz-29762-1378302740-10_zpse82a67eb.gif


Ah, October. A time of crisp weather, beautiful foliage, pumpkin spice lattes—and the flu. Make sure you get vaccinated!

Of course, vaccinations can't keep you safe from everything. Especially not a capricious, omnipresent entity that has, quite recently, been treated to the highly entertaining sight of someone struggling with illness for the first time in their life. Oh, dear. Someone's been giving the Rift ideas.

On the morning of October 2nd, those rifties who would never consider getting vaccinated against paltry human illnesses--because why would they need to?--will find themselves awake to a new level of personal hell: the flu. It will instantaneously infect any entities who are generally immune to such things, leaving them snotty, achy, miserable, and completely powerless to stop what is happening to them. What is this?! Are they dying? Oh god, the pathos.

Symptoms will persist until October 4th. Get plenty of rest, stay hydrated, and maybe investigate the wonders of chicken soup. Probably don't go see a doctor. Clinic doctors will be very confused and unhelpful about your weird anatomy, and The Doctor will probably be really gross and contagious.

Definitely don't consult WebMD. No good can come of that.

[OOC: Post here for initial reactions or start your own threads using the tag Event: Flu Season. Characters who can be affected are: the Doctor, the TARDIS, Zagreus, Aziraphale, Crowley, Desire, Ascended Daniel, Gabriel, Lucifer, and Rashad. You could probably also make a case for various other non-human/not-quite-human folks. No one's gonna tell you you can't have the flu, okay. Go nuts.]
lottawork: (stare into the distance like i dont care)
[personal profile] lottawork
His fingers skim the length of his laptop, tracing its edges as he watches the text on the monitor, promoting some sort of entry-level job access tutorial, blur into parallel streaks. Irritating as he had found ROMAC on principle, it had at least been a useful inlet into the Rift's center of activity with a conveniently, moderately high salary.

Thus far, he has found Manhattan's job market to be comparatively disappointing.

The laptop snaps shut in an abrupt, frustrated jerk of motion, prefacing the inevitable downward arch of Rush's shoulders as he buries his face in his hands and breathes out, worn and protracted. He is tired, or he is reasonably certain he is tired - the other potential explanations for the excess of mental fatigue seem unlikely, as he is relatively sure he would remember being drunk and he is equally unlikely to be experiencing some dissociative episode apropos of nothing and, clearly, it has been a sufficient amount of time since he has last slept as he cannot remember the time he last slept, which serves as an adequate proof of assumption in his mind.

Rush shuts his eyes and tries to recover some sort of celerity or clarity of thought.

postictal: (not all there | masked)
[personal profile] postictal
[tw: weird formatting, dissociation]

When did they last - ?

They cannot remember. This body has not been theirs in so long.

w     e  w  i ll wait for you no more                              

It is theirs again. They have slid the familiar pale disc of their face to shroud the one belonging to the skin they wear, wrapped in their old, familiar mantle. There was a window, and they climbed out of it. They are awake for the first time in -

control is being ta  ke n away from y  o   u                                                                      

No matter.

They do not exist in that limbo of chemical suppression, not any longer. They could not have been muzzled by that chemical impulse forever. He should have known that. Their skin. The liar. Scared little boy. He is quiet now, and they are awake in his head. They flex fingers. They move silently but for the scrape of their leg dragging behind them in dead weight. They pull in breath, crisp and cold. The mechanics of existence are difficult. Half-remembered. Familiar again.

f   ro  m the sta rt it's been a game for us                                    

Quiet. Ahead, the woods. It is to them they creep. Tall things, slender trees, trunks stark and reaching to a sky fuzzy with stars. Wind stirs leaves, sending the curled husks of those dead things whispering over carpeted grass and sticks. They trace the skeleton claws of branches scratching the sky, and wonder if it is waiting for them. It always is.

Always watches. No eyes.

not anym o r  e                                                  
I'm coming for you                                   

Noise. Snap-twigs and rustled underbrush. They still, fall silent, scanning the place to which they've come. Something nearer? Something close? Something moving. Something here. Something they can find. Something they will find.

There's a trickle of code in their head.

and you will l e  ad me                

They remember. It is where they go. It is where everyone goes.

to t h   e      a    r           k

[ooc: so just after the fallout of the Rebel Base debacle, Tim ran out of medication and has masked out. The masked man is an alternate persona entirely - they don't have any of Tim's memories and are a very underdeveloped, generally aggressive consciousness. They don't talk, and basically look like this. Their instinct upon coming across anyone is mostly going to fall in the 'tackle and abduct' category, though reactions can and will vary. If you want to read more about their deal I've put info here and here. They'll be roaming Central Park all evening/night until the sun comes up again, at which point Tim will wake up and proceed to remember nothing of it.]
wildmage_daine: (wolf alert or curious)
[personal profile] wildmage_daine
Daine leaves the remains of the base in crow shape, surrounded by other birds, buzzing with adrenaline and borrowed strength. She and her friends have destroyed all the records they could find, left the labs in ruins, smashed computers and other expensive-looking things to pieces. The only things left intact are the tunnels themselves, because she hadn't wanted to risk collapsing the ground up above, and the food. Both belong to the rats, now, and she wishes them joy of it.

She's not sorry. She's not sorry.

The dogs are a bright, familiar cluster in her mind's eye, and she wings her way towards them. That's where Peeta will be. He's not as far from the base itself as she'd like him to be, but it doesn't matter anymore. If any stragglers tried to take him, they'd have nowhere to go.

The cold, furious part of her thinks: if any stragglers tried to take him, I'd kill them.

But there's no one suspicious around when she finally spies him and the others. Maybe Peeta knows her crow shape well enough to recognize her among the other birds as she swoops towards them. Regardless, she doesn't stay crow for long: once she hits the ground, she lapses into wolf shape, the only one she can count on herself to hold for any length of time. Maybe it's too noticeable, but there are far more noticeable things happening back near Columbus Circle. She could just be an overlarge dog.

Daine moves toward him, her gait somewhere between a trot and a stagger, hackles raised in lingering anger, but tail wagging. He's alive, he's in one piece, and they're free.
singthesong: (Default)
[personal profile] singthesong
Today is September 14th.

The knowledge fills the Balladeer with an anxious energy, though now he's got nowhere to go and nothing to do. It's just a normal day. Nothing special, nothing happening anywhere that he knows of, no cues to meet or new songs on the wind. It's not that he wants to be home - he's half-afraid he'll get sucked back there today, it's the last thing he wants. He just can't shake the feeling that he's supposed to be far away right now, doing something entirely different.

Also, he keeps jumping out of his skin at loud noises. Not a good problem to have in the heart of Manhattan.

He only recently returned to regular busking in the park, but even the vague lingering threat of ROMAC couldn't have kept him away today. His nerves are probably obvious to anyone passing by just from the sharp glances he keeps throwing at his surroundings, but he's still playing as normal, guitar case open for tips at his feet. It's a comforting setting: familiar, but not overly so. There's a little florist's shop on his usual route, which is the only reason for the bouquets of red carnations resting on the bench behind him. It's a tiny detail, but the sight of them in the window struck him like a bul - like a brick to the head. He'd bought one for his lapel, and then on impulse taken the rest as well. He's been handing them out to passerby between songs, and so far no one's bothered to ask him why.

Anyone who walks by multiple times may also notice that he keeps repeating a particular song throughout the day. It's catchy, right?
peacefulexplorer: (Ascended | Sad | ultimately helpless)
[personal profile] peacefulexplorer
Existence without form or breath or shape is disorienting, the spread of atoms over a plane he doesn't recognize, with the repeated dissolutions and reshapings of an indistinct self. At one point there was pain, and the unspooling of himself into light and purpose, and for a long while there is only amorphous drifting. He hits barriers, dissonant and frequent, where once he should have crossed from one plane to another, one reality to the next, in an effortless slide of energy across the universal boundaries. It is difficult to define emotional state outside of the human context - he only knows that he is not human - but it is a state of affairs that generates confused distress.

Temporal sequencing becomes a problem.

Awareness, too, is difficult to achieve. Gradually he is able to pull together the various components that comprise himself and reshape them into something capable of perception, but doing so strikes him with a revelation disconsolate, and that is that there are no Others here - no Ancients, nothing, simply an empty plane of shifting light and bottomless dark. And he is alone.

He knows he did this, and it was for a reason. But he finds he cannot remember anything, not immediately, and when the memories trickle back with his concentrated effort they are unfiltered and unstructured and unordered until finally he can impose the alien concept of linear time upon the thing, and fully interpret what he is in comparison to what he was.

Daniel Jackson.

The name is the linchpin that generates the outward ripples, spreading from that singular point of origin. It triggers the flood of remembrance, the 'gate, Manhattan, the locked-away knowledge that was once sealed in his head but now coalesces seamlessly into the whole of him now. He cannot delineate his form by shape or size or mass, not any longer, but now he remembers, he remembers what it is he can do and how it is he can do it.

He starts small because he must, drifting as a pair of hydrogen atoms while he glimpses the city on a reduced scale. Then he builds to it, the recollection of his shape. Spectrally manifesting was never truly allowed before, but if there are no Others then he is not bound by their laws. He assembles a body that resembles the one that was human and familiar, and projects it. It takes two tries to succeed, three to sustain it for longer than a meaningless collection of seconds, and no matter what he tries he cannot force his shape to manifest with glasses. Apparently his inner self, or however he chooses to define it, does not need them.

He loses track of how many attempts he makes before he can maintain his form visibly for any significant length of time. But finally, in a ragged burst of energy, the bewildered shape of Daniel Jackson reappears in Manhattan, and there he stays.

[ooc: Daniel Ascended back during the Rift Shitfit of September 4th, and he's only just figured out how to Do Things in his new state of being. Right now he's completely intangible and frequently phasing in and out of visible existence. I've added to his handy-dandy reference post as to what he can and can't do in this state. He can also show up LITERALLY ANYWHERE so if you want in on Ascended funtimes just pick a date and a location, or Daniel can pick one, or whatever.]
postictal: (behind you)
[personal profile] postictal
[tw: some brutality and beating, later some panic and flashbacking to hospitalization]

Keep your head down, stay off the radar, just act like the normal person you aren't, and everything will be fine.

That was the general idea.

Was.

But then, he should've expected something like this. When you come home from work and the door's not been open a minute before a couple ominously stone-faced guys come striding in, it generally throws up a few warning flags. And when opening your mouth to ask um sorry, but what the hell incites one of them to bring you down in a hard tackle that sends your cheek stinging against the carpet and your knees scraping along the ground, pure fight-or-flight impulse kicks in. Fight and flight, actually, and Tim manages to crack one of them a solid right hook across the jaw that leaves a darkening bruise before they wrestle him into submission. Maybe if he wasn't him right now - fuck.

In the end, there isn't much he can do against two guys who look to have something like six inches on him, and a few minutes of hopeless thrashing and several well-placed kicks to his ribs later, it's pretty much a lost cause. The apartment interior's a wreck; Tim definitely heard something shatter on his way to the ground, and he feels the distant, bizarre urge the apologize to Jay for being responsible for fucking things up yet again. He's sorry, Jay, really he is. He didn't mean to this time, honestly.

And that's when one of the guys sinks a fist into his stomach, and Tim loses track of things for a little while as his entire respiratory system promptly goes to shit.

He wakes in a little square room of concrete walls and windowless gloom.

Fuck. Fuck no. He lurches to his feet, all dizziness and nausea, and pounds at the door that looks more solid than any locked hospital door fuck, and he screams let him out and is anyone there? and please I need help please until his voice rasps into hoarseness and his vocal chords feel wet, as if they're torn and bleeding. His fists sting from banging against the door, its impassively hollow tone drumming against his ears. His jacket's gone. His medication. They fucking took it off him, they took everything, they took him away, and if there's anything he can do to help his situation, it's think and be calm and be compliant and be cooperative and not panic right now, which he isn't, who would even think that?

Because he's not a scared little kid anymore. He's not, he swears he's not. There's nothing tall and specter-like in the room with him, and he's not curled in the corner with his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around them and he's not huddled like he's eight years old again, because he's not the lost little boy crammed into a hospital room with a plethora of confusing and contradictory symptoms. He's not.

It's just a dream, and any moment he's going to wake up.
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[personal profile] applesaucemod
Protecting the city from the rifties -- and the rifties from the city -- is a full time job. That's never been more true than it is today, when there are metaphorical (and sometimes physical) fires to put out all over Manhattan. It's been a rough time at ROMAC in general; most of the organization's people are unfamiliar with the specifics of the recent animal attack, but even those who don't know that a number of prisoners guests of ROMAC have gone missing in the last few days (or that the computer system is still compromised) know that something has thrown the organization into disarray.

Unfortunately for ROMAC and fortunately for certain other people, ROMAC's resources are spread thin by whatever's put the Rift in a tizzy. As large as the organization is, though, there's surely nothing to worry about from the handful of malcontents at large in the city.

Surely.


[OOC: And here's the thread for taking down ROMAC! There will be a couple of player characters on ROMAC's side (check to see whether their threads are open to all before tagging in, as they may have limited availability due to prior plans), and anyone in need of 'enemies' to tag against can request an NPC from the mods. Have at!]
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[personal profile] etherthief
Rush's dream collapses and Iman lies awake, breathing too hard, staring at her ceiling. Her blood is up from his dumbshit attitude and his mottled, fucked up arm - she needs to break something. It's too early to go to Wilmot's but what the fuck is the point of sleeping, anyway.

She gets out of bed, paces for a few minutes, and ends up hurling an innocent coffee mug across the room, finding intense, relieving satisfaction in the sound of it shattering. That's better.

She'll clean that up later. She gets into the shower and turns it on cold. This is happening today. It'll just be her and Daine and Rush, who had better still fucking be alive.

There will be blood if he's not.

She brushes her teeth furiously, gets dressed and spends undue attention making herself look clean. There will be time aplenty for her to get wrecked today.

She checks the clock. Still at least an hour before even the stickiest barfly would be out and about. But if she stays here she'll end up breaking more things from the inactivity. She goes out.

She walks for a while. Wilmot's is close, so she ends up just circling that area, remembering vaguely better times when she fielded a weird meeting between Daniel and the Devil, and later when the Devil crashed through a wall. She'd take that shit over this, probably.

Finally, when time enough has passed, she walks into Wilmot's End, sits at the bar, orders "The tallest Tom Collins you can give me", and waits.
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[personal profile] burgleurturts
The sun drops with almost immeasurable slowness into Greg’s teacup. He rests his chin on the tree stump and holds up one thumb and closes one eye and watches the big yellow ball roll down the side of his finger. He remembers the time a girl at school told him that thumbs aren't really fingers. “That’s a rock fact.” His breath, clear as the air, puffs away the snow that’s fallen in front of his mouth. The snowflakes are undisturbed? By the sound. It’ll be night soon, and Greg made his wish the night before; Wirt must have found his way home by now. He’s smart like that.

The trees far away eat up the sun before it can land in the cup, swallowing it in their needles and branches, but Greg is too tired, and the light breaking through the trunks is too pretty. Just as the last little slivers disappear, a green light flashes, like when he makes Wirt photograph him and his findings with that camera that spits out pictures, except this flash is growing and growing, filling the sky and the forest and his cup. It resolves into the shape of a kitten, then a cat, then a big cat, bounding closer and faster. It leaps into the air and strikes its head against the tree stump, shattering it and the cup and the branches that Greg hadn't noticed were hugging him. It stops in front of him, shaking the leaves and snow from its fur.

"Oh, Gregory," the fearsome critter says, like his father when Greg tells him about the adventures he's had and the new friends he's made.

"Hi, kitty," Greg greets, quiet and awed and droopy-eyed.

"I am not a kitty," it huffs. "I am the Splintercat." Greg reaches out to play with the funny tufts of hair at the tips of its ears. It bows his head, rumbling, then circles him three times, taller than Greg where he sits. "You don't belong here, Gregory." It wraps itself around him, soft and warm.

"Okay," Greg sighs, and falls asleep.

When he opens his eyes again, it's daytime, and the soft warmth surrounding him is much bigger and softer and warmer than before. Greg takes a big breath of the fur under his nose and sneezes. The big soft warmth rumbles. Greg pokes it, then pushes his fists into it.

"Punch, punch, punch."

With a mighty yawn, which Greg follows with one of his own, the fur parts to reveal the sky, and some rocks, and some water. Greg squints up at the sun and stretches.

"Boy, am I pooped."

A white face and a black nose descend on him, snuffling at his face, and his clothes, and then his stomach. Greg laughs, batting at the animal's snout.

"Haha! Hey! Hahaha!"

The creature whumpfs and nudges him with its nose, batting back with its big paws. Greg tickles it under its chin and on its cheeks.

"I'm gonna call you Antonio," Greg decides, as he's rolled back and forth by the curious creature. "You're real fuzzy, Antonio."

There's another flash, but not green, this time, and raises his head to look at it. Over past the rocks there's a big crowd of people waving at him and taking pictures. Delighted, Greg waves back.

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