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."
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]
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.
andhiswife: (it's not okay)
[personal profile] andhiswife
It's not like Iman to ignore her. She's given Greta space before, left her be, but never ignored her outright. Not on purpose, anyway. But too much time has passed since her texts for Greta to convince herself that Iman is just napping or doing chores or absorbed in some project or other. There must be some other reason she's gone quiet, and none of the potential causes that Greta can think of bring her any comfort.

She's ill. She's injured herself, somehow. The Devil has lost patience with her. Something terrible must have happened, because only something terrible would keep Iman from acknowledging her.

Greta makes her way to Iman's building. There are costumed people on the streets - some sort of festival, she's been given to understand. The sight of them does nothing for her growing conviction that everything has gone wrong, that something has been broken beyond repair.

What if she is just ignoring her? What if she knows, and is trying to find some way to let her down gently? That fear, more than any of the others, is what has her stomach in knots. It's hard enough for her to even acknowledge what she wants, let alone dream of asking for it. She certainly doesn't expect anything more than what she already has.

Well, if they have to--to talk about... that... then they will. The thought makes her flush with utter humiliation, but she thinks she could bear that conversation better than she can bear all this uncertainty.

She knocks on Iman's door, but doesn't announce herself, lips pressed together as she strains to hear any sound from inside. There is nothing, even after she knocks again. Even after she quietly says, "Iman?"

The door opens beneath her hand before she makes any conscious decision to try it.

Greta knows the apartment is empty the moment she steps inside, the door swinging shut behind her. Despite that, despite the feeling that she is trespassing in this place she's visited so many times, she steps forward to check each room. The bathroom light is on, an ostensible sign of life that fails to reassure her. She can't stand the faint hum of the florescent bulb; she turns it off with an unsteady, impulsive swat, then flinches back as if the light switch might retaliate.

She finds Iman's phone on the bedside table. For a few moments, she just stares at it; then, she reaches forward to press the home button. She expects the screen to light up with half a dozen text alerts, but it doesn't light up at all. The battery is dead, and the glossy black screen is flecked with dust.

No. No, no.

By the time she stumbles back out into the living room, she's trembling too much to do anything with her own phone except fumble it onto the carpet. It's too far away, now; if she bends to retrieve it she might not be able to get back up again. Out of options, out of desperation, she prays.
singthesong: (Tracks)
[personal profile] singthesong
The Balladeer goes to Wilmot's half an hour early.

The theory is that the noise of other people will make it easier to tune out the echoes of Gabriel. The bar isn't busy at this time of day, but it's not empty. It'll do. He takes a seat at the end of the bar and gets some water. After last night he's not really up to drinking much else.

It does help a bit to have other songs to focus on. It's a bit of a balancing act; he doesn't care to get the bartender's life story in addition to everything else, so even while trying to drown out the rest he has to try not to tune in too much. It's still better than sitting alone in his apartment. The song isn't insidious in that Johnny way but it's not a lot of fun to listen to for hours on end either.

God, he's lucky that was only a dream. He's not sure what would have happened if he'd done that while he was awake.

He can tell when Gabriel enters. Hell, he could tell when Gabriel was approaching from outside. Turning, he locates the source of the sound easily - wow, he'd have never known what he was just from looking at him - and lifts a hand in greeting.
spiritofwinter: (mischeivous | snowball)
[personal profile] spiritofwinter
It's been a few days since Jack was suddenly transported from Queenstown to Manhattan without an explanation. He knows people who can do that kind of stuff, but he didn't see any magic portals when it happened. More worryingly, the season is all wrong, autumn when the northern hemisphere should be in the throes of late spring.

Most worryingly, he can't leave. As in the wind won't work with him when he tries to fly away from the island of Manhattan, buffeting him back in instead of carrying him where he wants to go. As in not knowing how he can get back to anyone who might have answers for him -- the Man in the Moon isn't any more talkative than he's ever been, and Jack doesn't have any way of contacting the guardians when he can't fly to the North Pole...and when Sandy doesn't show up at bedtime. That's the part that came as the worst blow: he'd sat up through the entire first night waiting to see the dream sand, sure he could go to his friend and find out what was happening and why he's suddenly here instead of back in New Zealand, and whether he really did lose a year when it happened (the newspapers say it's 2013, and while he's pretty sure it was 2012 the last time he checked, once a couple centuries go by the years all blur together).

He's lonely here without anyone who can see him, and he's a little scared all the time from not knowing what brought him here or what's keeping him in and the other guardians out. Lonely isn't new, but it still hurts after things had been so good for a little while. Now that it's been a few days without any hint of what he should be doing to fix whatever happened, he's coping with it the same way he always has, if with less joyful abandon than before. It's cold enough for a little snow, which means it's cold enough to send people slipping on the ice -- and cold enough for a game of Snowballs From Nowhere. If there's one good thing about being unseen, it's the look on people's faces when he beans someone with a snowball and they can't figure out where it came from. He's been at it a while, and it's actually working to take his mind off of things, for now, to judge by his laughter when he lands a snowball right on the back of a random woman's neck.

[OOC: While this post is for introducing Jack to Greta, please feel free to assume he's lobbed snowballs at any characters who can't see him yet.]

[cw references to character death in comments]
has_a_horn: (suit)
[personal profile] has_a_horn
It's early in the morning, and Gabriel is debating with himself about whether Johnny will be up yet.

He's probably not up. )
has_a_horn: (look at the mask | smile)
[personal profile] has_a_horn
Gabriel has been feeling listless. The days are getting a little bit colder and, with the drop in temperature, the city seems to close in on him incrementally. He's reminded more and more that he's approaching a full year trapped here in this city without making any real progress in fighting the rift. The rift giving him the flu had felt like a jab to let him know how powerless he really is here.

In the week since that, he's kept to himself more often than not. Monday rolls around again and he notices a pattern forming that he doesn't want to let continue. He's got to get out and talk to someone that's not rattling around in his own head.

He pushes himself up and pulls on his jacket, but instead of flying himself out of the apartment, he walks down the stairs. He pauses, momentarily on the landing that leads to Johnny's door before continuing down once again to knock loudly at Mako's door. He hasn't really taken the time to get to know her one-on-one yet, and there's no reason to put it off any longer. He's interested in her, this is a perfect opportunity to found out more about her.

It's fairly early in the morning, but that just means that it's the perfect time to go grab some breakfast. He hasn't gotten breakfast with anyone since Seth disappeared, and he finds that he misses it a lot.

"Mako!" He knocks again, then simply teleports himself into the apartment. "Come to breakfast with me. I need to make up for you seeing me groaning on the floor like a dying yak." He grins at her. "Come on. I'll introduce you to the concept of layering syrups."
has_a_horn: (pout | wtf)
[personal profile] has_a_horn
(slight sickness related grossness in the following)

He wakes up sore, and not in a fun way. He groans, and every muscle in his body protests as he swings his legs around the edge of the bed and sits up. What the hell is this? He stomach feels wrong and his head is pounding like he's got the worst hangover imaginable. Actually, worse than imaginable because when he attempts to heal himself, nothing happens.

There's something on his face- he lifts a hand and "Ughh-" that's definitely snot on his face. There is snot where it definitely should not be. At least when he goes to wipe it away, it disappears.

Whatever this is, he clearly needs help. A moment later, he arrives lying face down on Johnny's bed.

He groans. "Johnny, I've been cursed. Probly the rift. You need to-" He waves a hand vaguely then coughs, and for a moment he feels like he might just keep coughing forever, but it passes. "-call Aziraphale. He needs to come'n do something." He's ill. Surely this is what it feels like to be deathly ill, and if Aziraphale can't heal him, maybe he can reverse whatever curse the rift or whoever has put on him.

(He'll be with Johnny for a while, but later he'll be up at his place again, likely flopped in bed. Anyone is free to visit then)
etherthief: (welp)
[personal profile] etherthief
Well, those texts were weirdly spaced out and not quite the responses she was expecting, but the good news is Gabe's coming and he's bringing booze. And that's what she needs right now. She told Rush she'd see him today but she is not ready, and he's gonna have to deal. She's still reeling after everything yesterday was, she's drained and still liable to get into fights, so yeah. Booze. Booze is what she needs.

She sighs and sets her phone down without answering, instead wandering around and making a cursory effort to clean the place up. Not that it matters. Just something to do.

She runs out of things to do pretty quickly, and is left just standing in the middle of her apartment staring at the floor for several moments before she resigns herself to slumping over at her worktable, dragging her arm up to set it on the table, all normal-like. Now there's just waiting.
johnny_truant: (fight me)
[personal profile] johnny_truant
[[Content Warning: this post contains street harassment, references to racist/homophobic slurs, and pretty severe physical violence/assault. Putting it behind a cut cause it's both unsettling and kinda long. The thread itself will contain terrifying & brutal angelic wrath. Yay!]]


And when they finally got to me / I had built a monster worse than me / and far worse than you )
driftseeker: (got those jet pack blues)
[personal profile] driftseeker
Post-drift and post-canceled-apocalypse, it’s a disarray of decontamination protocol and harried celebration and administrative detailing that’s lost on a head that’s too full of sentiments opposed. There’s grief, sick and heavy, laid flat against the fluttering escape of relief, the confused realization that somewhere outside of this lies an actual future, not simply in the context of a motivation or incentive to fight ever-onwards, but as something conceivable and attainable and imaginable.

She can hear Raleigh for days after, as they undergo endless directives to ensure that they are free from the heretofore unconsidered threats of radiation poisoning or infection by alien pathogens, but nearly all of it slides past in an incomprehensible, exhausted blur of prolonged lassitude. They're ghosting constantly, instinctive and unthinking, awake and dreaming, and there’s a familiarity to the the brush of his mind against hers; they’re each others' anchors in the nightmares that follow, one dragging the other out of those plunging tangents of things many-eyed and blue-dyed and split-jawed and glistening, and between the horrors buried in their heads and the steel ache of loss, sometimes Mako wonders how it is she is still sane.

They’re released from the labs and medical procedures after a week. Herc circumvents the wall of paperwork for them, dismantles the red tape to scrape one last favor out from the Shatterdome’s shattered shelves, and tells them to give themselves a brief cushion of space before the press hits, because it will. They saved the world. They’re heroes. They're cultural icons. Their faces are plastered on every magazine and news report, and everyone will want to know what it was like and were they scared and how did it feel to save the world. Privacy will be a privilege they'll soon miss.

Mako just wants to sleep. Raleigh does too. They sequester themselves in an anonymous hotel and barricade out the real world and hunt for rest without dreams of things with too many teeth. The only clothes they have are PPDC-regulation. Personal effects have been left abandoned in their old rooms. They crash fully clothed and sleep with boots still on.

It’s with a roaring in her ears that Mako wakes and finds that everything is bright and wrong. The hotel is gone; the world, everything, and when she claws out in search of Raleigh’s mind she only finds screaming silence. It takes her a moment for her scrambling mind to string together causality and consequence, form a concatenation of deductions to be drawn from the seeping chill that soaks her from the waist up, the wet cling of her clothing, and conclude that she is standing waist-deep in water in a fountain in a city she doesn't recognize. Wind hisses over the water's surface, distressingly non-littoral.

Mako raises a hand and squints against the glare of the sun, bereft.
fucking_ebay: (misc | pouring a drink)
[personal profile] fucking_ebay
It's tempting -- maybe surprisingly tempting to anyone who doesn't know Peter as well as he knows himself -- to just burn it all and start over. A penthouse (not to mention an actual fucking return to the stage) should mean matching furniture and built-ins, shiny new fixtures, and all the details and decorations planned and picked down to the silk sheets and the display cases he's sure to start filling with spooky crap and detritus rare supernatural artifacts and top of the line weapons.

Unfortunately, his time in New York has made him unpleasantly practical. The rickety bed, the ratty couch, the TV Gabe brought him (alright, that's at least decent)...it will all have to do, at least to start with. He's not a headliner again yet, and he's starved himself enough months to finally start relearning how to live on a budget. That includes not taking the lazy way out and hiring movers to get his stuff from one place to another literally within a few blocks (he seriously considered it), so this morning he's boxing up the last of the odds and ends that make up his life and stinking up his old apartment with a celebratory cigar for good measure. At least there's not much -- it's a tiny apartment and he never had money, so the problem is going to be less one of bulk and more one of the penthouse probably looking fucking empty even once he's unpacked again.

Bee's due any minute, insistent as she is on helping despite it being unclear to Peter what she's getting out of it. That probably means the cigar is a bit ill-advised (he's fairly sure they're not allowed to smoke indoors at all), but he'd come across it while packing and it seemed stupid to put a lone cigar in one of the boxes. Anyway, it's not his apartment anymore, and not his problem.
johnny_truant: (jacked up)
[personal profile] johnny_truant
[follow-up from here]

Tim's last kick to his stomach did him no favors. He staggers home, weak, sore, and shaking - scared as all hell by what he's done, what he had to do. Tim might be bleeding out in the park and it's his fault. He's not doing too well himself, he feels like that kick may have broken something, but at least he's heading home to a an angel. Not scrambling around the park halfway out of his head.

He gets to the building after what seems like an interminable struggle southward, and climbs the stairs automatically, no sense going into his own apartment at this hour, where Lilly's (hopefully) sleeping. As much as he needs this, he's dreading it, too. Gabe can put him back together, but at what cost? What questions is he going to have to field, what lies will he tell, and will Gabe believe any of them. He can't give up Tim, not until he knows more about - everything, all of this. Like he can actually make a difference. Such bullshit.

He might know it's bullshit but he's resolute all the same. He gets to Gabe's door and lets himself in. "Gabe," he murmurs weakly, unable to focus on Scout as the dog comes running to greet him.
mamasgirl: (pic#7748405)
[personal profile] mamasgirl
"Mama?"

Even as the word passes Lilly's lips, she knows it's pointless. She might not know where she's turned up but she knows for a fact that Mama isn't around. She was there - or, at least, Lilly had been with her. She's still wearing the crown of flowers that Mama made, is still adorned in her dirty night clothes and tattered bathrobe, and can still feel the bite in her cheeks from the wind as it whipped past her while she fell off the cliff, toward the water, safe in Mama's arms.

Without Victoria. That thought makes Lilly frown and stop in her tracks on her way to the trees thirty feet or so away. Victoria said no. Victoria didn't want to come with them. The loss of her sister is something Lilly has never experienced and therefore doesn't know how to handle. Her sister has always been there. To go anywhere, even with Mama, without Victoria, seems wrong.

That doesn't seem to matter now, though. Although unquestionably young, and certainly underdeveloped both mentally as well as physically, Lilly is far from stupid. She understands more than she lets on and she's capable of more than she normally does. This situation is no exception. She knows, with absolute certainty, that she's alone in a strange place. Neither Victoria nor Mama is here. She also knows, with equal certainty, that she needs to get to safety.

For Lilly, that's always, always the woods.

Fortunately, the trees aren't too far from where she's arrived and, after shaking off the overwhelming sense of sorrow at her sister's betrayal, it takes very little time for her to reach them. Once in an area that's a touch more secluded, she next sets out gathering up bits of twigs and brush to build an area for her to rest.

That is, until she hears the telltale sound of someone approaching. Immediately Lilly drops into a crouch. A low sound comes from her throat - similar to a sound an animal might make while warning another animal that it is encroaching on its territory - and she scurries quickly on all fours - palms and feet flat on the ground and back arched unnaturally high - to a nearby tree. She doesn't climb it, and won't unless she feels threatened, but instead she simply begins to wait for whoever is approaching to make their presence known.
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.]
applesaucemod: (Default)
[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!]
etherthief: (working | moping | both?)
[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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