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.
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.
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.
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.
etherthief: (heart powers | super srs)
[personal profile] etherthief
She tells herself this is fine, she doesn't need to run, and probably shouldn't because who knows what condition she's really in after being in the rift so long, but she's barely out the door before she figures she should stop lying to herself and she breaks into a sprint. She doesn't want to get on a fucking train and she can't run the whole damn way, so she runs until she spots an unoccupied cab and flags it down with breathless gusto.

She feels like she's going to throw up.

Once she's in the back of the cab, once she's blurted out the address she still remembers, she fumbles out her phone and scrolls back through the texts that all came at once. It's too much, all of it. They might as well be in another language. They start off so normal, become so desperate, and then something else. It's awful. She feels like she's watching Greta's heart break.

I wish, Greta had finished one message.

You wish what?

What does she 'finally understand'?

Iman rocks feverishly, turning her phone over and over in her hands. She stares out the window hard enough to break the glass.

And then it pulls up, and she gives the driver an absurd tip and stumbles out.

Greta's there. She can see her just inside the front door. Iman hears herself make a sound she didn't expect, a little whimper. She's there, waiting. Their eyes meet. She runs.
james_t: (??????!?)
[personal profile] james_t
Following the events on Sarpeidon, he'd been relieved that the next few days had been relatively quiet. Their next assignment had involved checking progress of a new colony station on planet Bilaren. It looks as if the colonists' efforts at growing crops has been successful, which is promising. In the next five years, more people might be able to join the colony, and humanity can spread a little further out into the stars.

At the end of shift, he is smiling as he makes his way back to his quarters.

And then- a lurch. Like an explosion on the ship.

His body slams down hard against the ground. Bright light temporally whites out his vision and he rolls halfway down a hill before he can gain purchase and stop himself. With one hand he reaches out, noting grass. He's been transported somewhere. He pushes himself roughly up and takes a hurried breath- an oxygen rich environment. When he turns, he squints against the harsh sunlight to see tall buildings visible beyond the trees.

He needs to figure out where he is, but first things first. The most important thing to him is establishing that the ship and its crew are safe. He flips open his communicator. "Spock. Come in. Come in, Spock." No response. "Enterprise, come in. Come in, this is Captain Kirk." No response again. He frowns at the device. He's not even sure if it's working. As he replaces the communicator, he finds himself looking up at the sky, as if it might be possible to see the Enterprise circling the planet from here.
andhiswife: (serious)
[personal profile] andhiswife
It's not that she's been avoiding Iman, exactly. Greta's had good reason to leave her be - several good reasons.

Lilly would be the big one. The child has kept Greta busier than she has been since before ROMAC's fall. She might not be quite as demanding as the twins, at least. She's old enough to entertain herself (though what she tends to find 'entertaining' are the sorts of things that leave large messes behind). It's her limited vocabulary and almost nonexistent manners that have presented the biggest challenge. Granted, they've both been improving, especially since the dog arrived (she even got Lilly to submit to a bath after coaxing an unenthusiastic but cooperative Ruckus into the tub, first), but she still has a long way to go.

All things considered, there might not have been much point in reaching out to Iman before now. Lilly hadn't been ready to meet her, and Greta hadn't been willing to push the girl back to Aziraphale for minding while she visited Iman on her own. They'd needed time to settle in, and for Greta to get a better sense of what she's dealing with, before worrying about anyone else.

Not that she hasn't been worrying, anyway. Their last conversation - if you could even call it that - consisted of Iman objecting to the idea of her taking Lilly in, and Greta brushing her off as if her opinion didn't even matter. Never mind that Iman offered to bring Greta home with her, an offer that doesn't necessarily extend to any children Greta might take in. Never mind that she can't even excuse the whole thing as temporary when Lilly's in the same unfortunate boat as herself. She had no business taking in a child without at least talking with Iman about what it might mean for both of them. Yet, here they are.

What if Iman doesn't like her? What if Lilly doesn't like Iman? What if it doesn't matter? Even the most charming child in the world would be more responsibility than Iman signed on for, and she'd have every right to declare it 'too much,' and… and be done with it all.

She doesn't know what she'll do if that happens.

At least Iman seems to respond well to the only somewhat desperate invitation Greta works up the nerve to send her. This might not be so bad. Still, she impresses upon both Lilly and Ruckus that they're to be on their best behavior (it feels a bit silly, dropping into a crouch and addressing them both, not least of all because Ruckus listens with as much solemn, close attention as Lilly does - if not more). Iman is a dear friend, and they'll hopefully probably be seeing a lot of her, and this is important.

And then she makes tea, because she needs to do something besides anxiously pace while she awaits Iman's arrival. When the knock finally comes, Greta swipes her palms nervously down her skirt and makes a deliberate effort to not hustle too quickly over to the door. Ruckus lets out a quiet cough, more acknowledgment than alarm, and sits down next to Lilly as Greta swings the door open.

"Hello," she says, her smile a little anxious, but warm. It really is good to see Iman again. Her arms twitch in an aborted move to hug her before it occurs to her that Lilly might find it alarming, so she steps back instead, ducking her head sheepishly. "Come in, please."

Door shut, she turns to her charges. "Lilly, this is Iman, the friend I told you about." She raises her eyebrows meaningfully. "Iman, this is Lilly. And Ruckus," she adds, prompting the dog to open her mouth in a broad, relaxed grin.
lottawork: (distrust)
[personal profile] lottawork
[ooc: warning for violence, body horror, and mentions of gore; this thread will probably contain a lot of that]

He has required a cigarette, fucking required one, for hours, possibly days. The smoke burns thick and heavy in his throat, the tip a glowing point in the cool predawn dark.

He finds himself predisposed to noctivagant perambulations, particularly considering the nature of the latest dream into which the Rift had seen fit to deposit him. Rush hisses a low breath of smoke from between his teeth in an inaudible scoff. The alleged necessities of circadian rhythms mean fuck all to him. He has made this repeatedly and abundantly transparent to all relevant parties. Regardless of the time, he's run out of fucking coffee and that would necessitate an expedition to retrieve more.

Thank fuck for the nicotine. He feels better than he has in days. Sharp. Clean.

The low-pitched clatter of upended trashcans would not in any other instance be noteworthy, but he stops and regards the narrow slash of alleyway with trepidation.

"Hold still," whispers a voice, distorted beyond the how the limits of the human voice should sound. "I'm gonna - gonna make y'better. Gonna fix ya."

The words are rough, harsh, the low grind of stone over stone. He can catch, in the moonlight filtered between the dark blots of clouds, the hunched, distorted silhouette of a thing to which he is uninterested in ascribing a name. Something about it is not right. Fundamentally misshapen, or wrong in some way he does not care to define.

It does not concern him.

"Ya got pretty eyes," it coos. "Just lemme fix 'em. Lemme have a look, would ya please. Would ya HOLD STILL!"

There is a noise, doubtless that of the victim in question.

He discards his cigarette and extinguishes it with the press of heel to concrete and moves smoothly forward. There is a certain amount of debris scattered in a semi-circle around the scene shrouded in darkness, the byproduct of the apparent struggle, and he stoops to lift what appears to be a long fragment of pipe. He advances slowly, calmly, and if the thing hears the weighted scrape of metal over asphalt it does not question it. Its attention is fixed entirely on the poor bastard it seems rather intent on dismembering.

"I'm try'na fix ya!" the thing screeches, unholy and inhuman.

"Pardon," Rush interjects coolly, "but I don't believe your services will be required. Good day."

He smashes the pipe into the indistinct side of the thing's head.
andhiswife: (don't cry out loud)
[personal profile] andhiswife
Greta wakes when she strikes the floor. She lies there for a few moments, winded and disoriented, hardly able to recognize her own apartment from this angle.

(She doesn't want this to be her apartment. She doesn't want this to be all she has.)

It was all lies. It had to be. She fell, but she didn't--she's alive, and if she hadn't landed in Manhattan she'd--she'd remember. Wouldn't she? Maybe it wasn't even really the Witch, but a figment of her own imagination, some Witch-shaped conglomeration of all her worst fears about what might be happening in her absence. The real Witch would have been able to give her real answers, not a few awful details and a shrug.

(Could those details have really come from her own mind, though? Would she ever have imagined Jack...?)

Greta lurches to her feet and pauses, waiting for her head to stop spinning. She needs answers, real ones, not the words of a Witch in a nightmare. It's not yet dawn, but the ambient light of the city is enough for her to find a shawl by. She wraps it around her shoulders, grabs her keys.

Her phone sits on the bedside table. Iman--she'll probably text her as soon as she wakes. But even the thought of sympathy is almost enough to break her. She needs to know if it's true before she can bear to accept anyone's apologies or concern. Even Iman's. Greta presses her lips together, turns her back on the device, and steps barefoot out into the hallway, squinting against the artificial glow.

A minute later, she's outside the Balladeer's door. She lifts a hand, then hesitates for a moment. It's so early. Can she really ask this of him?

She doesn't care. She has to.

Greta knocks.
lottawork: (brave little toaster geek)
[personal profile] lottawork
He has it.

It had come together unprompted, without the click and slide of a solution slotting easily into place. There is never a click, a common misconception even in the highest echelons of academia - there is never a well-timed stroke of brilliance turned over by some new fragment of insight, simply the give of a problem folding beneath the fierce, continuous, brute force pressure of the uncontained mind. For weeks he has considered it, has become an expert in fields utterly beyond the scope of his specialties or his prolonged interest, and even with the minor distraction of Jackson's spontaneous return to the flesh, he has done little else but attack the set of circumstances without compromise.

The dog is asleep when he exits the building, and he locks his door upon departure, his movements streamlined by the fervent intent of intellectual energy, the strap of his bag taut over his chest as he commits himself to the grueling inadequacies of public transportation.

He knocks immediately upon building entry. He expects Asadi will be waiting for him.
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.
etherthief: (goddamnshitfuck)
[personal profile] etherthief
She's awake.

She sits up, breath catching in her throat, heart hammering, adrenaline flooding her system. It's okay, it didn't happen. Didn't happen. It was just a dream.

The sun's still rising but she doesn't care. She rolls out of bed, falls to her knees and struggles to get up, get dressed, get moving. She wraps her hijab carelessly, bullies her arm into a makeshift sling as she shoves her way out the door. She fumbles with her phone.

I'm getting on the green line, she types out to Greta. Meet me at GCT.

She breaks into a run as soon as she hits the street.
deadeyedchild: I haven't been as paranoid (hide behind the lens)
[personal profile] deadeyedchild
He can feel Tim leaving him, waking up, and he tries to follow. He doesn't know how. This is all new territory, following someone from one plane of existence to another. He tries to visualize himself holding onto Tim's hand. It's embarrassing but it works.

He thinks it works.

He feels different.

The world feels familiar - not the empty void he'd been inhabiting, but the world, solid and real, tangible. He's here. He's back.

He still feels like he's looking at it through glass, though. He looks down at his hands, which are - sort of there, at least, he knows they're there. He can almost see them. Except not quite.

"Oh come on," he mutters, and no sound comes out. He knows he's spoken but he can't quite hear it. He tries to lay a hand on his own arm and he feels a buzz of static as his fingers pass through himself. Oh, god.

He's a fucking ghost.

This is not quite what he had in mind. He knows it's not what Tim had in mind.

It's better than nothing.

He takes a moment to try and figure out where he is. He finds that he can move, not exactly by walking, but sort of drifting along the ground. He accidentally passes through someone, who shivers violently and looks thoroughly spooked for a few seconds. He is unable to get anyone's attention, or interact with anything.

He has to get to Tim somehow, but he can't really take a train, can he? He's not even sure what part of the city he's in.

So he rambles. After a while he finds it's easier to just move through walls than to try to go about things the normal way. Shortly after that revelation he starts picking up the very bizarre skill of moving up through a building, in and out of offices and apartments.

Travel is easy, but communication is nearly impossible.

He searches, having nothing else he can do, for someone he knows.

[[Jay is wandering all over kingdom come today so if you want your character to have a weird ghost encounter, pick a location and we'll see what happens. It's going to be super hard to notice him if you don't have any kind of telepathic/other helpful powers, but that's okay, we can do short shenanigan threads if you're into that. A quick little ghost encounter! Hey, maybe Jay can overhear some awkward dialogue or embarrassing secrets. Maybe he'll accidentally figure out how to knock something off a counter and then go nuts trying to do it again. The sky is the limit. Have fun!]]

UPDATE: as often happens with this kind of thing we have Jay on a pretty tight schedule now. The Balladeer meets him around lunchtime, and then the line of Rush/Iman - Daniel - Greta gets set into motion sometime after. Greta will be taking Jay back to his building in the late afternoon. If you want to meet him when he's out and about it'll now have to be prior to lunch or snuck in between lunch and his adventure through the former ROMAC apartments. There is still plenty of room in there for nonsense, it just won't be able to lead to Jay actually getting home. SHENANIGANS!
andhiswife: (welp)
[personal profile] andhiswife
Greta tries to put Rush's maddeningly vague texts from her mind once it becomes clear that he has no intention of giving her more than implicitly dire portents of things to come. It almost works, too. She has some baking-related messes to clean up in the kitchen; that ought to be distraction enough.

But her mind isn't on the work, as demonstrated by the fact that her hands complete it all in record time. Ugh. She surveys her gleaming kitchen with a sigh. Sometimes, this Rift Power is a dratted nuisance. Now what is she supposed to do between now and whenever Iman should arrive? Pace?

Well, she decides as she unties her apron with a few unnecessarily vicious tugs, if that's all she can do, then Rush can bloody well watch her do it. She was having a perfectly pleasant day until he decided to ruin it - as if she doesn't fret over Iman enough already - and she doesn't care if her company isn't convenient. What an insufferable man. She practically throws the apron at its hook - it's more an additional annoyance than a surprise when it lands perfectly - and grabs her phone and her keys before heading out.

At least it's a short walk. She doesn't bother to text him a warning, she just raps sharply on his door.
lottawork: (absolutely not)
[personal profile] lottawork
The dog is in no way growing on him.

It has proved to be admittedly unobjectionable in its patient, unhurried treatment of its surroundings, largely content to dominate sections of Rush's floor with a leisurely sprawl. He may have been presumptuous to assume his work may progress unimpeded as of the moderately alarming moment where, upon his denotation of a particularly relevant equation scrawled in the lower corner of one wall, the dog evidently thought it prudent to rest its head in his lap with little warning aside from the preceding whisper of its paws over hardwood and a low, contented huff from its nose.

The action has subsequently left Rush with an incomplete understanding as to how one would (a) rise without disrupting the ostensibly sleeping creature cradling its head in his lap, (b) purport to care very little for the animal's well-being despite his inexplicable inability to simply stand and dislodge the thing and be done with it, (c) in any way continue to maintain his reputation as a cold-hearted bastard.

Unhelpfully, this entire subsidiary of events has very likely fucked that sequential agenda truly, wholly, devotedly, and completely.

He is not, he thinks vehemently in the general direction of the continuously absent and probably totally indifferent Colonel Young, a completely cold-hearted bastard. This, if nothing else, would prove as much.

"Off," he commands the dog, raising a hand to point in a direction away from himself.

The dog yawns at him, perhaps pointedly. Rush glares at it.

"Off," he repeats.

The dog's eyes droop closed in drowsy recumbence. Rush's hand drops as he regards the recusant animal with disgust.

"You are insufferable," he informs the creature, who continues to doze on, in his lap of all places, utterly indifferent.

Rush sighs.
lottawork: (life isn't ur goddamn photoshoot rush)
[personal profile] lottawork
Waking is not, historically, what Rush would regard as a favored activity. He is where he always is after being unexpectedly beset upon by sleep's inevitable grasp. The floor is solid and bracing, forming an aching spandrel between that plane and the paralleled arch of shoulders and spine. His skull is no longer the fractured mess it was, in reality left smooth and whole.

The entirety of the Rift's irritating, interfering traversal through the less fondly remembered aspects of his own past is etched into the anterior of his mind, still frames printed behind closed lids. He grinds the heels of both palms into his eye sockets with a fierce, fervent energy, as if it would be possible to scrub away the echo of that experience through execution of pressure alone.

He wonders how much of the dream's content is plausibly dismissible, an idea whose own plausibility he dismisses. Asadi was always too smart for direct obfuscation; it was what he liked about her, what he has continued to appreciate and value about her, but intimacy with one's past as exposed by the Rift is the unfortunate lead-in to a conversation he is certain they will be required to have and would prefer not to have, with her or anyone.

He is also aware, however, that he has been left very little in the way of personal autonomy in relation to that choice. Particularly since his latest endeavor in becoming more deeply acquainted with neuroanatomy has ground to a lamentable standstill, and to best acquire a more extensive knowledge base he will have to be - considerably more hands-on.


The trip to Asadi's apartment passes in its own dull-edged, lateral blur, instructions snapped out briskly to an unlucky taxi driver until he arrives, disheveled and recently woken and completely uninvited. It does not occur to him until after he has rung for her repeatedly that this may be potentially construed as socially unnatural or unacceptable, but he has already set certain events in motion and must see them to their uncertain conclusion.
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.]
etherthief: (i'm doING THINGS)
[personal profile] etherthief
For those who missed it, Iman's magical prosthetic is out of commission and she's havin a rough time. TW for denial, dysphoria, and some internalized ableism.

This is fine.

She starts every day this way. Waking up, looking at the ceiling, remembering through dull ache and a gradual loosening of dreams where she was still whole that her arm is gone. Not quite gone, not literally missing, still hanging there limply because it's easier to fake it and she gets enough stares already. Reminding herself of the subtle changes in her own weight distribution, how she must hold herself, the effort that goes into things like rolling out of bed and showering and dressing. And she says: this is fine.

First order of business is checking her phone. A real one now, now that she can no longer use her arm for this purpose, or for opening doors, or for punching holes through walls if need be, or reshaping glass, or anything. She is normal. She is less than normal.

What time is it even.

Some texts, she doesn't check them now. The clock tells her she has managed to sleep until 2pm. Fucking fantastic.

Okay well by the time she gets showered and caffeinated and presentable, it'll be happy hour.

Who's she gonna drink with. Rush? Sounds amazing, actually, but how long will it take him to get back around to wanting to fix her unfixable fucking arm? Fuck that.

She punches in a text to Greta.
etherthief: (excited | omg | science!!)
[personal profile] etherthief
"All right kids, here's what it is," says Iman cheerfully. She's punchy today. Spent the last couple days helping Greta move into the formerly-ROMAC apartments, now just apartments - under whose maintenance, well, that's still a bit of a jumble but Greta has a home now, a good safe distance from the former Base, and moreover, it's a beautiful day for some science. She flexes her left hand and gestures demonstratively at the park's edge, the river beyond it, and more to the point, the Rift's border. Not that anyone she knows of has tried escaping Manhattan via the East River, but Satan's notes definitely helped her construct a solid map of its perimeter, and now that she's so close she can almost feel the crackle of energy, tingling a little in her fingers. Exciting stuff.

It's dawn, almost no one's out yet, and at least one of her companions doesn't look too pleased with the choice of hour, but he never looks pleased, so it's moot.

"This is the Rift's edge," she says with a mostly mocking long-buried academic air. "Runs all around the waterfront keeping us boxed in. The rumors tell us that its recent, what do we want to call it, tantrum was immediately preceded by two rifties breaching the border, if not physically, then some other way. We don't know how they did it but we know it can be done." She gives Greta a little smile. They know now that the escapees were Andrew Noble, his husband, and their children, the very same Greta had been looking after - and she knows Andrew had been her first friend here. But the escape has left them with something very important: a proverbial jumping-off point.

"What I'm gonna do is feel it out with this baby." She gives them a little wave with her left hand. "This is what I do back home, and this is possibly the first and last time I'll ever be presented with so clearly delineated a membrane. So if I can't breach it, I can at the very least interact with it, study it, get some idea how far it might bend under the right circumstances. And that's what I'm gonna do."

Well, she's excited anyway. Rush knows he's more or less here to spot her in case something goes horribly wrong, an eventuality she's assured him won't happen, she'll be careful, she promises. Greta, she invited for a little clean fun showing off, and because, well, she wants Greta to know if there's hope of getting home. Much as that eventuality pains her to think about.

Anyway. She cracks her knuckles unnecessarily and gives them a big grin.

andhiswife: (serious)
[personal profile] andhiswife
"You're sure I'm not imposing?"

Greta's not even sure why she's asking. Iman had invited her to stay with her, at least for the time being, and Greta had been quick to agree. ROMAC tower is no longer an option. The Rebels have opened their doors to any displaced Rifties, and she'll probably end up there sooner or later - what other long-term options does she have? - but the thought of being stuck back underground and surrounded by strangers... she's not sure she could have faced it. Not after the day she's had. And then Iman had made her offer, so she hadn't needed to. Yet another reason she's indebted to her friend.

Then again, Iman could stand to be looked after a little, too. After necessarily avoiding her for so long, Greta's glad for the excuse to not let the woman out of her sight. What if something happened to her? ROMAC might be in chaos now, but if they regroup...

That might be a large if. And Iman can certainly take care of herself; there's no question of that. Greta's the one who had a hard time staying out of a cell.

Perhaps that just means they'll both be safer if they stay together.

Still, now that they're at Iman's door, she can't help second-guessing herself a little. She'd be as safe from ROMAC in the Rebel quarters as she would be here, and it would be less bother for Iman - who has already bothered herself plenty over Greta today.


bigapplesauce: (Default)
The Big Applesauce


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