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".
]
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.
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. )
0thingsonmymind: (Default)
[personal profile] 0thingsonmymind
For a moment no one was there, there was just an empty space on the sidewalk near central park. There was no real reason for it to stand out, unless being empty counted. But it only remained this way for a moment as a young man clad in a tan hoodie and a black mask suddenly appeared to replace the empty space. He had been running, but once he noticed where he was he skidded to a stop. Normally, suddenly ending up in a different place wasn't all that odd, but something felt different about it this time. Maybe it was just that the city was unfamiliar and he hadn't expected to be in a city, or maybe it was something else. He's not sure, he just knows it feels off (many things were off and they were okay, but this was a different off) and he can't quite place why. And he's not happy about it.

He tenses, pressing himself against the nearest wall and peering at the city from behind his mask.
This is not right. This is not the hospital, or the school, or the woods. Or whatever world the Operator came from.
This was just...different. And he did not like it.

He tries to push the panic down, to at least keep it at a manageable level. He could (would) worry later, now he needed to figure a number of things out. His location was the most important; the name didn't matter, he needed to know how close to Rosswood he was. How close to Alex or Tim (hadn't Tim been chasing him? Where was he?). If he wasn't close enough to get back quickly he'd need somewhere to hide, somewhere to figure out his next move (somewhere with internet he could steal). This was different. This was WRONG. But he could deal with it.
Somehow (he had to).
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)
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.]
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 )
bibliophale: (excuse you | no)
[personal profile] bibliophale
Aziraphale is up bright and early, in that he has been up for several days straight, finally having a bit more luck not getting trapped in the Rift's infernal dreamspace. Melanie is still asleep and he doesn't want to disturb her, so he miracles himself some tea silently and drinks it just as silently, mentally preparing himself for the task that awaits him. He promised to help Gabriel with this new child, and he will help. Melanie had seemed both excited and a little daunted by the prospect of having a real human child around, but he isn't terribly worried about how she'll get on. It's himself he isn't so sure about.

Well, nothing for it but to get on. He'd been directed to the apartment below Gabriel's - the evident home of his so-called "boytoy" - to retrieve the girl, so he focuses in on the place and the minds therein (odd little minds, both of them) and departs.

He arrives to find the young man sitting at his desk with a cup of coffee, smiling faintly at the little girl, who appears to be playing with a rabbit. Johnny startles slightly to see the new presence, looking vaguely annoyed. Perhaps he should have knocked.

"Sorry," he says. "Er, Johnny, right? I'm here for Lilly?" He looks at the little girl and offers an uncertain smile. "Hallo."

The childish crayon drawings that cover the wall have certainly not gone unnoticed. Such behavior will not be allowed at his house. That will have to be corrected.

"Nice to meet you," says Johnny in a tone that makes it very clear it isn't. What an unpleasant little man. When he addresses the girl, however, his tone becomes completely different: soft and gentle. Hrmph. Why isn't he good enough to keep the child around?

Perhaps because he allows her to draw on walls.

"Lilly," says Johnny. "This is the guy we told you about. He's gonna take you somewhere nice that you can stay, okay?" He glances up at Aziraphale. "Is there anything she can call you that isn't that many syllables?"

"There is not," says Aziraphale, mildly affronted at the suggestion.

Johnny stares coldly at him, then says pointedly to the girl, "This is Greg."

A very unpleasant little man.
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.
postictal: (yeah charlie we can be sneaky)
[personal profile] postictal
[tw: blood and bodily injury. This post is the aftermath of the events that occurred over yonder, which means Tim might need some help getting home.]

The lurching sensation of waking suffuses Tim’s body with a hollow ache, leaving him feeling roughly like he just went ten rounds with a cement truck.

While being dragged through the woods.

And on fire.

The rich smell of torn-up earth fills his nostrils with the first shaky indrawn breath, hands fisted into the grass. He’s face-down. God, but he’s face-down. Lying in the grass and the dirt with a pounding headache and a swelling soreness in his lungs, in his side.

Doesn’t take a goddamn genius.

His eyes slit open. There's a dull, scabbed red crusted over the ridges of his knuckles. Just beside him, a shallow mound of smooth white. He reaches carefully with one hand, fingertips running over the cool pale edge of the mask, that old familiarity. He doesn't need to see the empty eyes, the taunting curve of its motionless smile, to know what he's done.

With the bracing flex of fingers pushing against loose-packed dirt, Tim forces himself painfully upright and immediately sinks back to his knees, breathing out a low, agonized hiss. His fingers creep over the sharp stab of pain through his abdomen, and through the tear in his shirt he can see the red puckered skin of - Jesus, did someone stab him?

Yeah, so take the cement truck analogy and add to it, something like triple the magnitude, because that’s about what it feels like.

His legs shake beneath him when he half-crawls, half-drags himself to the nearest tree and plants one hand against it, sucking in deep, slow lungfuls of air between ragged coughs. He tries to swipe a hand through his hair to push it from his face, but his fingers tangle into the clinging mat of - oh, wonderful. Twigs and leaves in his hair. Blood in his hair. The dark stain stretching of his side is unmistakeable; peeling back the blood-dampened layers of clothing doesn't make the sight any easier to stomach. Something pitted in his chest jolts as he grimaces and quickly looks away, breathing heavy and fast through his nose.

Still, and he summons up his bitter sense of not-optimism, it could be worse. He could be waking up with a broken leg. He could be waking up miles out of the state. So, sure, he has no idea how he's getting home like this when he can barely even walk - at least when his leg was broken he could still drive, he still had a car, and it might have been painful as fuck but he'd managed it. Teeth gritted against the agony buried in every tiny movement, he fishes out the phone that is thank god still in his pocket, but the sheer number of text notifications plunges his flicker of relief into ice. Even panicked, Jay wouldn’t send him so many -

Oh.

Oh god damn it.

Fuming, Tim thrusts the phone into his pocket and hopes to god that he's not about to be sick.
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.
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.]
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.]

Shitfit!

Apr. 26th, 2015 07:28 pm
applesaucemod: (Default)
[personal profile] applesaucemod
All is right in Manhattan this week.

It is a week like any other. The little creatures that dot the surface of the land scuttle to and fro about their business, each amusingly convinced of its own importance. A number of them relocate themselves with an unusual degree of difficulty. Some die. Some do not die. One or two new ones, the special kind, arrive.

And then…and then something is not right in Manhattan. Something is, in fact, wrong, incorrect, and unacceptable. Two -- no, four -- no, two of the little scuttling things --

-- THEY HAVE NO RIGHT --

-- WHY CAN'T IT --

-- CAN'T CLOSE, CAN'T STOP THEM --

GONE!


Gone!! The Rift claps furiously closed, but too late. Too late! They're gone, they've left, and they had no right! It did not permit them! Two they took with them only even existed thanks to the Rift, and those -- THOSE UPSTARTS --

It can't reach the ones who caused the superficial injury that's already healing (that's scarring over, it will NEVER AGAIN ALLOW THIS), and so the Rift lashes out at the ones who remain in their place. It can feel the little pets that remain, all of them, and it will remind them who owns them.


[OOC: Right! Andrew and James have escaped from New York just like Snake Plissken and the Rift is having a shitfit over it. Tag into this post for general Rift-related shenanigans; there will be a separate post for characters who want to attack ROMAC.

The Rift will inflict a wide variety of little inconveniences and torments on the people it considers its own, and players can choose what their characters will face. These should be things that could more or less go unnoticed by the population at large (so no city-wide effects, and please be careful to avoid anything that would effectively godmode other people's characters). Anything that's happened in a past Rift event is fair game, as are personal rainclouds, randomly appearing objects and animals, involuntary transformations, and just about anything else on the personal level. On a somewhat broader level, expect to find random acres of the Ramble transformed into jungle, redwood forest, wintery pines, and various other types of Incorrect Wilderness.]
andhiswife: (hello baby)
[personal profile] andhiswife
If it was just the one baby, Greta suspects it would be easier than it had been at home. She doesn't have to balance childcare with running a bakery, and her apartment is too newly-settled (and little-trafficked) to require anywhere near as much cleaning as a shop. And if ROMAC hasn't provided her with much in the way of human aid - there is a nursery she can bring them to when necessary, but it's busy and noisy and a few of the children there have alarming Rift enchantments to contend with, so she treats that as a last resort - at least they've given her all the material things she could need.

(It both helps and distantly rankles that she's used to doing the bulk of the work herself, anyway.)

Two, though. Two are a literal and metaphorical handful. She often finds herself thinking it's just as well the Witch only promised them one, for both their sakes, and then just for his, and then she has to stop thinking about it. So perhaps it's just as well that she has two to distract her, now.

The poor, motherless things. If they're really motherless. She should stop thinking about that, as well, if only because she hasn't the first idea how to track down their parents if they are here, and it's not safe for her to reach out to those who might be able to help her. Maybe they are orphans. Either way, the best use of her time and energy is giving them the best possible care, so... that's just what she's going to do.

Alone, if she has to.


[ooc: so, Greta's gonna be watching these two tiny babies for about a week and presumably is not going to have much time for anything else, poor woman. But she'll almost certainly welcome visitors unless you're an emotion-nomming creep! If your character can finagle their way into the ROMAC base, feel free to have them drop by her apartment. If you can't realistically get into ROMAC but still want in on the baby-related redonkulousness, drop me a line and we can finagle a way to get her out into the Park or something.

Also, since this could take place at any time over the course of a week, just pick your date and put it in the header of your top-level for reference.]
johnny_truant: (cute when sad)
[personal profile] johnny_truant
He stands outside on the doorstep like an idiot, Yarrow tucked under his arm, backpack slung over one shoulder, key in his hand. He wants to turn around. Everything in him is pulling him to turn around, go back to the hotel. This had seemed like a good idea yesterday, when he'd been trapped and lonely. It had sounded so simple and obvious coming from Greta. Now that's gone, now he can only stand here stupidly and spin worst case scenarios in his head. What if Gabe doesn't want to see him? Why should he, really? That would actually be the best cast, wouldn't it - it would be what he deserves.

Enough. He can't just linger all day. He's waited, made Gabe wait, long enough.

He turns the key, opens the door, and steps inside.

Part of him wants to see if his apartment is still his - to drop off his things, get Yarrow situated - but that would be stalling. Gabe would probably sense him, or someone at least, and come down first. Johnny has to be the one to start this.

He goes up until he's outside Gabe's door. He lifts his hand. He knocks.

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The Big Applesauce

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