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

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

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

Mid-way through her bundling process, it occurs to her that Spike might be in the market for some essentials. She fishes her phone out of her purse and fires off a quick text: I'm going shopping. Need anything?
spiritofwinter: (melancholy | emo kid)
[personal profile] spiritofwinter
The snowball fight with Greta and Iman has revitalized Jack. It's December, and by all rights this is his season. He just needs to get his head back in the game; he knows for a fact that Manhattan can be tons of fun in a snowstorm. Now's the time to start, too -- with a little luck and a little nudge to the clouds here and there he could stretch a Tuesday night flurry into a Wednesday snow day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hi," says Castor pleasantly.

"Are you okay?" blurts Joel.

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

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

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

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

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

"Coming right up!" says Joel cheerfully. He manages only a few steps of the process before the bell on the door rings and he looks up and stops short, staring at whomever's just walked in with an expression that can only be described as deep longing.
erratic_hematic: (talk to the hand)
[personal profile] erratic_hematic
Spike needs to let off some steam. The problem is that nobody is taking him up on his instigations, and he's been drinking too slowly for it too make much of an impact. He's been bar hopping for a little while now, but by the time he swaggers into Wilmot's, he's willing to take things up a notch. He doesn't want this to devolve into a round of drunkenly worrying about Sunshine's health even more than he already is. He doesn't want to worry more. He wants action.

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

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

[ooc: You can either let spike instigate or assume that it's a bit later in the evening]
literatimariano: (Inconspicuous with book)
[personal profile] literatimariano
Jess has pretty much scoped out every single bookshop on the entire island of Manhattan, or something close to it. He knows all the good places, weird little corners that have the most specific, enchanting things.

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

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

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

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

[Find him in Glaser's Bakeshop or Aziraphale's Bookshop. Also, note Jess has an Interactivity riftpower, which means characters should find it really easy to start a conversation with him.]
lonelyghost: (what was his name)
[personal profile] lonelyghost
There is something he's forgotten, isn't there. Isn't there? Darkness where there used to be light, nothing where there was something, but now who's to say what it was. The sky is scarred but healed and quiet, and everyone is glad they are safe and you helped and you should be happy, but there is that itch of forgetting, like before, when you forgot yourself.

Can't keep the thread of that now, slipping through your fingers like fine sands, like a dream. The Inquisitor is here. Your friend.

"There've been some reports of Fade rifts in the Hissing Wastes," he says. "Would you like to go with us?"

"I've never been to the Hissing Wastes," says Cole. "Do they actually hiss?"

"I don't know about that," says the Inquisitor with a little smile. Cole likes his smile. It's friendly, and isn't forced. "Harding called it the worst place in the world, but I don't know if I agree with her on that. It's all quiet desert. I thought it was rather nice, myself. You might like it."

He asks when he doesn't have to. He is the Inquisitor, he can make anyone go with him at a word, but he always asks. He is a good friend. Cole hopes he never forgets.

The Hissing Wastes do hiss a little, wind whistling woefully over the sand. Cole does like it there, dark and cool and mostly quiet, traveling with Varric and The Iron Bull, neither of whom call him 'it' or 'thing', or seem to mind what he is. When they come upon the Fade rift The Iron Bull laughs and Varric says something funny, in the wrong order, and Cole's mind is mired elsewhere because this one does not feel right. The others don't notice, can't feel it, but this rift is two rifts, one inside the other, something else beyond, reaching and grasping.

He shouldn't, knows he shouldn't. Nobody should. But Cole reaches back.

It's what he does; he helps people. The others can't sense it, don't see that this rift wants more than to let demons out. It wants to pull them in. He can't let that happen to his friends. He won't. There is no time to warn them and no time to stop it so Cole pushes forward and offers himself, gives up himself gladly, to save them all.

"Cole!" the Inquisitor cries out, startled, confused, why is he going, why is he doing this, but Cole can't answer him now, can't turn back; if he were more like a spirit he could fight it, but he's not, and so he can't. He lets it swallow him up, and he is afraid: he doesn't want to go to the Fade, he doesn't want to be alone.

It is over very quickly. But it is not the Fade where he finds himself. This place is real. Whole. But it is not the world he knows. It is something different.

He is sitting in grass, real grass but different grass, feels different, remembers hundreds of different years, and millions of lives, nothing Cole's ever felt before. This is somewhere new. Not Thedas and not the Fade.

He does not move, sitting in the middle of the grass, surrounded by people who ignore him, even though he is wearing his hat and he just appeared, no one sees him, nobody sees. He's like he was.

Afraid and alone, adrift, absent. Cole curls inward and tells himself to wake up. It will not work. It never works. This is no dream.

Wake up, please.

[OOC: Please note Cole's permissions page and the abilities section of his app. It is possible that your character can meet him and then forget the encounter afterward, if you like. This means there could be multiple encounters. Feel free to tag in setting your character up as minding their own business, and Cole can approach them, as he is not easily noticed (not by the average person, anyway). Hit me up if you wanna run something by me.]
erratic_hematic: (siiigh)
[personal profile] erratic_hematic
Spike looks down at his phone and sighs. "Well, that went well." He's still getting used to not being so defensive around Sunshine, and obviously this wasn't the best of efforts on his part. At all.

He toys with the idea of texting back for a minute or so, but in the end he decides to go see her in person instead. This might be more than he can fix without her seeing his face. If he goes up to her, she'll be able to see how he feels instead of assuming the wrong thing from his texts.

He trudges up the stairs to her floor, then hesitates at her door for a moment before he knocks. "Hey, it's me."
rae_of_sun: (tapped out)
[personal profile] rae_of_sun
Is she getting too settled? Maybe that's the problem. Maybe 'I'm doing okay here' is too close to 'I could stay here forever.' Add that to the awareness that her feelings on the matter don't even rate - because if the Rift was going to do her any favors, it would have before now (right?) - and maybe it's no surprise that she's feeling a bit... bogged.

Sunshine looks around her apartment in vague, general discontent. It's too neat to warrant a tidying, and she lacks the requisite inspiration for a more desperate deep-clean. She doesn't really want to make anything, regardless of whether the sliding scale of difficulty is set to 'tea' or 'toxic experimental sugar concoction.'

She doesn't really want to do anything. But she doesn't want to just sit around by herself, either.

After a long, self-deprecating groan, Sunshine picks up her keys and trudges out into the hallway. She'll go see Spike. He'll make her feel better (or at least he probably won't make her feel worse). And he has a kitten, presuming he hasn't eaten it. Hey, she's checking on the kitten; that's practical. Look at her, accomplishing things. You're welcome, kitten.

By the time she reaches Spike's door, she can tell he's inside. That's a relief; she didn't walk all the way down here for nothing. She lifts a hand and raps a knuckle against the door, then leans against the wall while she waits for a response.
deadeyedchild: (surveillance)
[personal profile] deadeyedchild
The list of things Jay can do is becoming frighteningly short.

Can't stay in the hospital. The nurses start to glare and resent him if he lingers too long, past the allowable time, reminding him passive aggressively that they can't provide him meals, reminding him that he's not family.

Can't keep staring at Tim's deathly still face. Can't keep gripping his cold hand wishing the fingers would twitch.

Can't stay at home all by himself, sitting on the floor, staring at the wall, out the window, at books without being able to read them.

Can't bear to trouble Greta or Daine or Bee, again.

Can't cry. Can't sleep.

And he knows, after a nervous, cursory glance at the online checking account the Rebels had set up for him, he's fast-approaching 'can't afford groceries'.

So he finds himself knocking on Aziraphale's door, confronting the apparently perpetually harried angel with awkwardly indirect questions about money. It isn't a vague wave of the hand, a magical handout that he's after, even though he had no idea what else he could possibly be asking for.

It catches him wholly off guard when Aziraphale offered him a job.

Now he stands outside the truly terrible-looking storefront, checking and re-checking the notecard on which the address had been scrawled. The bakery next door is right. This is the place.

He swallows and steps inside. He has no idea what to expect - if Aziraphale will even be in. He'd made brief mention of another employee, and that was it. Nothing about what Jay was going to do.

Apart from sell books, he supposes. That's probably obvious.

The door opens with a nasty creak and he steps into the dim, dusty, damp-smelling little hole.

"Uh..." He glances around, his stomach unsettled, his skin prickling. "Hello?"
erratic_hematic: (THE CLAW)
[personal profile] erratic_hematic
After his strange encounter with a masked figure in the park, Spike limps back to his apartment with a fractured leg. He knows that Sunshine is going to be angry at him for getting himself hurt, and that she'll want to see him, but it's still too early to disturb her.

He sleeps, and wakes up a few hours later - too late to have caught Sunshine before she leaves for the bake shop. So he makes himself breakfast (ostrich blood is surprisingly good) then props his leg up on the coffee table and starts reading the first trashy romance novel within reach.

He does want to tell Sunshine about the masked man. It's been one of the most unusual things that's happened to him here since satan punched a hole through his chest. It hadn't been nearly as challenging a fight as he'd have liked it to be, but if whoever that was is out there wandering around, maybe there's something worse that he can dig up.

Once he's sure Sunshine is home, he limps up and knocks at her door. When she answers, he smiles and shifts his weight onto his sturdier leg. "Hey. You've gotta hear about what I ran into last night. Or who. I'm pretty sure it was a who. Can I come in?" Maybe if he gets her interested she won't get mad about the leg.
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.]
erratic_hematic: (getting a bad idea)
[personal profile] erratic_hematic
Spike wakes up fairly early in the morning, and doesn't feel inclined to go back to sleep. It looks like it's going to be a warm day, so he forgoes his jacket when he leaves to wander through the park for a little while before making his way to the bookshop.

He hears the little mews before he sees them. On a park bench, a woman is sitting with a cardboard box. As he walks up, the man she'd been talking to lifts a black and white kitten out of the box, thanks her, and wanders off. He grins, excited at the prospect of eating something decent for once. The only kitten left in the box is all black. Short haired. A perfect snack. Spike hasn't forgotten his search for a better blood supply. And, while kittens aren't exactly the best option out there (pet shops would definitely get suspicious after a while), live stock is definitely something to try.

He takes the little black cat with him to work, plops it down on the counter, and goes about his day. Aziraphale probably wouldn't like him eating it here, but it'll be a nice little meal when he gets back home.
rae_of_sun: (lost)
[personal profile] rae_of_sun
Later, she might find it fitting that sunset coincides with the breaking of whatever weird-ass glamour she's been under all day. She doesn't actually see the sun go down - too busy puttering around the kitchen, doing other things - but she sure as hell notices when months of memories reawaken in her mind, yawning and stretching their fingertips down into her gut by way of her heart. She actually hisses, a respectable attempt at a proper, vampiric sort of hiss. Fitting, because oh gods, Spike.

She forgot him. She forgot him, and then she was really kali awful to him - because of course she remembers what a pitiless troll she was in the bookshop, those memories haven't gone anywhere - and oh gods no, this is... this... she has to address this, immediately. Hell if she knows what she's going to say to him ('no hard feelings' isn't going to fly, because he is probably entitled to some hard feelings, here), but she has to say something.

After a short, fidgety elevator ride, she knocks on his door, feeling uncomfortably apprehensive. Maybe she's just missing the moral high ground. Or maybe she's still, perpetually worried that she'll look at him, or he'll say something, or touch her, and it'll be too close to that dingy little room in Grand Central Station and her hands will decide to do something about it. She wraps her arms around herself, her hands tucked between her elbows and her ribs, where they can't do any harm, and she waits.
bibliophale: (prissy as hell | fashionista)
[personal profile] bibliophale
[Aziraphale, Book!Melanie, and Poetry!Spike are gonna be hanging out in his bookshop all day, so feel free to pop by! Melanie can see and hear you, and will communicate with you if you look at her pages. Spike is only able to speak in verse. And if you touch Aziraphale, you will be turned into a book. The choice is yours.]

Aziraphale sets Melanie down gingerly on the front counter, keeping her close. He looks around nervously. He can't touch anything. Can't have tea, can't have any of Sunshine's wonderful baked goods, can't read books. He's going to have to just stand here stoic and keep watch over his book girl.

He picks her up again and holds her around. "Here we are," he says, feeling rather foolish. Spike is due in at any moment, he hopes the vampire doesn't walk in now, as he's showing a book the bookstore. That would look very silly. He sets her back down and opens her up to a blank page. "I'll make sure no one tries to buy you. I'm very good at that. Don't worry."

This is going to be a long day.

[Reply to the post to interact with Aziraphale and/or Melanie, and to Spike's top level to interact with Spike. Time is complicated but it's gonna be okay we'll get through this.]
erratic_hematic: (sad sitting)
[personal profile] erratic_hematic
[tw for gross blood and also death and maybe corpse things and being buried alive. fun all around.]

Spike stops going to work the Monday after he and Sunshine break up. Sunshine won't want to see him, it would hurt to see her, and every single moment his body makes feels like too much effort anyway. It would be too much to go down there just to feel more pain. The best he can do is go to the fridge and dole himself out a half-congealed serving of inferior blood before stumbling back to bed or the couch. He doesn't bother microwaving it anymore, just lets it sit out until it's melted enough to drink. Each disgusting serving hardly makes a dent in his steadily deteriorating health. He feels himself improve for shorter and shorter amounts of time each time until the blood seems to stop working entirely.

On the sixteenth, he wakes up with a start and pulls in a gasping breath. He'd stopped breathing. Breathing isn't strictly necessary for his survival, but it's part of what makes him feel alive.

He doesn't feel alive on the morning of the sixteenth. He feels like a corpse. He lies there, just forcing air back though his lungs and reassuring himself that this isn't over yet. He can breath if he thinks about it. If he makes the effort.

He needs to get up. Even if the blood is worthless, he needs to try to get to it. It's all he's got.

When he flexes his hand, his fingers resist the motion like rigor is setting in, so he pulls his fingers in until they form a tight fist, then releases it. He repeats the motion with his other hand, runs through the motions one more time, then drags his legs around to the side of the bed. He feels so cold. He can't remember ever feeling this cold. As his vision slips in and out of focus, he imagines a coffin collapsing around him and his mouth filling with cold, dark earth. He's dying here. Can I die like this, he wonders, or will it be worse than that?

He has to get up.

Every joint in his body protests when Spike stands and stumbles forward. He collides with the door frame and grips onto it until he's sure he can stay upright. He's so so very tired. His eyes slip closed and he sags against the door frame, his shoulder the only thing propping him up. When his eyes flutter open again, it takes him a moment to reorient himself. He can see where he needs to go, but it feels almost impossible now.

He pushes himself as hard as he can from the door frame, but he gets thrown off balance and falls to his knees. The action is jarring, and enough to make him lose consciousness for a full minute. When he comes back to, he pushes an arm under himself only to realize that he's not strong enough now to stand again. He wants Sunshine, or Aziraphale, or anyone that could pick him up right now, but there's no way anyone is coming. He doesn't matter enough to be missed.

He crawls the rest of the way to the kitchen area. When carpeting meets linoleum, he lets his body sag back down to the floor and drops his cheek down onto the smooth surface. This is pretty far. He made it. He'll just rest a while and then make it to the fridge.

Five minutes later, he stops breathing. He doesn't start again.
rae_of_sun: (not anymore)
[personal profile] rae_of_sun
[Takes place after this terribleness.]

Sunshine bolts upright in bed with a gasp, wards and light-web flaring, her fingers clenched around a nonexistent palmful of ash. There's a singed smell lingering - in her mind? In the air? Oh gods, it's real, and she casts about her bed in a panic until she remembers that he didn't spend the night. It's coming from her pillow, as it turns out. There's a thin, brown line branded into the fabric. Her necklace-scar. It must have… gods. When was the last time it put out heat like that?

Don't think about it.

She sits back against the headboard and clutches her pillow to her chest, waiting for her necklace-scar to fade and her light-web to dim and her heart to stop trying to hammer its way out of her chest. She's used to nightmares, to the degree that anyone can be used to this kind of thing. Bolting out of bed in a blind panic and finding herself halfway across the room by the time she actually wakes isn't common, but it's not so unusual that she hasn't lost track of how many times it's happened since she came through the rift. It's not even unheard of for the nightmares to feature Spike, because that's just what happens when you have a whole carthaginian mess of vampire trauma that predates your vampire lite boyfriend.

But it's never been like that before. It's never been that real.
erratic_hematic: (fuck you)
[personal profile] erratic_hematic
Spike is on Grand street in Chinatown, it's eight o'clock in the morning, and he's staring at a chicken. The chicken in question isn't alive or possessing a head, so he's betting that any chance of getting any blood from it or the five other chickens next to it is slim to none.

The blood supply available here in New York isn't any good. What he'd initially figured was just a blandness of taste is actually much much more of a problem. Blood that he buys here just doesn't do what it's supposed to be doing for him. Even after he switched butchers, the problem continued. He's constantly tired, and constantly hungry, and things are only getting worse as time goes on.

Hence, the chicken.

"Oi, you," he yells back to who he guesses is the proprietor of this little shop, "whatta you do with the blood?" He makes a fiddly finger gesture at the chickens. "The chicken blood?" When the man doesn't seem to understand, he repeats, slower and more enunciated, "CHICKEN. BLOOD."

After a few more frustrating back and forths and the assistance of a passing bystander as translator, Spike gleans that they do not sell chicken blood to the public, but they do sell it to an asian market a few streets over, where he can buy it in chilled and possibly gelled cubes. It doesn't sound promising, but at the moment it's the best idea he's got.

[Spike will be heading over to the asian market, picking up gross blood cubes, then heading back to the rebel apartments. You're welcome to have your characters find him in Chinatown, waiting for/on the B train, or walking back to the rebel apartments. Here's his trip]
rae_of_sun: (listening - serious)
[personal profile] rae_of_sun
Sunshine wakes up with the beginnings of a headache nebulously bouncing around the interior of her skull and a small, baffled frown on her face. She's in Spike's apartment - she's spent enough time here that she can figure out that much without even opening her eyes - but it takes her longer than it should to remember how she got here. Wasn't there brunch? There was brunch, right? What happened to that?

Maybe Spike could answer that question. Maybe Spike could answer a lot of questions. Except she can't decide which one to articulate first, so she settles for hiding her eyes in the crook of her elbow and letting out a groan of general confusion and complaint.
noteasybeingblue: (u done fucked up son (pissed off a god))
[personal profile] noteasybeingblue
The longer she dwells in this world, the more she despises it.

No one will see her.

A vengeful God-King is not something so easily ignored. She is destructive and regal and demands the attention of all who would worship her. But there are no worshipers here. There is nothing here, nothing at all, just endless swarms of humanity that apparently care nothing for Illyria the Merciless, Ruler of the Primordium, even as she grows ever more indignant and ever more enraged and ever more desiring in her need to do violence.

The vermin are to remain untouched. The vermin are to remain untouched.

So she will not touch them. She will not touch anything here. Illyria will not remain here any longer than is necessary, even if it has long since ceased to become necessary.

The mortal-built bridge will be her focus point. She stretches one shell's hand out, testing the scintillating tear of unclassifiable dimensional energy against her vessel. There is resistance there, a barrier intended to prevent any motion beyond the isolated pinprick of too-small, too-confining space. If she can reach past it, she can escape this metaphysical prison and thus seek out the way back to her world.

The God-King's shell smiles, small and self-satisfied. Nothing can hold a god.

She reaches further. The crackle of foreign energy against hers is unbearable. And then further - the shearing, rifting edge of the barrier begins to screech against her being.

She will test these waters no further. Illyria launches herself at the barrier, driving forward with fists and blazing intent, and the strength of the unfamiliar matter rips at her, eliciting a blistering, tearing roar of utmost pain and displeasure. It is unbearable. It is intolerable. But Illyria is not yet through. She will continue driving at it, regardless of the shrilling agony webbing its way through her shell, into the core of what she is -

The God-King's strength, once glaring and eternal, runs out. She no longer possesses the will or instinct to even draw herself back. Her shell howls, the pain of simply being is exquisite and unquantifiable, and Illyria falls away from the torment of the conscious world.
rae_of_sun: (listening - sad)
[personal profile] rae_of_sun
Sunshine's been off work for a few hours when she feels Spike out in the hall, which is shortly followed by a subdued knock. Hey, she's getting used to this whole sixth sense thing; it's starting to feel milder, broken in. Granted, she still isn't all that eager to share it with the class, but at least it's no longer flipping her out a little.

Of course, that just means she has the requisite brainspace free to instead flip out about the fact that when she opens the door, even though he's standing all of two goddamn feet in front of her, it takes her a second to spot him. Her eyes just slide right over him to look down the hall, and oh shit, oh shit. It's that thing he was complaining about yesterday, and it's officially bad enough that it's getting to her, now.

She wrenches her gaze back to him, back to his eyes (and now would be a really great time for him to turn on some good old-fashioned vampiric compelling if he had any idea how). "Spike." She steps out into the hall and puts her hands on his shoulders, which seems to help a little. Like the more senses she uses to confirm his existence, the harder it is for the rogue part of her brain to misfile him under 'ignorable.' It's still trying, though, and she frowns up at him. "It's getting worse."


bigapplesauce: (Default)
The Big Applesauce


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