bagropa: (Default)
[personal profile] bagropa
Croach has never wished his senses to be inaccurate, but the longer he goes without sensing a familiar human, the more inclined he is to desire it. He searches, sleeping when necessary in the small groves the humans call parks. For safety, he travels mostly at night - his senses are as hale in the darkness, and he finds it is quieter. He interacts with the occasional being, usually inebriated, often complimenting his 'costume' and wishing to take a 'selfie' with him (for which he places them under onus, even though (or because) it is unlikely he will ever encounter them again).

After several medium units of time observing the humans from a safe distance, though, Croach finds himself... lonely. These brief relationships are of a less satisfying depth. One evening, when the lack of companionship has become too conspicuous to ignore, Croach sets out into the city earlier than usual, before the sun has set. He assists a woman looking for transportation, rescues an Earthen feline from a tree, and helps an elderly woman navigate across a busy road. If he truly is here for a reason, he is confident he will fulfill it among these 'good deeds' eventually.


((So Croach is gonna be wandering around the city actively looking to help anyone who needs it. Dropped your keys down the drain? SURELY THIS WILL AVERT SOME FUTURE CATASTROPHE. CROACH WILL ASSIST YOU IN RETRIEVING THEM. Et cetera. Big problems, small problems, Croach is here to help.))
mr_fring: (plotting)
[personal profile] mr_fring
Gus stands outside the pizzeria Cecil had chosen for them to meet. He feels a somewhat uncharacteristic apprehension at the idea of meeting someone he'd previously encountered in a dream. Not a usual activity for him to say the least. Furthermore Cecil continues to be a mysterious entity in general; it's true they found a surprising amount of common ground in their strangely lucid subconscious conversation, but at the same time Gus has an intuitive sense that they are very different beasts at heart. He hopes, as he looks up at the establishment - the first pizzeria in America, it seems - that he has not lost any of his persuasive ability.

He checks his ROMAC-provided phone; he is on time, and there have been no further texts. He pockets the phone, straightens his tie, and steps inside.
ceciiil: (devour your own empty heart)
[personal profile] ceciiil
True to his texted word, inasmuch as any of his texting had contained actual words, Cecil determines to visit the TARDIS. Instincts are telling him that despite her words, a distraction in the form of a social call might prove useful. Plus, he really does owe her. What better way to show gratitude?

It's a matter of a few minutes to find out the address of the nearest butcher's shop that carries what he's looking for, and a matter of quite a few more to visit it. Of course he's told that the best they can manage on short notice is a pint, frozen, but Cecil supposes that's urban life for you. There's probably a delivery service cornering the market. Maybe he should try Amazon next time?

The little bucket of blood is still icy when he arrives at the TARDIS, even with the detour for roast beef sandwiches. He sets his burden down and considers how best to go about this; surprisingly, he's never attempted to ward anything outright trans-dimensional before. Do you just start with the outside? Are the outside and the inside considered the same, from a ritualistic standpoint? He shrugs and sets to smearing blood on the lintel, scooping around the frozen chunks.
ceciiil: (did you write letters)
[personal profile] ceciiil
This is an emergency. He can practically hear the sirens, though of course there aren't any actual sirens, except for the ones audible only in his urgently scheming mind. There had been some sort of city-wide festival, seemingly honouring the colour green, complete with a truly impressive and surprisingly low casualty parade. But in the course of this event someone (obviously inured to their oncoming death) had made Cecil aware of the consequences of such festivities. Street cleaning.

A natural disaster he'd been lucky enough to survive once before, but as with all such catastrophies, he'd been shielded by the NVCR studio. Bless the hearts or equivalent organs of whomever had built such an indestructible and geometrically improbable building. Now, of course, Cecil has no such sturdy and probably lead-lined structures at his disposal. What's even more alarming, is that a sizable portion of the community, namely the rift immigrants, might go unwarned. How could anyone with an ounce of feeling for civic responsibility allow that?

Were he more forewarned, perhaps there would be some other way, but as it stands, the only hope he can see for his survival, and that of the rift community, is to throw himself on the mercy of the most technologically advanced being in the area. If he had more time, Romac might be able to whip up the kind of setup he'd need, but there's barely any time before street cleaners will be upon them all.

And so it is that Cecil turns up in Central Park once more, knocking politely but frantically on the doors of the TARDIS.
ceciiil: (a reporter's eyes)
[personal profile] ceciiil
Cecil is more than a little overwhelmed by his new surroundings. The move from a sleepy desert town to the busiest city in the country is quite a jarring one, even without accounting for inter-dimensional travel. Plus, it's cold. Not even supernaturally so, just...cold. Outside. Cecil considers himself an open-minded and worldly man, but why would anyone do this deliberately? Ugh.

So after a modicum of getting settled (frankly the prospect of decorating, which his new space sorely needs, had been too much to contemplate on top of everything else) he'd fallen back on a timeless classic. "Drink to forget." Also, what better way to learn the ropes, right? Someone had mentioned the bar, err pub, and it seemed like a nice way to kill some time. Try to formulate some kind of...life strategy.

Of course it's nothing like he'd expected. But the pub is nice and homey, and after a brief dispute with the barperson about the definition of rocket fuel vs brandy, he settles in to do some peoplewatching/life reordering. He's dressed in a smart, casual sweatervest, with the addition of the atrocious yeti coat acquired upon his arrival, and projecting his best air of approachability.
ceciiil: (now you have fucked up)
[personal profile] ceciiil
Cecil is very alarmed to find himself, newly awake, in a library. Oh, sure, it's perfectly normal to be the standard level of alarmed in that situation, but the extra alarm comes in from the fact that this is neither the Night Vale Public Library nor its Private counterpart. It's been awhile since he's woken up in the library, as he thought he had a pretty good warding sigil set up specifically to prevent this occurrence and he prefers to just listen to the municipally approved audio books he can download from Audible anyway. Call him a wet blanket but he's just really attached to his hands, even if he doesn't strictly need them to host the show, and even with the recently installed actual physical no-sleep-required entrance, visiting the library would have just not been worth the hassle. Still, he's pretty sure it hadn't been renovated to this degree. In the wake of the Night Vale Harbor and Waterfront Recreation area scandal, where would that kind of public funding even come from?

The library he is currently very reluctantly occupying is, for one thing, huge. It appears to be exceptionally well stocked (with books, and not specters) and all the furnishings and fixtures appear to be quite well maintained. He sees no sign of librarian repellent dispensers, and the floor and furniture seem to be free of any spoor or strop-marks. As far as Cecil is concerned, this just lends to the overwhelming feeling of impending doom. He treats his surroundings to a very perturbed and disapproving look before shutting his eyes tightly and attempting to address the secret police, who no doubt have this area, and all others, under surveillance.

“I don't mean to put anyone out, but I don't actually even have a library card." Not to this library, wherever it is, anyway. Like having more than one library card could ever even be a thing! It's hard enough to keep organic flesh from rejecting just the one. "Please, I'm willing to leave quite peaceably and voluntarily, especially if you'll go ahead and make the extraction process quick and mostly painless.”

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