jane_eyre: (investigative | startled | fascinated)
[personal profile] jane_eyre
Today Jane is alone. Adele in school, Bertha in the doctor's care, she is free to do as she pleases. And today she pleases to wander.

The forest that once seemed so forbidding and full of terror is now friendly and familiar. It was here that she came to realize the awful truth about Thornfield and it's master - may he to the devil and his name be struck from the record of her mind - and it was here that she felt she truly came to know herself. Jane Eyre of - not of Gateshead, not of Thornfield, but of the moor.

She stands a moment in a clearing, listening to the rustle of wind amidst leaves, feeling the spring of moss and dead leaves beneath her feet, and closes her eyes, opening herself up to the world of spirits Helen had once told her about. She fancies she can feel it now, a light tingling just out of reach, if she could only grasp it -

Her hand presses forward into the dusky fog, fingers wrapping around the invisible life beyond, when behind her eyelids the light changes, bright and hot, and the smell, the gentle give of the earth, and the sounds - all of it gone, replaced by things new and, indeed, frightening.

She opens her eyes and beholds the new world around her, solid stone beneath her feet, unfamiliar, overwhelming smells in the thick hot air, and cacophony. Voices, yes, but things stranger still, beyond her understanding, a distant rush and roar, a tapestry of noise she cannot even begin to mark.

She feels herself sway, near into a faint, and catches herself just barely, bracing upon the lip of a great fountain behind her, an angelic statue staring down.

"Oh," she whispers to herself. "Oh, saints preserve me."

What unholy nightmare is this, what strange netherworld has she stepped into? It feels realer than anything she has ever dreamed. For many moments she rests at the fountain's edge, frozen and quite, quite alone.
johnny_truant: (wistful)
[personal profile] johnny_truant
While he waits, somewhat impatient, for the train to take him to Chinatown, Johnny does his best to recount the days since he and Charley went on their date. It reads like a list of charges, crimes done against him by bitter fuckin forces of nature. Gabe gone. No answers. Bad dreams. Copious drinking. Eliot - Eliot had been nice - Eliot had been lovely, in fact. A shining little beacon in an otherwise unmitigated disaster, one that perpetuated itself almost as soon as Eliot drifted away. Power lost, locked out. Power regained, unwelcome. Fear and emptiness and crippling doubt. Gabe still gone, maybe for good. And Peter punched him in the face.

He's been angling dangerously toward the edge of his resilience, fearing a deep dark crash into hollow misery, like what he's already been through too many times. He'd almost given up hope that he'd hear from Charley again. Charley hadn't called and Eliot hadn't called, and whatever, right? People don't call. Story of his life.

But then she did call. She called, and for a moment he didn't know how to react, he'd forgotten what it was to feel good, to look forward to something. He's excited to see her again, aching for the distraction, for the awkward, fumbling, magnificent normalcy of date stuff. He actually feels himself smiling. This is good. This is human. This is survival.

He steps out into the fading light of a day winding down, and makes the quick walk to Charley's building, composing a text to announce himself and sending it just as he draws up to the door.


[[ooc: general heads up - the majority of this thread is gonna be nsfw.]]
adventuressing: (warmth)
[personal profile] adventuressing
Charley can't decide whether she ought to have butterflies in her stomach about going on this date with Johnny. On the one hand, it feels like the sort of thing that's appropriate; surely a girl ought to feel that particular blend of nerves and anticipation before a date. But on the other, while she likes Johnny, thinks he's quite sweet, if a bit of a mess, there's no flush and flip of infatuation there, none of that particular flavour of feeling. Johnny's just so very... informal, for lack of any better word, it hardly seems merited. Then again, she hadn't had any butterflies before meeting Alex Grayle at the Singapore Hilton, so perhaps she's simply not the kind of person for whom giddy pre-date butterflies are a thing.

Still, that's no reason not to look nice. Charley has always enjoyed the opportunity to get dressed up a bit. After a certain amount of thought, she goes for a loose blouse with high-waisted trousers; it's the kind of thing that would have been daring when she was growing up, but which people from later time periods seem to think is rather dressy. It's a combination she rather likes. That, and it's easier to run in trousers than a skirt; it's become a habit to plan for those sorts of eventualities.

She's at the mirror in the flat's tiny bathroom, splashing her face with water, when her phone buzzes with a text from Johnny. She grins, pockets her phone, and heads down the five flights of stairs to meet him.

((Charley's outfit, for those interested, looks a little bit like this, or this))

johnny_truant: (paranoid little fuck)
[personal profile] johnny_truant
Fuuuuck this. After sending his last text to the TARDIS, Johnny all but throws his phone angrily onto the bed, gets to his feet and puts on his shoes. He's burning with indignation, disbelief, most of all hurt - hurt that she would ever imply he doesn't care about her, hurt that the things that matter to him don't seem to matter to her - and why should they, he thinks even more angrily, she's greater and older and infinitely more than him, why should his petty little life have ever mattered to her at all? - but he shoves it all aside, buries it down to be dealt with later. Charley needs someone to get her out of there, and if Gabe and the TARDIS aren't willing to play along, then he'll have to be that someone. Anyway it's about time he did something useful.

His phone buzzes with a few more texts, but he's not interested in anything else either of them have to say right now. He draws a breath and huffs it out, then draws another and exhales slowly, trying to clear his head.

He places his palm against the closet door, fingers splayed, lets his eyes flutter closed, and focuses on Charley.

He still doesn't really know how this power works. If he can go anywhere he wants, or can only move within a certain circuit, or has to know where he's going - this isn't even something he wants to have, or get better at. But it's all he's got going for him, he can't deny that. He'll have to use it.

Keep breathing. It'll be okay.

He tries to picture Charley in a cell, any cell, he supposes it doesn't really matter. As the mental image solidifies, he feels a tingling in his fingers, a sort of numb, buzzing sensation. He doesn't really like it, but it does mean something's happened.

He opens his eyes, drops his hand to the doorknob, and opens up, holding his breath.
adventuressing: (uhhh)
[personal profile] adventuressing
It's a mission, and accordingly, Charley is back in her utilitarian Viyran blacks; she's got her PT wristband set to what she really hopes are the right co-ordinates, and an ion bonder in one of the cargo pockets of her trousers. In part of her brain, she'd always thought of the ion bonder as the outer-space stun gun equivalent of the delicate derringers ladies kept in their clutches in American films; discreet, but very effective. She's hoping she won't have to use it, but better to be safe than sorry.

It was the Martian she'd met some days ago who'd managed to track the Doctor down for her. Tracking, apparently, is what he does. But not breaking and entering; he'd said something about his onus not extending to illegally forcing entry into highly secure facilities for human females to whom he was a stranger, and Charley hadn't been able to argue with that. So here she is, leaning against the wall in the shade of the tower across from ROMAC's headquarters. She's about to activate her teleport when it occurs to her that possibly she ought to tell someone where she's going, in case something goes wrong, and she digs out her phone and sends a quick message to Johnny. Always good to have a backup plan.

And then, with a quick glance to make sure that no-one can see her, she hits the button on her wristband, and vanishes. Being Viyran technology, it is remarkably efficient, and she reappears quite silently, without any disorientation, in a corridor. The walls and floor alike are concrete, the floor shiny, and the whole length of the place is lit with fluorescent lights that lend a slightly blue cast to everything. The air feels recycled, but there's a particular cool feel to it, dank on her skin, that makes her suspect she's exactly where she wanted to end up; the sub-basement level of the building. All along the corridor, until it turns a corner, there are doors recessed into the walls at uneven intervals.

All right, Charlotte, she thinks to herself, drawing a bracing breath, you just have to find the one the Doctor's behind. Simple.

Simple. She hopes.

Her boots are not made for sneaking; they're heavy black leather, with thick rubber soles, and Charley winces every time they squeak against the polished floor. Even her trousers, which are loose and easy to move in, make noise as she walks, and the zhoosh of fabric chafing against fabric seems unfairly loud. Concrete, she reflects, has unfortunately excellent acoustics.

And then a guard rounds the corner. He sees her immediately; there is scarce else in the corridor to look at. She curses. 'Bugger,' and then, 'Sorry!' as she pulls out her ion bonder and stuns him with a wave of green light before he's even halfway through his shout of Hey, you!

The guard crumples to the floor, and the shout resounds, half-finished, off the walls. Charley stands frozen in place for the space of a few pounding heartbeats, ion bonder still out and primed, but no-one else seems to have heard. All her breath rushes out of her at once, and she hurries to drag his unconscious body into one of the door alcoves before moving on. Some of the doors are just blank metal (some of those she dares attempt to open, giving an officious little nod should anyone be inside, and hoping hoping hoping they take her for a higher-up of some variety doing rounds), but some have little windows, slots with thick glass and delicate-looking chain link in the double-glazing that she peers through, searching for any sign of the Doctor, or indeed anything that looked like a holding cell.

The windows are just a little too high for her to look through comfortably; she has to crane her neck and push up on her toes. She's so distracted by the annoyance of the effort and her attempt to scour all the corners of the room through the tiny window that she doesn't hear the footsteps.

'Don't move,' says a voice, only a few feet away.

Charley freezes for a moment, skin going tight with the icy shock of discovery, and then she does move, swinging around to offer the guard the brightest, most innocent smile she can manage. It's a woman, taller than Charley but not that tall, a taser in her hands, and an expression that suggests she is not one to be fooled around. Blast, bugger, and blast.

'Um, hello,' Charley says, still smiling. 'I... realise that this must look rather suspicious, but I promise you it is... not what it seems. I am, ah, I'm inspecting things! Making sure your security is all top hole and all that. And so it is! Very impressive. All this... concrete.'

'Top hole, huh?' the woman repeats, and, keeping her taser trained on Charley, pulls something that looks to Charley like a cross between a two-way radio and one of those fancy smartphones from her belt, and hits a few buttons, lifting it to her mouth. 'I've got an intruder. Another one, yeah, I know. High-security area, near the cells; no idea how she got in. Should I--? Ok, ok, yeah, sure. Later, then.'

The phone-radio-thing returns to its holster, and the woman jerks the taser for Charley to follow her. Not seeing much option, Charley does as she's bidden.

Twenty minutes later, having endured a pat-down that's left her dignity in tatters, and relieved of teleport, ion bonder, and phone, Charley is transferred over to another guard, this one a burly man. No weapon, she can't fight him; no teleport, she can't get out. Hell.

'Look,' she tries to adopt a firm-but-reasonable tone, 'If only I could talk with someone instead of you just locking me up; it really isn't necessary.'

The guard, apparently, is immune to firm-but-reasonable tones, and minutes later, she's shoved unceremoniously into a cell, the same concrete as the rest of the complex, a little anteroom  and then the larger cell through a doorless doorway. As the guard locks the door, Charley abandons all attempts at reason and simply shouts, pressing herself up against it. 'Oi! Come on, this--'

But it's no good; she can't see the guard, but she can hear his retreating footsteps, and she falls back a little from the door, scowling at it. 'Damn.'

johnny_truant: (Default)
[personal profile] johnny_truant
Johnny leads Charley from Chinatown to the East Village, searching out the bar where he'd met Zagreus some weeks ago. He finds it without too much trouble - "Wilmot's End", apparently.

"Okay," he says, stopping outside. He's starting to panic a little bit, but doing a really good job keeping that tamped down. The plan he's cooked up is shit, and he knows it, but it sure is happening. "So I think... I'll sit in a booth, like I did before, and you can sit at the bar. There's a mirror behind it, so you can keep an eye out without being seen. Right?"

He's doing a surprisingly good job of sounding like he knows what he's doing, too. He runs a hand through his hair, pulls out his phone and stares at it for a minute.

"I have to do this somehow so he'll think I'm just being an idiot," he says. "And not, like. Suspect something."

He doesn't add that this shouldn't be too terribly hard, because he's usually an idiot.

He takes several moments to come up with something good, then several more to type it, wrestling awkwardly with the tiny touchscreen keyboard and the insufferable autocorrect feature (he has got to ask Gabriel how to disable that), before finally sending out the lure.
johnny_truant: (Default)
[personal profile] johnny_truant
Johnny would be lying to himself if he said he wasn't apprehensive about meeting Charley in person. The last time he saw her was in her head, crashing her nightmare and making it his own. They'd saved each other's metaphysical lives for a few rounds, and then she'd hugged him, and that's about all he can remember.

That and... he likes her. It's hard not to like someone like her, especially after going through what they went through, but at the same time he feels supremely stupid. Crushing on a girl he's only seen in his dreams is about the grossest, creepiest thing he can think of, and on top of it, Charley is just... she's bright and cheerful and outgoing and sure, she's real pretty, but pretty's never done it for him, not after the legion of long-legged round-breasted smooth-skinned beauties he's somehow landed, and she's... Well, she is definitively not his type.

But then, neither is Gabriel.

In any case now is so completely not the time. Charley needs help, and for a hell of a change he might actually be able to help her. So he struggles out another text from her doorstep, puts his phone his pocket and waits.
adventuressing: (a new adventure)
[personal profile] adventuressing
She’s still in the process of figuring out how to work the PT wristband oojah the Viyrans had given her. It’s got settings for coordinates and dates, but if one doesn’t necessarily know the intergalactic coordinates of any given planet, that isn’t much use. Thus far, however, she hasn’t been all that bothered by her dubious navigation skills. It’s been perhaps a fortnight since she left the Viyran ship, and there’s nowhere in particular she’s heading. Just travelling for its own sake. Having adventures. She can’t say that she doesn’t miss doing so with company, but it’s not bad, really. It’s all right.

Her first go sent her to a planet with a surface like smooth silica, and all the life underground in beautifully bored tunnels, everything opalescent whites and pinks and greens. The people were little roboty things, and Charley spent a week with them, befriending a group of-- she supposed they’d be teenagers, by Earth standards, if an inorganic alien lifeform could be said to be a teenager-- and exploring deeper into the planet than anyone had yet ventured. After that, a planet that was all seas (she’d quickly left, considerably damper than she'd arrived); after that, someplace called Malleiateos, covered with ochre-fawn-marigold-tawny fields and breathing trees, where a young triad had insisted she stay with them because she looked exhausted. She suspects they’d rather fancied her, but they’d been polite enough to keep it to themselves.

And now? Now… she’s fairly sure she’s in New York. She is; New York City. Charley can’t help it; she laughs out loud. She’s still feeling a little disorientated from her arrival, which had been unwontedly rough, like space and time had grabbed her and had to shove her through a minute gap to get her here, so perhaps a little giddiness is understandable. She feels disorientated and frazzled, but it is suddenly, unexpectedly wonderful to be on Earth.

It’s warm, it’s Spring, she’s in a park next to a lake, and she stands for a moment, squinting up at the skyline. Certainly not the 1930’s, she can tell that much. A few people pause to blink at her, but other than having just appeared out of nowhere, she doesn’t stand out much; a young woman dressed head-to-toe in practical, comfortable black, wearing a backpack. She might be anyone.

Unpeeling her wristband and tucking it away into the backpack, she slings the bag back over her shoulder, chooses a direction, and starts walking.

[OOC: She's materalised in Central Park, near the reservoir, and is going to be wandering in a generally southerly direction, more or less towards the Rebel base, so feel free to run into her]

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