interndana: (Default)
[personal profile] interndana
Dana sighs in relief when she enters the shop in the morning. The summer heat is nothing like what she's used to, all sticky with humidity and the particular city smell that gets everywhere. It gets a bit monotonous, between that outside smell and the sterile recycled air of the office. So the flower shop is a welcome change, the air full of the smell of potting soil and growing things instead of asphalt and garbage.

She first discovered the store on a meandering quest for bloodstones, and to be honest she didn't expect to find any in the city. But it would be nice if she could have a little reminder of home, and the searching kept her mind busy when all she was doing at the Romac offices was filing and faxing and getting food. It's not that she was ungrateful for the way the faction set her up with a place to live and work to do, but Dana felt like she could be doing more. She needed a way to ground herself, to remember where she came from, even if she would be staying here in this world for, possibly, quite a while. Hence the bloodstones.

The rock shop she eventually found tucked away in the midtown flower district was much better than some of the strange 'new age' stores that claimed all their crystals had special healing properties. Dana was never terribly religious, but she could tell at a glance that the selection at more metaphysical stores was not going to be what she needed. 'Rock Star Crystals' however, is much more down to earth as far as these things go. The fist-sized chunk of raw bloodstone that immediately caught her eye on the chalcedony shelf is far out of her price range, but the staff were friendly and willing to hold it for her for a while.

On her second visit (settling for some beads to make a bracelet, if she can't have the large piece just yet), Dana noticed a sign on the door of the adjoining suite advertising the need for an assistant. It would be nice to have a little extra money, she thought, and a change of scenery, a reason to frequent the place in the city she felt most relaxed. So she went to the little flower shop and asked about the job and smiled. People seemed to respond well to her smile.

Two weeks later she's started to settle into the rhythm of the floral business, the contrast between the quiet thoughtfulness of being surrounded by plants and the rush of processing and sending out orders. Dana's sitting at the workbench pruning an arrangement that'll go out for delivery tomorrow, when she hears the bell ring on the front door.

"Come on in!" she calls brightly. "I'll just be a moment."
powerdealer: (28)
[personal profile] powerdealer
Seth has had a pretty uneventful few days since he last spoke to Daniel, if you don't count getting pretty intensely rained on yesterday (which had sucked, but at least the city isn't exactly cold these days), and thinking for a moment he'd met someone from his home universe before that. That had admittedly been pretty weird, even if it had become evident more or less immediately that Eliot was not Curtis. Still, minor occurrences in pretty slow days, really. Days which have largely been spent mulling about his life.

Read more... )
applesaucemod: (Default)
[personal profile] applesaucemod

 photo anigif_enhanced-buzz-16559-1384361137-46_zpsbd7d3155.gif

At seven o'clock on the morning of Tuesday, July 30th, it begins to rain. It's not a drizzle or a downpour, but a steady, soaking sort of rain that puddles on the sidewalks and saturates the ground. The storm seems to park itself over Manhattan for the morning, and reluctantly rolls out to sea shortly after noon.

An hour after the skies clear, any rifty who got caught out in the rain may start to notice something unusual: namely, that they're escaping the notice of others. It's as if the rain has washed something out of them, and they're slowly fading out of others' awareness. Afflicted rifties are still corporeal, visible, and audible - they're not ghosts. But as time goes on, they'll continue to slip beneath everyone else's notice. By the evening of the 30th, they'll find that others' eyes tend to slide right over them, and afflicted rifties will have to grab people by the shoulder or raise their voices just to get a little acknowledgment.

Over the next two days, the effects will only worsen. Unless a significant effort is made by both parties, afflicted rifties will find themselves relegated to the background, their voices on par with the ambient sound of traffic, their faces as noteworthy as any given brick on a wall, their touch the equivalent of a sudden draft. Those who were not caught in the rain will still remember their fading friends, but they'll have an increasingly difficult time physically focusing on them.

On the bright side, afflicted rifties will be able to perceive one another with typical clarity, allowing them to easily interact with one another, if not the general population. The network will also be less affected than the rifties themselves, so text messages may be more easily perceived than speech (though by the end of the 31st, text alerts from afflicted rifties will be less noticeable than usual).

Most importantly, the weather isn't done with them. There will be occasional, sudden cloudbursts over the course of July 31st and August first, and another little soaking will reverse the effects of the initial storm. By evening of August first, everyone should be back to normal.

[OOC: Initial reactions to the fade-out can be posted here. Other shenanigans can go up in their own posts using the tag 'event: three days of rain.' Whether your character is affected and for how long is up to you, though it's safe to say that as the first of August draws to a close, rogue cloudbursts will be difficult for any still-afflicted rifties to avoid (we're not saying a tiny raincloud will spontaneously coalesce above the heads of afflicted rifties regardless of whether they're outdoors or not, buuuut we're not saying one won't, either). Backdating is, as ever, allowed and encouraged. And since this takes place over three days in game, forward dating will also be allowed if you want to get right into day three terribleness.]
has_a_horn: (let it rain)
[personal profile] has_a_horn
At exactly noon, a fissure of light opens in the air above Bethesda Terrace and an angel falls out. He lands with a muffled thump in front of the arches of the arcade, face up, soft brown wings extending fifteen feet in either direction stained with patches of red. He's covered in bruises and cuts, and his clothes (damaged themselves) are covered in streaks of blood. One of his wings hangs at an odd angle, but it's hard to tell if that's because it's broken or because the angel isn't conscious enough to change its position.

He doesn't move.

For a few moments everyone there to witness the event is stunned. Then people start taking pictures and video. A particularly curious teenage boy checks to see if the angel is alive, and uploads his success onto his YouTube channel. It's on the news within fifteen minutes.
apidae: (Default)
[personal profile] apidae

This is not where she was.

Bee takes a look around, wondering at the strange new environment. What a place! Soft green grass beneath her feet. Trees and a beautiful lake and people. This isn't Birmingham.

"Excuse me!" she says brightly to a passing man. "Could you tell me where I am?"

"Central Park," he says, harried with the pressure of talking to an overly friendly stranger. "West side, near 72nd."

He doesn't seem to want to stick around, hurrying off. But that's actually quite helpful! Bee turns westward, peering toward the edge of the park. So this is Manhattan. She's heard stories about it. It, along with the rest of the north, always seemed like a faroff fairyland.

"How did I get here?" he asks herself softly. Curiouser and curiouser. This doesn't feel like a dream. But she can't see the beginnings - the Cause is murky, the catalyst an unknown factor. There's a web of influence at work but it's foreign to her. Like a new language.

How exciting. She doesn't feel afraid. It's been a long time since something happened that she couldn't understand. It's exhilarating. Like being a kid again. She only hopes the landlord will look after her darlings.

Hmm, no shoes. She'd been napping. Well, no need for shoes anyway, if one knows how to walk carefully.

She takes a confident step forward, setting out to explore her new environment.
mr_fring: (regrets)
[personal profile] mr_fring
[[ooc: Heyyyy remember Gus. I haven't been neglecting him on PURPOSE, it's sort of a thing that happened. Here's what he's been up to.]]

Gus barely even realizes that more than a month has gone by. Strange to think of it. He's settled into his new life reasonably well - after all it's the sort of thing he's had to do a few times before - but he still feels somewhat trapped. Not just because he is actually trapped - it's been made clear to him that he can't leave the island, for whatever reason - but because his life now is so much more insular than it had been. He's all but avoided meeting people, perhaps finding his predicament too tenuous to bother with it. But it really has been over a month now, and he's grown into a routine. Working, meeting with Cecil to discuss broadcasts, occasional dinners. He rarely takes time for himself.

Today, though, restlessness drives him out. He doesn't seek company; he doesn't want to crowd Cecil. Things must be taken slowly. Cecil's still showing a strong attachment to his old life, and the arrival of Dana has not helped matters any. If Gus wants to get any closer to him - which he does, and not entirely for noble reasons - he's going to have to move with slow, perfect precision.

So instead he strolls about the city. It's easy enough to lose himself for periods of time, though it's not a great comfort. Everything is still relatively foreign, and he's never been particularly attracted to the Manhattan lifestyle. Before too long, wandering makes him feel as restless as when he'd been sitting in his apartment. He has to do something.

This is how, after coming up with no good alternatives, he finds himself seated on a bench in a reasonably well-trafficked part of the Central Park, balancing a large, freshly purchased sketchbook on his knee. He used to have a mildly artistic flair, and though he feels a bit foolish doing this in public, it feels good to practice that again with no pressure. There's also something oddly safe in it. Here, no one knows him; and it does have a certain benefit. It makes him seem trustworthy, for whatever reason. It's only after the first few tourists ask him if he's taking commissions that he realizes there's no reason to say no. People will sit with him while he works, and will make conversation. Talking openly, thinking he's just some random stranger. Nothing wrong with that. He goes so far as to invite questions, drawing up a little sign soliciting requests. Let's see where this gets him.

[[ooc: Gus will DRAW YOU SOMETHING and he'll also casually ask you questions about your secrets if he thinks you're interesting. Have at it.]]
interndana: (disappointed | lonely)
[personal profile] interndana
She is so close to being free.

After talking to Cecil, Dana pockets her phone and takes a deep breath, looking at the door before her. A slight breeze sends hot desert air into the shadowed stillness of the house, and Dana misses that dry desert heat more than she thought possible. She is surprised at her own hesitation to move, but she thinks of her mother and brother, her friends, her work at the station. She exhales shakily and steps forward.

Dana stumbles as she steps through the doorway. When she regains her balance, she looks up and for a moment cannot move, all her forward momentum dissipated into the void. She cannot believe what she is seeing, can barely register the sight at all. For that moment she is numb.

Cold. Dana feels cold, the shock of it cutting through her hoodie, her skin, down into her bones. It is such a violent difference from the light and heat and hope of the desert that she saw through the doorway that it makes her stomach clench.

She is not outside at all, but in a cold room. The air is dry and processed, odorless, sterile. Dana blinks, and when her eyes adjust to the sudden darkness she sees blue-gray walls and alcoves. She looks around, looks behind her at the doorway, but the doorway is gone. There is solid wall behind her, and something else. A framed black and white photograph, lit from above by a subtle recessed bulb. Dana's eyes widen—

a black and white photograph of an worn wooden door with a heavy old chain coming out of it. Below the chain is an intricate metal latch.

The card next to the photograph reads:

Latch and Chain
Ansel Easton Adams (American, San Francisco, California,
1902-1984 Carmel, California)
1927, printed ca. 1936
Gelatin silver print

"What..." Dana murmurs, dismayed. She turns away and sees that the dark walls are hung with other photographs, black and white, the only bright spots in the room. She is in a gallery, and it feels so much stranger to her, somehow, than the dog park or the old empty house. There is nothing dreamlike here, nothing to suggest this place bends reason or physics. It is just a room of photographs, and cold air, and it is so mundane that it terrifies Dana a little.

There is no sign of the doorway through which she entered this place, and the image on the wall before her seems to imply that the way is barred, the door is shut. Dana feels with a cold bleak certainty that she will not go home. Not this way.

"What in the world," she says to herself, looking out at a hallway beyond the gallery's exit. "If this is even the world at all..."

Dana finds herself in a veritable maze of galleries and hallways, and there are other people, which is much less intimidating than being in a large and unfamiliar museum alone. But the other people are all looking at the artwork, or engaging in conversation, and Dana feels the urge to keep moving and see what is beyond the walls. Perhaps if she finds the exit, perhaps this time, finally, she can get home.

She checks her phone; it seems to be getting much better reception than in the old house, and the screen no longer has silvery spider-shapes crawling around the edges. This is probably an improvement.

When she finds a map and directory, she stops, peering at it. The name is familiar to her somehow. Dana frowns at her phone while she composes a text.

[So Dana's at the Met! She'll be making her way into the park from there to see the sights, and if she runs into anyone she will be Extremely Delighted to know that she is in fact corporeal and people can interact with her. Hooray!]


bigapplesauce: (Default)
The Big Applesauce


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