i_jones: (it gives me a headache)
[personal profile] i_jones
This is it. Ianto has reached the end of his proverbial rope, the metaphorical straw that broke the camel's back. He can't take it anymore. He has had it up to here [not indicated, but probably a spot well above his head].

Aliens. He's going to go mad if he has to spend another day living with aliens inside of another alien. There was a nice period after Callie settled in where everything was a bit domestic and relatively quiet and nothing went unmanageably wrong. He wonders now if he wasn't just resolutely ignoring all the little things that were driving him so slowly up the wall that he hasn't noticed 'til now that he's at the ceiling. He can't even recover with a stiff drink because his house, which is actually an alien, won't let him near any alcohol, ostensibly for his health, which the house (the HOUSE WHICH IS AN ALIEN) claims he has been neglecting. So he's gone on a long walk (for his health) to the riftie Pub for a drink (for his mental health). It's refreshing and slightly bizarre to walk the relatively normal streets of Manhattan. The strangest people he walks past are a welcome change, just for being people. Even the unsettling man in the alley before the door to Wilmot's is some kind of a relief.

He orders a pint of cider at the bar and sits at one of the little tables, trying to soak in the warm and extremely human surroundings, and maybe work his stomach up for some definitely human food.
peacefulexplorer: (you were made to meet your maker)
[personal profile] peacefulexplorer
He sheathes himself in intent and blinding resolve, gathering himself at the peak of all he is. He knows the form and shape of himself intimately, and that of the Rift nearly as much. He has no physical structure here, nothing but the transcendental construction of his being, spun from energy and enlightened matter.

He forms the configuration of his atoms into a point and launches himself toward the great barrier mantled over the city, driving himself into the obstruction with every high-vibrating strand of himself in an ineluctable quantum-entangled internecine of torquing chiral matter and shrieking electromagnetism, resolving into bright streak of light, and then nothing.

Electrostatic discharge bisects the sky in an erratic jolt, feathering into diverging points before realigning into a single incandescent bolt that slams into the ground with the low, juddering impact of two unrelenting forces colliding on a colossal, rising, universal scale.

Bones grind into the approximation of a human skeleton, molecules stitched together to form organs with the churning of heart and veins and brain and lungs, skin wrapped over the assemblage of physiological necessity, all done with the vibrant immediacy of interconversion of energy to matter between seconds.

The transduction of one phase of matter to another.

Energy becomes flesh.

Light becomes bone.

Daniel Jackson returns to earth.
---

He opens his eyes.

It is very dark.

There is a tightness in his chest, and belatedly he realizes it is because he needs to breathe.

He breathes.

He blinks, eyelashes scratching the air that is too crisp and frigid and sharp, prickling the sarcoline membrane of his skin. He opens his hands, pale, spidery blurs printed against the dark matte of cold sky.

He sits up. His sense howl against the sensation, the exertion of muscle, the grating pull and shift of bone, the sensation of grass tickling bare skin nothing short of a unique somatosensory hell.

Hell. That’s a concept that strikes him as vaguely familiar.

Unfortunately, nothing else about this does.

With nothing else to do and with the whole of him aching, as if only now realizing just how incredibly inconvenient and painful the burden of physical existence is, he makes a list of things that he knows.

He is in a field, broad and open and grassy. The trees are distant pinpricks in silhouette. There is the distant rush of objects hurtling laterally through space by way of paved roads. The sky is a canopy of bright-dotted lights, comprised of stars and a glittering, multicolored swathe of metropolitan luminescence. The field is wet, with dew or rain or both. The air is cool. He is breathless, nameless, clothesless.

Nameless?

That’s a bit worrying.

Or maybe he just knows it’s meant to be worrying. Right now, the only emotions he seems to be able to muster are those of budding distress and confusion.

Also, discomfort. He’s shivering, and he has to remind himself to blink and also to breathe, and something about that doesn’t seem quite right because it’s not spectacularly efficient to have to keep reminding himself of those faculties that really should be involuntary, he’s pretty sure, is he sure though, because he’s not entirely certain where all these preconceived notions about his physiology seem to be coming from, and also he would like some clothes.

The thought crystallizes into relief. That’s something he knows. Desire. He wants something. Namely, to be clothed. Kind of right now. Or just soon-ish. That would also work.

Standing is a trial, walking even more so. His body feels fragile, new, possibly newborn if that didn’t make no biological sense whatsoever. He stumbles forward like a poorly-coordinated child, his legs shuddering in protest with each creaking motion.

First, he needs to get out of here.

[ooc: After a month of glow-jellyfish shenanigans and an ill-advised attempt to bullrush the Rift into letting him go, Daniel has descended and is now human again. Rest assured, anyone who finds him WILL find him clothed, as he’ll have recovered some from a dumpster or something by the time he’s wandering the streets of Manhattan. ALSO word of warning - seeing as his brain’s been freshly scrambled, Daniel’s a wee bit amnesiac. Also slightly aphasiatic? He has no idea who he is and he’s not going to be capable of understanding or speaking English until his memories start trickling back.]
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.]
deadeyedchild: I haven't been as paranoid (hide behind the lens)
[personal profile] deadeyedchild
He can feel Tim leaving him, waking up, and he tries to follow. He doesn't know how. This is all new territory, following someone from one plane of existence to another. He tries to visualize himself holding onto Tim's hand. It's embarrassing but it works.

He thinks it works.

He feels different.

The world feels familiar - not the empty void he'd been inhabiting, but the world, solid and real, tangible. He's here. He's back.

He still feels like he's looking at it through glass, though. He looks down at his hands, which are - sort of there, at least, he knows they're there. He can almost see them. Except not quite.

"Oh come on," he mutters, and no sound comes out. He knows he's spoken but he can't quite hear it. He tries to lay a hand on his own arm and he feels a buzz of static as his fingers pass through himself. Oh, god.

He's a fucking ghost.

This is not quite what he had in mind. He knows it's not what Tim had in mind.

It's better than nothing.

He takes a moment to try and figure out where he is. He finds that he can move, not exactly by walking, but sort of drifting along the ground. He accidentally passes through someone, who shivers violently and looks thoroughly spooked for a few seconds. He is unable to get anyone's attention, or interact with anything.

He has to get to Tim somehow, but he can't really take a train, can he? He's not even sure what part of the city he's in.

So he rambles. After a while he finds it's easier to just move through walls than to try to go about things the normal way. Shortly after that revelation he starts picking up the very bizarre skill of moving up through a building, in and out of offices and apartments.

Travel is easy, but communication is nearly impossible.

He searches, having nothing else he can do, for someone he knows.


[[Jay is wandering all over kingdom come today so if you want your character to have a weird ghost encounter, pick a location and we'll see what happens. It's going to be super hard to notice him if you don't have any kind of telepathic/other helpful powers, but that's okay, we can do short shenanigan threads if you're into that. A quick little ghost encounter! Hey, maybe Jay can overhear some awkward dialogue or embarrassing secrets. Maybe he'll accidentally figure out how to knock something off a counter and then go nuts trying to do it again. The sky is the limit. Have fun!]]

UPDATE: as often happens with this kind of thing we have Jay on a pretty tight schedule now. The Balladeer meets him around lunchtime, and then the line of Rush/Iman - Daniel - Greta gets set into motion sometime after. Greta will be taking Jay back to his building in the late afternoon. If you want to meet him when he's out and about it'll now have to be prior to lunch or snuck in between lunch and his adventure through the former ROMAC apartments. There is still plenty of room in there for nonsense, it just won't be able to lead to Jay actually getting home. SHENANIGANS!
i_jones: indiefairy @ LJ (guys there's all this pizza and turtles)
[personal profile] i_jones
Welcome, welcome. Not through that door. I mean, you can try it, but all doors lead to breakfast. Even that one underneath the console. You thought you were being clever. Maybe once you've behaved yourself and the TARDIS judges you to be worthy, you can explore a little more. For now, breakfast. For one night only, the TARDIS has become - or rather, has been inhabited by - King Ianto's Coffee Stop. Would you like to join the club? He has pamphlets. And buttons! But more importantly, he has breakfast. Lots of breakfast. The countertops of the cozy diner are lined with plates of breakfast foods galore - bacon, eggs, sausage, mushrooms, tomatoes, black pudding, cockles, laverbread... and okay, there are American staples too. There's your pancakes and your french toast and hash browns and cupcakes or whatever strange sweet things Americans eat for breakfast. Oh, and tea. Lots of tea. And if you ask very nicely, King Ianto himself might brew up some of his very own coffee. It's so good, it has a cult following.*

The walls are decorated with a strange collection of primarily alien souvenirs. There's one whole section of postcards from other planets and galaxies. GREETINGS FROM MARS! says one particularly upbeat postcard, featuring swathes of blue sand and a setting blue sun. Many others are unreadable. There are flags, leis of unfamiliar flora, letters of commendation (right next to WANTED signs), photographs both old and new of various people and various Doctors posing next to various monuments and landmarks, and strangely enough, what looks to be a stolen sign commemorating Ianto's death, from the management of Mermaid Quay. Have a look around! You never know what you might find. Probably none of it is dangerous. The food definitely isn't.

Oh and also the ceiling is space and outside the windows is space and spaaaaaace.**

*((Ianto has an undiscovered power: his coffee improves you. Your health, your powers (temporarily), your mood, whatever needs fixing. Please drink responsibly.))

**not actually space
biscuit_powered: (human | smile | impish laughter)
[personal profile] biscuit_powered
Very little in this place has proved familiar, and that which is familiar has proved uncanny. Asmodia's life has run the gamut from metropolis to frontier and back again, but until being taken by this Rift she had never seen anything like Manhattan. Bustling port cities she's seen, but this city is like something out of fantasy. The word 'skyscraper' is oddly appealing in its imaginative accuracy, even if the buildings it denotes are less appealing. They blot out the sky in a way even Kintargo's grizzled skyline never managed, and they make her feel simultaneously trapped and as though she should expect one to topple down on top of her at any moment.

This is far from the first time circumstances have called upon her to adapt herself to a foreign culture, but she had never imagined she would encounter one this foreign...or that she would find herself nearly powerless with no indication of when or how she might regain her magic. She's been keenly aware of her relative inability to kill her enemies defend herself since being returned here; it's as though Biscuit has completely forgotten most of the spells she taught him. It's a struggle to prepare each of the spells that remain for even one use each day, and all Biscuit can give her are Deception's spells. Maybe she should be grateful for what she has given that their survival here will likely be predicated on their ability to pass unnoticed, but she has grown accustomed to living openly and to responding to threats with violence, not subterfuge.

Not that anyone has threatened her. True, she's spent most of her time hiding out in the little living space assigned to her, quietly testing her new limits, but the worst she's gotten on her brief forays outdoors are odd looks. Odd looks she's used to, but sooner or later she'll have to make another attempt to buy some local clothing because the human guise alone isn't cutting it. Her first attempt was a miserable failure, the layout of the stores and labeling of the goods even more confusing than the grocers she's visited, and since then she's simply worn the clothes in which she arrived, washing them in her new abode's sink a few times at great inconvenience and with mixed success.

Today, at last, she is growing bolder...if only from boredom. Trouble is, she doesn't know where to go or what to do with herself, and she doesn't have any money with which to do it anyhow. She heads down to the ground level and outside only to wander aimlessly a few minutes, listless and annoyed at the realization that she has no idea what to do with herself.

If there's one thing she's always known how to do, though, it's how to take out her frustrations on strangers. An idea forms as she passes one stranger after another on the street, and once it occurs to her it sticks. It wouldn't hurt anyone, not really, and it would give her something to do for the next hour or so, and maybe most importantly, it would remind her that she's not helpless.

So that's why Asmodia and Biscuit have picked out a spot in the Sheep Meadow and commenced dancing. They're both pretty bad at it, and Asmodia's eldritch chanting is almost entirely unmusical, but for the first time in a while she's starting to feel a reassuring (if likely fleeting) sense of control. She's Asmodia Antarion. She's faced devils and felled giants, and she can and she will command the elements themselves for her own petty amusement. Enjoy the coming rainstorm, Manhattan. Or just enjoy the performance art; it's not every day you see a LARPer and a giant rodent performing a rain dance.


[OOC: Asmodia is using a hex to control the weather! Unfortunately for pranking purposes, this hex requires a literal solid hour of dancing and chanting with her familiar and she's chosen to do it in a public place, whoops. She might try to brush aside briefer distractions, but whenever anyone gets her mind too far off what she's doing she's going to have to start over. Subsequent interrupters will get an increasingly frustrated Asmodia.]
singthesong: (Default)
[personal profile] singthesong
Today is September 14th.

The knowledge fills the Balladeer with an anxious energy, though now he's got nowhere to go and nothing to do. It's just a normal day. Nothing special, nothing happening anywhere that he knows of, no cues to meet or new songs on the wind. It's not that he wants to be home - he's half-afraid he'll get sucked back there today, it's the last thing he wants. He just can't shake the feeling that he's supposed to be far away right now, doing something entirely different.

Also, he keeps jumping out of his skin at loud noises. Not a good problem to have in the heart of Manhattan.

He only recently returned to regular busking in the park, but even the vague lingering threat of ROMAC couldn't have kept him away today. His nerves are probably obvious to anyone passing by just from the sharp glances he keeps throwing at his surroundings, but he's still playing as normal, guitar case open for tips at his feet. It's a comforting setting: familiar, but not overly so. There's a little florist's shop on his usual route, which is the only reason for the bouquets of red carnations resting on the bench behind him. It's a tiny detail, but the sight of them in the window struck him like a bul - like a brick to the head. He'd bought one for his lapel, and then on impulse taken the rest as well. He's been handing them out to passerby between songs, and so far no one's bothered to ask him why.

Anyone who walks by multiple times may also notice that he keeps repeating a particular song throughout the day. It's catchy, right?
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.]
insectreflection: (2)
[personal profile] insectreflection
Tara has been doing her best to settle in.

Well, of course, after doing anything she could think of to try to find her friends, whether in this world or the one she came from. But it turns out Sunnydale doesn't even exist in this universe. She's tried using magic and meditating, she's tried just using the internet and libraries, but there's nothing. And from what she can tell, there aren't even any Hellmouths or demons or anything like that here which didn't come through the Rift. On the surface this world looks so familiar, but it feels so foreign.

So one of two things that she's been focused on when it comes to settling in is simply adjust to the way her magic works here. It's not the same. She's unable to call on deities or spirits, or connect to other planes. Or, if she can connect to them, then no one's answering. And there's little magic to draw on besides what comes through the Rift, which she feels wary of.

As far as she can tell, the Rift's not evil, it doesn't corrupt or taint you, but that doesn't mean she trusts it. It doesn't seem to be good either. She was never exactly frivolous with magic to begin with, but she intends to be very cautious if she ever needs to do anything significant, and pay close attention to how it affects her. And then just hope it really is as neutral as it seems.

The other thing has been more to do with practicalities. Money, food, a place to live. She's still working on the last one, continuing to stay at a cheap hotel for the time being. The money problem was solved by simply taking up a loan. She feels pretty guilty about the fact she had to use magic to persuade them to grant her one, but she fully intends to pay it back, and hopes that will minimise any karmic retribution.

Which is part of why she's on her way to Daniel's apartment - to pay him back for the help he gave her when she arrived. Well, that, and hopefully to get to know him a little better now she's a bit more grounded. He definitely seemed like someone worth knowing.

It's still pretty early in the day when she gets there and rings the doorbell.
insectreflection: (5)
[personal profile] insectreflection
"Your shirt," Tara says, her brow knitting in a worried frown. It's spattered with red.
 
The last thing she sees is Willow's horrified face, as she collapses and everything goes dark. She doesn't have time to consider what this means. It just seems to happen.
 
And then she's... elsewhere.
 
Everything is soft and warm, and she know Willow's all right. She must be grieving, she must be in pain, but she will be okay. She has her friends, and she's strong. She'll heal and prosper and be safe. So will the rest of her friends. It's all going to be okay.
 
She doesn't know how long she's there. It can't be too long, but time seems to have no meaning.
 
And then she's not. The sunlight is harsh and bright, and there's all this noise. Traffic.
 
A lot of traffic, all around her. She's... in the middle of a round-about? It takes several long minutes for her to take in her surroundings. Gigantic buildings, tourists, cars. The noise is deafening. She looks down at herself, her jeans and blue sweater... the dark red stain and hole in her sweater, just over her heart. She touches it, but the skin there is unharmed, whole.
 
How did she get here? Where is here? The questions are too many for her to order in her mind, and she's not sure exactly what's happening. She has to collect herself for a minute to stop from panicking.
 
And she seems to be stuck atop the base of a monument. The granite is warm against her back, and it's just a little too far down for her to feel comfortable jumping. Especially given how shaky she currently feels.
 
"E-excuse me," she calls out to a passer-by. "I'm sorry, c- could you help me?"
julianbashir: (oh noooo | serious)
[personal profile] julianbashir
Julian has been trying to remind himself that he isn't a prisoner anymore. Yes, he's stuck in this universe, perhaps trapped forever, but he's not imprisoned in his building. Despite the strangeness of the last 9 days, he has to say that it is certainly a step up from solitary confinement, and prison camp. Nothing is stopping him from going outside, from exploring the streets, the city, his new world. Nothing except for Julian himself, apparently. Which isn't like him. How many strange worlds had he visited that he couldn't wait to start exploring, taking notes on the plants, the medicines, the viruses... this shouldn't be so different, but it was.

He has his job at least. His... training? Whatever it is, it provides distraction as he learns his way around the lab, the research, the equipment. And with it, Imam and Rush, human contact that he finds that he actually, deeply craves every morning. They are the only two people he really knows here so far, and they help, probably more than they know. He misses his lunches with Garak, his evening drinks and darts with Miles... He has been here just over a week, but hasn't found it in himself to seek out much more than what he has now. Eventually, maybe. Instead, he's been going to his quarters... his apartment, and fiddles. He watches TV, getting feel for his surroundings, the culture, the mass information. He has a notebook, and sometimes he takes notes, as if this were an experiment or a patient's medical history chart. It helps, in a strange way. He looks at the appliances, takes some of them apart and attempts to put them back together, which gives him a sense of the technology as well as keeps his mind and fingers busy. While he's figured out the basics, Julian desperately yearns for a replicator. Cooking was never a hobby or skill he had really cultivated, even on Earth. Luckily his apartment had been stocked with plenty of starter basics, but he knew eventually he would have to start shopping and learning how to feed himself properly.

Today, though, Julian had wandered outside. Maybe it was loneliness, maybe it was frustration at trying to brew a decent cup of tea or coffee with the stupid ancient kitchen contraptions he had been left to deal with. So finding coffee out was a last resort. Easier said than done, apparently.

Really, he was supposed to be a genetically-enhanced genius, or something. How hard should it really be to buy a cup of coffee while navigating around a civilization 300 years in your past? Not this hard, surely. But here he is, finally, standing in what seems to be an unnecessarily long line waiting to order and pay. His wallet is open as he examines the contents for the thousandth time, trying to recall what each card is for and why. He has his small notebook stuck in the back pocket of his new jeans, thoughtfully (and a bit strangely, how did they get his sizes? His measurements, so quickly?) provided by someone, probably ROMAC, whoever they are. Soon he will have coffee, real coffee, and he can sit and watch and learn. But it's hard to plan much farther than the actual coffee part.
peacefulexplorer: (Nerdery | Book | Look Up | Huh?)
[personal profile] peacefulexplorer
Today has been...interesting.

That's certainly a word for it.

Fortunately, Daniel has experience with "interesting." He does not, however, have a whole lot of experience with handling felines, particularly of the roommates-turned-felines-who-may-or-may-not-be-incapable-of-digesting-normal-food variety, so figuring out what Seth could eat in his somewhat furrier form has been an exercise in exasperation and barely bit-back amusement. It certainly was a trial attempting to cook while inexplicably hovering two feet above the ground, though cautious experimentation proved that Daniel could pull himself down to regular ground-level, in a manner of speaking, if he clung to a table leg or even the edge of the couch. But as soon as he let go, he would simply float back up again, perfectly suspended two feet over the apartment floor with next to no explanation as to how.

Hopefully this won't last long.

Daniel's phone has been buzzing intermittently all day, which has been both rewarding and frustrating. He's been able to tell a few things - for one, it's not just them. For another, everyone's being affected very differently, from being forced to spill out a slew of secrets to being practically forced to tell lies. Whatever Rift thing this is, the initial amusement at dealing with Seth's feline shape had faded very quickly.

Speaking of which.

Daniel glances up from his phone after punching out the last message to favor the curled-up ball of brown fur with a look of concern. He seems pretty much asleep from his position next to him - well, sort of next to him. Daniel is, for all intents and purposes, sitting cross-legged, though he's still levitating a good foot or so above the bed.

"Someone's coming," he says cautiously, unable to keep the note of apology from his voice. "He's, ah - bringing cat food." Wince. "Sorry."
applesaucemod: (Default)
[personal profile] applesaucemod
 photo beauty and the beast stained glass rose-NZWR_sm_zpsadnbeqxz.png


The twenty-seventh of August dawns bright and clear, but when your characters wake up, they will immediately notice something wrong. They've woken up the wrong size, or species, or age. Or perhaps everything seems normal until they take a bite of their apple-flavored toaster strudel, or attempt to speak, or wander into the woods, or bump into that old crone in the subway and fail to adequately apologize. However it happens, there's no getting around it: your characters are cursed, like an unfortunate out of a fairy tale.

On the bright side, many curses can be broken. Unfortunately, none of them come with user manuals, so how they might be broken isn't clear. Perhaps true love's kiss will do it, or a heroically sacrificial act, or some serious reflection followed by revelatory insight into your own soul. Or, y'know, whatever. But it's far more likely that your character will just be stuck with whatever it is until sunset, when any and all remaining curses will be broken.

[OOC: Feel free to use this post for initial reactions to whatever curse your character has found themselves suffering. Any additional posts for more specified shenanigans can go up under the 'events: curses' tag. Sunset is a little after 7:30 PM. Backdating and backtagging are the best and you should do both of those things if necessary.]
peacefulexplorer: (Sad | Thoughtful | Downcast)
[personal profile] peacefulexplorer
Well, it had to happen sometime. Really, it's a good thing he anticipated it and made a plan beforehand, and at least has a last resort in case of emergency - which this is, relatively speaking. He's just grateful Lucy was kind enough to tip him off in time for him to clear out of her old place, and avoid confrontation with the Rebels directly. That's an encounter he'll gladly evade for as long as possible.

It's also turned out to be a good thing he hadn't ever properly gotten settled there, Daniel can't help but think ruefully as he crosses another street and glances warily over one shoulder, a rather battered-looking duffel in hand. He really didn't have much to pack, save the few necessities he had on hand, Spike's books, and the old BDUs he hasn't touched in over a month. Ideally he would have removed any trace that anyone had lived there at all, but there simply hadn't been enough time. The most he could do was clear the apartment of any indication of who specifically had been squatting in Lucy's absence, and the next step was heading to the only place he could think of to go.

Some thirty minutes later, Daniel finds himself ringing the downstairs doorbell of Seth's building, shoulders sagging sheepishly.
peacefulexplorer: (Phone | Texting | Action)
[personal profile] peacefulexplorer
For the life (or death) of him, Daniel can't decide what it is he did to deserve a friend like Seth, who has apparently been devoting time to finding Daniel a new place of residence. What's more, unlike Daniel, it seems like he's actually succeeded in locating something feasible. With some of the creative dodging of the building management he's had to do, it's very likely that Lucy's old place won't be tenable for much longer. It'll be frustrating no longer having friends like Bee or Spike or Melanie in easy reach, but the potential consequences of the Rebels forcibly evicting him or, even worse, deciding he could be an asset of some kind, aren't ones he can afford to ignore.

He's putting a lot of faith in someone else's judgment over a potential new living space, but he trusts Seth. He trusts him, and he likes him, and it'd be nice to have a place Seth could visit once in a while instead of Daniel always crashing at his, if only for reciprocation's sake. He already likes the location, far enough removed from the Rebels or ROMAC's respective bases of operations while still within a reasonable radius in relation to the Rift center. The latter wasn't a necessity, but Daniel more or less feels like he needs to have some means for access to it, if only for the sake of any other rifties who might come through. And it's only a few blocks away from the bookstore he may have landed a job at, no less.

Daniel re-checks the address texted to him by Seth, then crams his phone back into his pocket and waits.
powerdealer: (42)
[personal profile] powerdealer
[Warning: This thread deals mainly with drug withdrawal, so there's gonna be a lot of heavy subjects. And also pining.]

Seth waits a good while after he gets the last text from Daniel, since it'll take him at the very least a good forty minutes to get downtown. However, waiting is not currently exactly his favourite activity.

Read more... )
peacefulexplorer: (Thoughtful | Bite Lip | Interest)
[personal profile] peacefulexplorer
It's not that he doesn't like the building. He likes it, he does, he really does. It's just that Daniel can't work out a feasible way to pay for any of it until he can find a decent job, and he's not sure how far archaeology is going to take him here in terms of employment. And, well, he'd prefer to stay out of the museums. For his own reasons.

Somewhat ruefully, he digs out a pen and his rather crumpled list of potential new apartment buildings and runs a neat line through the building he's, unfortunately, about to leave due to pricing being somewhat out of his range. Somewhat a lot out of his range. He doesn't really have a whole lot of range. Daniel gnaws on his pen as he descends the stairs at a thoughtful, leisurely pace, in no hurry to get back to the Rebel apartments. He could potentially stay at Seth's if the Rebels have him forcibly removed, but that's no permanent solution. It all ties into one great loop of broken economy, where he needs to get a job before he can make any plans to officially move out, but in order to facilitate moving out he'll have to have a destination in mind, and in order to make that work he will need, as it so happens, a job. Preferably soon. He thinks he's done an admirable job of adjusting to being spatially and temporally relocated to Manhattan; it's all those little details that are proving to be the most troublesome to navigate.

He gets to the ground floor before he has to fumble for his phone again. He's getting better at grasping the city layout, but Daniel mostly has Lucy and Google Maps to thank for that. Unfortunately, the reception here isn't looking too great. He frowns and gives his phone an experimental shake, as if that will do anything at all, but the little connectivity symbol remains willfully absent.

Daniel pockets the phone with a frustrated grunt. Great. Fantastic.

boneshaker: (startled | afraid)
[personal profile] boneshaker
The radio crackles to life an hour before dawn. Castor's already awake, as he often is, warming leftovers on the stove. The voice on the other end is cut with static, but his ear is trained enough to make out "Dock calling Boneshaker, come in, over." He flicks the burner off and steps across his drafty little room, picking up the receiver.

"Boneshaker receiving Dock, over," he answers. His voice is low and rich. Good for the radio, Inoue told him once. It was the closest she ever came to direct praise.

"Radar's---ind of interference---your location," says the dispatcher. "Any---wh---ing on, over."

Castor frowns. The static is worse than usual. He jiggles a few knobs but it seems like something more than the usual signal problems. A glance at some of the other instruments tells him whatever's causing this is causing a systemic problem. The whole circuit seems off.

"Dock, please hold, over." He sets the receiver down and studies the readout for a second, uncomprehending. Everything's off, unsynced and inconsistent with one another. Hell.

He leans toward the window, peering into the dark. He sees thick fog against the lighted horizon, but that's not new. He reaches back for the radio.

"Dock, this is Boneshaker - I'm reading interference here but I can't see nothing, over."

"Maintain-------and we'll------ming----v------"

"Dock, come in." Castor works the radio with practiced precision, trying to retune it and receiving only long bursts of static. "Dock, I'm losing you. Come in, Dock, over."

Another long burst of static, and then nothing.

"Nice," says Castor to himself, and drops the receiver. He glances woefully at the stove, feeling his stomach growl. Soup will have to wait.

He arms himself with the handheld radio and climbs the tower to the lamp, which is still burning away. He checks over everything just to be sure, but this, at least, is operational. The most important aspect. He peers out the window, trained eye searching for ships, but the sea looks dark and empty.

He lifts the walkie to his mouth and murmurs distractedly, "Boneshaker, calling all channels, come in, over."

He waits, and receives nothing.

This isn't that unusual. There've been problems before. Storms or maintenance problems, usually, not like this, but at least it's not a wholly unfamiliar situation.

Then, without any guttering prelude, the lamp goes out. Castor jerks so sharply he drops the radio, hears it clatter and break. He swears under his breath, gropes along the wall, blind in the sudden dark, his hand grasping for the lighter. There's a fierce, unexpected howl of wind, and he stiffens and stares out the window. Nothing on the water's surface. Calm and unbroken. Not wind, then. What is he hearing?

It's over in moments.

Suddenly, suddenly, light and heat and smells and noise. Ferocious and overwhelming. He staggers and falls, landing on green grass, surrounded by trees and paved pathways and most of all people. Some are staring at him, most are wandering busily about. There's a distant roar of traffic, a sound buried deep in the recesses of his memory. He hasn't heard traffic since he was in London, so many forgotten years ago. The smells and the heat are the worst thing; he strips his heavy coat immediately, strips down to his t-shirt, though that and his trousers are both black and absorbing the sun's brutal heat with a vengeance. His feet are bare. He scrambles to get up. He stares about himself, lost and afraid.

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