applesaucemod: (Default)
[personal profile] applesaucemod
Protecting the city from the rifties -- and the rifties from the city -- is a full time job. That's never been more true than it is today, when there are metaphorical (and sometimes physical) fires to put out all over Manhattan. It's been a rough time at ROMAC in general; most of the organization's people are unfamiliar with the specifics of the recent animal attack, but even those who don't know that a number of prisoners guests of ROMAC have gone missing in the last few days (or that the computer system is still compromised) know that something has thrown the organization into disarray.

Unfortunately for ROMAC and fortunately for certain other people, ROMAC's resources are spread thin by whatever's put the Rift in a tizzy. As large as the organization is, though, there's surely nothing to worry about from the handful of malcontents at large in the city.

Surely.


[OOC: And here's the thread for taking down ROMAC! There will be a couple of player characters on ROMAC's side (check to see whether their threads are open to all before tagging in, as they may have limited availability due to prior plans), and anyone in need of 'enemies' to tag against can request an NPC from the mods. Have at!]
etherthief: (working | moping | both?)
[personal profile] etherthief
Rush's dream collapses and Iman lies awake, breathing too hard, staring at her ceiling. Her blood is up from his dumbshit attitude and his mottled, fucked up arm - she needs to break something. It's too early to go to Wilmot's but what the fuck is the point of sleeping, anyway.

She gets out of bed, paces for a few minutes, and ends up hurling an innocent coffee mug across the room, finding intense, relieving satisfaction in the sound of it shattering. That's better.

She'll clean that up later. She gets into the shower and turns it on cold. This is happening today. It'll just be her and Daine and Rush, who had better still fucking be alive.

There will be blood if he's not.

She brushes her teeth furiously, gets dressed and spends undue attention making herself look clean. There will be time aplenty for her to get wrecked today.

She checks the clock. Still at least an hour before even the stickiest barfly would be out and about. But if she stays here she'll end up breaking more things from the inactivity. She goes out.

She walks for a while. Wilmot's is close, so she ends up just circling that area, remembering vaguely better times when she fielded a weird meeting between Daniel and the Devil, and later when the Devil crashed through a wall. She'd take that shit over this, probably.

Finally, when time enough has passed, she walks into Wilmot's End, sits at the bar, orders "The tallest Tom Collins you can give me", and waits.
lottawork: (insomniac | dead inside)
[personal profile] lottawork
[ooc: this thread will likely be...very unsettling. It will involve interrogation, and probably torture. Tag-specific trigger warnings to follow.]

He has not slept in days. Presumably. The uniform nature of the lighting has made it difficult to determine, and he has never excelled at temporal sequencing. He has paced and scrutinized every corner, restless hands skimming the walls of his prison and curling around the edges of his arms and pushing through the tangling disarray of his hair to press back the sensation of something crawling and skittering and itching and hypodermic that has burrowed beneath, rooted below skin and below bone.

The pressure of palms against walls cannot tether him, and the drag of nails over his own skin does little but lend tiny, convulsive tics of his head to his nervous repertoire. Exhaustion has been seeded into every shift of his gaze, every weary, protracted blink. His eyes rake the air in scattered repetition. Prolonged tension is difficult to sustain over a period of days; even more difficult when sustained in conjunction with the grating mindlessness of fearful anticipation.

He trusts Fring will not keep him waiting for much longer.

The accuracy of this prediction is not a comfort.

The rasping scrape of metal over metal as the bolt slides back is the exchange of one form of relief for another form of mounting panic. Any efforts to appear dull-eyed and lifeless would be utterly worthless - he would not insult Fring with an obvious act, not when he has made no previous attempts to disguise his agitation.

In the absence of all other comforts, Rush may at least take solace in the warped form of release.

It is poor consolation.

The door swings inward in a heavy, gliding arc.
etherthief: (doin science to a thing)
[personal profile] etherthief
[Iman and Rush are going turn the day's general chaos and Rush's curse of being trapped in reflective surfaces to their advantage and do some snooping in ROMAC's labs. Their goal is to see if ROMAC knows what's going on with this curse event and perhaps could have warned people or prevented it - they may find that, or something even worse. ETA: j/k this WILL be serving as a prelude to faction dissolution, stay tuned.]

'Through some improvised experimentation, the following facts about Rush's condition have been posited or ascertained:

1.) Base observation: Rush is confined within reflective surfaces not limited to but most prevalently mirrors.

2.) He is unable to breach these surfaces but he can communicate with those outside them.

3.) In spite of immense scientific improbability, he is not currently comprised of light, but solid matter. Jury's still out on how that works.

4.) The reflected world around him, however, cannot be interacted with normally. He is limited to electrical/light-based interactions - the sending of text messages, though they are garbled - and there is potential for other electrical interference.

5.) He can move adjacently out of each reflected zone. He is automatically displaced to the nearest adjacent reflective surface. If there is a closed reflective circuit he cannot move outside it. Caution required to avoid entrapment.'

Iman finishes reading these notes and glances at Rush, currently contained within her homemade hand mirror, for approval. She's brought him back to the Base and is now waiting for the elevator to arrive and take them down toward where they aren't supposed to be. Her favorite place.
etherthief: (i'm doING THINGS)
[personal profile] etherthief
Iman adjusts her hijab as she rides silently down the elevator alongside her escort. She and Rush are nearing the end of their training process and she'll be happy to lose the bodyguard, as well as a lot of other perks. One thing she's not looking forward to, and that's Rush himself.

This is their first workday since the last congregational dream, which had gone so spectacular awry for them both. Their first time interacting. She doubts he's going to make a big deal out of it. She certainly doesn't plan to.

She's still angry, and she doesn't like feeling angry, it's a useless emotion in this instance. Rush is a colleague, not a friend. She knows the drema was as hard on him as it was on her, and furthermore that he isn't good with people the way she is. She asked too much of him. She knows that. It doesn't make it easier to bear, knowing that she's about to spend a day in a room with him, avidly not acknowledging what they went through two nights ago.

It is what it is.

Mercifully the elevator comes to its halt, and the escort leads her down the hall to their little classroom. They've upgraded to more useful projects now, at least, but it's still very much like school work. At least they're good at it.

Rush is already there when she gets in, and she acknowledges him with a faint nod before taking her seat. Normally this is where they'd start bantering up a storm and breaking rules but. Something tells her not today.

"Morning," she says in a tone that meets only the barest definition of polite.
etherthief: (I'm going to try science)
[personal profile] etherthief
The HR director is a thin man with a long lined face and small, delicate glasses. Quite attractive, for an older bureaucrat, but this is hardly the time. Iman contents herself for watching him idly as he reviews her paperwork.

"What makes you want to work for ROMAC?" he asks after a moment, looking up at her with a sort of dull yet penetrating expression that contributes to her conviction that this one is off limits. He's nice, likable, and sort of creepy. But that's okay. It's not like he'll be her supervisor.

"Well, I held off making a decision for a while," she says in the smooth, casual tone she uses for job interviews. "I wanted to see all my options, you know. But it turns out there just aren't that many, as I'm sure you know. Don't get me wrong, I love the city, but not being able to leave it, that's kind of a dealbreaker for a lot of the job options. But what would I be doing for them, anyway? IT consultation? When there's something as huge and fascinating as the Rift out there?" She clears her throat, squares her shoulders and looks him in the eye. "Mr. Fring, I have been working in the field of dimensional physics - exactly the kind of work involved with studying this kind of spatial-temporal anomoly - for just about my entire life. This Rift is the discovery of a lifetime. If ROMAC's scientific department is investigating the whys and hows of this thing, then I want to be involved, in whatever capacity, every step of the journey from here on out. And let me assure you: you guys want me on your team."

She smiles. This is more aggressively self-aggrandizing that she usually likes to be (at least out loud) but that's what'll get you in with these sorts of places. Gus eyes her thoughtfully and then resumes glancing over her paperwork, which she filled out in greater detail than was strictly necessary. Credentials are hard to prove in this sort of situation, but given that they're all in the same boat, she's hoping her enthusiasm will be enough.

"You seem to have an impressive background," he says after a moment, "so I hope you won't feel offended if I tell you that you'll have to be part of a training program first."

She waves a hand, relaxing her posture. "I would never have expected any different," she says.

"It isn't just an orientation. This is a highly secure department you're applying into. You'll have to be screened, thoroughly."

"Naturally."

"Entry positions are generally only lab technicians and assistants," he says. "You'd have to be with us for some time before securing a full research position."

"Of course." Iman doesn't care about any of that. She just wants in. She wants the keycard and the door codes and the beautiful, wonderful laboratory access. She can handle the rest on her own. She doesn't need, or even want, a cushy research job with this faction. She has the Doctor for the real work. This is basically going to be an insider position. And she's going to rock it.

"All right," he says pleasantly. "Well, everything seems to be in order. Let me just go and check with the training department when the next session begins. Help yourself to water or coffee, whatever you like - I'll come and find you."

Iman nods, stands with him and shakes his head. "Thank you so much for this opportunity, Mr. Fring," she says with a broad smile.

"Thank you," he replies, still with that extremely corporate smile, and then he departs.

Iman stretches out a little and proceeds at a comfortable pace to the watercooler/refreshment area to pour herself some coffee.
essentiallyharmless: (Drunk as lords)
[personal profile] essentiallyharmless
Lucy has managed to get out of the house for once. It's difficult when you have nowhere in particular to go to, and no one to go with, and inertia and directionlessness is pressing down on you. But staying inside those oppressive walls isn't doing her any favours, and there's only so much a roof garden can do for your sanity.

So she's made it all the way downtown, to Wilmot's End. It's not the sort of establishment she usually goes for, but there's a much higher chance of meeting someone actually interesting. And somehow she feels more at home with the weird and scary. She's tried to slip back in the kind of world she used to belong in, fundraisers and fancy parties and publishing and regular work, but she hates having to start from scratch, and after years of weird and scary, it doesn't hold her interest anyway.

So she's sitting at a table near the back, nursing a drink and half-reading a book, looking up now and then, waiting for someone to approach her, or to see someone she wants to approach.
anguiform: (that is a very strange thing over there)
[personal profile] anguiform
Crowley is, all in all, rather pleased with himself. Not that his presence had necessarily had much effect at all, other than his being an accessory to watching Adam Young very neatly put shot to the whole Apocalypse thing. He can’t decide if he’s smug, embarrassed, or horrified in retrospect about the fact that he’d faced down Satan with nothing more than a tyre iron and an angel at his back, which he’s dealing with by not thinking about it any more than he can help.

The result, in any event, is the same. No Armageddon, the world free to continue on as it always had. Granted, they now had an Antichrist who was about to go through the throes of puberty to consider (it had never been in the plan for the boy to have time to actually grow up) whom he and Aziraphale seem to have accidentally found themselves sort of in charge of keeping an eye on, but it could be worse. Yeah, it could be a-- somewhere of a lot worse

At the moment, they’re celebrating the continued existence of the world by getting absolutely ratted. Crowley loves wine. He really, really loves wine.

They’re in the middle of a rousing (and increasingly muddled) discussion on the merits of toasting one’s spices before cooking with them (having arrived on that subject by way of the British Raj, previously by way of Oscar Wilde, previously by way of the confusing morass that is human morality) when a space-time event happens to Crowley. Crowley knows what it feels like to have all one’s molecules disassembled in a moment and reassembled somewhere else. He knows what it feels like to have his physical being squeezed down to the size of an atom and zip through the aether. The thing is, if he’s not the one doing it himself, he usually has at least a little bit of warning. Not so this time.

One moment he’s coiled over a tatty couch in the back room of Aziraphale’s shop, the next, he’s been left blinking and staggering in the sun in some park. He puts his hands out to balance.

‘‘Ziraphale? The...’ It takes him a few moments to settle on the right word. ‘The fuck is going on? Oi, angel!’

Crowley spins around to see if the angel is anywhere in evidence, and promptly falls flat on his arse.

‘Nnngrff,’ says Crowley, and shoves his face into the grass. ‘Bugger. ‘m too drunk f’this.’

And with an immense effort of will, he sobers up, every particle of alcohol in his system abruptly… no longer in his system. Immediately, intoxication is replaced by a ferocious hangover headache, which he similarly miracles away with a (much more casual) wave of one hand. Pulling himself up off the ground, any newly-acquired stains on his suit get the same treatment, and he takes a moment to adjust himself back into clean, sober lines. The centre button on his sportcoat buttoned, creases brushed out, sunglasses adjusted. There we go; much better. Now he’s prepared to figure out where he is.

It doesn’t take much figuring; Manhattan is instantly recogniseable, and Crowley scowls down at the grass. ‘Couldn’t you have given me some warning?’ he gripes.

Although, now he thinks on it, just plucking him up like that and chucking him around the globe is hardly Hell’s style. His superiors Below generally prefer to just tell him what to do and leave the actual getting-it-done to him. Not to mention, that kind of transport takes effort.

He continues glaring at the turf. ‘Oi! Dagon! Malthus? Labal, anyone? No-one listening? What is this, a relocation? I’ve got an Antichrist to look after, you know; I don’t see any of you clamouring for that job.’

His mobile’s in his pocket, but there’s no answer from Hell.
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.]]
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.
has_a_horn: (taking you to school)
[personal profile] has_a_horn


There's something new about the city this afternoon. It's not particularly hard to miss. At about noon, a giant scaled figure emerges from the Hudson River, emits a loud screeching roar, and heads for central park.

It's Godzilla, straight out of the 1954 Toho film.

Or, rather, that's what it looks like. Gabriel has a scheme, and this scheme involves in-fluxing a little bit of fun into this city with a grand-scale illusion. His idea of fun might need some work, by human standards, but this is exactly the thing for him at the moment. There are news reports on the radio and television, both in English and in Japanese, but they aren't given by any newscasters anyone in New York might be familiar with, because Gabriel is projecting them.

As Godzilla shakes the water off it's back and walks onto the island, Gabriel pulls out his phone and texts Peter. He really needs him involved with this.

[ooc: Godzilla will make his way across the city, having a good smash. Feel free to run into it anywhere. As this is Gabe's illusion, any interactions with Godzilla will be controlled by Gabriel, even if he's not nearby. People Gabriel doesn't like might want to avoid getting underfoot, or else they'll feel the bone crunching effects of being stepped on, even if nothing has actually happened.]
mr_fring: (neutral)
[personal profile] mr_fring
[[CW: Ableist slur // Breaking Bad spoilers in the first bit]]


The door is shut. Tyrus turns Hector to face him. It is quiet, hospital quiet. The quiet that falls before death.

"What kind of man talks to the DEA?" Anger boils under his skin. Acid under his tongue. "No man," he says. "No man at all."

A little click as Tyrus removes and prepares the syringe. Gus isn't interested in Tyrus. He takes one of the guest chairs and he drags it harsh across the floor, scraping it into the scoured linoleum. He brings it within arm's length and sits.

"A crippled little rata," he sneers. "What a reputation to leave behind."

Hector refuses to acknowledge him, once again. His mouth twitches furiously, his eyes glaring hotly at the wall.

Tyrus offers the syringe and Gus takes it without moving his eyes from Hector.

"Is that how you want to be remembered?" he murmurs, extending the needle. He sighs heavily. Disappointing. "Last chance to look at me, Hector."

He won't look. The man may be a rat but he still has his repulsive pride. Doesn't matter. He's the last one now, the last one to be rid of. Gus will be rid of him and then it will be done.

He leans forward, fingers searching out a vein. Something, some sense, flicks his gaze back up, and he sees something he has never seen: he sees Hector's eyes, meeting his own.

And he is frozen, his lips parted in a slow exhale. Stunned, stilled, gently paralyzed by this moment he thought would never come.

But it isn't right, it isn't right at all. Hector's expression shifts, warps, turns ugly and malicious, like the old Hector, the Hector that smirked when he shot Max. He looks like a rabid dog, a wild animal. He looks triumphant. He looks proud.

No. No. Something is wrong. Tyrus has missed something. He has missed something.

Hector rings his bell, frantically, incessantly, like he does, but this is no call for help. The sound is wrong, duller, muffled. Gus is still holding the syringe balanced between his fingers but there is something wrong, he can't do it until he-

There is something on the wheel, affixed to the wheelchair-

He screams, a raw animal noise, broken and wordless, as his body snaps up, but it is too late, the bomb goes off, rips into his skin and his muscle, and he doesn't really understand what's happened when he steps out of the room, straightening his tie, he doesn't understand how much of him is gone, not until he's really gone, really, totally gone.







Gus blinks awake.

Something's not right.

He sits up and his back is horribly stiff, his clothes unclean. He's been asleep. Asleep on the ground. Him.

He stands up quickly, eyes darting around. No one's seen him. There are people, but they are distant, they aren't looking at him. He moves to straighten his tie, and his hand goes very still.

His fingers are trembling when they ghost over the right side of his face, but it's there, skin and bone and muscle, all of it unbroken. His glasses are there too, good as new.

What the hell is this?

Why is he here? It's Central Park, no mistaking it, but he cannot reconcile this.

Mike. Have to talk to Mike. He reaches into his pocket but his phone is gone. Everything is gone.

He stands there in the park and for the first time in a very long time he does not know what to do.

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