applesaucemod: (Default)
[personal profile] applesaucemod
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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.]
i_jones: (thank you intern ianto)
[personal profile] i_jones
Once you get to the TARDIS - because you did follow those blue balloons through Central Park, didn't you, you got that clue, and maybe those of you with good (or not-bad) intentions found it a little easier to find, and were drawn to it, even - anyway, once you get to the TARDIS, you find a sign on the door, which is ajar. No, not that sign, a handwritten sign taped to the front that says PARTY (I PROMISE) with an arrow pointing inside. And yes, oh, isn't the console room nice, how merry-go-round, whatever. More importantly, there are signs on every door out of the room that say assorted things like PARTY THIS WAY and ALSO THIS WAY and JUST PICK ONE REALLY. There is one festive balloon tied to the console.

If you go through any or all of the doors, you'll find yourself in a room with a very large pool (that one might say looks like this one except much grander in scale). The pool is lined, not excessively, with taps in various shapes, sizes, and colors. Some pump out bubbles, some foam, some clouds, some... who knows? Surrounding the pool are chairs and tables with appetizers, desserts, drinks, and various types of cake. Also pie. There's a jukebox tucked into a corner playing a mixture of 80s songs, unfamiliar songs from various points in the future, and the occasional song in an alien language with a good beat. There are rooms if you need to change, and some doors might even take you to the wardrobe room if you need a bathing suit. And I guess you could explore further if you really wanted to, but why do that when you can party? Because most doors will probably lead you back to the pool room, let's be real.
endless_epithumia: (go ahead I'm listening)
[personal profile] endless_epithumia
 Desire is restless. There’s an itch underneath their skin and everything they look at feels sour, stale, their flesh and blood palace is all too confining now. They need to be out and about. They’ll find some distraction, someone or something to play with to take their mind off all that foolishness Delirium was on about, trying to find their brother. Desire doesn't want to waste any time in maudlin nonsense remembering the way things used to be before Destruction left. Delirium acts as if that was the moment when things started to go wrong for them, but Desire knows different, it was always heading toward this point, because that’s how things go. The difference between wanting and having, and then the hollow absence in the aftermath. They won’t mourn the loss, because of that. It was an inevitability. 

And this makes their current feelings of dissatisfaction all the more irritating. They don’t like thinking that they can be drawn into the kind of sentimentality that gets their youngest sister going off on doomed little adventures, and they certainly don’t like knowing that they’ll probably have to go and pick up the pieces if Delirium falls apart again. So they resolve to distract themself, find something to pick and poke at so their interest is turned toward something more entertaining than irritatingly moral feelings of familial concern. 

That odd little patch of the Dreaming, for instance. Desire smiles at the memory, such a strange environment full of desperate minds, and no sign of their brother's handiwork anywhere. It's like a little snow globe someone designed just so Desire could shake it up and see what happens when the blizzard starts. Yes, that would do nicely. 

They stand up and brush nonexistent dust off their trousers and concentrate their attention on the feelings they got from that dream environment in order to find its source. The thread is there, practically tangible, unguarded and gleaming with possibility and easy prey. Desire almost thinks that it seems odd that such a place would have escaped Dream's notice and is just lying there, for anyone to find. Desire almost thinks this, but they are a creature of the moment and of impulses, and that kind of second-guessing does not suit them. So they tease the thread out from the weft of realities and brush themself up against it, just to get an introductory taste. 

They aren't expecting the catch as the little world snags against their essence and tugs them with more force than they'd expect. Desire pulls away, indignant that someone in some paltry dimension would presume to summon them, but they find they cannot disentangle themselves from this...whatever this is, and it's not like sneaking into a dream at all. Desire holds on everything they have, everything they are, their gallery and their Threshold, but the hold of temporal-spatial gravity is stronger, and after too brief a struggle Desire falls, sick and furious, into the world. 

Desire is standing on a sidewalk in a city, some version of earth and humans, and all the noise and chaos and emotions that go along with them. They narrow their eyes and observe their surroundings: tt is a throbbing hellscape of metal and concrete and neon, streets and buildings reaching up and intersecting at acute angles to force the pulse of life to bend from rigid lines into this swirling, sweating mass. Now this is very interesting indeed. It's all so shiny and full of wanting that it distracts Desire from their anger for the moment. It's some small consolation, Desire thinks, because the streets are (somewhat) cleaner and the skyline is sharper and there's no brothels or pornographic theaters like they remember, but they've been here before, and the beat is familiar. They've been pulled from their own palatial heart to a heart of a different kind, the heart of a city they've always rather enjoyed. If this is meant to be a trap for them it's baited well. 

Desire smirks up at the advertising, conceding to whoever or whatever caused this displacement that it was a hand well-played. 

"Hello New York," they murmur fondly. "My, but you clean up nice." They wonder what sordid enticements the city has to offer behind the ultramodern facade. They step away from the curb and cross the square in seamless rhythm with the pedestrian traffic. They'll keep a low profile for now, just another face in the crowd until they can find the party or parties responsible for bringing them here. Perhaps they'll take in a show. 

(ooc: Desire will be ambling up Broadway towards the park, feel free to bump into them!)
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 stands in the fitting room of an East Village thrift shop and stares himself down in the mirror. He's half undressed and hasn't progressed any further, too distracted by his reflection.

He used to have a lot of tattoos. He remembers having them. He was working on the beginnings of an abstract-patterned sleeve for his left arm, and he had the branching vortex on his right wrist, and the compass on his left hip, and something on his back. Didn't he have something on his back? He doesn't remember now.

What he sees there instead are the three long scars, clawed in by whatever it was that attacked him - or didn't. Hadn't he imagined it? Had he, really? Things like that are too, too hard to remember.

But there's no ink on his back, not anymore, if there ever was. And there's no sleeve either. Just his burn scars, stretched and fading. The wrist tattoo has improved and shifted to his other wrist, as he'd previously discovered, and... is it growing? It seems bigger than he remembered.

The compass is still there. It's the only one in the right place.

He starts to unbutton his pants, and he sees the ink carry down further, down his left leg. When did that happen? Why hasn't he noticed this before? He hasn't been undressed very often, he sleeps in his clothes half the time and tends to enter a trance state whenever he showers, but still.

He strips his jeans and stares at the monstrosity curling around his thigh, all the way down to his knee.

Stairs.

No. No. No.

The compass is still there, but it's just the anchor point, the origin for this horrific architectural mess that has sprung out of god knows where. It's a hack job, not very detailed, mostly just simple dark lines running at jagged perpendicular angles, spiraling around his leg. He stares at it until he starts to feel sick.

When did this happen? How did this happen?

He doesn't care. Rather, he can't care. He has too much on his mind to care. He pushes it out, excises it with a heavy, abrupt exhalation. He tugs on the clothes he pulled from the rack. They fit. They're boring. He'll blend. They'll do.

Twelve dollars for the pants and five for the shirt. Not bad. He dresses himself in his old clothes and steps out of the room, away from the mirrors, to make his purchase. Can't move into a new place without clothes, right??

What is he even doing?

He hasn't decided yet if he'll take Gabe up on his offer. It's stupid not to, he knows that, it's a free deal, even if he's not sure how much he trusts the guy yet, he's in no position to be choosy. He'll relent. He knows that too.

But he needs time first, to do whatever the hell he's doing today.

After he buys the clothes he continues walking, unwilling to return to the hotel just yet. He needs space from everything and everyone he knows. He needs to just hide for a while.

It is with this in mind that he enters the first open bar he finds. It's just after noon and he was supposed to only use the rest of the money Jodie gave him to get clothes, but he doesn't really need more than two outfits, does he? Not right now, anyway. What he needs is alcohol. So he curls up into a booth in a dark corner of the room, sets his bag next to him, and orders "something cheap and strong" from the sleepy-eyed waitress. Turns out "cheap and strong" is a really bad vodka tonic. It'll do.

He nurses it for a while, lowering his head into his hands. His skin feels electrified; the movement of ink across his body, the fading scars he's been trying to forget, and the dreams. He had a nightmare last night, he remembers it too vividly, dying in a bed of butterflies, inside the TARDIS. He wonders if any of it was real, and if she's okay.

Too many dreams lately. And the first was the worst. He still feels the itch, the sting of Zagreus, something he left behind, branded into his head. Jodie said Aiden took him down, but did he, really? It's still so familiar, that burning fear and hostility, the feeling of being invaded and watched. What if he's still there? What if he'll always be there?

Shit. Stop it, Johnny. He downs his drink much too fast, coughs loudly enough to get the waitress's attention and orders another.
theoldgirl: (dark fire)
[personal profile] theoldgirl
When the TARDIS receives a text from Zagreus, she barely has enough time to bristle at the harassment and worry if he's hurt anyone to find out the number for her communications system, before he mentions Gabriel and she's gripped by a sudden panic. Gabriel has thankfully been leaving her and the Doctor alone since their fight, but what if Zagreus has talked him into changing that, what if they combine their efforts to hurt her... The ways in which this could be terrible for her are many, and she needs a moment to overcome the instinctual yet painfully futile desire to see the future probabilities and consequences of their meeting. No, she's going to have to find out more the hard way, by dealing with Zagreus.

Then, surprisingly, he makes it easy for her. His taunts spark such familiar hatred in her, a hatred so deep-seated and constant that even the turmoil of her emotions concerning Gabriel pales in comparison. There are no conflicting emotions here, no betrayed affection and trust, no fear of a confrontation; all that is replaced by the simple need to lash out at Zagreus, warn him away from her and her friends, remind him of her wrath. He is one thing in this universe she knows exactly how to react to. 

On some level, she realizes she's allowing herself to be ensnared by it, that she should be above trying to find refuge from her distress in hatred of all things. But this, for once, is familiar and uncomplicated, and Zagreus has never deserved her forbearance anyway. So, refusing to doubt herself, she challenges him and waits. When there is no answer, it's clear she has him - if he had anything to refute her with, he would have done so, but they both know she's right.

He takes his time, but eventually she feels his presence sting at the edge of her expectant senses. With the vague idea of luring him close to her shell to trap him once again, or at the very least find out exactly what he and Gabriel discussed, she summons the energy to make her exterior invisible for a short time and walks down to the appointed place on the path to wait.
has_a_horn: (wtf is that)
[personal profile] has_a_horn
Gabriel had started out with the good intentions of heading out to Wilmot's End in the search of a good time and maybe a distraction from being trapped in New York and the continuing absence of the TARDIS in his life. An hour in, he's removed himself from the group he'd been talking to, and is now sitting at a table in front of an untouched strawberry martini, poking at his phone.


[ooc: He'll be hanging around for a while, so there's plenty of time for multiple ppl to show up]
ethanrichards: (Default)
[personal profile] ethanrichards
When Ethan falls through the rift, it's barely noticable to him. Same time, say day, same place. Different universe.

It's near midnight at a bar in Chelsea, and he wakes up suddenly, sat alone in a both near the back. He must've dozed off for a second. He didn't think he was that tired, to be honest, but apparently he was wrong. His friends aren't there-- maybe they went out for a smoke and didn't want to disturb him?

Ethan gives a stretch, slips out of the booth, and heads outside. They're not there either, but it's not like them to ditch him. He looks at his phone, but it says his sim card is invalid. Well, that's helpful. He closes his leather jacket, deliberating for a second, before he decides to just head home and go to bed, if he really is that tired (though he doesn't really feel it). He can catch up with them later.

It's only a couple blocks to his place, and the fresh (if still rather cold) air is nice. Someone's just leaving when he reaches the building, so he doesn't even need to unlock the door to the stairwell. Not someone he recognises though, must be someone visiting.

However, when he gets to the door of his apartment, his key doesn't fit. And then he notices the name on the door. It's not his. He stares for a few seconds. Must've gotten the wrong floor - he really is out of it. He heads up one floor, but that's not his flat either. And the one above that is the top floor, and he knows that's not his. He heads downstairs again. He checks the flat below. Then he heads back up to the one that should be his and he knocks on the door, getting more and more frustrated and worried. There's no answer.

Pay phone. Half of the payphones in New York still work, so it doesn't take him too long to find out. He ignores the time machine gimmick they're doing this month, and dials the number to one of his bandmates he was just having a drink with. The number's disconnected. He tries another friend. After about half an hour, he's gone through every number stored on his phone, even his parents' house. The numbers are mostly dead, or he gets connected to pizza places that are open this late, or voicemails of people or shops that aren't.

He leans his forehead against the cold metal of the phone, trying to convince himself he's not going crazy. This is... some elaborate prank or something. April fools? No, that's almost a week ago.

Taking a deep breath, he tries to decide what to do next. Well, he can't stand around on the street all night. And he's not very keen on heading to the police station for help. There's a 24-hour pizza place nearby, he'll go there, get some food, sit, think.

Walking briskly, he's there in no time and he orders a slice of pepperoni pizza and a glass of coke. He tries to use a credit card to pay, but it won't go through, so he pays in cash -- at least he's got a fair bit on him. His appetite hadn't been particularly intense, but the smell helps, so he takes a booth and eats while he goes through the contents of his pockets. Wallet with driver's license and two credit cards (neither work), a few guitar picks, some business cards, condoms, and $180 in cash. A pocket notebook with a lot of scribbled lyrics and a pen. Smartphone (75% battery, but no service). His iPod (82% battery). A pack of gum.

He ends up sitting there all night, and most of the morning, buying another slice or a drink or a bag of chips whenever the owners start giving him stink-eye. Thankfully it's not crowded enough for them to decide to kick him out. When morning comes, he goes out and buys a paper, before heading back. Nothing weird in it. Date's right, no freaky occurences, no mention of a city-wide prank or anything.

So Ethan just continues sitting there, occasionally listening to music, occasionally scribbling down lyrics (all crap or crazy-sounding), occasionally eating, but overall mostly worrying and trying to avoid having a mental breakdown.
theoldgirl: (I am part of history)
[personal profile] theoldgirl
As much as the TARDIS enjoys joining the Doctor on his investigations of the rift and other anomalies in the city, she really doesn't care for getting separated from him in the crowded entrance room of a museum while her head is practically swimming with uncomfortable rift interference. She can sense he's still in the building, so she settles for staying near the exit rather than running after him, knowing he'll come back to her again sooner or later, as he always does.

Besides, she's not particularly keen on getting closer to whatever anomaly is in this place; it's almost familiar in a way she can't quite put her finger on, hair-raising and bitter, but whenever she thinks she recognizes it, another spike in chaotic rift energy throws her off. Better to just stay here, idly looking over the paintings lined up on the walls, though she's too distracted to really see them until one does catch her eye. 

A winged figure descending from the clouds upon a city in flames. That certainly stirs memories, and she halts in front of the painting to stare at it unhappily. A glance at the label tells her it's called The Last Angel, and that fills her with a deep sadness, like sympathy and loneliness. But that's silly, it's just a painting, and Gabriel isn't the last of his kind, and she really ought to stop dwelling on him once and for all. Still, she doesn't take her eyes off the figure quite yet.
essentiallyharmless: (Neat as a word)
[personal profile] essentiallyharmless
Lucy has fallen into a nice sort of rhythm over the past weeks. Her apartment, small though it is, looks more like a home than a dump, and she's even been building up a wardrobe. The rebels don't really pay well, but pick-pocketing does. One the whole, the weird and disturbing has been infrequent and brief, and she's been getting comfortable. Obviously it can't last. Currently she's making tea, pondering what book to read next.
pawsitivelynepeta: (huntress)
[personal profile] pawsitivelynepeta
It's so easy to lose track of the days, Nepeta finds, in this strange world, cut off from her friends. On Alternia, she structured her schedule around their online presences; she didn't think in hours so much as times at which Equius or Karkat or Terezi would be likely to show up on Trollian. It wasn't that different from the various beasts that she hunted in the wilderness surrounding her hive. They, too, were more likely to be up and about at various points, and she adapted accordingly.

Here, in what she's learned is called "Central Park," she's changed her hunting patterns to suit the environment. Humans, she's learned, do not take well to it when she tries to hunt the alien barkbeasts that they lead around on leashes. Neither do they seem to approve of her snatching any of the local fowl, if they catch sight of her while she's hunting. All in all, the biggest challenge seems to be getting food without the humans noticing - any easy enough task. They're not terribly observant, Nepeta has learned. They are always on their phones and tablets and portable music players, never aware of their own surroundings.

(Of course, she could do what seems to be normal on this planet and live in one of those towering hives and pay for human food in one of those "stores" or "restaurants," but she can't bring herself to make the adjustment. It's simply too unnatural.)

All in all, there's been ample prey to keep her going in and just around the park. She hasn't been back to that apartment the humans gave her for weeks: not since she found this lovely cave near the lake and settled in. It is a perfect setup - the humans don't seem to be able to find the entrance, despite the fact that it doesn't let in water or too much cold air and is thus an ideal spot for a respiteblock.

Lately, this little cave is even starting to feel like home. Nepeta has been busy making it habitable; the cold stone floor is almost completely covered with hides, by this point. One of these - that of a hoofbeast that she felled and dragged back on a particularly dark and cold night - makes her feel a little guilty. What would Equius think, after all? Still, what he didn't know couldn't hurt him. There are candles, perched on the rough natural shelves and alcoves of the cave walls, and matches that she stole from the nearest human store. She's even coaxed quite a few of the local cats - both strays and those odd ones with the glowing eyes and love of mysterious statements - into sharing the space with her. They come and go as they please, but she shares her kills with them when she can, and offers them a safe and warm place to curl up during the cold nights.

Tonight, she feels unusually contented with her situation. She has been unusually lucky; one of those extremely tiny, shivering barkbeasts with bulging gander bulbs got lost from its human and wandered a little too near to her cave. Nepeta never says no to an easy snack. She sits cross-legged in her new hive, humming to herself in happiness as she gnaws away at a small bone. There are a half dozen cats in there at the moment. Two are sleeping, one is having a bath, one is trying to knock over the stack of homemade cat toys (duck feathers tied to the end of reeds from the lake), one has its glowing eyes fixed contemplatively on Nepeta's wall paintings, and the others are pacing around her, yowling and waiting to be given scraps.
antitimelord: (on my own terms)
[personal profile] antitimelord
So far, life in New York is about as interesting as Zagreus had suspected it would be: not very. He'd acquired the vaunted 'rift phone' before too much time had passed, in the course of his inquisitive wanderings. Perhaps wrecking the unfortunate vendor's mind instead of even thinking about paying for it was hasty and ill-considered, but he's been feeling somewhat tetchy. In hindsight, a person in the business of hawking connectedness might be a bad (and noticed) person to swipe apart like a poorly constructed sand-castle. But what's done is done; what can he do now but give an irritable mental shrug and absolve himself of the matter? Not like it had been his most artful work.


Aside from that, he believes he's done a remarkable job of remaining inconspicuous. This is a city that can hide a wealth of weirdness, even without the influence of the rift. Unfortunately that wealth has been working against him; he's neither seen nor heard anything particularly worthwhile, and hasn't accomplished anything but a fair amount of physical exercise. And, notably, being denied a library card. That had really stung.

And so he finds himself back in the park, taking up resentful space on a bench. An investigation of the area in which he'd first turned up had yielded exactly nothing. Though he'd always suspected on some level that that was a vain hope, the confirmation leaves a scowl on his face. He'd put it off as long as he could for just that reason. He's sick of wandering, sick of being cooped up, sick and fractious at everything, and at a loss for a next move.
antitimelord: (404)
[personal profile] antitimelord
The first thing Zagreus is aware of, is the obnoxious degree of coldness in the air. In fact, he can see his breath; that's just downright inauspicious, for waking up.

Not that an inhospitably cold atmosphere is out of the ordinary. No, not in the slightest, and his immediate response is a sort of resigned annoyance. However, the sight that greets his eyes, looking beyond his offensively visible breath, is definitely not expected.

Open sky, framed by stark bare branches. He starts to get up...only to slide gracelessly from the crook of the tree he'd apparently been passed out and huddling in, with a noise of general outrage.

Luckily it's a very short fall, but it's still disorienting when you aren't expecting it, and he definitely isn't. Brushing himself off and narrowing his eyes at his decidedly parkish surroundings, Zagreus tries to recall if maybe, just perhaps, there is a reason this is happening. Nothing presents itself. How typically uncooperative of reality.

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