biscuit_powered: (human | thoughtful | chewing on thumb)
[personal profile] biscuit_powered
Though Asmodia's first foray into the life of an adventurer-for-hire was a resounding success, she's struggled since then to find something to do with herself. Life is...easy here, in many ways. She has a small box apartment in which to live, a pleasant rooftop garden in which to celebrate the sunrise on those mornings when she doesn't fail her goddess by sleeping through it, and an allowance that trickles down to her from the supposedly angelic (she seriously doubts it, but she's still waiting for causes and evidence to dispute it) owner of the building. What's hard isn't providing for herself. What's hard is finding a reason to drag herself out of bed in the mornings (or the afternoon, or evening, or middle of the night -- her sleep patterns haven't become the slightest bit more regular than they were back in Absalom). So far as she can tell there's no way home, where she tries to convince herself she's needed, and the bustling city around her is so far out of step with what she knows that she doesn't know where to begin to pick up the pieces. It's been a long time since she just lived for the sake of living, and what felt like freedom a decade ago in Nirmathas feels like purgatory now that she's had a taste of life as part of something bigger.

There is something happening around the city, though. Lately she's heard rumors from the neighbors of 'monsters' coming through the rift, though she has her doubts about some of these people when she's heard at least one of them use the words 'monster' and 'demon' interchangeably. She doesn't have any leads on where these purported monsters might be found, but if they're coming through the rift, Central Park is a decent bet -- and today, at least, her logic has paid off. All one needs do is follow the sounds of screaming, right? Or more like go the opposite direction of the people running away yammering about a 'floating worm' swimming through the air somewhere near the Sheep Meadow.

When she gets there, she's surprised to find that it is, indeed, a floating worm. Or a floating...squirmy thing. It looks almost aquatic, and despite hanging in midair and possessing a mouth that looks like something out of the Abyssal Plane, it doesn't seem to actually be doing much of anything. She edges nearer, casting a quick spell so she can check its aura -- there's a hint of enchantment magic here, but she can't make out what -- and after a moment's thought, she preemptively lays a hex of retribution on it before stepping closer, reasoning that the hex will only hurt it if it hurts her first. Biscuit hangs back as his mistress steps nearer, chittering uneasily.

"It's alright," she assures him, eyes fixed on the...thing. "I don't think it's even doing anything, it's probably just an animal from one of the outer -- GAK!!"

She probably shouldn't have gotten so close to it. That's the thought that goes through her head as it suddenly squirms forward through the air with a hitherto unseen speed. Her next thought, as it latches onto her neck, is that this is a really lovely day and that she really ought to remind Biscuit that she loves him more often.
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.
grabme: (nnnnot sure what to make of this tbh)
[personal profile] grabme
This whole human business is really terribly, terribly complicated. How do they keep track of everything that needs doing all the time? He has keys - multiple! - and a little black square of a phone and an entire apartment he's supposed to be taking care of, only it doesn't seem to require the same kind of constant maintenance as, say, a certain Enrichment Center. Days of cautious experimentation have yielded certain infrequent results: the silver boxy thing in the corner dings cheerily and heats up when its trigger is depressed. Doing it three times successively isn't recommended, he's learned, when the box starts belching black smoke and sets some kind of alarm squealing and he dashes out of the apartment with his arms flung high over his head and nearly crashes slap-bang into a wall. Aside from the occasional hiccup - very occasional, certainly no more than once or twice a day, he's quite sure of that - it's been a very particular time of adjusting to the stumbling inadequacies of his newfound humanship.

His middle groans periodically with something, possibly hunger since food is, well, it's a thing humans need which is a bloody well inefficient means of refueling, and his head aches and he's got to remember to jam the great large-framed glasses over the bridge of his nose every morning, and it is an absolute bloody pain to remember every morning. The Enrichment Center didn't even have mornings.

It's a morning like any other morning when he puts key to lock, except for the part where he steps from apartment to a place that is not the hall just outside the apartment and Wheatley experiences a moment of pure, all-encompassing terror as he thinks, for a moment, that he's right back in the old Enrichment Center with Her shifting the cold matte black cubes of the facility around in Her overcomplicated chess games.

[ooc: old Wheatley's been hit by the Master Key and is not having a good time.]
postictal: (that boy needs therapy)
[personal profile] postictal
[ooc: lots of violence and emotional distress to follow in the thread within. Ye have been warned.]

Tim shakes a white capsule from the bottle with the deft jerk of a wrist and dry-swallows it cleanly, flipping the back of the DVD case over to peer at the blocky white text as best as he can in the semidarkness.

"Troll 2," he picks out slowly. "You wanna explain that? Is it like a sequel or something? Kinda outta my depth, here."

It's actually been - he almost doesn't dare think it, but - nice? Complicated, yeah, and not without the bumps and twists in the road, but they're acting more and more like how he'd imagine friends would act. Smoothing things over. Living with the everything they don't talk about.

Almost normal.

A subtle thrill shoots up his spine, prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. He almost sighs.

He just had to think it, didn't he?

His grip tightens around the bottle as he half-turns and thinks better of it.

"Keep walking," he says, his voice pitched low, "but I think - there's something behind us."

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