peeta_mellark: (Face)
[personal profile] peeta_mellark
At first, Peeta doesn't notice anything wrong.

Back in District 12, he'd been generally ignored - at least until the Games - and New York has treated him much the same. The people here are incurious by default, so he rarely garners any attention when out and about. He's been spending more time out in the city recently, and the day of the rain was is day off from the base kitchens, so doesn't interact all that much with anyone who knows him. That the strangers he encounters seem even less interested in him than usual doesn't concern him.

Then, the next day, things feel off in the kitchens. Every time he speaks to one of his fellow workers, they seem surprised to see him, and he catches the lead cook looking absolutely flabbergasted after Peeta dumps the muffins he just pulled from the oven in the serving line basket. They've been busier than usual, so Peeta chalks it up to distraction and heads topside without giving it further thought.

But once he's in the park, he finds himself having to continually dodge joggers, bikers, skaters, and other pedestrians on the paths. Eventually he gives up and moves off the path entirely, bewildered by what he at first assumes is everyone else's distraction. He spends a few hours on a half-hidden bench near the lake, sketching whatever catches his eye. Then he wanders to find a cart to buy a late lunch. Though there is no one else around, it takes three tries for him to get the vendors attention. Every time Peeta stops talking to the man, he pauses mid action, a perplexed frown crossing his face as he stares at the hotdog or money in his hand. And when Peeta regains his attention, the man always greets him as if they have not already spoken.

That night, he eats alone in the cafeteria and watches as no one watches him.

Today it takes him half an hour to get out of the base as nothing he does seems to get Phil's attention - including grabbing him by the shoulders (after debating the wisdom of such a move). Finally, Peeta decides to just open the door himself, and Phil's confused shouts follow him up the stairs.

Taking care to avoid the paths, Peeta heads for the park.
peacefulexplorer: (this is how it feels to take a fall)
[personal profile] peacefulexplorer
The knotted mass of guilt in Daniel's chest hasn't gone away by the time he's on his way to Seth's apartment building, again, hands clenching and unclenching and wandering and ducking into his pockets and back out again a minute later.

Daniel feels like an idiot.

He feels like an idiot, because what good could an ordinary library in Manhattan possibly be for this kind of thing? Yesterday had passed in sporadic bursts of anxiety, horror over what the hell might be happening, creeping dread that this might not be reversible and then finally today Daniel's traitorous phone had buzzed to deliver several texts in rapid succession. Texts he should have received a full day ago. Short bursts of words and questions that should read as neutral and impersonal like any other text but don't because Seth had clearly, clearly not been in a good place by the time he'd faded from Daniel's range of vision and he must not have heard or processed any of the prior warnings because the texts all make it bleakly obvious he'd had no idea what was happening. Seth must have assumed the worse.

That would not be atypical for Seth to have assumed the worse.

The idea that Daniel had most assuredly been the cause of that makes him faintly, mildly nauseous.

He has to halt outside the building for a tight minute, his lungs a paradoxical mess of relief and jittering apprehension and no small amount of the always-persistent guilt until at last he makes an unerring line for the figure in front. The visible figure. Daniel's eyes don't slide right past and he doesn't need to constantly refocus and the gradually mounting panic tentatively starts to give way.
powerdealer: (28)
[personal profile] powerdealer
Seth has had a pretty uneventful few days since he last spoke to Daniel, if you don't count getting pretty intensely rained on yesterday (which had sucked, but at least the city isn't exactly cold these days), and thinking for a moment he'd met someone from his home universe before that. That had admittedly been pretty weird, even if it had become evident more or less immediately that Eliot was not Curtis. Still, minor occurrences in pretty slow days, really. Days which have largely been spent mulling about his life.

Read more... )
noteasybeingblue: (u done fucked up son (pissed off a god))
[personal profile] noteasybeingblue
The longer she dwells in this world, the more she despises it.

No one will see her.

A vengeful God-King is not something so easily ignored. She is destructive and regal and demands the attention of all who would worship her. But there are no worshipers here. There is nothing here, nothing at all, just endless swarms of humanity that apparently care nothing for Illyria the Merciless, Ruler of the Primordium, even as she grows ever more indignant and ever more enraged and ever more desiring in her need to do violence.

The vermin are to remain untouched. The vermin are to remain untouched.

So she will not touch them. She will not touch anything here. Illyria will not remain here any longer than is necessary, even if it has long since ceased to become necessary.

The mortal-built bridge will be her focus point. She stretches one shell's hand out, testing the scintillating tear of unclassifiable dimensional energy against her vessel. There is resistance there, a barrier intended to prevent any motion beyond the isolated pinprick of too-small, too-confining space. If she can reach past it, she can escape this metaphysical prison and thus seek out the way back to her world.

The God-King's shell smiles, small and self-satisfied. Nothing can hold a god.

She reaches further. The crackle of foreign energy against hers is unbearable. And then further - the shearing, rifting edge of the barrier begins to screech against her being.

She will test these waters no further. Illyria launches herself at the barrier, driving forward with fists and blazing intent, and the strength of the unfamiliar matter rips at her, eliciting a blistering, tearing roar of utmost pain and displeasure. It is unbearable. It is intolerable. But Illyria is not yet through. She will continue driving at it, regardless of the shrilling agony webbing its way through her shell, into the core of what she is -

The God-King's strength, once glaring and eternal, runs out. She no longer possesses the will or instinct to even draw herself back. Her shell howls, the pain of simply being is exquisite and unquantifiable, and Illyria falls away from the torment of the conscious world.
rae_of_sun: (listening - sad)
[personal profile] rae_of_sun
Sunshine's been off work for a few hours when she feels Spike out in the hall, which is shortly followed by a subdued knock. Hey, she's getting used to this whole sixth sense thing; it's starting to feel milder, broken in. Granted, she still isn't all that eager to share it with the class, but at least it's no longer flipping her out a little.

Of course, that just means she has the requisite brainspace free to instead flip out about the fact that when she opens the door, even though he's standing all of two goddamn feet in front of her, it takes her a second to spot him. Her eyes just slide right over him to look down the hall, and oh shit, oh shit. It's that thing he was complaining about yesterday, and it's officially bad enough that it's getting to her, now.

She wrenches her gaze back to him, back to his eyes (and now would be a really great time for him to turn on some good old-fashioned vampiric compelling if he had any idea how). "Spike." She steps out into the hall and puts her hands on his shoulders, which seems to help a little. Like the more senses she uses to confirm his existence, the harder it is for the rogue part of her brain to misfile him under 'ignorable.' It's still trying, though, and she frowns up at him. "It's getting worse."
wildmage_daine: (lion calm)
[personal profile] wildmage_daine
There is a lioness on the Great Lawn, and folk are looking right past her as if she's no more exotic than a golden retriever.

Daine's a little surprised, though perhaps she shouldn't be. Once she realized that something was wrong - that she might as well be invisible for all the attention most two-leggers would pay her - she'd been thinking of ways to test just how bad it was. And she'd already been visiting the People in crow shape (they, at least, still acknowledge her as if everything's normal). So she'd thought of taking the sort of shape that might at least earn her a startled glance or two - something big and exotic and obviously out of place. Not to cause a panic or anything, just to see if anyone noticed.

And so far, they really haven't. She's hardly invisible - the lawn is crowded enough that folk have needed to skirt around her, and they've all managed it without treading on her tail or anything. They see her, they just don't care. Or something. She hasn't quite worked it out, yet.

Well, since no one seems to mind her presence, at least she can stay here, basking and thinking on her own little patch of grass. Maybe a little later, she'll go for a wander to see if she's more noticeable on the move.

[ooc: feel free to run into Daine on the Great Lawn, or elsewhere in the Park. I can be flexible re: getting her places if it makes things easier for other characters.]
johnny_truant: (say what now)
[personal profile] johnny_truant
[ooc: This is gonna cover Johnny's whole time during the Three Days of Rain event - from the evening of the 30th to the afternoon of the 1st, he'll just stick around in Gabe's apartment.]

Johnny wakes up with Yarrow curled up beside him, still asleep. The rain seems to have stopped, judging by the light pouring in, but the angle of it suggests it's pretty late in the day.

"You're supposed to wake me up for dinner, man," he mumbles to Yarrow, who ignores him. Johnny smirks and gets up, padding over to the kitchen. He's hungry, but he doesn't feel like eating by himself, so he just gets out some of Yarrow's food - some hay, kale, and a few carrot tops - and leaves it out. The rabbit hops down from the bed and over to the food within a moment.

"Oh, now you're interested," says Johnny, grinning and watching him eat for a moment. He stretches and goes back to his closet, slipping a button-up over his t-shirt. "I'll be back later, buddy," he says, and steps out.

He heads up the stairs and knocks lightly before coming into Gabe's apartment. "Honey I'm home," he says drolly. "Sorry I didn't come up earlier, I ended up crashing for a thousand hours." Not that they had plans, exactly, but Johnny kind of likes how it's become such a given for him to be here.
bibliophale: (prissy as hell | fashionista)
[personal profile] bibliophale
[ooc: this post will cover the evening of the 30th to some point on the 1st when the rain effects wear off.]

After the day he's had, it's quite a relief to go home, and it's nice - very nice, and a little strange - to know there is actually someone waiting there for him. Of course ordinarily he'd have tried to see what Crowley was up to and if he fancied getting drunk, but they've been giving each other a wider berth than usual lately, as though Lucifer might pop up the moment they got alone together. It's an unpleasant situation, but Aziraphale doesn't dwell on it. He transports himself directly into his flat and shucks off his coat, which is still a bit damp from the morning's rain.

"Hallo," he says to Melanie, who is currently engrossed in another of his books. He strolls into the kitchen and starts setting things about for tea. "Was your day all right?"

It's only a moment of fussing with the kettle before he realizes Melanie hasn't replied, and that's very strange indeed. He blinks and turns back. The book must be very engrossing indeed. "Melanie?" he prompts gently.
fucking_ebay: (angry | get out of my house)
[personal profile] fucking_ebay
It's like he's become completely invisible, but when he looks at himself in the mirror (as he increasingly does for reassurance rather than vanity), he's still there. Others don't seem to agree, though. It's not the deliberate looking away of potential punters resisting an attempt to real them in for a show, but a total failure to even see that he's there to be avoided. Even people he knows pass him by like he's not there.

Finally, on the second day, he snaps. He grabs the shoulder of a woman walking by and wrenches her around to face him...but she slips out from under his grasp like a wisp of air and keeps walking, oblivious. "Look at me!" he snaps at a man going the other way, whose eyes seem to look right through him before sliding by to gaze at something in the distance. "Fucking stop!" demands Peter, putting himself in the way of a third pedestrian, who shoulders past like Peter weighs as much as a feather.

This continues for several minutes, Peter becoming more and more strident in his attempts to get someone, anyone to acknowledge his presence. It culminates when he comes across a hotdog stand and literally slaps the food out of a customer's hand. "...Damn wind," says the vendor, but Peter gleans some iota of comfort from the man's look of confusion.
omnomnom_feels: (Default)
[personal profile] omnomnom_feels
At first Rashad assumed that his coworkers were failing to notice his presence because he is naturally taciturn and their senses are naturally lacking. It isn't just that Maureen cut in front of him at the copier, though, or that Bob and Rob didn't include him in their watercooler chatter (they don't normally anyway, and he believes it has something to do with the slight feeling of derision that usually emanates from them). It was when Maureen tutted and came into his cubicle to shut off the computer he'd still been using yesterday evening that Rashad realized something more was at play.

This morning they seem entirely unable to see him. He finds this rather inconvenient, as it is difficult to do his work when he is assumed to be absent. It is not until several hours into his workday that the benefits of his condition occur to him and he helps himself to a tour of the building, slipping in and out of offices to spy on their inhabitants and exploring restricted areas with increasing confidence.

Later, when he has explored enough, he ventures out into the city in search of sustenance. It will be easy to get close to anyone he finds in the throes of an emotion. They'll never even see him coming.

[Anyone with business at ROMAC can find Rashad poking his nose where it doesn't belong...if they can see him. Otherwise he'll be on the prowl, stealth-nomming people's emotions.]
noteasybeingblue: (let's liberate some spines)
[personal profile] noteasybeingblue
She will rend them.

She will shatter their skulls, play glorious harmony with their spines, rip through skin and muscle to crush the beating hearts within, and if they lack hearts she will grind to dust their brains, and if they lack brains she will shred their miserable vermin bodies, and she will wreak beautiful destruction upon everything she sees.

She cares not of what or who she strikes and damages and destroys, only that she deliver destruction unto all of them for incurring her wrath. She may lack the grandeur of her true form and the full might of her true glory but she is still Illyria, God-King and regal chaos incarnate, and they have made her wrathful.

All of Hell has risen to meet them. Illyria will make memorable their reception. She wishes violence, she revels in it, she prides herself in her methodical infliction of it.

And despite it all, still she grieves.

She grieves.

Illyria is grieving.

It is an emotion, pathetically human, welling up from within her or the shell she occupies, she cannot tell, and it is so profoundly alien that she has no choice but to accept its presence. And seethe.

Thus far she finds the sensation of grief to be disagreeable. And no amount of violence seems to rectify it. She refuses to believe that it is not rectifiable. It is a taint, a sickness upon her shell, and sicknesses are rectifiable. All things are rectifiable. And if they are not Illyria makes them so.

She will administer pain and bloodshed until this also becomes so.

There is a shift of energy behind her but she pays it no heed; the energy here is ever-constant-changing and always has been, and if it has been more volatile on this day it is because the forces of Hell have been set slavering upon this world, so Illyria dismisses it. She will focus on her current work - namely, enticing a lowly demon to part ways with its spine. Forcefully.

She rips the inconsequentiality free with a glorious spray of blue-tinged gore - a truly neon specimen of demon, as would befit its Pit-origins - and stands, victorious, gruesome trophy in hand, and then her world changes.

It wrenches in her as it happens, the rip-burn of dimensional tearways screaming past the whole of the God-King’s being, and all she knows is that her world of violence is gone.

In its place is one of peace and clouds and rain, and Illyria can sense them, vermin, everywhere, crawling on every surface, tiny and mindless and simple and everywhere. They are still here, carrying themselves like a blight over the world that was once hers by right. Disgusting. Grating. Virulent.

She does not know where she is, nor does she care. She just wishes to return. But she is no longer the all-powerful and feared being she was, this universe no longer simply aligns to her, she cannot tear through the walls and barriers between dimensions so easily, the voids remain closed to her, and this world will not succumb to her will.

Illyria stands in imperious revulsion, gore-spattered and rain-drenched, disembodied spine dangling, and bitterly wishes a return to her world of Hell.

[ooc: if your character is running into Illyria after she's met Aziraphale, she will be significantly less bloody and scary-looking courtesy of unexpected angel deep-cleaning services]
applesaucemod: (Default)
[personal profile] applesaucemod

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

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

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

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

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

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

[OOC: Initial reactions to the fade-out can be posted here. Other shenanigans can go up in their own posts using the tag 'event: three days of rain.' Whether your character is affected and for how long is up to you, though it's safe to say that as the first of August draws to a close, rogue cloudbursts will be difficult for any still-afflicted rifties to avoid (we're not saying a tiny raincloud will spontaneously coalesce above the heads of afflicted rifties regardless of whether they're outdoors or not, buuuut we're not saying one won't, either). Backdating is, as ever, allowed and encouraged. And since this takes place over three days in game, forward dating will also be allowed if you want to get right into day three terribleness.]


bigapplesauce: (Default)
The Big Applesauce


Page generated Sep. 21st, 2017 03:16 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios