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.]
singthesong: (More Appropriately Emo Guitar)
[personal profile] singthesong
Yesterday, the Balladeer was feeling a little under the weather. But he figured it was probably nothing and went out on his usual rounds anyway.

This was a mistake.

Today he feels like death. He's fairly certain he doesn't actually have cancer, but his throat hurts and his nose is running and he's retreated to the couch to huddle under a blanket. Is this what being sick is like all the time? It's awful! He's got a vague idea that maybe he ought to take some medicine, but there isn't any in the apartment; it hadn't occurred to him to buy any.

He dozes for a while before it occurs to him to ask the network for assistance. They ought to know, right? It wasn't his goal to get anyone to come over and help out, but...well, he hasn't really felt up to making any food today either.
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!
postictal: (hundred yard stare)
[personal profile] postictal
[tw: grief, depression, and internalized self-loathing, lots of mentions of death]

Days pass. It's what they do.

Time crawls along with agonizing, sludgelike uncertainty, and Tim will never scrub himself clean of the sensation of the fragile, trembling man dying beneath his hands as he faded away to nothing. Gone again, like he was never here. He told him, he kept telling him he would stop it, he'd haul Jay back from the brink like he always had and like he failed to, but ignoring the inescapable never made it go away. It was a logical progression. It's been -

He doesn't know how long it's been. He's stopped keeping track. He's let himself crumble, and he knows it. It was easy. Work has been put on hold. He hasn't called in sick. He hasn't eaten, or slept, or done much of anything. Just existed in his shell of self-imposed apathy, because slamming up walls is easier than looking his own failures square in their looming, faceless faces.

And Tim waits.

And Tim waits.

And Tim waits.

Eventually it occurs to him that Jay's stuff is still just - sitting there, pasta box and all those sets of keys and everything, and he's been putting that inevitability off because he doesn't want to look at it (childish), he doesn't want to address it (deluded), he doesn't want to shroud himself in grief again (pathetic), because he already did this. It isn't fair.

When has his life ever cared about fair. Really, now.

So morning finds Tim unlocking the door to Jay's apartment with a hollow feeling constricting his chest, steadily loading the dead man's meager belongings into cardboard boxes. He compartmentalizes everything with manufactured indifference, squeezing it down the smallest possible denominator. Maybe he'll throw the boxes over the bridge. Maybe he'll burn every last one of them. Except - Tim doesn't burn things. That's not him.

'You don't even like me.'

Tim grimaces. He piles the boxes into the hallway with utter disregard for anyone who might be passing through, a miniature cairn of discarded items and cardboard.

Fuck you, Jay, he thinks with vehement, abrupt outrage, feeling a sick surge of satisfaction with snapping the door shut behind him. Fuck him, fuck him, for leaving, again. Fuck him for leaving Tim to clean up his goddamn mess, again.

Fuck him for thinking he could just die and Tim wouldn't grieve over him, even a little bit.
fucking_ebay: (misc | pouring a drink)
[personal profile] fucking_ebay
It's tempting -- maybe surprisingly tempting to anyone who doesn't know Peter as well as he knows himself -- to just burn it all and start over. A penthouse (not to mention an actual fucking return to the stage) should mean matching furniture and built-ins, shiny new fixtures, and all the details and decorations planned and picked down to the silk sheets and the display cases he's sure to start filling with spooky crap and detritus rare supernatural artifacts and top of the line weapons.

Unfortunately, his time in New York has made him unpleasantly practical. The rickety bed, the ratty couch, the TV Gabe brought him (alright, that's at least decent)...it will all have to do, at least to start with. He's not a headliner again yet, and he's starved himself enough months to finally start relearning how to live on a budget. That includes not taking the lazy way out and hiring movers to get his stuff from one place to another literally within a few blocks (he seriously considered it), so this morning he's boxing up the last of the odds and ends that make up his life and stinking up his old apartment with a celebratory cigar for good measure. At least there's not much -- it's a tiny apartment and he never had money, so the problem is going to be less one of bulk and more one of the penthouse probably looking fucking empty even once he's unpacked again.

Bee's due any minute, insistent as she is on helping despite it being unclear to Peter what she's getting out of it. That probably means the cigar is a bit ill-advised (he's fairly sure they're not allowed to smoke indoors at all), but he'd come across it while packing and it seemed stupid to put a lone cigar in one of the boxes. Anyway, it's not his apartment anymore, and not his problem.

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.]
postictal: (hundred yard stare)
[personal profile] postictal
It’s barely been ten days, and he’s already halved the amount of precious white capsules he has on hand, and it’s the compressing, painfully familiar fear worming its way through his chest, down his throat, that drives Tim out of the hotel in desperate search for the clinic he knows has come down to his last hope. A medical center specifically for rifties should be capable of figuring out what the hell is in his medication, and from there somehow get him more of it before anything goes wrong. They've got to have dealt with some pretty weird demands, right? Maybe they can just - synthesize it somehow. Tim doesn't know how that process works. It's just medicine, it's one part anticonvulsant and one part impossible-terror-be-gone; how hard can it be?

Things can be different here. Things can be different, and better, and normal, and right now Tim doesn't even want normal. He just wants to not wake up in some anonymous forest clearing with weeks of missing time scraped out of his head. That's it. That's his bare minimum.

God, please let him find a way out of this head.

So. Clinic. This is his plan of action. He just has to actually get there, but he's doing a great job of it so far. It'll be okay. It'll be fine. No more missing time or coughing fits or getting his brain hijacked or seeing things in the corners of his vision. He's gonna be fine.

Irony nearly doubles him over with a clenching knot of pressure to the chest when he's slammed in the lungs by a fresh surge of ragged coughing, which not only collects a whole lot of weird looks from the other pedestrians but earns him a wide walking radius as well. Oh, that's nice. He doesn't dignify any of them with a glare, just keeps shuffling forward, trying without any real success to suppress the coughs that leave his shoulders quivering and him staggering along like he's contracted a deadly plague of some kind.

[ooc: Tim needs to socialize more, so he's taking a nice long route from a hotel by Central Park to the rifty clinic and back again. Feel free to run into him at any point. Don't mind the coughing, it's just, er - chronic.]
apidae: (set in stone)
[personal profile] apidae
Bee waits by the fountain. She got there early with an impromptu picnic and a book, and has been sitting and reading calmly ever since. She clung hard to her dream upon waking, intently focusing on the people she met there - she remembers Peter and Dana of course, and the Doctor with his unforgettable face, but the Balladeer, with whom she actually made concrete plans, strangely eludes her, the memory of his features somewhat shifting. She hopes he remembers and comes to find her. She's excited to see him and to see his patterns. It's very strange to her, to forget a face. She does remember getting a very curious and sort of muddled view of him, more than the general haziness of dreams accounts for. His patterns are going to be very strange, she is sure of that.

She sets her book down after a moment and stretches her legs out, her feet bare as usual, and takes a moment to look around at the crowd of people moving through Bethesda Terrace. Perhaps he's among them. Will she recognize him when he appears? What if he decided not to find her after all? She's more nervous than usual, she thinks. Tired, too. That was a lot of socialization she had in her sleep. She hopes, if he does come, they can go somewhere a little more secluded.

p=np [open]

Dec. 5th, 2014 12:07 am
lottawork: (probably deserves it)
[personal profile] lottawork
He is going to stand on the observation deck and watch it happen. Up close.

He can see it from here: the sweeping, uninterpretable crackle of anomalous energy spiking over Destiny’s massive hull, the focal point of an ages-old cosmic microwave background radioactive construct, something vast and interminable and full of a knowledge lost to the frustratingly, conventionally human brain of Nicholas Rush. Here is the structure buried in the spread and flow and ripple of the universe’s fabric, the yielding, collapsing, purely theoretical fold of one reality against another, and he is completely incapable of understanding it. Even if he had years and not mere minutes, he would never understand it. Time is relative. And there is never enough of it.

The man is not at peace, all appearances to the contrary. His chest is a tight morass of anxiety, his legs fragile, his breathing shallow and rapid. This stillness, this anticipation - is fucking intolerable. Waiting is intolerable. Even for the inevitable, arcane brink Destiny hums toward while its engines thunder on hollowly, waiting is intolerable. It is intolerable. But Rush can only stand, uselessly, hands limp and unwandering at his sides as he watches the hull of an Ancient ship prepare to ram itself into the edge of the universe.

(Highly inaccurate phrasing due to the universe not actually having an edge as the universe is endless and ever-expanding and far-reaching, but it’s something vaguely and impressively and pretentiously poetic and it is, for all intents and purposes, the End of something - Rush’s life, specifically. Flawed terminology aside, Rush decides it is an acceptable panegyric pre-funerary farewell to himself, very philosophical and ostentatious to the point of unintelligiblity, striving to find meaning where there is absolutely none. Fair fucking appropriate for a eulogy. And no one on the crew will give him one, probably. The ungrateful shits.)

The edge of this universe then, this brane, passing out of the conceivable and into the conceptual, some hyperspace void Rush will have no way of comprehending. He wonders if the impact of Destiny upon this brane will affect those surrounding it on some cosmological level. The force of gravity drags at its exterior, unforgiving as ever. He appreciates that on a distant and existential level, the recognizable presence of unrelenting gravitational pressure, present even here on an unstable plane in an unstable part of an unstable universe. Ruthless. Implacable. About to tear Destiny apart and with it everything on it.

If Rush is about to die, he will ensure that he dies in such a way that makes proper fucking sense.

Young had insisted that he come back to Earth with the rest of them, but no one believed it would happen, the colonel included. Rush cannot go back to that after experiencing this, the universe, possibly a glimpse of the multiverse, and all their grand and terrifying intricacies. There is nothing to go back to.

Fuck Young, anyway. And fuck the rest of them. He’s going to watch his world end.

The first pointed end of the ship skims into the brightness, the intersected chiral matter of his brane skidded against another, the unfamiliar energy tearing across the hull and the ship plunges further in a roar of gravitational force and the limits of electromagnetism, subsumed by the abstract. And following in line with the laws that dictate the linear slide of time, the rest follows, unknowable matter shrieking into space, disintegrating substance excoriated from the ship’s solidity, shorn into a void, knowledge lost, knowledge gained, the approaching end, and Rush is not ready.

He closes his eyes and waits to be slingshotted into nothing.

He feels it initially, the sickening, shuddering jolt to his abdomen that accompanies a shift into FTL, the smear of electrostatic interference and disruption of molecular basis as he and Destiny are no longer localized on their own brane before he is -

Torn.

And then he is not.

He opens his eyes to find himself sprawled bonelessly across a startlingly green expanse of grass with a brightness of a different sort (sunlight, annoying) streaming everywhere, the sound of people (also annoying) talking filtering in, a disturbingly Earthlike (even worse, American) settlement arranged around him, and it is also absurdly fucking hot.

What happened.

Rush jerks, scrambling to his feet to stare at his surroundings in unmitigated shock, a systematic controlled panic, and swivels around in a tight revolution of disbelief and frustration and fury and ragged defeat.

This is not the theorized outcome. This is not anywhere near the theorized outcome.

What is this. What happened.

“Fuck," breathes Rush.
apidae: (Default)
[personal profile] apidae
Today Bee is restless. She doesn't feel like being still, but she doesn't feel like being alone, either. Sunshine and Spike are both at work and Daine hasn't answered her phone, which probably means she's off meeting animals. She's cleaned, she's eaten, and she's tried to read, but now she wants to go out. Better yet, she wants to go and visit her darlings, but she wants to take someone with her. She considers Peter, but she's not quite ready to knock on his door again after their last meeting.

That leaves Aziraphale. She's only met the angel a couple times in passing, but he seems very kind. Perhaps he'd like to meet her darlings.

She steps barefoot out into the hall and pads down to his door. She hasn't seen him since the day the dangerous creature came through the Rift, when he went out and reportedly got hurt. That was a long time ago now. She chews her lip nervously before knocking.

Someone's inside, she can sense that much, but after some consideration she doesn't think it's Aziraphale. There's nothing familiar about it, in fact. She frowns curiously.

"Hello?" she says after a moment, raising her voice just enough to be heard through the door. "Is someone in there? It's Bee, from down the hall."
rae_of_sun: (pleased)
[personal profile] rae_of_sun
Well, if there's ever been a reason for Sunshine to start pushing herself in the magic-handling department, the arrival of a mega-toxic kali nightmare goon from wherever-the-hell - and a subsequent text containing a ward symbol against said nightmare goon - definitely qualifies. Gods, has she missed wards. And, okay, she finds it a little hard to fully trust the effectiveness of a ward symbol drawn by… well, anyone aside from an accredited wardsmith (herself included)… but if there's even a slight chance that it'll work, she will gladly wallpaper the entire damn building with the thing.

Better to start small, though, especially if what she's going for is 'permanent.' Which is why she's standing outside her own apartment door with the little image of the symbol pulled up on her phone. She examines the picture with a tight little frown, memorizing the details in case intent is not enough. Then she tucks her phone into the back pocket of her shorts and braces her palms against the door.

Okay. She can do this. It's big - far bigger than anything she's attempted before - but it's only wood. Easy compared to metal or stone. And her grandmother said she could do anything in bright sunlight, and there's plenty of that shining in through the window at the end of the hall, all of two feet to her right. So.

Sunshine shuts her eyes, pictures the ward symbol as clearly as she can, and shoves.

A bolt of power runs down her arms and into her door, the recoil strong enough to force her back a pace. She opens her eyes, regains her balance, and takes in her new door.

At first, she thinks it was a bust; the change is so subtle. But then she realizes that the ward symbol is there, right in the middle of her door and as large as a dinner plate. It's visible only because the grain of the wood abruptly changes direction, like an incredibly fine inlay. She steps closer and runs her fingertips over the line where symbol ends and door begins, but she can't feel a seam.

"Gods," she breathes. Could she darken it? Probably, yes, if she tried again. Make it a bit more obvious, if that's what's needed. A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. It worked. How's that for permanent?

Okay. She'll come back to her own door later. First, she has to do Spike's. And then the main entrances. And then the windowsills. And then literally every other flat surface she can reach.


[ooc: Sunshine is gonna spend the day WARDING ALL THE THINGS, so feel free to have your character run into her in any given hallway, down by the front door, or even up on the roof. Pretty much anywhere in the rebel apartment building is fair game. And hey, she'll probably ward your door if you ask nicely.]
peeta_mellark: (Sad)
[personal profile] peeta_mellark
For the second day in a row, Peeta watches the sun rise from the roof of the rebel apartments.

He knows that Daine has been sticking close to the base and made the decision - for both of them - to stay away as much as possible. He even begged off his normal duty in the kitchens - or attempted to, anyway. Before he had the chance to even open his mouth to ask off, he'd been told to take all the time he needed. None of the kicthen staff would quite meet his eyes, and he knew that as much as he needed the time, they did, too.

So he spends most of his time out in the city. He can't quite bring himself to linger in the park - even the areas far removed from where it happened - but between the library and the museums, there are places for him to go. And he finds himself here, on the roof, for every sunrise and sunset. It's as quiet as the city gets, and he finds some measure of peace there, up above the streets, at the beginning and end of the day.

This morning, he arrived extra early. Unable to sleep, pulled into horrible dreams every time he closed his eyes, he abandoned his quarters in the dark hours of the morning and headed for the roof. Now he sits in the same nook where he and Daine watched the fireworks on a night that feels like a lifetime ago, and watches the sky lighten.
erratic_hematic: (oh yup)
[personal profile] erratic_hematic
After the fireworks, Spike had come back to his flat, slept for a few hours, then gotten up and continued his campaign of drinking from the previous night. He's not being too heavy with it- a two to one blood/vodka mix is enough to thin out the blood and keep him a little tipsy while he watches morning cartoons.

He's been trying his best not to think about Sunshine anymore. She'd obviously seen their encounter as a one night stand. If she wanted something more, she wouldn't be trying to avoid him so thoroughly. So it's better not to think about nonexistent possibilities.

A little while before eight, there's a knock at his door. He's not sure who that'd be. He half expects Sunshine. Or that friend of hers come round to tell him off. He gets to the door quickly, wearing socks and boxers, a lit cigarette still hanging from his lips.

"Oh. Hey, Bee." He pushes down the momentary disappointment that it's not Sunshine at his door, but he is glad to see Bee here. He takes the cigarette from his lips and smiles. "You're a bit early if you came 'round for sparring. I was gonna go scout locations today."
apidae: (sweetheart)
[personal profile] apidae
[[ooc: It's beehive time! Bee is gonna be up on the Rebel apartment roof most of the day, hangin out, and she'll be sending an open text to all the Rebels (and some other friends) about it, inviting people to come join her. The first thread is gonna be Daine helping her set up, but after that feel free to drop by!]]

Everything has to be perfect.

Bee's got the boxes stacked nicely, all ready for their new inhabitants, with a couple rows of box flowers and a beautiful little water garden she'd been lucky enough to find in her eager search for supplies. Not a completed project yet, but it's a lovely start. And thank goodness the rain has stopped; she can be out here all day, in this beautiful weather, until the sun goes down even—and then, fireworks! She grins at the thought of it. She hopes people will join her.

Nearby there's a broad umbrella with some thrift-store cushions underneath, a shady little sitting area, just temporary before she can get something nicer set up. Snacks and a cooler with water, sodas and beer. She's not anticipating a party or even that many visitors - as excited as she is, she knows not everyone is eager to come be around a bunch of bees. But hopefully at least a few of her new friends will be interested enough to take a peek.

For now, she stands near the edge of the building, the wind whipping around her hair and her dress and the netted veil of her homemade protective hat (she has no suit, but she's not overly concerned), watching the sky, waiting for Daine, and her new darlings.
apidae: (ohmygosh!)
[personal profile] apidae
Well, rain isn't the worst thing that could have happened. This was meant to be the day Daine helped her set up the new hive, and it wouldn't be impossible in the rain, but it doesn't feel very welcoming, and it wouldn't allow Bee to spend all her time up on the roof like she would wish. And no one would want to come up to join her! That wouldn't do at all.

She'd sat in her apartment for a while, picking at the book Spike gave her, alternately pouting at the rainbeaten window and staring glumly at the ceiling - wondering if she should try to foist her company on one of her new friends - before she finally decided to snap herself out of it on her own. Which is how she found herself in the park, in the downpour.

Shoeless and armed with an umbrella she just bought from a convenient little sidewalk kiosk, Bee marches through the puddles, enjoying the smell and sound of rainfall, willing herself to feel better. This is certainly preferable to sitting inside. And if the weather clears up tomorrow, then she can set up her hive, and all will be well.

There aren't as many walkers out as usual, given the conditions, but it's not too long before she gets a glimpse of the telltale Rift-patterns - another rifty nearby. She focuses her gaze, seeing a young woman walking a dog - oh, how sweet, wearing a matching raincoat and little boots! Bee's delighted by the sight, so she comes a little closer, focusing on the dog, and - no, no, not a dog at all. It came through the Rift as well - and it isn't of this world. She stops and frowns intently. What on earth?

She comes a little closer, deeply curious, discerning scales and teeth beneath the raincoat, and...

A name flashes through her head: Quarkbeast!

Suddenly she remembers her dream - so real and so eventful, so many people she'd met! And the little man, Aglet, who told her about his friend and her Quarkbeast, who eats metal - what was her name? Jennifer? Yes, Jennifer.

No amount of practiced social grace and keep Bee from hurrying up in excitement and exclaiming, "Are you Jennifer?" to the unsuspecting fellow rifty.
apidae: (Default)
[personal profile] apidae
Early Monday morning, Bee rises with no alarm (she has never needed an alarm with the sun to greet her) and pulls on her same favorite dress. She's almost never needed to wash it (once, a couple days ago, when she suddenly seemed to be sweating again) - it seems like entropy has left her behind, or stayed back home. No one else seems to have this luxury. It's kind of nice, Bee supposes.

Nicer still is the email she's received on her phone. She's been approved! She can raise her darlings on the roof as soon as she pleases. She can't keep from dancing around her apartment for a moment. She eats an orange - well, she has to eat something - and licks the juice from her fingers, which refuse to get sticky. She's going to go out today. Maybe Daine can help her find a colony that would like to move.

Now, now, Bee, mustn't get too far ahead. First she should let everyone else know. She'd decided some time ago that as soon as she got her approval, she'd do the courteous thing and inform her neighbors. At least, that's what seems courteous and reasonable to her. Anyone could have an allergy! Or a phobia, for that matter. Or, someone might wander up not realizing, might abuse her darlings, god forbid. It's only proper. And this way, she'll finally get to meet her neighbors.

Not bothering to put shoes on, as usual, Bee steps out and begins progressing from door to door, knocking, waiting, knocking again, and leaving a little note she'd prepared in advance if she doesn't get an answer. Much nicer to get answers, though. Apartment buildings can be so lonely.


[[ooc: If you live in the Rebel Apartments, feel free to respond and react to Bee's exciting news! She'd just love to meet you.]]
apidae: (be still)
[personal profile] apidae
Bee's obtained shoes by now, but she hates to use them. Even in a place like Manhattan, walking barefoot is safe enough if you're trained how to keep an eye on the ground.

She's exploring a new part of the park, hoping to find new friends, but she hasn't seen any other rifties today. Nothing wrong with meeting natives, though it can be harder to find common ground, can't it? So she keeps to herself, ambling through the soft grass, smiling in the sun.

Her time here so far has been pleasant and surprisingly calm. Daine helped her get registered with the Rebels and housed in their apartments; and she's found, oddly enough, that she wakes each day feeling clean and refreshed, as though she can't seem to get dirty. This, Daine has told her, is not typical of rifties. It was posited that this oddity might be a "Rift-power" - that she's gained some measure of immunity to the effects of time. How strange. And yet somewhat suitable, given the nature of what she's always been able to do.

She's still working to understand the new web of causality that she's been brought into. It will take time to reorient herself; everything here is a little different. Still, she knows how to recognize certain familiar lines - loss, for example, having been cut away from something too abruptly - that is very familiar. And it is currently emanating from beneath a lilac bush.

Bee hesitates, then crouches down gently.

Within the sweet-smelling, leafy fortress, she can see him: huddled in the dirt looking lonely and very afraid. A little rabbit, quite young, and visibly not a wild one. A Havana breed, if she's not mistaken; silky and black, clearly a pet. Or a former pet.

"Oh," she says very softly, sadly. Someone's left the little thing out here, all alone. She extends her hands slowly, not wanting to startle him. "You poor thing. Come here, little one. I won't hurt you."

He lifts his head slightly, nose wiggling. Can he trust her? But this is a pure domesticated rabbit, one accustomed to - and clearly missing - human contact. After a few moments he inches out, approaching her cautiously.

"That's right," she cooes soothingly. "You're all right, my darling."

Apparently encouraged, he comes close enough to sniff her fingers, then nudges closer still. She gives him a delicate stroke on his soft head, then picks him up carefully, holding him to her breast.

"There, now," she says. What to do with the poor dear? Perhaps Daine will know; and Daine can talk to him! "I'll take you somewhere safe."

The little rabbit nuzzles against her, and she stands up and turns, heading to the Base.
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[personal profile] apidae
Oh!

This is not where she was.

Bee takes a look around, wondering at the strange new environment. What a place! Soft green grass beneath her feet. Trees and a beautiful lake and people. This isn't Birmingham.

"Excuse me!" she says brightly to a passing man. "Could you tell me where I am?"

"Central Park," he says, harried with the pressure of talking to an overly friendly stranger. "West side, near 72nd."

He doesn't seem to want to stick around, hurrying off. But that's actually quite helpful! Bee turns westward, peering toward the edge of the park. So this is Manhattan. She's heard stories about it. It, along with the rest of the north, always seemed like a faroff fairyland.

"How did I get here?" he asks herself softly. Curiouser and curiouser. This doesn't feel like a dream. But she can't see the beginnings - the Cause is murky, the catalyst an unknown factor. There's a web of influence at work but it's foreign to her. Like a new language.

How exciting. She doesn't feel afraid. It's been a long time since something happened that she couldn't understand. It's exhilarating. Like being a kid again. She only hopes the landlord will look after her darlings.

Hmm, no shoes. She'd been napping. Well, no need for shoes anyway, if one knows how to walk carefully.

She takes a confident step forward, setting out to explore her new environment.

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The Big Applesauce

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