moral responses in reaction to questions of survivability [closed]

[anguiform]

It takes Crowley perhaps half an hour to wear out his panic into a sort of indignant fury that has him pacing the length and breadth of his flat in agitation. The angel's fine, or more or less fine; he's not dead, at any rate, and that's more than most could say after a sodding fistfight with the Devil. Crowley had laid him out on his bed, attempting the awkward job of arranging his wings under him (which, with wings a good eleven feet long from root to tip, is bloody difficult) and perfunctorily stripped him to make sure there weren't any vital wounds under his clothes. There'd been more bruising, blossoming spectacularly all over Aziraphale's stomach and chest, but nothing worse. His inspection carried out, he'd miracled him a pair of pyjamas, and then lurked by the bedside for a while. It was bizarre to see him asleep, though; unlike Crowley, who was terribly fond of sleep, Aziraphale had rarely seen the attraction, certainly not when Crowley was around and awake himself. He looked... not quite like himself, unconscious, the tics of expression and awareness that made him look like Aziraphale gone, leaving just a face that might have belonged to anyone.

And now, all Crowley has to do is wait for the irredeemable idiot to wake up. He recognises, distantly, that the jittering energy that's fuelling his trammelled irritation has sprung from his terror at the thought that Aziraphale might have actually died, but it's a lot easier to be annoyed than it is to worry. Crowley isn't especially comfortable with that kind of worrying, nor any of the associated feelings it carries with it, all the more because they lead inevitably down the path that now Lucifer is very likely going to have some kind of vendetta against Aziraphale for daring to lay hands upon His person, and that is the last thing they bloody need. And there'll likely be little point in Crowley trying to play agreeable and fly under the Devil's radar, after what Aziraphale had said.

'Bugger,' he mutters, as he paces down the shiny hardwood-floored corridor between lounge and bedroom. 'Bugger, bugger, bugger and bollocks, of all the stupid times to decide to play the bloody hero, the idiot. When he wakes up, I am going to murder him myself. And if he's got any idea of repeating that little performance, I'll do it again.'

Stand Back! I'm Going To Try SCIENCE! [open]

[etherthief]

Almost got it now.

She's been working at this for days. Several unanswered calls from CERN and the empiricist groundy riding her ass about unfucking whatever documents she fucked. Not important right now. Not important potentially forever. That was a little joke. Ha, ha.

Dimensional strata aren't at all difficult to locate, it's narrowing in on each particular field that gives her trouble. She can practically see this one now, shimmering just a little out of her focus, if she lets her eyes wander a bit, she can just barely see it, and see beyond it. Like looking lazy-eyed through a screen door.

The Park beyond it looks almost identical, which is moderately encouraging. She's not looking for too massive a culture shock here. The field is much stronger here than it was at her lab, she's discovered, which seems strange. Something to do with the magnetic fields of that Earth, maybe? She hadn't really anticipated the stratum to be uneven, but it is significantly more visible in Central Park than anywhere else she's checked. Fascinating. Perhaps something is happening on the other side.

Well, in a moment, either she'll be able to ask someone, or she'll still be here, sitting in the grass.

She adjusts her hijab and raises her left hand to brace it along the invisible barrier. She can feel the clicks and whirrs of instruments and circuitry moving within the digits of her prosthetic. A soft hum that travels up the arm to the elbow, where silicone meets flesh. Soothing. She lets her eyes flutter closed, a bit of a romantic gesture, as though there were anything remotely spiritual about this process. She splays her fingers slowly, waiting for the alchemical reaction, the infinitesimal brushing of molecules across her carbon fiber skin. There it is. There it is.

She transmutes. Thinking carefully, intensively, about the universal constants that separate one world from another, splitting them, expanding them. Digging out a little hole, just for her. It's a tedious mathematical process, and she allows her thoughts to cradle every step of the formula. This is as close to meditation as she'll ever get.

There's the shift. A little tremor runs through her arm, and she sucks air through her teeth. Easy. Easy. This is it, don't get too excited but also don't fuck it up. She exhales a steadying breath and parts the field delicately, and then lets herself slip through.

It's very different from the test runs and the other times she's tried it and halfway succeeded. There's a sudden sucking force, expanding and contracting roughly, like someone's pulling from the other side. She feels all the air go out of her and gasps in a moment of panic, her reach and concentration shaken. She's supposed to let herself in gently, not like this, with all this force and undertow.

And then it's over, just like that. She's right where she was, but where she was (is) has changed. It's New York, but it's not her New York.

Fuck. Yes.

A little shaky on the dismount, but it all worked out fine. She's not glowing or anything. Nobody's freaking out about her sudden arrival. She can run figures and see what caused that hiccup later. She gets to her feet and brushes off her skirt, then looks up to survey her surroundings proudly. New universe. All right then.

Better find someone to talk to.