bigapplesauce | don't get lost in heaven, they got locks on the gate [open to multiple]

Current Location: literally anywhere
Current Music: September 11th - 13th

Entry tags:

don't get lost in heaven, they got locks on the gate [open to multiple]

Existence without form or breath or shape is disorienting, the spread of atoms over a plane he doesn't recognize, with the repeated dissolutions and reshapings of an indistinct self. At one point there was pain, and the unspooling of himself into light and purpose, and for a long while there is only amorphous drifting. He hits barriers, dissonant and frequent, where once he should have crossed from one plane to another, one reality to the next, in an effortless slide of energy across the universal boundaries. It is difficult to define emotional state outside of the human context - he only knows that he is not human - but it is a state of affairs that generates confused distress.

Temporal sequencing becomes a problem.

Awareness, too, is difficult to achieve. Gradually he is able to pull together the various components that comprise himself and reshape them into something capable of perception, but doing so strikes him with a revelation disconsolate, and that is that there are no Others here - no Ancients, nothing, simply an empty plane of shifting light and bottomless dark. And he is alone.

He knows he did this, and it was for a reason. But he finds he cannot remember anything, not immediately, and when the memories trickle back with his concentrated effort they are unfiltered and unstructured and unordered until finally he can impose the alien concept of linear time upon the thing, and fully interpret what he is in comparison to what he was.

Daniel Jackson.

The name is the linchpin that generates the outward ripples, spreading from that singular point of origin. It triggers the flood of remembrance, the 'gate, Manhattan, the locked-away knowledge that was once sealed in his head but now coalesces seamlessly into the whole of him now. He cannot delineate his form by shape or size or mass, not any longer, but now he remembers, he remembers what it is he can do and how it is he can do it.

He starts small because he must, drifting as a pair of hydrogen atoms while he glimpses the city on a reduced scale. Then he builds to it, the recollection of his shape. Spectrally manifesting was never truly allowed before, but if there are no Others then he is not bound by their laws. He assembles a body that resembles the one that was human and familiar, and projects it. It takes two tries to succeed, three to sustain it for longer than a meaningless collection of seconds, and no matter what he tries he cannot force his shape to manifest with glasses. Apparently his inner self, or however he chooses to define it, does not need them.

He loses track of how many attempts he makes before he can maintain his form visibly for any significant length of time. But finally, in a ragged burst of energy, the bewildered shape of Daniel Jackson reappears in Manhattan, and there he stays.

[ooc: Daniel Ascended back during the Rift Shitfit of September 4th, and he's only just figured out how to Do Things in his new state of being. Right now he's completely intangible and frequently phasing in and out of visible existence. I've added to his handy-dandy reference post as to what he can and can't do in this state. He can also show up LITERALLY ANYWHERE so if you want in on Ascended funtimes just pick a date and a location, or Daniel can pick one, or whatever.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Yeah, not so much. I think it sealed that loophole twice over." He'd tried to follow, trace the path the escapees took, but it had been scrubbed clean and slammed shut.

He almost wants to ask how one is meant to handle it. It's continuous. It's unrelenting. He doesn't know how he's meant to exist, strictly, but he knows it's not meant to be like this, bound up in a restriction that shackles him to an island in a foreign universe.

"I know I'm not meant to - exist like this. Confined." It's not like he wants to make a habit of consulting Lucifer but it's clear he knows more about how to shoulder this than Daniel does, so he forges hesitantly on. The shape of the archangel is difficult to wholly define, and its essence unfamiliar. "And you're - you're not meant to either."

"A singular path has been shut, yes. But what's important here is that the Rift isn't a one-way street, and it isn't infallible. If there's one way, there are others that just haven't been used yet."

There's a shift in his form, one that Daniel wouldn't have been able to see when he was human but would now; a twitch of his wings, a restless little unconscious movement, subtle only for the fact that he keeps them clamped so close and tight that they're hidden by the rest of his being. He does not let others see his wings, not even Gabriel.

"No, I'm not. There shouldn't be anything powerful enough to contain me except for my Father and my Cage, but it seems that the Rift defies expectations."

And he can't deny that the unfamiliar constraints chafe at him.

"I'm not unused to confinement, however. You could say I've had practice at it."

Every shift and fluctuation in the Rift's impossible composition is an unavoidable prickle against the brightness of his senses. Is this how Lucifer feels all the time? Even the barest rustling of wings is a welcome, if alarming, distraction, and it occurs to Daniel just how much of Lucifer is folded into the insufficient human body he's in. Existing as a form intangible is the closest approximation to that arrangement, shaping himself after the familiar build and configuration of the body Daniel was when he lived.

"You're confined now," he can't help but observe, nor can he scrub the intrigued note from his projection's tone. Subterfuge between beings of equal perception is difficult even without an irregular entity cloaking an entire city and suppressing them with it. "The skin you're wearing."

"Nick has always been a little inadequate," he concedes, because it's a true enough observation. "He isn't my true vessel. He was always just a stop-gap until I could get to the right one."

Sam wouldn't be a prison-- Sam was his, Sam was born to house him. Lucifer's name is written in the very fibers of Sam Winchester's being, on sinew and bone and soul, because their union is literally the Word of God. And what God has brought together, let no power pull asunder.

"Angels can't manifest on Earth for very long without a vessel. Our presence is too overwhelming for mortals' fragile forms. Just the sight of us would burn their eyes from their skulls and our voices would shatter their minds and well as their ear drums. Humans aren't equipped to deal with the full glory of my brethren, so..." he plucks at his shirt, "...hence, the vessels."

Nick. So that's where he pulled the name he'd used to introduce himself. Nothing if not morbid.

The reason for the vessel simply makes it all the more disturbing. Even in their purest form, Ascended beings wouldn't be capable of dissolving or destroying anything simply on sight. Willfully smiting and inciting destruction was always a capability, but always frowned upon, always limited by stringent laws and restrictions and stipulations.

The uncontrolled havoc an angel could potentially wreak simply by virtue of not taking a vessel is something he doesn't want to think about.

"You can't just," he opens a hand demonstratively in front of the specter he is, "create a form? Present but intangible?"

Thankfully, without a vessel, an angel could also only spend a limited amount of time on Earth before they're kicked back into Heaven. Hence why Lucifer didn't just blast about as a destructive wavelength of celestial intent until he found Sam Winchester and cut out Nick entirely. But, here he is, wearing an old meatsuit like an ill-fitting tuxedo.

"No, we can't. Cherubim can manifest their own forms, but they're completely solid. The rest of us must find a willing vessel-- call it divine law, laid down by our Father."

"That's - different," he muses, and looks at the shape he's manifested. Unassuming, and probably nothing more to the human eye than an ordinary person. They've both chosen a similar state of being via a different mechanic, smoothing an exterior over themselves for the sake of communication. The Rift hasn't always made Daniel's easy to maintain, or even navigate - he's appeared far above the city several times already, and uninvited in other peoples' apartments several times more.

"Was non-interference a big thing for heaven, too?" Daniel watches his insubstantial hand waver for a moment, bleeding into obscurity and back again. "Limitations for the sake of humanity?"

"For the sake of humanity?"

That's almost... funny, really. The very idea that the forces of Heaven would refrain from doing something because it might harm a few little insects on the surface of the planet is hilarious in how completely wrong it is.

"Heaven doesn't interfere in humanity's affairs because it has no interest in them. To the angels, humans are nothing more than cannon fodder, and they're perfectly content to kill them all and let God sort it out."

In the big war between Heaven and Hell, humans are just collateral damage.

"God, you're just like the Ancients." He looks at the Devil in varying disappointment and disgust, frustrated that he could have ever expected any other response. But the idea - to have so much form and awareness, to see humanity in a more complete sense, to glimpse their minds and their souls and their numbness and their desperation and to be indifferent to it - he can't even imagine it. He'd tried to follow the Others' rules, he really had. He'd tried to bind himself to their constraints. But he couldn't ignore the beauty of the universe and those that populated it. He couldn't bear to simply watch and neglect and ignore.

In the end, that had been his undoing. But he'd preferred that.

"They said the same. Interference was supposed to be - beneath us." The righteous indignation telegraphs well enough how Daniel feels about that policy.

"Don't blame me for that, Daniel Jackson," he says, and he sends out a little pulse towards the light and starstuff that Daniel's made of; a small chastisement, like he would have done to a little brother who's behaving poorly.

"Remember what I've told you before about angels and free will. There were angels stationed on Earth to watch over it, but in the absence of our Father and Michael's apathy, they were given no orders until the Apocalypse. They did as they were last commanded-- to watch. They take no actions other than what they've been told, and Heaven-- that is to say, Michael-- cares little for anything other than our war. I've no impact on what the angels do."

They are not his to command; he has been locked away in Hell for almost the whole of human history, since the mess that he'd made of Eden.

"And, to be frank, you could say that I've been very hands-on when it comes to my dealings with your kind."

You want angelic interference? There's no guarantee that it'll be nice.

The reproving nudge chafes, almost similar to what Oma might have done to remind him of the anchored rules for non-interference. Instinctively, warily, he draws a little more securely into himself.

"Well, you diverge from the Others there, I'll give you that," he mutters. He wishes he could figure out how to get his projections hands to go in its pockets. It's such an automatic impulse, and he misses the humanity of the gesture. "I was thrown out for even trying to interfere, even when it would have been in the Ancients' interest. Even when their lives were at stake."

He's not really sure which one's worse - a universe with angels or one with Ancients. What is it about powerful, indifferent, ancient races that manage to drive themselves to such complete self-destruction.

For angels, it's probably at least in part because God made them dependent on Himself and then left them high and dry without even leaving a note. And no one knows when He'll return, or even if He'll come back at all. It's like He left a few children in charge of a whole group of younger children and turned them out on their own and expected everything to be okay, and now everything's gone all Lord of the Flies.

"Well, Castiel was cast out for throwing his lot in with the Winchesters, so your fate would have arguably been worse in mine than it was in your universe."

Angels, Dan. Angels are worse.

"Falling is an entirely different beast from just becoming human, especially for the lower choirs. I can sustain myself on my own power, but the little angels... they need a connection to Heaven to maintain their Grace. Cutting them off from it is a slow, inevitable extinquishing of the very stuff that makes them angels. It's difficult to describe, but I've seen the results."

At least the Others had the courtesy to wipe Daniel's memory when they threw him back into mortality, and even if it returned in snippets it was better, probably, than that gradual seeping of himself.

"How can they retain anything?" he asks, curiosity genuinely aroused. "When I was made human, I couldn't remember - just scraps, fragments of memories of what I was and what I could do. The human brain wasn't built for anything like that."

"It's not. The angels that become human forget the things that can't be contained in a human mind, but they won't forget that they once knew."

Things like what Heaven looks like to the angels, the face of their Father, the faces of their brothers, the sound of the celestial choirs. Important things, and there's little more painful than knowing that you once had a home, but not being able to remember any of it. They don't get the luxury of forgetting everything, unless they do as Anael did and tear their Grace out before they fully Fall.

"I always thought it was a particularly cruel punishment. The angels who are cast out for disobedience and become human are just as mortal as any other human, and when they die... let's just say that Heaven holds grudges."

"Humanity isn't as cruel a punishment as you think." The afterlife isn't something he thinks he can question, or even address - he's never known or glimpsed what might come after this, despite having come to terms with his mortality unusually frequently. "Some prefer it."

What he is now - he can't imagine not being this. He couldn't imagine it either, when he'd first Ascended. He couldn't be or do anything besides what he was, energy on a plane beyond average perception, free to expand and experience the universe in its entirety. But here -

Here, there's nothing. No Others. No greater purpose. Just a city with a warped slash of spacetime chaining him to this miniscule portion of a larger universe, and he was never meant to exist like this.

Oh, Daniel, you sweet summer child. It's not just the humanity that he's talking about, it's what comes after. It's bad for an angel to become something that can't even comprehend its own home and siblings, but it perhaps could have been a little better if they could go home in some capacity, even if it's not the home they used to know.

"Some may prefer humanity. But if they don't go to Heaven, Daniel Jackson, where do the little souls go?"

They go way down South, Daniel Jackson. And nobody likes it down in the Pit.

"Did I ever tell you about how demons are made?"

Right, sometimes he forgets - his universe might not have had a heaven or hell, not in the typical understanding of the terms, but other universes did. He'd been sent to a sort of hell, but it had been nothing more than a planet, and one they'd destroyed. He hadn't had to devote as much thought to the actual concept until very, very recently.

"Hell." The shape he's in telegraphs the realization a little too well, eyes closing in resignation. "Right. I forget. The whole afterlife thing."

"And every demon in Hell was once a human soul."

And if the angels Fall and become human, with little human souls, than it's easy to extrapolate what happens to them, too. A fate worse than death, worse than humanity-- becoming something twisted and evil, something that would have been hateful in their Father's sight. The very demons that angels fought against were sometimes made up of their own brothers and sisters, twisted up beyond recognition.

History repeats itself in strange little parallels. The first war between Lucifer and Michael was a civil war, angel against angel; the last, angels against demons, and there were still former angels on the opposing side. Are they any less the angels' brothers just because they lost their Grace?

Edited 2015-05-29 20:53 (UTC)

"Really cheery universe you got there, isn't it?" A universe full of indifferent Ancients and apotheosizing intergalactic conquerors wasn't exactly always pleasant, but at least they skipped - usually - the hellfire and brimstone. Usually.

It would be easy to dissipate, drift elsewhere - but it's not a situation he necessarily finds pleasant, and even if making himself physically visible is difficult, this is one of the few places where it's been somewhat easier. With Lucifer. It's not a connection he likes to admit exists at all, and yet - here they both are. Devil and - whatever Daniel is, because he honestly isn't sure. Ascended, but improperly, in a state of perpetual incompletion. Thanks, Rift.

"That doesn't matter here," he says, his attention now gliding curiously over the sigils scrawled along the walls. "As soon as I remember how to descend - that's where I'm going."

"I suppose it doesn't. Humans here just die."

They don't go anywhere. Perhaps it's a relief, in a sense, to know that there's nothing waiting after death and having the certainty that whatever brief existence they have is all there is. No encores once the curtain falls.

The Devil watches Daniel look at his sigils, and even though he probably has little idea what they mean-- unless Enochian is among his many languages-- he should at least be able to see the lines of power they weave, making a safe harbor of this small area. Lucifer has always been good at wards and sigils and other subtle uses of his power; Gabriel learned his tricks from somewhere.

"Is it useful, though, to return to being human?" he asks, and it's not a dishonest question. "You need to understand the Rift to click your ruby slippers, Daniel, and humanity doesn't do you very many favors on that front."

"It's better that way," he says with an unfailing, mournful certainty. The hum of power buried in the symbols is foreign to him, threaded brightly with the same kind of source energy reminiscent of that which radiates from Lucifer or Gabriel, but it's wholly unfamiliar compared to his own. The sigil he hadn't even had time to draw on his new apartment door is seared into his head, the one built to keep Lucifer out, however little good it'll do him now.

"I wasn't meant for this, not here." He'd first Ascended because he'd assumed he could make some sort of difference on the higher plane - but he can't even make a difference here. The Rift is unrelenting as ever, and he can't even figure out how to access a fraction of the abilities he should be capable of wielding.

"Join the club," Lucifer says. "Do you think that Gabriel and I are any more suited to it?"

Bitch, bitch, bitch, Daniel.

"You're in a better position now than you ever were as a human to find a way past the Rift and out of this universe. What can you hope to do as a man that would even remotely get you towards that goal? Learn to play the long game, Daniel Jackson."

A little discomfort doesn't supercede the advantages of the form he's in. And, since Gabriel seems to have exactly zero interest in finding a way past the Rift, having another being around that's willing to pull his own weight wouldn't be a bad thing. Sure, Lucifer might have liked to see Daniel descend, simply out of personal interest, but he's more valuable Ascended than not.

"You think I can do anything like this?" Communicating with anyone besides the more perceptually-aware has presented its own level of difficulties when that should be a no-brainer for an Ascended being. Breaking out from the little Rift-imposed bubble over Manhattan is another beast entirely. Not that he really wants to try with Lucifer prowling Manhattan, because the last thing they all need is a way for the Devil to get loose into the world. The Rift isn't good for a lot of things but if there's one thing he can appreciate, it's the fact that it's got Lucifer on something of a restraining bolt. It's uncomfortable, painful at times to have such a sharp awareness of the Rift shrouding the city, but it's worth it if it means the Devil doesn't get free reign of the place.

"I mean, I'll be honest here," he says, even and candid. "If I did find a way out, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't tell you."

The Devil smiles indulgently at Daniel Jackson, entirely unoffended by his assertion.

There are many things that Lucifer doesn't like about the Rift-- it narrows his powers and constrains him to a small location, among other things. But, despite all these annoyances, it has ultimately done him a great favor. It brought him to this other universe right when he was in the process of falling back into Hell, but before the door slammed shut again.

The Rift, in essence, rescued him. It gave him the possibility of finding a way back to his own universe that didn't involve him being trapped in his Cage, but with big brother Michael stuck inside. And that would be a fitting thing, letting big brother have a taste of the Cage that he'd left Lucifer to rot in for all those millennia.

"I can be patient, Daniel. There are ways out of every cage, even this one, and I have all the time in the world to find it. I don't need you to cooperate with me, though it certainly wouldn't hurt either of us if you did."

Edited 2015-05-29 22:58 (UTC)

"I can think of a lot of ways it might hurt me, actually." Particularly now, with more of what Lucifer is bared to him, all the power and energy compacted into that body he's wearing. He has no idea what a conflict between them would look like on this plane or on the next, but he's fairly certain he doesn't want to find out. "A lot of ways it could hurt other people. And I'm not about to risk that."

Hence - safer on the lower plane. Maybe Daniel was always meant be this, to become this, but it won't mean he'll ever relinquish what he is at his core. Solidly, steadfastly moral, and unwilling to renounce that even when it was openly discouraged and despised.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject