[log] Decoherence [open]

[snowblindmods]

Characters: anyone
Location: In Norfinbury, and yet not.
Date: At all times, and yet not.
Summary: What you remember isn't what happened, probably. A place to play out situations that happened in the test drives or elsewhere. Things that happened and didn't happen.
Warnings: general horror warnings; please include more specific warnings in subject lines as necessary!

Comments

Closed for Rocket | cw: mentions of kitten death

[dousedflame]

[Bluestar hates snow. She's always hated snow - well, she'd hated it since that night that she had to drag her kits through it, feeding them lies just to get them to follow her, digging holes in the snow to keep them just warm enough to keep going... looking back and watching her daughter's body disappear under the fresh flurries.

It had been worth it. She has to remind herself that it was worth it. But that doesn't stop her from hating snow.

The coat helps, at least, and Rocket's body shields her from some of the winds buffeting her fur. But the stress of being outside all day has her so out of sorts that she misses the warning from their tablets that it's getting late. She'll miss whatever Rocket was saying, too, as she uses all of her mental strength to push away the memory of Mosskit.]

...I'm sorry, what?

[procyon_lotor]

We need to keep moving!

[ It feels like he's shouting, but Rocket can't quite tell anymore. Maybe he's only shouting in his head, because every time he talks it's like he's inviting the wind to blow into his throat and freeze him from the inside out. He knows that the two of them are lucky — that unlike the humans, both he and Bluestar were originally born to survive in the wild, so they have their fur instead of bare skin. But he wasn't born to survive in temperatures like this. ]

I can see a building maybe a mile away! [ He is yelling, he realizes, because of how loud the wind is howling around them. ] We HAVE to get there.

For Royce | cw: murder

[termineur]

[ Sylar hadn't expected to run into anyone tonight, but this was looking like a fortunate accident. He'd been trying to get his hands on some proper metal- stuff that wasn't just scrap from the houses- and not having much luck. This guy seems like a walking pincushion, just going by the flashes of knives and sharp bits he's been seeing.

So Sylar's been acting rather friendly and unassuming for awhile, even offering some of his food. He can tell he's going to have to be careful about this. ]

I've got some wine in my pack, too, if you really want to have a party. I don't usually drink too much, so I've just been carrying it around.

[bywolves]

[ Royce is not... nervous so much as he's cautious. Wary. He doesn't trust friendly people. Sylar offers him food, and Royce refuses it, expression flat and annoyed. What do you think he is, an idiot? And he's got his own food, clearly. He's fine.

Royce pulls his cloak closer around him, curled up on the floor across the room, bag firmly set behind him. ]

It'd be stupid to get drunk when it's this cold.

Fake fearshare open

[warriorscribe]

[When the fear event had struck, Enoch had isolated himself from almost everything going on in Norfinbury, and was never drawn into the escherverse so he had never learned what, exactly, had happened after they had been compelled to spill their deepest fears.

Or had he?

Enoch's fear is subtle, from a distance. From a distance, occupying a landing in a mobius strip "spiral" staircase, pristine, dreamy white with a lone figure curled up in the fetal position within it, it may look like Enoch in Heaven, or it may look like mere isolation.

Step into this space, however, and one will see faint footprints on the floor, tracks of all shapes and sizes, going every which way around him but either vanishing or leading off the landing (too often off the edge of the staircase, if one cares to track the mess). A feeling will fill one's gut with the sick sense of abandonment, of being left behind.

He raises his head on being approached.]

If you're real-... [his voice breaks. You should hurry up and move on. But shooing someone away hurts as much as them leaving.] ...or if my mind has created you to keep me company, will you stay?

[Yes, even if one is out hunting folks as an anomaly. The man's desperate - his light? His luck? It always comes to his detriment anyway. Take it, if you'll really stay.]

((ooc: The exact event in question, if needed))

[cosmicwords]

[chaos is walking through the twisting, impossible landscape with a sense of vague confusion. Somehow, he feels, he should not be here. Not just this strange hallucinatory world, but this entire time stream.

The more he tries to focus on this sense of not belonging, the more it edges away into the corners of his consciousness, making more room for a cold and primal fear.

The fear that his closeness to humanity is harming them, the fear that every beat of his heart brings the universe closer to its demise.... these thoughts keep intruding upon him as he walks. It's almost a relief when he sees the figure of Enoch ahead of him, as it gives him something else to think about.

When Enoch lifts his head as he approaches, chaos frowns.]

I'll stay.

For Bucky | cw: murder

[termineur]

[ Sylar had bitten off way more than he could chew today. Things had gotten tense when he ended up in the aquarium with this guy with a metal arm (mostly hidden as it is) and distrust in his eyes. He knows nothing about him, other than the fact that he's not very conversational. Sylar's usual unassuming way of talking and offers of food haven't gotten very far.

Unfortunately, Sylar takes that as a challenge. So he starts poking. ]

That arm looks pretty amazing. You've gotta be from some sci-fi future or something. -I mean, from the way it'd seem on my world, of course. You can really move it like a normal one, huh?

[advanced]

[Bucky usually does his best to be as unobtrusive as possible when it comes to the arm, but even he has to unwrap himself and warm up every once in a while. The aquarium is a good place to do that, and the need to bathe the parts where the metal meets flesh in warm water outweigh the desire to keep it hidden.

His glance to the stranger is still sharp, though he does demonstrate by moving the arm up and down once.]

It's not good here, metal and cold.

For Mycroft | cw: murder

[termineur]

[ It had been a good day when Mycroft contacted him. He'd been trying to stay off the radar of people that'd chase him lately, but who would complain if he offs a guy that had been trying to hire assassins? This was like a free pass. He'd asked for various things- a good word put in here and there to other people, and the promise of a certain amount of food and other supplies.

He had to make the deal sound real, but he had no intention on following through. He liked House, oddly enough, and the guy was making progress here. And Mycroft trying to hire him to kill the guy just hit him the wrong way.

So he'd spent all his time since then tracking Mycroft down. He rushes into the house two minutes before lockdown, heaving with exhaustion like he just ran the distance. He shakes off the snow and looks rather surprised at the company. ]

Oh! Hey, didn't expect to see you here.

[holmesice]

[Mycroft looked up, not expecting that anything was wrong at all. It was a coincidence, yes, but only one, and there was nothing for him to be alarmed about.

He glances up from where he was working on his tablet and eating an early, unappetizing dinner.]

Ah. Well, good evening to you. There's plenty of room here.

[So don't bother him. A hand wave at the room around them, and his attention goes right back to his tablet.]

For Harley

[spoileralert]

Steph and Davesprite have parted ways only briefly, for two separate missions. He has to help a friend, and she had to make a food run. But the good thing about food runs is that you tend to run into people, and when you know everyone in town you tend to run into people you know.

Running into Harley makes for a nice change of pace, but into the night Steph still finds herself on her tablet willing Davesprite to message her and sighing.

[clowngirl]

Harley hears Steph's sigh and instantly slides over beside her.

She's been waiting for something entertaining to present itself tonight. Being a ball of energy makes the Norfinbury nights seem longer and slower than most. It's lucky for Harley that she's run into Stephanie, no matter how long the company lasts.

"Wanna talk about it? ...Him? Her?" She takes her guesses about the sigh's origin while nosily peering over at Steph's tablet.

OTA

[devoutish]

A - Beautiful Dreamer event

[The room that the dream starts out in is very reminiscent of a typical Norfinbury living room. It's not recognizable as belonging to any house or building in particular, but a lot of the telltale signs are there - no electricity, standard furniture, a run-down appearance, freezing cold. The one anomaly is the large wooden desk in the middle of the room. It's crowded and a bit messy, but in a lived-in way - and here's Alfie, sitting at it, focused on writing something in a ledger. A younger man in a yarmulke is milling around nearby. He reaches a hand up and pulls a book out of thin air, like he's pulling it off of a bookshelf.

Unless the viewer interrupts them in some way, Alfie will eventually turn, snaps his fingers at the man to get his attention, and open his mouth to say something - just as there's a loud boom, and the back wall of the room collapses in an avalanche-like wave of powdery snow. Unless the viewer is unusually large, strong, or otherwise likely to be unaffected, it'll knock them off their feet and flat onto their back, winding them for a moment.]

B - Noisy Black event

[Alfie wakes slowly. The first thing he notices is the warmth - it feels like it's been forever since he's been properly warm, and though his instinct is to frantically grab for blankets and outerclothes that aren't there, he doesn't really need them. Even in this thin hospital gown, he's comfortable enough.

But he's in a cell. That much is obvious as soon as he opens his eyes. And there are others in cells all around him - privacy isn't really going to be a thing here. He swings his feet over the edge of his cot and stands on unshaky legs, going over to the sink to splash water on his face. That, too, is mercifully warm. When he's done, he glances over at the person in the cell nearest to his.]

How long have you been awake? Have you seen anything?

[Or maybe the person he talks to here isn't in a cell at all. Maybe they'll come later... wearing a hooded cloak.]

C

[So it's come to this. For one reason or another, Alfie has earmarked this person as fair game when it comes to his unsavory activities. He won't go after just anyone, but there are a few possible reasons that could be behind this. Maybe they've done something to earn his ire somehow - working against him in some way, doing something that might hinder exploring or escape efforts, or even just meddling a bit too much for his liking and not responding to warnings to fuck off. Or, maybe, this is more about who they are than about what they've done - they've admitted to being involved in crime, either as a criminal or a crime-fighter, and this is simply business. Either way, Alfie is currently holding them at knifepoint in the kitchen of an otherwise-deserted house.]

Right.

[Despite his actions, his tone is easy and conversational - though they might get the very real sense that that politeness is only skin deep.]

Bag goes on the table, then you take two steps back. Let's not have any funny business today. Have you got any weapons in your pockets?

D

[Wildcard! Throw me a starter for a scenario or previous game event that isn't already here.]

[OOC: Feel free to contact me to chat/plot/hash out details before commenting, but it's not necessary! If you'd rather just jump in and wing it, that's totally cool too. Since these are all false memories and don't need to mesh with any particular timeline, all these prompts are fair game for multiple responses.]

C is for criminal conduct (cw: implied past abuse)

[mrcreamsicles]

[He thought he could pull it off. Propose a solid trade, meet up at night, keep things civil. He'd been polite and businesslike as they met up ad exchanged their items. They went to sleep in their spaces later that night. The trick, then, was to sneak Alfie's stolen goods out of his bags in the early morning—late enough he figured he would be sound asleep, but early enough that he could be alert and ready for lockdown's end.]

[It should have worked. He has no footsteps! He's been trained to be fast! But be it the rustle of feathers, the shuffle of his things from the kitchen he'd carried Alfie's bag to, whatever—something was enough to give him away. Alfie, then, had been quiet enough to sneak back up on him.]

What counts as two steps when I don't have feet?

[There's no amusement to his tone at all. His voice is even, his face stoic, his stupid shades in place despite the hour. He's used to them. They hide his eyes—and where he's looking.]

[Most in the moment, he misses his sword. Who the hell could fight a sword with a knife? And he doesn't even want that, but it's the casual tone, the blade so near, that puts his mind back to Bro and sneak attacks. Back then he could flashstep; back then he had a sylladex.]

[He puts the bag down. He doesn't move away yet.]

You've got a pretty wrong impression if you think I came here to off you in your sleep or something.

Noisy Black Redux CW: body horror/trauma, medical horror (continued)

[zunesareawesome]

CW's continued: torture, unnecessary surgery, psychological trauma, throat/mouth squick, potential blood/gore, embedded wires/electronics, forced IV's/feeding, brain/spinal/nervous system horror, stitches

A. For Stephen:

[This was the worst place ever.

Peter had arrived only a few days earlier, and okay--maybe he could deal with being randomly kidnapped, the survival situation, trying to find a way home. The weirdness people were talking about, monsters--whatever. Even without his blasters, he could deal.

But this? Whatever this was? This was messed up.

He'd hated doctors for a long time, human doctors anyway, especially once he found out how primitive earth medicine really was. Seeing himself in that hospital gown when he first arrived here had set him off already.

Also he probably shouldn't have goaded Stephen on back on the network, a part of him wondered if the man had snapped and taken some kind of sick revenge. When he'd been strapped on the table, he tried to reassure him that Wizards are way cooler than space pirates! Then again, he couldn't exactly believe he was saying those words. All humor disappeared when he realized what the good doctor was going to actually do to him.

Peter looked up at the cell bars, this was way worse than when he'd been jailed in the Kyln. At least in the Kyln, he didn't have a speaker shoved into his mouth, vocal cords cut, and his Zune embedded in his chest. There were wires poking in and out of his neck and through his chest. Wires from the top of his neck down his back, connected to his spine, and eventually making their way into a large, achingly heavy battery pack of some kind embedded in his lower back. He assumed there might have been more done to his nervous system, spine, or maybe his brain, but he was too busy screaming to really be sure. His hands were sewn flat against the side of his stomach, just above his hips, leaving him as helpless as apparently he was supposed to be.

He was so tired. If he turned his head, he could see a small display on the battery pack? A red battery symbol was blinking. What happened if it went completely out? Somehow he just knew he was shutting down. The battery was running him now, somehow. Peter slowly, achingly moved to a lying position, hating to move because he could feel all the metal and wire and plastic, things where they shouldn't be, ugh, and worst of all, he couldn't make noise. Natural noise, anyway, weirdly enough his Zune seemed to turn randomly. Until he found out that it turned on when he thought about it, music filtering out of the circular speaker in his mouth. He'd attempted to spit the thing out, but it was somehow embedded in a way that he could not. Its size, the way it took up his entire mouth, may have been a factor in that as well--he couldn't move his jaw or tongue.

A thin thread of music warbled and faded as unconsciousness finally took him.]

B. OTA

Any point during the Noisy Black event, including network posts, is open to anyone!

all cw's listed above will be in effect for the full length of this thread

[thewarningafter]

It hadn't been easy. Even with the miraculous gift given to him by the Prophet, the restoration of his hands, Peter's treatment had been long and exacting work. It had been so right, though, a return to his previous life in the most meaningful way possible, and Stephen had been almost joyful at the chance to shine in one of the best ways he knew how. Thanks to Peter, he'd even been able to listen to a little music while he worked.

When Stephen is upstairs, his hands shake again, but it's from the overwhelming anxiety and nausea he feels knowing what he's done to Peter and to his other patient. When he's upstairs he schemes with the others, trying desperately to lay out some plan that won't be undone the instant he leaves the dormitory. He tries and fails to comfort the others 'converts.' To comfort himself. He tries and fails to imagine how things can ever be made right again.

But Stephen is not upstairs right now.

Peter's already run himself down when Stephen arrives at his cell, which isn't surprising. Stephen's touch is gentle, professional, as he crouches beside his patient and turns him over on his front. He's humming a tune, the first one Peter had started playing after Stephen first connected the wires, as he unspools a power cord and plugs Peter's battery in to charge.

No Light, No Light CW: Body horror

[zunesareawesome]

A. Cause this is thriller, thriller night-- OTA

Peter stared at the sharp shards of rock sticking out of his hands.

You know, maybe it wasn't so bad. Maybe he could deal with this, get to shelter, call it a day and pretend that he wasn't having a really weird allergic reaction or something.

As the day wore on, Peter realized that this was going to get much worse before it got better. It was something to do with the light that was stolen from him--he could sense it, sense a weird yearning desire to steal someone else's. And it wasn't like Ego's light, either, but then again, it kind of was? He had a sort of light, he could feel it in his mind, but not the light he needed right now. He shook his head, which was now about halfway-covered with rocks, his clothes were stretched or ripped as more and more rock was piling on at random points. His left leg dragged heavily through the snow, he hunched over like a turtle at the large chunks of rock were piling on his back. This was terrifying, this was painful, but he had to get to shelter.

The hospital was just up ahead.

B.And no one’s gonna save you, from the beast about to strike -- For Flynn (also OTA if anyone wants the same situation to play out with their character as well)

The rock didn't stop, it only kept growing and growing. His clothes were long-shredded, as the piles of rocks that were once his arms and legs connected with each other, covering his face but he could still see, somehow, he didn't need to breathe--piling more and more until he was nothing more than a ten-foot sphere. Oddly enough, the surface seemed to resemble, impossibly, a planet-like surface, including an atmosphere. Glowing blue spots glowed here and there, and tiny aurora would arch up over the 'skies'.

Oddly enough, Peter wasn't bothered by it. It felt right, it was only natural.

And then, he'd suddenly come back to himself, recoiling, the sphere shuddering with revulsion and a frantic desire to--to what, run away? He couldn't run from this!

And now he needed the light. Not the light that made up what he was, in his core, but the light. And he was going to steal it back.

He began to roll forward.

B.

[cahooted]

Flynn screamed.

Really, what else was he supposed to do when Peter suddenly changed, growing and morphing into a giant ball, breaking furniture and support beams in its wake? It was horrid and surreal and so weird. It looked fascinating, like an oversized planetary model, all down to the most minute topological detail. Tiny clouds lingered across the surface like a needlessly aesthetic magic touch. It could have been beautiful. If it hadn't absorbed his friend.

Backing off slowly, Flynn stared uncomprehending, his mind blank with shock. "P-peter?"

The sphere seemed to rumble, a soft vibration, before it set into motion. Towards him. And fast.

There were moments in life where you took chances. Having a giant rumbly planet coming towards you like you're the loneliest bowling pin in the universe was not one of them. Whirling around on his heels Flynn burst from the house they had spent the morning in and started running like never before in his life, bringing a good 100 yards between them before glancing back over his shoulder for the first time.

The Peter-Globe was right behind him.

"Are you kidding me!?" Head snapping back forward he tried to run faster, eyes searching the area for two things: narrow passages and uphill.

For Squalo

[cahooted]

[That was just not how it was supposed to go down. If, and that had been a big IF, Flynn agreed to a sword fight or wooden-stick-version thereof, it had been supposed to be for sport only. With rules. With witnesses. Not at a random lone encounter at the museum of all places!

Where's their referee? Where's the security measures?

Flynn can instantly tell that Squalo is not going to want to let their chance meeting go to waste and he brings up his hands, eyes wide with a deer in headlights expression. Okay, there's no reason to panic. He's sure they can work something out here.

Maybe there's a reasonable guy somewhere under all those layers of... murder and insanity.]

You know, I really think maybe now's not the best time?

[sharktrash]

[ SECURITY MEASURES ARE FOR PUSSIES. ]

[ Nonetheless, while Squalo had been looking forward to this meeting, the preparations still leave some things (like actual swords) to be desired. That, and stabbing a seemingly unarmed guy waving his hands around like a hippie in a swarm of mosquitoes isn't fun, even if he's not particularly concerned about sportsmanship. ]

[ So he does, in fact, stand down somewhat, letting his wooden stick rest against the floor in a casual manner. ]

Why not? Carpe diem, motherfucker.

No Light, No Light CW: Body horror like whoa it's gross, eye/mouth squick

[holmesice]

A. If there is a monster out there, there's only one thing to do: find out where it lives -- For Sherlock

It had been a rather poor day, all things considered.

Apparently this is what happened when one's light was stolen, but Mycroft hadn't exactly been prepared for seeing something tear painfully open on the palm of his hand. For a brief moment, he assumed he'd injured himself, until he saw the needle-sharp teeth lining the small maw.

There was a lot of screaming.

This was not possible, this whole bloody town shouldn't be possible, but there was little Mycroft could do but reach new levels of horror at every mouth that appeared on his body, including an absolutely giant one across his chest, lined with thousands of horrible, sharp teeth. His clothes ripped where the mouths were, they'd tear through the fabric.

And then, suddenly, he couldn't see for a moment. His eyes simply ceased to exist, as if he'd never had them at all. Smooth skin soon covered his entire face, but then--now he could see--out of the eyes that popped out of several of the mouths. They were round spheres, not connected by any optic nerve at all, and they'd fall out of the various mouths and roll around on the ground. He could still see out of them which was terribly impossible, and he went around picking them up and trying to hold them in his mouths, because that's where they were supposed to go. It was too disorienting to have them scattered about. It was easiest for the giant, center maw to hold the now hundreds of literal eyeballs. Painful too, as the teeth were quite sharp. Sometimes it got to be too much, he kept dropping them, and his mind struggled to deal with the sensory input.

And somehow, he could feel himself getting lost. A dreadful desire to steal light was starting to make itself known, a ravenous hunger that his many mouths insisted he follow.

The next morning, he couldn't resist it any longer.

B. OTA

Any point during the No Light event, including network posts, is open to anyone!

[howdull]

Sherlock wasn't far.

He and John had not begun changing themselves but, when they had seen the others on the network make posts and begin to fear that they were, they had decided that the safest thing to do might be to split up for a couple of days and isolate themselves. It was a much surer way of making sure that neither would be accidentally hurt than just using restraints, and hopefully would be a precaution not needed.

But then... well... then he entered the house with that thing in it.

At first he thought it was a normal anomaly, but the clues all added up in his mind rapidly. Remnants of a designer suit and overlaid mismatched clothing for work, ripped by the mouths, that crop of hair, that way of holding himself.

"Mycroft?!"

Emergency Repairs - Flynn (cw: radiation sickness)

[bywolves]

[ Of all the people he thought he was going to get stuck with, he never thought it'd be Flynn. It's not that he minds so much - the dude talks a lot sometimes, but that's not something that Royce is unused to. It's just unexpected. It feels like, almost, that it wasn't supposed to be this way, but he ignores that feeling in favor of worrying about the nausea that's slowly creeping up on him.

He ends up having to curl up on a couch, under a blanket or two, shivering and feeling like he's going to lose the meager breakfast he had any second - poor Flynn is probably in a similar state, which is why Royce croaks after a long span of silence: ]

Still alive over there?

[cahooted]

[Flynn just groans in response because this is awful; he can't remember the last time he'd been this sick. If ever; he'd never done a lot of things as a child that would leave him at risk of getting sick. There was a certain safety in sitting in your room and reading.]

Yeah, I'm still here.

[Some part of him, at least. An absolutely miserable, disgusting heap of a part that feels like coming apart. His voice is whiny with misery which he hates but can't really do much about.]

Should move... closer to the bathroom. [There is no way he's moving.]

Beautiful Dreamer Event

[cahooted]

A. For Bucky

[The hallways are incoherent, jumbled and completely nonsensical in their layout. They arch, intersect, mix eras and architecture like a quilt blanket, Egyptian hieroglyphs moving seamlessly into medieval castle walls with suits of armor, dusty mausoleums with dead kings left and right, archways that lead over bridges above molten lava and sizzling heat, chambers of treasure and old caverns with dripping, colorful stalactites.

Flynn can be found at the center of it all, on a heavily ornate platform, surrounded by what seems to be an amalgam of symbols and writing etched into the wall. They move, sometimes lighting up with a lingering glow that fades again like a pulse.

He's not alone; moving through the massive room and towards the stairs leading up the platform are humanoid creatures with glowing eyes and sharp fangs, snarling and closing in quickly.

Flynn simultaneously tries working on what is clearly some sort of puzzle and fending off the attackers by... very pointedly and surprisingly accurately throwing bits of treasure at various spring traps on the area below, making the creatures suffer the fallout. But he is running out of treasure. And traps, apparently, if the amass of sprung spears, blades and fallen stone blocks are any indication.]

A little help here?!


B. OTA

[come visit him if you want to go on an a d v e n t u r e; any setting works, the more clichéd the better 8D]

B oh my god do I want an adventure

[bookofnope]

[He'd wandered in a number of dreams by now, but it's this one that Beckett finds it easiest to get absolutely lost at; to all but forget where he truly is, what he is now, and fall right into exploration. This is his playground. History and buried treasure, caverns and catacombs, this is his unlife. This nonsense was made for him.

He embrace it, so pun intended, even if it isn't real and even if it is ridiculous, because he's missed it, for God's sake. He fixes his hat on his head and his glasses on his nose and forges into the labyrinth, in search of something like a path towards something like a centre.

The Egyptian hieroglyphs attract him especially, as a convenient place to start and puzzle to solve. He leans close, hands hovering just shy of the wall, and follows the sequence, reading - a little slowly, he's rusty, but with determined interest. The dry air, the smell of sand and antiquity, the dark passages and the feel of the pyramid pressing, massive, above - he's missed it all.]

No light, no light – For Nicole (cw: body horror)

[cahooted]

[Sometimes he can forget where they are. Sometimes when he wakes up, all tangled up in heaps of clothes and fake furs and hiking gear, there is a drowsy moment where he thinks they're in the Himalaya; Mongolia; Chile. Mission details jumble in his head as he rubs his eyes, feeling Nicole sleep next to him, and he's happy. Then the morning cold hits him in a way only this town has ever managed to and with sudden painful dread, Flynn remembers. He lies still for a little while, trying to sink back into the fantasy of simpler days like you would cling to a dream that's already fading.

Today, it brings a sudden resolve: It doesn't have to be horrible. Not always. Not today. Today will be different.

With a sudden eagerness to show Nicole what he can do Flynn crawls out of bed, then takes it upon himself to make breakfast. The last couple of times they had been out in the wilderness she had taken care of everything – building fires, gathering provision, finding water sources, really, he was just along for the ride and the occasional ancient prophecy. Well, he's older now, more capable, and she's about to find out.

The fireplace is still functional and despite some curses and blistering, Flynn manages to get a small flame going. Sitting cross-legged on the floor he fumbles with his frying pan, some water and what little ground coffee he has left to make a fresh brew. He even crumbles some chocolate off a candy bar, to melt in some little extra flavor.

When he can hear Nicole stir in her blankets he smiles.]

Rise and shine! Oh, you're gonna love this.

cw: body horror

[slapthelibrarian]

[ For Nicole, it's still all too easy to forget where she is. She hasn't been in Norfinbury as long as most, so sometimes when she's asleep, her subconscious spins images of places and scenes from home; when she wakes up, there's always that disorienting feeling of thinking of one place but being in another.

Today as she wakes up, she rolls over in the bed that's clearly seen better days. Nothing at all seems amiss until she draws in a long breath, intended to steel herself for whatever the day brings. What she's not expecting is a stabbing sensation somewhere near her ribs. It's brief, but strong, and sends an unexpected wave of nausea rising up.

But it's gone as quickly as it came, and when she tries another experimental breath, everything feels normal. ]

All right, I don't know what that was.

[ She mumbles to herself before leaving the bed entirely. The room they're in is small, so it doesn't take long for her to join Flynn by the fireplace. ]

Sorry, but I don't think I'll be doing very much shining today.

[ She doesn't feel sick, but there's a feeling of being- well, off that she can't quite shake. Add in the fact that she feels wrong, like she's got too many limbs or that her fingers are too long, but when she surveys what she can see of herself, nothing is out of the ordinary. ]

Are you feeling all right? [ He looks normal, at least, but the sensation of wrongness is growing, and it's making her feel just a little unsettled. ]

Closed to Flynn | cw: mentions of unhealthy, abusive relationship

[clowngirl]

["Limerick." It's a funny word to use for such an uncharacteristically serious context.

Things between Joker and Harley haven't been going the way she's wanted them to for quite awhile. He seems darker in Norfinbury, angrier than he did at home. And now... she knows that this is the moment she has to get out. And luckily, she remembers one of the people who had offered her help if she ever needed it.

"Limerick", she sends to Flynn in a haste. Harley then asks if he's read the limerick written on the wall in what would soon be her destination. Hopefully, he'd take the hint and make it his destination as well.

She leaves first thing in the morning and arrives at the building before the end of the day. After a quick visual scan, she assumes she's arrived first. Harley figures as long as the Joker himself hasn't managed to follow her then she's almost in the clear. Enough so to catch her breath, not quite enough to put down the policeman's baton in her hands as she waits in view of the door.]

[cahooted]

[Limerick.

The code word hits him like lightning and as soon as it arrives Flynn is packing. He plays along for the rest of the day, even quotes a little rhyme he makes up on the spot. Just a regular conversation on the network. The Librarian talking about librarian stuff.

The next morning, he's on the move. The march gives him time to think but he doesn't arrive at anything conclusive; can't seem to sort through his emotions. He's conflicted, doesn't want to be needed because obviously that means Harley is in danger. At the same time he's glad she called, that she seems to be willing to break out of this mess of a relationship that still makes his skin crawl.

It's already getting dark and colder outside when he pushes the door open with his shoulder, stumbling inside and shaking off snow and ice.]

Harley? Are you--

[When he spots her he immediately moves towards her but stops when his eyes fall on the baton. He quickly brings a hand up.] Whoa, just me.

Closed to Ginger

[clowngirl]

[In a cold and isolated forced-vacation such as this one, bumping into Ginger Hale in her travels through Norfinbury is a blessing. Ginger is the absolute sweetest as far as Harley is concerned, and keeping company with someone of such a similar temperament almost effortlessly helps keep her spirits up.]

So, where'd ya learn to sew? [Harley asks before poking her head out the door, doing a quick check for anomalies. The coast being clear, she gives a loud "BRRR!" before bouncing back inside their occupied building and towards her current travel companion.]

[lacecase]

[As Ginger is more than plain useless where anomalies are concerned, she's already working on getting the space ready for them, rolling out blankets and spreading out cushions that they can use to sleep as comfortably as possibly. Being able to travel with a friend--especially a female friend--is so nice. It feels a little bit like being at home again. Things aren't quite as scary!]

I, like, learned from the tailor that had this cuuute little shop set up in my home town. I'd always been super into fashion so it just, like, clicked. I even surprised myself when I was actually able to pick it up.

Beautiful Dreamer (for Castiel) | cw: Religious imagery, Xenosaga narm

[cosmicwords]

[There is an eerie hum that seems to fill the sky, occasionally punctuated by a sound that might be wind or might be voices speaking in an ancient and unpronounceable language.

The land is lush and green with tall, rustling trees. Scattered about the roots are old ruins and relics of a people long since passed.

Despite the plants and the gentle bubbling of a nearby stream there is something hollow and quiet about this place.

This place, possibly the entirety of this landmass, is a tomb.]

[godsspeed]

[ It feels all too much like the verdant ruin Lucifer had created of the world in that vision of the a possible future the town had shown him. Castiel looks around, turning slowly in place, ears straining to listen to the distant sound that could almost be his brothers and sisters speaking to him, if not for the sounds and the harmonies being very slightly wrong. ]

Is there anybody there?

[ He calls out using Jimmy's human voice, still unable to speak with his own, even here, far from Norfinbury. ]

Bunker, Alt End (for Angel) | kidnapping, dehydration, death

[headjacked]

[ It's been days.

He's not sure how many, but. Many. At least in the beginning there was the occasional swig of water and bite of food given, between Jack's absent-minded mutterings, his disappearances and reappearances, but. But then Jack stopped coming back.

No more water, no more food.

Now their limbs burn and the desperation is creeping to a cresendo -- they have to get up the stairs, even if they have to rip bones and circuits out of place to do so. That'll be next.

Rhys has been quiet for the last hour. Maybe two? Three. Who cares anymore? Until he mumbles: ]

I don' wanna die like this.

[phaseshifter]

[ It goes without saying, but Angel isn't doing well. The extended silence isn't conducive to keeping her cabin fever-addled mind in reality, and when Rhys finally speaks she doesn't entirely snap out of it. ]

No. It wasn't supposed to be this way, they were - I thought they'd come for the vault key, but they must have gone straight to...

[ The bunker isn't usually this cold. Or maybe it's just that she can't feel the eridium burning any more? She hopes Rhys isn't cold. Or burning up. ]

I'm so sorry.

beautiful dreamer → for house; (cw: upcoming themes of death, blood, identity issues, abuse)

[mrcreamsicles]

[The Land of Heat and Clockwork is immediate and imposing in every sense, from the sticky Houston humidity to the sword-clash clangs of its massive, turning gears. It shoulder be different. This much metal should have a different tone; this much lava should be more like an oven. Shoes won't melt to the metal, but the rest of you might feel like it.]

[In the distance a structure towers tall and imposing, higher than building should from that far away, but nearer sound and movement is likely to draw attention sooner than later. Metal stairs lead away to the scene of a 13-year-old in a suit, sword in hand as he faces off against a mob of what plainly look to be video game monsters. In shades of yellow and red, they range from small imps to to hulking ogres and giclopses, some bearing cat features or wings or wearing any variety of princess or harlequin-themed garments. And he moves like it's routine, sword slashes and steps that carry him fast enough that it's hard to tell what's an afterimage and what isn't, until it becomes clear there's more than one of him in the mix. At some point one manifests a pair of floating turntables surmounted on red gears, vanishes, and the other instance is left to explode the last giclops into something that looks caught between gems and candy for shape and color.]

[He hasn't noticed House yet. He's busy gathering up the spoils, apparently by walking into them so that they vanish from sight.]

[rubikscomplex]

[What... the ever loving hell? The first thing House notes about this place is that it's unbelievably hot. That might normally be welcome after Norfinbury, but it's unbelievably hot and the floor below them is lava. And there's clockwork everywhere. And little black creatures instead of white anomalies.

House takes the stairs toward the sound of the fighting, but it's over before before he even really reaches it. The doctor recognizes Dave--not Davesprite--and stops. This has to be Davesprite's dream, but is that him, or...? Well, one way to find out.]

I'm guessing the gushers are this place's idea of gil?

Noisy Black; For Flynn; CW: eventual psychological/medical horror

[onlytwothings]

[ To any observers (not that there were any at the moment), Wilson appears largely unchanged. The only difference now is that he's wearing a long, black cloak with a hood. His hood is up, covering most of his face, but his eyes are visible from the depths.

He's standing just outside a cell, staring inside through the bars, but he's not making any other movements. It's as though he's waiting for something. There's no need to rush any of this, no need to rouse the unfortunate individual inside the cell before the time is right. Patience is key; it's always been the key in any procedure that he's ever done before.

Now, though, it's of vital importance. One doesn't always need knives and scalpels to cause just the right kind of reaction. The right words, and nearly infinite amounts of patience, can do wonders. Wilson just stands there, still unmoving, but his hands clasp together in anticipation.

This is his time to show the Prophet his loyalty. Now he just has to wait for the subject of his attentions to be ready. He won't wait for long, but for now, he can afford to be patient. ]

[cahooted]

[Flynn rests, lying awake but with his eyes closed. The cell feels luxurious, with the heating and the bed and even though he can't shake the feeling that this is going to end badly, he will take it for now. His legs cherish it; all the muscles in his body really and being here just makes him feel in retrospect how bad it was out there. How exhausted he really is.

Eventually he pushes himself into a sitting position because the other luxury – running water – is calling to him. He stifles a yawn, rubbing the back of his neck...

... and flinches back when he looks up and at the hooded figure hovering outside. Jesus. Exhaling audibly, Flynn makes a face at being startled. And at having been observed while pseudo-sleeping, because that's not creepy at all?]

Oh, that is just-- Could you not do that? I get that you have to keep up the evil acolyte performance, but-- Wilson? [He blinks when he realizes why the hooded man looks strangely familiar, involuntarily leaning forward to get a better look.] Is that you?

No soliciting – For Mycroft

[cahooted]

[When Flynn barges into the house everything is loud about it. He's muttering to himself about various things – it keeps his mind occupied in those last hours of walking when the temperature starts dropping – and noisily puts his messenger bag down. It's heavy these days, cutting into the shoulder that's carrying it and switching sides around only helps so much.

Shoving the door shut with his butt he shakes the snow and ice off his shoes by banging the heels on the floor. Only then does he look up to find the shelter already occupied.]

Oh hey, didn't see you there!

[Flynn flashes Mycroft a friendly grin.] Bit nippy outside, I'd say, eh, old chum.

[And that would be the worst fake British accent in the history of Americans putting on a British accent.]

>:D

[holmesice]

[Oh dear Lord.

The noise, the stomping, the presence of another person, an American trying to mimic—no.

Mycroft immediately gets up from his seat, pointing his umbrella with the sharp piece of rubble tied to the end of it. He’s still wearing his rain boots, but he’d shed his coat and deerstalker cap, leaving his ragged and stained suit visible. It’s probably not as intimidating as it usually would be, but his face read nothing but I will destroy you and everyone you love.]

No. Get out.

Beautiful Dreamer, for Beckett

[warriorscribe]

[The environment would be calm and peaceful, a dreamlike fog settling over everything inside this spacious building of marble floors and columns, pristine white but somehow not reflecting the light inside (from where?) to blinding levels. Except twisted figures, winged and sometimes haloed, shuffle about. They seem to be looking for something, but they leave Beckett alone, dripping their bloody static all over the place.

If Beckett follows the corridor formed by the columns, he will come to a wooden desk with a messy quill and spilled inkwell sitting next to an open book, on its other side a small bronze armillary sphere, gently spinning. The open pages' contents contain the same phrase, again and again, in large, crazed letters:

IT'S MY FAULT IT'S MY FAULT IT'S MY FAULT IT'S MY FAULT

There are small stacks of books on the back of the desk, and beyond the desk itself are veritable mountains of books, reaching far back into the obscuring mist. There seems to be a path to go between these mountains, if Beckett so chooses.]

((ooc: Feel free to have Beckett attempt to interact with whatever he would, the intent was to lay out the whole path rather than railroad you into it so you could skip to whatever part interested you most instead of having to advance to each part.))

[bookofnope]

At first, the whiteness and light make Beckett freeze in place with the memory of daylight. He's not had cause to fear the day for a while, now, but this is a different white to the Norfinbury snow. He's not sure why it paralyzes him so surely, but it's a while before he fights down the first instinct - the Beast's instinct to go to ground.

He starts walking the halls with hunched trepidation, step by wary step, glancing around corners, down hallways and up columns. The calm feels deceptive to him, trapping more than comforting. It feels that way even before he finds the first puddle of static-blood, and looks up from it, a hard knot in his gut, to follow the path of the winged figure.

He freezes again. Run? Shout after it? Stay back and hope? The way its presence breaks the calm decides it. He'd felt danger, and this is clearly danger. So not shout after. But run? Run is too much. If this is the cause, he needs to know more.

He begins to track the bleeding figure as quietly as he can, slipping between the shelter of columns with stalking instincts honed over years. What is it looking for? He will follow until he can find out.

For Squalo

[bywolves]

[ The bad part about this, Royce thinks, is that now there's just a dead person in the house with them for the rest of the night. It's not like he cares so much, not like he's never seen one before, it's just that Mercy's with them, and like... he doesn't want her to have to look at it. So after they stab the guy for his supplies, Royce attempts to enlist Squalo in dragging the body to a cabinet to stuff it in there.

Whether or not Squalo helps, there the body goes. Royce manages to make sure Mercy gets fed and then ushers her off to go sleep in the bedroom, under as many blankets as he's got, protected by the stuffed animal that Royce stole off the guy's pack.

And then he flops down in the living room to read the network, wondering where Squalo went off to. He's spent a few weeks with the guy, and while Royce doesn't trust him, necessarily, he's not super afraid of being murdered by him. ]

[sharktrash]

[ On the bright side, while the inside is definitely warmer than the outside, the temperature's still low enough that there shouldn't be any actual problems, like scent, for the few hours they'll have to stay here. Squalo would still rather throw the body out into the snow, part in distaste and partly as an offering to whatever anomalies might get attracted to a whopping band of four (now three) people. Oh well. ]

[ He half-heartedly helps Royce stuff the poor sod into the cabinet (just think of the faces of whoever's gonna come by this house next and find it!), then fucks off to inspect the house for a bit, finally settling down to stuff his face with newly acquired food (because plush toys weren't the only thing the poor dead guy was carrying). ]

[ He's a simple enough creature. Sure, he still needs sleep and someone to FIGHT HIM to be truly content, but one out of three is definitely not bad in this hellhole. So when he's done eating, he's going to poke his head into the living room, all casual - like. ]

[ Oh, he could kill Royce. Or Royce could kill him. The thing is, the man's a lot more entertaining alive. There aren't that many truly decent folk around, after all. ]

[ The shitwit in the cabinet? Well, he failed to give his existence any value that would exceed that of what he was carrying in his pack. ]

[ It's all that simple. ]

[ Squalo leans against the doorframe, relaxed, a skew grin on his face. ]

Heeey, nobody likes a helicopter parent.

[ you should let her look at the corpse, Royce ]

Post Noisy Black - For Magenta

[lacecase]

[Ginger had told Magenta to travel safe. And he's promised that he's not going to come after America any longer but she has to be sure that everything is going a bit better now. So against all odds she found a way to break off from the nations and make her way to America's would-be assailant. She made promises, too. And she's ready to keep them. She has a plan! So she arrives at their rendezvous point: the house with the sewing machine, and summons all her energy as she makes her way inside.]

Yoo-hoo! Magenta, sweetie, are you here? Hello, hello!

[himalayanyeti]

[He's been contemplating ducking out on this meeting, because...well, because while Ginger is nice, probably the nicest person he's met here, and certainly the one he's most willing to trust, he also could have said that about a number of other people who have recently shown ther faces as presumable sadists, or psychopaths, or whatever, he doesn't care. At least he can walk now, even if his whole body aches horribly with every step and small movement.

Before he can leave, though, Ginger arrives, catching him like a deer in the headlights in the entry hall of the house they agreed to meet in. Quickly, instinctively, he ducks back behind the doorframe, strangely quiet and small for himself, more of a tall shadow than a real person.

His voice is hoarse when he does speak, quiet enough to be almost inaudible.]

Hi, sweetheart.

OTA on both prompts

[thewarningafter]

A.) Reorganization | OTA | Network (video)

[@beyonce turns out to be a man with a goatee that's just starting to get unkempt. He gives the tablet an unimpressed look before glancing around at the room behind him.]

Alright, either I just spent the night getting mind-controlled or one of you figured out how to play history's most elaborate prank. Last I checked I was at the post office, and this?

[He gestures. The room is small and filled with child-sized sports equipment. Keen eyes might recognize it as the shed next to the school.]

This is not a post office.



B.) outside of building 93

[At first the urge had just been a tickle in the back of his mind, unnerving but easily set aside. The longer he'd remained in the house, though, the deeper set the urge became:

Run. Run and do not stop running.

It's nearly lockdown; survival dictates that he should remain indoors, but anyone approaching building 93 will find Stephen Strange bursting out the front door, wild-eyed, not even wearing his pack as he sprints out into the snow and rubble.]

A

[armoured]

Uhhh.

[The suit of armour in the corner suddenly jerks to life, lights appearing in his eyes and a thoroughly confused child's voice coming echoing out from somewhere around the helmet area.]

This isn't where I was either... and the people I was with don't look like they're here. This can't be good.