born_guilty: (sometimes my mind don't shake)
[personal profile] born_guilty
There's about two hours left on the clock, and there are a handful of people milling around the Porta.

Mystique is locked and loaded, but otherwise completely tuned out of the proceedings, entrenched in a mindnumbing solitaire tournament on her comm. She's sitting on the stairs that lead to the upper concourses, sparing a glance at the big clock every now and again to compare it to the one on her screen.

She hears something that makes her look up-- something that sounds almost like garbled radio static from afar-- but then it's gone, and she drags a four of clubs across her screen to the proper pile.

Then, all three doors to the upper concourse burst open.

Raven's on her feet and swerving her aim between the three groups of people-- new people-- hustling down the stairs and-- oh, good-- armed to the teeth.

A quick head count gives her fifteen, but then she hears shouting from behind and sees two men flanking another who's hunched over the computer terminal, and that holds her attention. She trains her aim on them; meanwhile, Rogers is shouting, a few guns have gone off, and to call it chaos is really selling the element of surprise short.

The clock reads 002:05:48.

Debut

Jul. 13th, 2013 08:21 pm
huge_egomd: (rock bottom)
[personal profile] huge_egomd
House resisted waking. The hangover he faced was a given and he was actually starting to get used to throbbing head and churning stomach that accompanied his return to consciousness these days. Those symptoms were easily dealt with by the judicious use of the hair of the dog, or possibly a handful of Vicodin.

He did not, however, enjoy finding out where he was. Lately it was usually alone in some no-tell motel or lying next to his bike in some park. On one memorable occasion--at least he was sure it would be memorable if he could actually remember it--he'd woken under a table in some bar that would need major remodeling and an entirely new clientele to rise to the level of a dive.

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes a crack and made a quick visual sweep of the room. His first thought was that he'd landed in a hospital room, a psychiatric hospital room to be precise. It had the same sterile, industrial feel to it though the walls were somewhat lacking in padding. He wondered what he'd done to attract the attention of the men in white coats but he wasn't surprised. He wasn't exactly a stranger to the mental healthcare system after all.

He needed to medicate before he could deal with his situation--whatever it was-- so he sat up and started going through his pockets. He was pleased to find he still had possession of his medication, but puzzled. What self-respecting looney bin allowed patients to keep potent drugs on their person? He shrugged, not really caring why at the moment, and dry swallowed two pills.

Then, while he waited for them to take effect, he finally turned his attention to the woman in the room. A woman wearing the same clothing he was and therefore likely another patient...prisoner...whatever.

"What are you in for?" he asked, rubbing at a sore spot on his neck. "Please tell me it's nymphomania. At least then I'll have something to look forward to."
luckyjackaubrey: (Default)
[personal profile] luckyjackaubrey
Jack's transportation out of the cell and into one of the largest rooms he'd ever encountered was no less disconcerting than his arrival in that cell twenty-four hours earlier. At least Jack's ability to sleep through anything and at any time had no failed him, and most of his confinement he had spent snoring with no notion of the time on waking which was just as well.

In any case, having no explanation for either arrival, Jack dismissed the question from his mind and set about examining the area. His footfalls echoed off the great empty chamber as he paced about, first in one direction and then the other, finding no clue at all as to the manner of his capture, for captured he surely had been.

"Discourteous of the buggers not to present themselves and state their intentions," he said softly to himself.

Finally, Jack stopped, facing down one of the long corridors, and cupped his hands around his mouth. "Ahoy!" he called in his booming ship's voice. "Hello!"
no_good_deed: (pic#5974091)
[personal profile] no_good_deed
"Fiyero?"

The word echoed around the room in a wholly unsettling way - this was not Kiamo Ko, nor was it any place Elphaba had ever seen before in her life. It had the cold, unsettling feel of some of the clockwork alleys she had peeked down in the Emerald City, but there was nothing green here. Well, except for her.

Pacing solved nothing, nor did her attempts to force her way past the invisible door trapping her inside. The words that usually sprang more or less fully-formed to her lips were shy here, refusing to issue forth no matter how hard she probed for them, and eventually she had to concede defeat. Tucking her knees to her chest she sat and waited, a deep and unsettling gnawing in the pit of her stomach. This had to be the work of the Wizard, she just knew it.

***


When she was suddenly transported out of the cell Elphaba thought at first that perhaps Glinda had found her, rescued her, but there was no sign of the bubbly blonde in the wide-open room where she was. More chicanery from the Wizard, then, most likely.

She hadn't gotten far in her investigations before a noise to one side startled her, and she turned to glare in its general direction, wary of tricks and illusions.

"Show yourself," she said flatly. "I know you're there."
good_cop: (02)
[personal profile] good_cop
"DS Murray! Sam, Sam get here, I need, I've been-"

There was a ringing in Sam's ears - no, not so much a ringing as a high-pitched whine, and she put a hand out to steady herself on the wall as her vision swam, pulse racing, the ground swinging back and forth in front of her like she was drunk.

Get a grip get a grip get a fucking grip get a grip get a grip-

The ground was nearer, now, and she realised she'd dropped to her knees, and as though the sound was coming from someone else she could hear herself wheezing, her breath coming in fast, deep gasps, out of control, chest heaving with the effort.

"Sam!"

Ryder was still calling for her somewhere, but it felt distant now, even with the earpiece blaring it into her left ear it was though he was shouting through glass or a pillow, muffled, echoing. She tried to push to her feet, hands scrabbling on the ground, but nothing worked, her coordination shot to hell, and that whining in her head grew louder still, a prickling cold settling over her body as the black drew in from the corners of her vision to envelope her completely.

* * *


When she woke up, everything was white and smooth, and she wondered if she'd forgotten the hospital - they always took you hospital before the referred you to a secure unit - and what was she doing in a secure unit anyway? She wasn't dangerous - or at least, she wasn't violent. Had she had some kind of psychotic break and then blocked it from her memory?

She sat up in the bed, noting that she wasn't in a hospital gown but in fact in reasonably ordinary clothing, and it was with some confusion that she swung her legs off the bed and looked around her. This wasn't like any psychiatric unit she'd ever seen before, and indeed bore more resemblance to a rather high-concept interrogation room, beds aside. Mind you, neither psych wards nor interrogation rooms tended to come with wide open doors, and, standing a little unsteadily, Sam was about to make for said opening when a woman flickered into being in front of her.

Hello, and welcome to the space station Proserpina. We're happy to have you on board. We apologize for the inconvenience, but due to recent health and safety concerns a period of quarantine is necessary to ensure the continued wellbeing of everyone on board. Please do not be alarmed. The sickness we have encountered is contained and suppressed, and we want to keep it that way. The quarantine period will last twenty-four hours, at which time you will be released to be processed through customs. And don't worry, haha, we won't let you starve. The replicator to your right will dispense three meals for you during the course of your quarantine, and the screen behind me will provide you with news, movies and music to entertain you while you wait. We thank you, in advance, for your understanding, and we welcome you to Proserpina with open arms.


Sam had never screamed before in her life, and she wasn't about to start now, but a wave of fresh panic overtook her at this utterly nonsensical stream of information from what had to be a visual and auditory hallucination in front of her, and it was only when she felt the cold floor beneath her that she realised she'd pitched to the ground in her shock. That buzz was back, the high-pitched wasp that drove all rational thought out of her mind, and although she knew she didn't have a radio any more she fancied she could hear Ryder's voice again-

"DS Murray! Sam, Sam get here, I need, I've been-"

"Get a grip get a grip get a grip!"

It was out loud this time, her own voice alien and echoing in the start, sparse room, but it was all she knew what to do, and the litany continued, even between strangled gasps for air as she began to hyperventilate and she felt herself begin to black out all over again.

"...get a grip, get a-"

* * *


The next time she woke up, still curled up on the floor, Sam just curled up tighter, and stayed there.



[Important OOC note here]
princess_bruiser: (Default)
[personal profile] princess_bruiser
This is definitely the craziest dream she's ever had. It's not a nightmare or anything, cuz the only bad thing about it is that her friends aren't here, and it's sorta boring. Maybe it's a little scary the way she can't seem to wake up. Everything's so real-- she even ate a PB & B sandwich from the little cubby in the wall-- but there's no way she's really in space. That'd be insane-o.

Right?

She drifts in and out of sleep for a few more hours until, finally, she feels something shift and she knows, even half-asleep, she's not on the dream-space-jail-bed anymore.

Molly opens her eyes and looks around, then gasps loudly as she jumps to her feet.

"HOLY CRAP!"

Where is she? It looks sorta like an airport and it's nighttime and nobody's around and it's definitely not LAX because she's been there before when her parents take her on vacation and there are always tons of people there.

"GUYS?" She runs off the transporter pad, sprinting across the room for no real reason other than to do something in her panic.

That's when she remembers her cell phone. Duh!

Molly reaches reflexively into the pocket of her space-prison-jumpsuit...

Wait, if I'm awake, why'm I still wearing this weirdo outfit? ...and where's my cell phone? Where're my clothes?

She stares up at the Hub, and all of a sudden, she's pretty sure she's gonna puke.

If I got kiddernapped, I'm gonna be grounded so hard.

"HEY!" she shouts at the room, voice at full, angry volume, her hands balled up into fists at her side. "HEY, JERKFACES! Unless you want me to make a new window in your fancy house, you better come explain yourselves now!"

She thinks Chase would be proud. All she has to do is scare them, punch their lights out, and find the door.

[ Come find one pissed-off fourth grade dropout in the Hub, ready to rumble. ]
ithinkiwasbornforthis: (crazy eyes)
[personal profile] ithinkiwasbornforthis
There's blood in her mouth, young and virile, hot and sweet. Pam is loathe to release the Panther and at another time she might have savored the moment, but the pain lends her feeding an urgency that she cannot ignore.

She has no idea how long it's been, but eventually her prey starts to struggle.

"Pam..." croaks Jason.

Pam focuses on him, and not knowing him for a moment, she drinks deeper. He lets out a faint cry before it registers that this is Sookie's brother. After a heartbeat, she lets go with a great effort that leaves her gasping and Jason tumbles away from her.

"Eric..." she breathes hard.

"He's fine, fine. Sookie's with him."

Pam flips onto her stomach and grinds her teeth together, letting out an animal sound as her crushed ribs light up like fire.

"Go," she growls and as Jason staggers down the hallway, Pam tries to follow, inch by inch, dragging her dead and broken arm and leg. The hall swims in her vision and the sensation of being pulled backward as her sight recedes is all she can regisiter before all goes dark.

---

Pam wakes again laying flat on her back. She does not open her eyes immediately, but she is instantly alert. This is not her nest, nor Eric's, nor any of the emergency hideaways in and around Fangtasia. It feels wrong. Smells wrong. There's nothing right about it.

She tries to think, and it comes flooding back. Alexei! How stupid she had been! And such trouble over fucking Bobby Burnham. She should have let Alexei eat him and save them all the trouble. No, she had been cocky, cornered the brat prince, and he had fucked her up thoroughly. She can still feel it now, worn out, bruised maybe, still healing.

Eric!. She thinks suddenly, feels it with all her being, but what she cannot feel terrifies her as she has not been terrified since she was human. He's gone.

Pam sits up in a blur, throwing away all of her caution in one movement, and she's on her feet, taking everything in at a glance. Only two things immediately interest her, the door, and the man in the room, and only one of those things talked.
elementaire: (oh really)
[personal profile] elementaire
[January 28]

Santana and Holmes wake up in quarantine together. He's not a rapist, he's not fictional, and he's not crazy, thank you.


[Here|Language]
xiii_legion: (concerned)
[personal profile] xiii_legion
[28 JANUARY]

Titus Pullo gets transported to the Proserpina and meets Dr Tom Jackman and then Hyde, in quick succession. It's... an interesting start to things.


[Here|PG/Finished]
dr_lauren: (this is my concerned face)
[personal profile] dr_lauren
[20 DECEMBER]

Lauren and Regina wake up on Proserpina. There is talk of magic, escaping, and a very frustrating game.


[Here|G/Finished]
wise_ass: (Default)
[personal profile] wise_ass
Bert and Roland are in the lead as they rush the hill, down to Grissom’s monstrous horde. Alarm bells are ringing wildly throughout his body but he can’t stop-- this is their final stand!!-- and besides, there’s not enough gauze in any kingdom to save him, now. Every movement of his good eye is excruciating-- his only eye, he supposes, although the other is still there, he hopes-- imagine it! Misplacing an eye! Highly irresponsible.

See? He’s in a fine mood. This can’t be how it ends; he’s never been so full of energy, so ready to take out every last one of those blue-faced fuckers below. Bert’s mouth is frozen in a desperate grin, his sweaty, bloodsoaked hand is firm on the revolver’s grip and the Horn is hanging from his neck, banging around as his horse gallops into the fray. He looks over to find Roland looking at him-- Ro’ doesn’t so good, Bert thinks, and then laughs out of nowhere, because really, it’s Bert that doesn’t look so good! Not anymore, anyway!--and then, Roland is reaching for him, for his hand.

There’s one moment of real clarity in the midst of the feverish hysteria he’s feeling: Bert looks at the oncoming army and realizes he’s not going to get to fight a single one of them, all because he carelessly lost that eye, and what appears to be about thirty gallons of his own blood along the way, too, if the state of his clothes are any indication. Roland’s going this one alone, without Alain (who didn’t even get a proper burial, dear gods, the crows will have him) and without him.

He squeezes Roland’s hand and shouts-- WHEN I FALL, TAKE THE HORN!-- but nothing comes out but a rasp, and though Roland glances back when Bert’s fingers go loose, he doesn’t understand. Oh, well. A promise’s a promise, but Bert’s got a feeling Steven Deschain isn’t going to blame him for not sticking around to return the Horn to its rightful owner. Not in this condition. Let Roland come find him after he’s all done conquering.

It’s high time for a nap, anyway, after the day he’s had. First he gets his eye shot out, then Roland doesn’t hear him about the Horn, then he falls off his gods-be-damned horse before he’s even made it to the battle. He shuts his eye, and thinks: at least sleep’s half as much work as it used to be, and then, after a heaving sigh of laughter, he’s out.

---

When he wakes up, he does so like a man who’s been trying to get to sleep for hours, and, upon nearly succeeding, suddenly notices a dripping faucet. There’s a feeling of frustration, of resenting wakefulness, but then he opens his eye and gasps, and the feeling of getting a full breath into his lungs-- oh, gods, it’s pure-spun heaven.

He slowly looks around-- lifting his neck is dear agony-- and sees neither the red sky he remembers, nor the dusty battleground and Grissom’s men. What he sees a strange metal room with bunkbeds. Tentatively, he reaches to touch his face, and realizes that, first of all, he is clean for the first time in months, and second, his poor old eye has been replaced by a smooth leather patch.

“Roland?” he croaks, turning his head to see the rest of the room.
acalltoarms: (green eyes)
[personal profile] acalltoarms
She still wasn't home, not anywhere close to home. But Kate wasn't stuck in a cell any longer, so at least that was a start.

This place felt too big and too small at the same time; some places opened like a cathedral and others felt as tiny and boxed in as the place she’d arrived in. The light was a soft white glow, soothing but undeniably artificial, and nowhere was there a hint of the sun. But there wouldn't it, would there? Not if they were in fucking space.

Kate had spent the…she’d been thinking of it as morning, but that was wrong. No mornings, no nights, just hours stretching ahead endlessly. But she’d spent a few hours wandering the parts of the space station that were open and mentally mapping it in her head. Medical bay, full of equipment she didn’t know how to use, spaces to work out, places to relax. Living quarters, some of which were bound to be occupied. But she hadn’t seen much in the way of people.

She told herself they were sleeping, told herself that there were actually just oodles of people sleeping, families with kids and old people, so many that it was actually annoying like a park on a crowded Sunday. It was a whole little space village. Anything to fill up all this emptiness.

Kate scratched the healing injection wound on her wrist and wondered again just what the fuck they’d put in her. She’d looked for microscopes and slides so she could look at a sample and reassure herself there weren’t little alien bacterium turning her into some kind of E.T. hybrid, but there wasn’t anything to be had. Nothing she knew how to use, at least, because this Jetsons space shit didn't come with an instruction manual.

She wanted to scream. No, what she wanted to was punch something in the face really hard, maybe break a couple teeth. All she did was grit her teeth and scuff soft shoes (not even boots, where were her boots, where was her goddamn suit) along the too-smooth floor. Kate swallowed down the edge of panic rising up her throat again and shoved her hands into her pockets.

It would be easier if people were around. Easier to put on a brave face when you’re scared if there was someone to reassure. Years of practice, and Kate was still shit at feelings without someone to share them with.

Just when she’s thinking she should head back to one of those gym rooms and beat a punching bad to hell, Kate wandered into a room, narrower than the others but with high, high ceilings. Anything else in it was dwarfed by the huge window spanning full of space dark sprinkled with stars and streaked with the dust of a galaxy.

Beautiful. Past beautiful, you’d call it beautiful if you saw it in an astronomy class or a planetarium. Breathtaking in a glorious way, not a punch-to-the-plexus way. Kate felt something a little magnificent bloom in her chest. Her feet drew her closer to the window until she was nose to the glass, except that it couldn’t be glass and had to be some super future high-tech nano plastic. And yet it was all that separated her from deep space.

“Wow.”
whathappensnext: (no)
[personal profile] whathappensnext
“What the #$!&,” Gert thinks as she watches the dagger leave Geoffrey Wilder’s hand, already 100% certain what’s about to happen, how this ends. If she’d had enough time, she would have wondered where an overconfident back-from-the-dead piece of yuppie scum trash like Wilder had learned to throw a knife so hard, so true. If she’d had enough time, she would have felt a little satisfaction, maybe, from the fact that she was right: she was never going to turn out to be a Heroine, after all.

If she’d had enough time, she would have gotten out of the mother#$!&ing way.

But nevermind enough time, what she actually has is none, and then the knife slams into her, searing hot and it hurts like a bitch and then -

- and then it’s gone.

Then everything is gone.

--

Gert is waking up, and the weird thing is that she’d been pretty sure this was something she wasn’t ever going to do again. If she felt better she’d probably have to come up with some kind of crack about it, but she’s sore everywhere and she doesn’t have the energy. Gingerly, she lifts a hand and brings it to her belly, probes the spot where just a moment ago Wilder’s knife had split her open. It’s sore and aches deeply but her fingers don’t press in like she might expect, her hand doesn’t come away sticky with blood. She pulls her shirt up gingerly, only vaguely registering that these aren’t the clothes she died in, and finds the skin on her stomach smooth and unbroken.

The next thing she registers is that Old Lace isn’t with her, and it’s only this that sends a jolt of adrenaline through her. She’s not here - Gert doesn’t know where she is - and that’s definitely not okay. In fact, that’s never happened to her before. Panic shoots through her, quick and queasy, and she bolts up, wincing and coughing in pain.

That’s the first time Gert realizes that while Old Lace may not be here, she isn’t alone. She isn’t alone at all.
hammerscall: (32720120402)
[personal profile] hammerscall
He awakes with a start.

It takes a moment, a moment of disorientation where he realizes that he's not in the odd little apartment that SHIELD has given him, he is not where he had been, especially since that was standing in a room with the other Avengers, with Nick Fury talking to them about how serious the threat facing the Earth was. He wasn't sure on the details, because he'd been staring at that odd plastic card they had given him - Donald Blake, it read, and had a picture of his face.

He still doesn't understand it, why a plastic card would have such power that the small agent who had given it to him would have stressed no less than nine times that he could not lose it - but back in that room, he had been turning it over in his fingers, to try to find it's worth. It was not backed in gold, it did not - as far as he could tell - have magical properties.

And then he is here, in this... cell. There is no other word for it, because it surely is that, it is a cell. Four beds, a machine in one wall, and asleep on the far bed is a blond woman, who looks like she may be waking up. "Do you know why we are here?" He pushes himself up off the bed, and then blinks down at himself - he should have realised it sooner, but Mjolnir is gone; he is in a simple set of black running clothes, much like what SHIELD had tried to give him. "I had been doing as they asked," he says more to himself than the woman, his brows furrowing as he frowns. Either they had all been taken thusly, or he had been betrayed; he wonders if all of the Avengers lie in cells such as these, if they are held by SHIELD or if SHIELD is held - but the first thing he does is to walk to the woman, crouching next to her bed as he looks at her. "Who are you? Do you know how you came to be here?"

It does not cross his mind that she could be behind this, because locking yourself in a cell with Thor Odinson would be incredibly stupid, and she hardly seems to be a lackwit. "I will get us out of this cell. Are you alright?"
sharpshooting: (concerned)
[personal profile] sharpshooting
With an abruptness ingrained from learning to sleep lightly in a war zone, John Watson went from being asleep to awake in the span of a heartbeat.

He was not in his flat. He was not at the clinic. He was nowhere he recognized.

The walls were gunmetal, the light fluorescent. The mattress under his back barely deserved the name. He blinked twice, listening. He couldn't say what had woken him; he was simply awake, though groggy. The haze was familiar. A sedative, possibly mixed with a painkiller. It felt like morphine, that cottony softness at the edges of everything, the dry taste in his mouth.

He sat up with a groan, the heel of his hand sanding sleep out of his eyes. He still couldn't process where he was. He'd gone to sleep in his bedsit, the window letting in the first breezes of spring. This place was alien, like no holding cell or hospital room he'd ever been in. It was made even more unlikely by the large open doorway that, when he canted his head sideways, shimmered faintly like heat rising off hot ground.

A sound to his left; he half-turned, seeing for the first time that there was another person in the room with him. She groaned, and his doctor's instinct took over. "Lie still," he said, lurching to his feet and stumbling closer to bend over her. "Don't move yet-- I'm a doctor--" which was as far as he got before she moved, lightning-quick, and came up swinging at his face.
littlelannister: (side 1)
[personal profile] littlelannister
Tyrion slept poorly. He'd always slept poorly, plagued as he was by nightmares of one sort or another. Though lately they'd been less nightmare and more...unbidden memories of past mistakes and missteps, the gods' preferred method of fucking him right up the arse.

But tonight, nestled among the Second Sons's camp, Tyrion dreamt of dragons. Vague, shadowy shapes as large as castles loomed over him, their breath hot upon his skin. His exposed skin. Some time during the night, he'd been stripped bare. His breeches and tunic, gone. Even his smallclothes had fallen away. He was naked, and though exposed to the savage gaze of the enormous, scaled beasts, he was unashamed.

He woke, then, taking a deep breath and then rubbing at his scarred nose. Frowning, he took another deep breath. The air smelled...odd, and he was sure his poor stump of a nose wasn't the culprit. Gone were the lingering odors of many men crammed into a small space. No stale sweat. No shit. No piss. Not even the acrid smell of fresh vomit, and he knew the mercenaries stayed up drinking well into the night. He knew because he was with them for much of that night.

He sat up in the bed, puzzling over his surroundings. He was in a cell of some sort. And since I've become somewhat of an expert in cells over the past few years, I can honestly say that this particular one houses the nicest accommodations so far. And I've never known prison togs to fit so well. Still, the Eyrie owns the best view. Lady Lysa and little Lord Robert Arryn ought to be proud of that.

His circumstances seemed simple enough. He'd probably been carried off somewhere while he was unconscious. Not the first time he'd been taken against his will, after all.

But he wasn't alone.

The gods have finally granted me a cellmate! A reward for my many years of service to the faith, no doubt.

"And what crime have you committed to have earned your spot in this place of honor?"
deadlyorigin: (worry)
[personal profile] deadlyorigin
The exhileration that filled Natasha was edged with worry and fear in a way that it hadn't been in longer than she could recall. Not that she'd stop fighting. There was no way she'd stop fighting.

Have you ever had someone take your brain and play? Pull you out and stuff something else in? Do you know what it’s like to be unmade?

You know I do


The words ran through her head as she vaulted over a car, already unloading a clip into the nearest alien creature before her feet touched the ground. She wasn't doing this for Clint as much as she wasn't doing this for Fury. Natasha was there fighting for herself, for everyone she'd wronged and for everyone here that couldn't defend themselves.

Clip empty she let it fall away, slamming another in and turning to see a creature fall behind her, an arrow having taken it down.

"This is just like Budapest all over again," she smiled slyly, glancing at Clint over her shoulder.

"You and I remember Budapest very differently."

The words echoed in her head, You and I remember Budapest very differently. The light was too bright, too blue for it to be the sun. Natasha pushed up - up? - and looked around her, spying the woman in a bed across the room. Her hands went for her guns, but they weren't there, she wasn't even in her only clothes. She swore, low and in russian, spinning and looking for something, anything else.

There wasn't.

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Edge of Forever RPG

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