edge_of_forever | Entries tagged with pc:john watson

Dolios

Population: 57,000
Area: Total 21.1 sq mi
Time Zone: GST +4
Demonym: Dolioso

Main export: Tourism
Main attractions: Municipal Casino, Dolios Music Festival, Melantho Castle, Medon Resort
Climate: Mild and warm most of the year round; a short, rainy winter season.

wise_ass

Docking in Dolios in 2 days, friends. If you haven't already given all your have-to-haves to Miss Forbes, come find me this afternoon.

It's been longer than usual since their last trip planetside, almost a month, which means Bert's afternoon and evening should be completely sewn up in orders.

So the shuttle door is open and Bert's inside, slouched in a threadbare damask easy chair with a cigarette burning steadily beside him in its tray. He's using one hand to prop up his tablet and using the other to punch numbers on an outmoded keypad. The room is filled with the smell of tobacco and the musty, slightly spicy smell of antiques and old books and something else that's harder to place, green and herby. This is what passes for the sitting area though there's only one real chair; the rest are metal crates draped in sackcloth and one aggressively saffron leather ottoman. There's a Frankenstein's monster of an apparently digital gramophone playing complacently on the bookshelf across the room, nearby a curtained door that leads to the cockpit.

Bert's frowning at the screen, fingers perched in midair as he considers some of the ingredients he's been asked to source for the sake of Mister Grauza.

"Offal," he mutters to himself, expression slightly curdled as he reluctantly adds it to the list, fingers clicking busily on the pad. "And people say there's no truth in advertising."

Just then, Bert looks up to find someone standing in the doorway.

highfunctioning

The void of space is momentarily interrupted by the presence of the spacecraft Persephone: a mid-sized ship on a mission of exploration, research, and interplanetary commerce and cultural exchange. She is operated by a crew of anywhere between 15 [skeleton] and 60 [full compliment] from all walks of life. She represents a Consortium of Planets, and her home port is Earth.

In addition to the crew, there is a lively contingent of passengers aboard at any given moment. One of the goals of the Consortium is to promote interplanetary exchange, and they view safe passage as a public service. Papers to travel with Persephone are easily obtained at your home world's embassy on any Consortium affiliated planet. There is a basic background check and standard set of physical examinations, of course, but nothing troubling or invasive.

They've been en route between planetary systems for three weeks now, and life is unremarkable. Routine. There is an air of purposeful contentment.

sharpshooting

Since Pullo's party it had felt to John like the entire station was holding its breath. Waiting for what, he couldn't be sure, but he was certain the monsters hadn't been the end of whatever the station was building towards. He went about with that nagging sensation of having forgotten something, and he didn't think he was the only one. Everyone seemed subdued; not quite nervous, but never entirely relaxed.

Well, John had had quite enough of tiptoeing around. Back home it would be the height of summer-time, and it seemed stupid not to enjoy it. At this point even fake sunlight was better than none, and he said as much in his invitation. The arboretum provided more than enough space for everyone to gather, and it wasn't hard to enlist a few people to help put up a few tent poles and a sheet for a makeshift canopy. Tea, lemonade and a boozy punch of dubious colour (but refreshing taste) were set out, along with a very random assortment of biscuits which he hoped would be augmented by people bringing their own offerings.

Soon the space was buzzing with people, and John sat contentedly on the grass, sipping a glass of lemonade. It may have been a frivolous way to spend an afternoon, but there was an old saying (one almost as British as tea-time itself) about gathering rosebuds which John thought was all the justification he would ever need.

[You know the drill; tag in, tag each other, tag everyone!]

Current Location: the arboretum

xiii_legion

Once all the bodies are disposed of and the station is hammered (more or less) back into place Pullo figures it's time for a celebration. Everybody seems a bit down in the dumps, which is understandable - there's nothing left to kill, and that can make anyone a bit grumpy. But they had been stunningly successful at the killing they did do, and that deserves a party.

After a few days of preparation the hall is ready. The theme, if it could be said to have one, seems to be meat - there's a large variety of roasted and smoked meats threatening to buckle a table along with various other fruits, fish and breads, and enough scarves and tapestries adorning the walls to keep even Lady Troi happy. Most importantly, there's amphoras of wine all over the place as well as copious amounts of the harder spirits he liberated from some of the busted-open tavern rooms on the upper floors of the station. A makeshift altar to Fortuna stands along one wall - he has no idea how observant people are and whether they'll be smart enough to leave offerings to the goddess, but might as well give them the chance, eh?

Pullo was meant to be a legionary, there's no doubt about that. But as far as other careers go, party-planner wouldn't be the worst option... as long as you're happy with a bacchanal for every occasion.

dr_lauren

[May 18-24]

The doctors go back to the drawing board after the failure of the holodeck cure; everything looks grim until suddenly, it doesn't.

[ Here | Lots of tiredness ]

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!"

sharpshooting

The tray full of hyposprays looked grim in the soft lighting of their imagined sick bay. John had to admit the holodeck had proven useful beyond his expectations-- even if the end result they'd reached was less of a sure thing than he was really comfortable with.

This is going to work, he told himself for the hundredth time. It was a far cry from a guarantee, but the results had been promising with Forge. Really, Lauren and Sherlock had been right: they didn't have the time to spend on being completely sure. It was their last hope. They had to take it.

He picked up the first vial and slid it into its casing, bending over his first patient-- Mrs. Troi, as it happened-- and pressing it to her neck. She stirred, and John began to speak in a quiet tone that effectively masked the relief he felt. "You're waking up now, Mrs. Troi. Take slow breaths, don't move around too much just yet, and I'll be by with a glass of water for you in just a moment."

John looked up and met Lauren's eyes where she stood giving a similar speech to Dr. Banner. She returned his little smile in wordless acknowledgment: the antidote was working, at least for now.

[see the OOC post here for more info.]

highfunctioning

Of course he had some trouble convincing them; John and Lauren were legitimate medical professionals. They had spent hundreds of hours learning how to break bad news to sick people, how to preserve quality of life above all else; they had taken oaths.

Sherlock had spent hundreds of hours studying tobacco ash and taking illicit drugs. His principle loyalty had always been to the facts, especially as they pertained to the solution to puzzles. So when he'd shared his new theory with the doctors, naturally they had insisted that their patients needed to stay in the hospital wing where they could be monitored, and not dragged into the lift to the 5th floor holodeck so Sherlock could experiment on them properly.

He politely disagreed.

It was partly the subject that had inspired the idea Sherlock and Forge had competed for access to the holodeck countless times, and from what Sherlock had seen of his programs [their specificity was frankly incredible], the holodeck might be just the medium to fine tune what they were already working on. After two unsuccessful attempts to shock the nanites into operating in situ, they had only enough blood left for one more go, and they all knew it had to count.

---

Naturally he'd built and worked in the holodeck program of St Bart's many times before, and though it was strange to be working in a room with a gurney in it, Sherlock pushed through. He more than half expected Molly to breeze through and ask what he was up to. Much of the equipment was custom ordered, including the electrode halo that surrounded Forge's head, as well as the control panel in front of Sherlock. Voltage, polarity, magnetism, and electromotive force, all controllable to the smallest imaginable interval, and an excess of power to draw from.

He eyed his partners with a mildly maniacal glint in his eye, but of course they looked nervous rather than anticipatory.

"Ready?" He checked in to make sure their attention was fully on their endeavor, and certainly not because a negative response would have stopped him.

livinginanhgwellsnovel

Violet had begun taking her tea in the lab, a place she normally avoided. At first there had been the usual fuss, but she had never much been bothered by the opinions of others who petulantly decided what was the best course of action for her to take. As far as Violet is concerned she can very well take her tea wherever she pleases, and if she chooses to do so while sitting at the little girl's bedside, that's her own business, just as it was the business of certain scientists to be so busy saving others that they forgot to feed themselves.

It's this realization, along with the not so subtle disappearance of the frequent biscuits and light fare that often accompany her tea that have driven Lady Grantham to enlist the help of a few young persons in a more extensive effort.

It's early afternoon and Lady Grantham, trailed by Peeta and Cuthbert, enters the lab and proceeds to take over a large table with no regard for what already resides there, laying out a great deal of food and tea both made and replicated, with cups, plates, and utensils borrowed from the kitchen.

"Gentlemen! Ladies," Violet raises her voice, "As most of you do not see fit to leave this laboratory for anything short of near collapse, it has become apparent that sustenance and civilized company must be brought to you lest we lose you to your work. Please, do pull yourselves away and come join us."

highfunctioning

"Work." Sherlock urged under his breath as he attached the electrode to the surface of the plate. It was almost a warning. He'd found what was really the simplest possible solution after several days of fruitless experimentation, but he was having some trouble putting the theory into action. Not Sherlock himself, per se, but millions of lazy blood cells and faulty nanorobotics. Did they really break down so easily? Sherlock meant to have a word with the manufacturers.

When the first person joined him in the lab [really, they might have just arrived or been there for hours, for all the attention he was paying], Sherlock was hurling a petri dish against the opposite wall with a wordless cry of rage.

It was the second test batch he'd ruined, and the supplies were quite limited. The stakes being life and death didn't really factor into things for Sherlock; failing to solve any puzzle was equally maddening.

dr_lauren

It had been a race against the clock - the static, silent clock - to stabilise the 'supers' before it was too late. Now, staring at them, Lauren ran through their profiles in her head, trying desperately to find any common link that would give them something to start with.

Three vampires, several 'mutants', a supersoldier, witches, aliens and a god...

There was nothing there, nothing except the fact that they weren't baseline human, but that's where the similarities ended. Blood samples had been drawn and were currently in for metabolic panels and cultures, but that would only tell them what it wasn't, not what it was.

They had to figure it out, and they had to hurry. Nineteen lives depended on it.

proserpinian

<5:01:ψ | 24:00:00:0000> INITIATE PROGRAM< HEMLOCK.EXE
<24:00:00:0001> PROGRAM INITIATED< HEMLOCK.EXE
PROGRAM LAUNCH< 5:01:ψ | 09:00:00:0000>
PRIME DIRECTIVES:<
> [ CLIMATIZATION : < O2:20.94% > < N:78.08% > < +CCl₈O | “HEMLOCK” > < TEMP: 19ºC>

<5:01:ψ | 08:00:00:0000> LAUNCH PROGRAM< HEMLOCK.EXE
<08:00:00:0001> PROGRAM INITIATED<
RUN<
> ALL DIRECTIVES:)

MAY 1 | 8:00 A.M. :

At 08:00 on the Proserpina, a colorless gas begins pumping through the air vents of Floors 1-5, initially detectable only by the inconspicuous but distinct smell of freshly cut grass.

Any subjects containing the specific nanites which restrain preternatural ability will experience a gradual decline in health, beginning with a vasovagal syncope response and followed by cardiac arrest within several hours. These subjects will find themselves experiencing a range of typical presyncope symptoms such as dizziness, blurred vision, muscle weakness, hallucinations and lightheadedness for their remaining two-to-three minutes of consciousness.

Subjects without the aforementioned nanites will be unaffected by CCl₈O.

As of HEMLOCK.EXE’s program launch, CCl₈O will be a standard element in the Proserpina’s air mix.

proserpinian

<4:22:ψ | 24:00:00:0000> INITIATE PROGRAM< LOCKDOWN.EXE
<24:00:00:0001> PROGRAM INITIATED<
PROGRAM LAUNCH< 4:22:ψ | 06:00:00:0000>
PRIME DIRECTIVES:<
> [ ALARM : < KS#20-19: AIR RAID > < PS#08771-5: CODE BLACK > ]
> [ DEFENSE : < SECURE ALL GRIDS: F1-F5 > < ENABLE “F3-G3: SANCTUARY”>
> [ CLASSIFIED ]
> [ DISENGAGE : < SANCTUARY: “MOBILE” > < COMMUNICATORS: ONLINE > < REPLICATORS: ONLINE > ]
> [ CLASSIFIED ]
> [ CLIMATIZATION : < O2:36% > < N:64% > < Ar:0.12% > < Kr:0.09% > < Ne:0.10% > < TEMP: 19ºC>10ºC> ]

<4:22:ψ | 06:00:00:0000> LAUNCH PROGRAM< LOCKDOWN.EXE
<06:00:00:0001> PROGRAM INITIATED<
RUN<
> ALL DIRECTIVES:)

April 22 | 6:00 A.M. :

The sirens begin blaring at 6:00 sharp. As the residents of the Proserpina scramble out of bed or halt in their early morning routine, many of them reach for their communicators only to find them unresponsive. The home screen has been replaced by an interactive map, meant to guide them from where they are in that moment on the station to the Porta Ianulis. It proves impossible to exit the map program.

Soon after the sirens begin, an announcement begins to play, in a similar style to the announcements for docking missions: a calm, clear voice directing residents to the Porta.

[ This is a critical message. Code black. Please calmly proceed to the Porta Ianulis. Repeat: this is a code black critical message. Please calmly proceed to the Porta Ianulis for further instruction. ]

The message repeats once every three minutes.

As the residents exit the room they were in at the time of the announcement: their room, the training area, the kitchen, they will find that the door locks behind them, and that they have no access to it, or to any of the rooms on the station. The hallways and the open areas of the Proserpina are dark, lit by sparsely placed, brilliant white floodlights instead of the usual twenty-four hour recessed lighting along the walls and floors.

Those perceptive enough will note a ten degree drop in temperature, and perhaps even a change in the composition of the now oxygen-rich air.

Once the residents have entered the Porta Ianulis, a new announcement begins. The sirens continue. Communicator maps update locations, and now direct residents to the third floor: a room labelled SANCTUARY, along with the overhead voice.

[ Critical message. Code black. Please proceed to Floor 3 via the turbolifts. Please remember each turbolift may hold a maximum of 1500 kilograms. Repeat: this is a code black critical message. Please calmly proceed to Floor 3 via the turbolifts to await further instruction. ]

As the residents load themselves into the turbolifts in small groups, the temperature continues to drop.

Upon reaching the third floor, communicators will once again update their location, now guiding the residents to the room labelled SANCTUARY. A new overhead announcement begins:

[ Full security now in effect. This is a critical message. Code black. Please proceed in an orderly fashion to the sanctuary: grid one, room three. Repeat: please proceed to the sanctuary to await further instruction. Lockdown procedures commencing. ]

“SANCTUARY”, a formerly unknown and inaccessible room, is now responding to all communicators.

[ Before tagging in, please refer here. After the doors shut, this can be heard playing over the speakers. ]

dr_lauren

Despite Sherlock's continued disparagement of the idea of clinic hours, John had continued to hold them, and had been pleased to note Lauren doing the same. Every now and then they held them together, just to have some company. It was nice-- comforting, even-- after all this time, to have a colleague other than Sherlock. Someone who respected him and his expertise, and didn't subject him to experiments against his will.

Most of the time, anyway.

"Just try it," Lauren cajoled, "come on, what's the harm?"

John spluttered, laughing. "The harm is we have no idea what it is," he protested. "I could end up overcaffeinated or instantly drunk or it could be a sleeping potion. It has no smell, no colour-- I don't have to tell you that could end badly. That's assuming it's even meant to be ingested."

"It says 'Drink Me'," she replied, pointing at the tall green bottle sitting on John's desk. "I think that's a pretty clear indication. And besides, it's never to my knowledge produced anything actively toxic - questionable alcohol dispensation aside."

"Just because the replicator didn't want to give me tea doesn't mean I'm going to drink whatever it hands out in its place," he said, shaking his head. "You want to know what it is so badly, you drink it."

They were so busy bickering that they didn't even realize they had an audience.

[order will be your character, Lauren, John. if you want one of them separately, indicate it in the title of your comment.]

withmyshield

Sharon marches into the holodeck, which is empty [apparently there aren't any takers for her challenge, and it's probably for the best -grown men crying isn't the most fun way to start a beach day] and plunks her bag down in the middle of the empty space. She looks pretty hysterical dressed the way she is standing in the middle of an empty room on a space station, but Sharon doesn't give a damn about that right now.

"OK." She puts on her sunglasses. Let's do this.

"So, I want a beach. The best one you've got, preferably from Earth. I'm talking white sand, palm trees, blue skies, possibly a bar serving nothing but drinks with little umbrellas in them. Out of coconuts. There better not be any wildlife bigger than a starfish, either. Seriously. I see a single wild boar or the suggestion of a shark and I will flip out. Your little sweeper bots will blow all their circuits cleaning up the mess I'll make." The threat sounds pathetic even as she says it, but her powerlessness has become something of a joke even to her.

"Oh yeah, we're gonna need some chairs. Maybe a hammock."

Every time she speaks, there's a soft noise as the room reconfigures to her design. In the end, Sharon is standing on a stretch of beach that seems to go on for miles, not far from a long dock at the end of which she thinks she can make out a grass-hut bar. Next to her is a canvas chair with a big red umbrella. Thoughtful. It reminds her of a vacation she took in Aruba a few years back. Well, she almost got there. Rerouted to Cuba at the last minute, but Fury had been really apologetic about it.

She sits down and pops open the sunscreen. She also doesn't care that fake sun probably isn't harmful to her skin -it's all about the smell.

inhishead

There were no signs, but the woman in the projection had referenced the "Porta Ianualis" as the next room he'd see after his precautionary quarantine had ended. So when Charles jolted awake [out of a doze, sitting on his little bunk], that was how he identified the room he found himself in. The Latin didn't bode well, of course, but at least it was familiar. How bad could it be if his abductors knew the Romance languages? The room was larger by half than any cathedral or sporting arena he'd ever seen, and he turned in place, goggling.

This will certainly teach me to involve myself with covert agencies...

Nothing about this experience thusfar screamed "American", but what else was he to think? Certainly an Oxford academic didn't garner attention from...well, any sort of people who orchestrated abductions and cells with energy fields for bars, with his scholarly works.

He didn't sense anyone nearby, and hadn't for as long as he'd been here, wherever here was. That almost certainly meant he was alone, unless his captors were also telepaths, or employing the skills of one, which would certainly be an interesting development. It was far too quiet for his taste, accustomed as he was to hearing the thoughts of others almost without interruption.

"Hello!" he called out, both hands cupped to his mouth.

sharpshooting

It had been about a day since everyone had left, and John was bored. As usual, Sherlock was nowhere to be found, so he went up to Level 5 to do some exploring. He hadn't been up here much except for that first day-- and to visit the holodeck several times with Sherlock, which had been a less than pleasant experience. He still felt out of sorts from the whole experience-- and knowing Sherlock planned to drag him there again the next day didn't help matters.

He tried to put that out of his mind as he walked, deciding on a whim to head into the arboretum. It was peaceful there, quiet in a natural way, unlike the weird silence of the rest of the station with most of its residents gone.

Too relieved at the opportunity to relax in a place Sherlock would never think to look for him, John didn't notice the sound of the door locking behind him.

[Get locked into the arboretum with the good doctor, or phone him on his communicator to talk to him from outside.]

ohsnikt

The mandatory winter camp-out isn't taking that much of a toll on Logan. He'd found a sizable bottle of brandy and retreated to a tent as soon as they had been provided, and the only time he's been seen since is foraging or using the toilet. Except for the everyone-in-one-room-he-can't-leave thing, it's Logan's preferred state of being. Oh yeah, and the movie marathon. That's gonna have to stop.

The night of the 24th, he'd given in to drunken sentiment and torn into one of the presents, finding a black bow tie inside. Logan had pocketed the thing with a grunt and went to bed, hugging the bottle of brandy and definitely not dreaming of sugarplums.

He wakes the next day and cracks every joint in his body as he stretches and breathes in the bracing air. It's the best he's felt waking up on this hunk of junk, and it has everything to do with the smell of snow. He makes a circuit of their little shantytown to get his blood flowing, the little groups of tents clustered around burnt out fires.

At the far side of the room, Logan gets the feeling he's being watched, and turns on his heel, ready to knock somebody out. But the somebody is actually a dozen somebodys, all penguins, all with their beady little eyes trained expectantly on him.

Whoa. He backs up, feet slipping on the ice; he's standing on the rink and didn't realize it. The penguins follow, slowly. Which is unsettling, so say the least.

"You guys just...stay there." He turns to go, trying to ignore the flapping and squawking behind him.

Then Logan hears a ruckus behind him -rustling, someone's muffled voice, vague cursing. He turns and sees the huge Christmas tree he'd passed on his way over is actually growing out the top of a tent, a tent that's shaking as someone struggles to unzip it.

After a minute the hatch unzips and the doc hops out like something's trying to pull him back in, his hair and sweater dripping wet, a big clump of snow sitting on his shoulder and tinsel in his hair. "Come on-- get-- and a merry sodding Christmas to you too!" he snaps, wrenching his foot free of the warped tent and kicking one of the bent poles for good measure. Logan looks up as a flock of honest-to-god bluebirds takes off from inside the tree. Doctor Watson glares up at them too, and at the whole tree-- fifteen feet if it's an inch, hung with ornaments and lights and enough tinsel to choke a Kodiak-- like it insulted his momma.

Watson turns around and realizes he's got an audience. He stands up straight and pastes on a smile, clearly hoping Logan hasn't just seen him shouting at a tree, or that if he did, he's game to pretend otherwise.

"Good morning," he says with a nod, his eyes straying from Logan's face to the penguins behind him.

Logan scratches his head, and behind him a dozen penguins do their level best to imitate him.

sharpshooting

"Three needle-insertion vials of clear blue liquid, a hundred millilitres each, labeled Trichromataphyl. In the same rack, four eyedropper vials of opaque white gel, a hundred millilitres each, labeled-- hm." John squinted, then spoke into his communicator again. "Can't pronounce this one. Spelled H-R-R-A-Zed-apostrophe-D-N-I-K."

Cataloguing alien medicines was often entertaining, sometimes infuriating, but always interesting. It gave him something to do during his office hours, since it seemed most of the Proserpina's residents put seeing a doctor after an injury on the same level of necessity as taking a bath-- nice luxury if you've got the time, but only if you don't have anything better to do.

"One needle-insertion vial of opaque liquid, dark red, two hundred fifty millilitres. Labeled in an alphabet I don't rec--"

"Attention." The announcement interrupted, startling him into jumping a little, his knee bumping the table and rattling the vials. "The station has successfully completed docking procedures and the transporters are now active. Please proceed to the Porta Ianualis for transport to the planet's surface."

"Thanks, but no thanks," John muttered. "They did just fine without me last time." He'd felt selfish not going down, but when everyone came back with tans spouting stories of pirates and zombies, that feeling had evaporated quite quickly.

"Attention Doctor Watson. Please proceed to the Porta Ianualis immediately."

The voice hadn't changed in tone, it still sounded serene and cool, rather like the computer he and Mystique had dealt with in the testing facility. It didn't make John happy to hear it addressing him personally. He glared up at the ceiling in warning.

"What if I don't want to?" he challenged.

"Attention Doctor Watson. Please proceed to the Porta Ianualis immediately."

"I really don't feel like it!" he countered, planting his fists on his hips. "Really. Don't feel like going anywhere. I'm just fine right here."

"Attention Doctor Watson. Please stop being argumentative and proceed to the Porta Ianualis immediately."

He had to laugh. "You think taunting me is going to get me to go? Have you met my flatmate?"

There was a pause, and John thought he might have won, and then: "Your services will soon be required." And that was ominous, and it suddenly dawned on John that he was having a row with the computer, which as far as he knew hadn't spoken directly to anyone (except when it kept telling Lwaxana to stop shouting at the dictation program).

He debated the further wisdom of arguing, but ultimately he didn't want to know how much more personality the computer was willing to display-- or how much more direct it was willing to get in addressing him. "Fine," he muttered, knowing when he'd been beaten, hopping off his stool and shoving his hands in his lab coat pockets. "But I don't have to be happy about it." There was no reply as he left the infirmary.

He was the last one in the hub. Incredibly, even Sherlock was already there, and Sharon, and Lady Grantham. They were all he had time to process before the doors whooshed shut behind him-- and since when had the concourses had doors on them?-- and he heard the ominous sound of giant locking mechanisms sliding home.

"Uh," he said, turning back toward the assembled group, only a few of whom were looking at him. "Guys... what's going on?"

That was when he glanced up and realized it was snowing.

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Edge of Forever RPG

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the city on the edge of forever

[[ a pan-fandom roleplaying game ]]

Entries tagged with pc:john watson

Docking Plot: Dolios

(no subject)

come sail away

like a tea-tray in the sky

Fors Fortuna (GP)

Knockout montage

Captain Jack Aubrey: Debut

wake-up call [gathering post]

5.15 | 14:52:04 | 5th floor holodeck

tea time

It's 3AM: do you know where YOUR sociopaths are?

[A few hours after the collapse]

(no subject)

(no subject)

the doctors are in

Beach Party GP

3.14 | 20:22

whatever happened to Saturday night?

It's a holly jolly cluster.

Holiday Plot 1 : The egg nog is in the details

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November 2013

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