edge_of_forever | Entries tagged with pc:lwaxana troi

Say what you liked about the lower levels, they at least had food and drink and a refreshing lack of monstrous interlopers. Hook had detoured long enough to bathe and dress himself in something befitting a pirate captain before making a beeline for the nearest replicator and requisitioning the best booze he could find. After only a couple hours he had been rewarded by a large bottle full of amber liquid that was closer to rum than anything he had tasted in years and, being a sociable soul, he had brought it and a stack of glasses to the kitchen (where all good parties seemed to congregate at some point) to begin the process of meeting the neighbours.

daughterofthefifth

Everything about this was making Lwaxana nervous. The group was split up during this countdown: some were in Sanctuary, believing it to be the safest place. Others had protested, saying that if the station had it out for them, it would know to target the giant shuttle first. Of those, some had gone down to the Porta Ianulis to face head on whatever was coming. And the rest, a scant, restless few, were waiting in sickbay for something to happen.

Anything.

[[ Two top levels! One for Sanctuary, early in the countdown. One for Sickbay in the last hour. Give us an idea how your characters are doing, but focus on the confrontation in the Porta, if you need to ^^ ]]

daughterofthefifth

In which Lwaxana Troi follows Klaus, and is rewarded with TERROR.

Rated PG, because I do not do horrifying description well enough to merit a 13.

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.

good_cop

The Sanctuary was a more bustling and active place than it had been last time round by a country mile. Perhaps it was because they weren't locked in this time - thanks to Forge and Zoe's efforts with the doors they now had full control over them.

At least we have control over something around here, Sam mused grimly as she looked about herself at the people going back and forth. Some had insisted on returning to their quarters for various supplies - understandable she supposed, but dangerous. Unfortunately it had thus far been impossible to get people to agree to stick to given schedules, routes or buddy-systems, with several people she would much rather were hiding out in safety out stalking the corridors, variously armed and no doubt variously likely to return with all their limbs intact. But at the end of the day, she wasn't in a position to tell anyone what to do, so it was really just a case of hoping that people would check in regularly. It did make it impossible to say whether the people who weren't here were off on a scheduled jaunt or off lying in a pool of blood somewhere - a less than comforting thought, but short of the regular scouting missions that some were taking in between shifts on the informal guard roster, there wasn't much they could do about that - even their comms weren't entirely reliable right now, shifting in and out of range mysteriously at various points in the station as though some of the things that had escaped (or the damage they'd done) had somehow disrupted the communications relays.

She and Lauren had been able to bring only their emergency backpacks with them, otherwise completely laden with the various sizes and types of protective vests they'd managed to coax from the wardrobe room. She would have liked to to get proper body armour of the type Sharon wore, but it was too carefully tailored - there was just no time to get everyone customised kevlar suits, so simple vests, for those who'd wear them, would have to do.

They'd seen very little of the 'supers'. With a couple of notable exceptions, most had immediately grabbed their weapons and disappeared, returning only occasionally and often with half-healed wounds or covered in gore, some of which was definitely not their own.

But after the gathering of an impromptu crowd of the less combat-ready, someone - she didn't remember who - had brought up Sanctuary, and after a flurry of activity, gathering of emergency supplies (and some rather less emergency booze and cigarettes, she reckoned), and general preparation, they were setting up base in the newly hacked emergency bunker - and not before time, either, for a few hours later they were informed that floor one had joined floor two in darkness, the lights knocked out by some as yet unconfirmed enemy, though there were some popular theories - wilful vandalism by rabid cannibalistic space pirates, some said, accidental acid damage said others or - and Sam shuddered just at the thought - deliberate sabotage by the primary foes in a film franchise that Sam had very much enjoyed watching on screen but had no wish to see played out in front of her.

A few - Pullo, Cuthbert, Jack, Sharon, Peeta and Krista among them, all reassuringly competent souls - had stepped up to offer their services setting up defences and guard duty, and Steve Rogers had given up his gun to be used by those who didn't have their own weapons. Jack had shown himself to have quite the head for the defence aspect and was at present out with some of the others setting up some makeshift barriers in connecting corridors to help to create a 'safe zone' around the Sanctuary airlock.

Not long after Sam had taken the plunge and started throwing instructions around Mycroft had appeared at her side, lending his own quiet, well-considered opinions and advice and even 'getting his hands dirty' along with the rest of them as they all hauled as many useful supplies (including most of the kitchen's built-up pantry and all the emergency first aid kit they could find) as they could to the Sanctuary in one trip, sticking in groups with armed guards. Even then she was amazed they had made it mostly in one piece given the hell that seemed to have broken loose, but here they were, the next day, apparently all still alive, at least for now.

morethanhuman

Erik stands in the middle of the shuttle bay, one hand extended palm-up in front of him. Far overhead, almost at the top of the shuttle bay, Lwaxana’s shuttle hovers in midair. His eyes narrow, Erik curls his fingers in a little come-here gesture. A rush of power that's lain dormant in him for over a year surges out through his fingertips, and the shuttle hurtls toward him. It swoops down, passing so close over his head that the breeze from its passing ruffles his hair.

He can’t rein in a laugh-- it's been too long since he’s felt this, the full depth of his power wholly at his command-- and it bubbles up in him, exhilarating and wild, spilling out as he sweeps his hand out in another long gesture, sending the shuttle flying back up to the ceiling.

There's a sigh behind him and he turns, grinning, while the shuttle zooms around the room. “If you’re bored already, don’t let me keep you.”

"I'm sorry, did that read as an I'm bored sigh?" Mystique asks, sidling up to him with an uncharacteristically playful smile. "This is admiration. This is 'my god, you look good with ten tons of metal hovering over you'."

She crosses her arms and watches him hurl the thing back up a second time.

"But you're missing ( something... )

The shuttle lowers gently to the ground and Erik’s eyes go fierce, a wide grin breaking over his face. “Come on,” he says, striding toward the door.

. . .

They're not even thirty feet from the door when Raven sees it start to tremble in its frame.

Then all of a sudden, it stops. She glances at him and sees he's changed his focus: he's disregarding the door entirely, peeling layers off the wall, the metal rolling up and crumpling like paper until she can see the inventory shelves through the frame. There's a mess of wires, smoking and spitting sparks, but it doesn't stop Erik from stepping through.

Sure, it's petty, but Raven can't resist swiping her comm in front of the half-dead sensor; it gives a sad, bleating no access beep just as she lifts one white boot over the jagged wall.

How do you like me now, HAL?

"They're organized by serial number," she says with a frown, eyeing the tags on the front of the shelves. She pulls open one at random and sees a stack of filthy, bloodstained clothing: nope. Another: a pink vest and a cell phone covered in stickers. Another-- ooh-- has a duffel bag labeled STARK TECHNOLOGIES-- definitely worth checking out once she's found her stuff.

Finally, she pulls open the right drawer. She locks and loads her Glock with a look that's somehow both affectionate and smug, then glances over to see Erik holding his helmet up to the flickering light.

“I’ve always said it takes a very special guy to inspire fear in red and purple,” she says dryly, applying a fresh coat of lipstick in the grainy reflection of the shelves. “I think I just got goosebumps.”

[see the OOC post here before tagging.]

dr_lauren

"...and please, don't forget to take some vervain if you haven't already," Lauren finished, motioning towards a small test tube rack with a dozen labelled vials still resting within it. The security briefing with Sharon, Clint, Sam, Pullo and Cuthbert had been completed already, and with the general announcements about what to expect from the supers and the vervain Lauren figured her public safety duties had pretty much been completed. She glanced at Sam briefly as if seeking reassurance, and at the other woman's tiny smile and nod she took a deep breath, turning away to the first tray of waiting syringes.

***

The actual injections took very little time at all; with people monitoring just about every patient it meant that John and Lauren could concentrate on injecting the serum, confident that they would be alerted to any immediate issues by the others. She was cautiously optimistic that this would work, however, and indeed it wasn't long until the first stirrings and murmurs began to drift through the medbay, heralding the return to consciousness of the sleeping supers.

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

Sherlock was still cursing and squinting as he made his way back to the lab after their release from Sanctuary. There was simply no way he was going anywhere else first, and transecting the Porta Ianualis was the fastest route.

If he'd ever been to a football match, he might have likened it to a scoreboard, looming large and ominous from the ceiling. The massive clock was counting down, standing currently at 212:41:58:003. Sherlock stared at it, running scenarios and associative terms in his head.

--Maia, Bona Dea, Beltane, St. Joseph, May Day, mayday, SOS--

"Computer, what happens on May the first?"

Silence was his answer.

Naturally.

[GP for reactions to the release from lockdown/discovery of the countdown clocks]

6seasonsandamovie

It's 6:03 pm.

Abed isn't wearing a watch (and his communicator is as dead as everybody else's), but Troy is. The lights flicker overhead for the first time, and Abed simply says, "Watch." It's enough for Troy to raise his arm and twist it so the digital watch is facing Abed. 6:03.

The lights flicker again, and this time there is a murmur of unease rippling among the group.

"Time for the next stage of creepiness," Abed foretells in a whisper only Troy should hear.

The lights flicker a third time, and then the room goes dark. Pitch dark.

Troy pushes a button on his watch, and the small numbers are suddenly shining blue. 6:04. Not so pitch dark anymore.

Almost immediately, Captain America's voice rises above the others - who else. Abed really wishes his communicator would let him film. This has 'found footage horror movie' stamped all over it.

"Don't panic!" Steve calls out, probably unknowingly quoting Douglas Adams. "There are flashlights, we'll get them now. Don't move and risk injuring yourself."

In a whisper, Troy asks, Do you think we're going to die?

Abed blinks, thinks, and answers, in the same whisper, "Probably not you."

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. ]

xiii_legion

"...well okay," Pullo was saying, "I'm sure you think that's true, but you have to admit, my explanation makes just as much sense." 'Giant balls of gas' indeed. He snorted as he dealt out the cards - one, two to them both - and then laid the next three face-up on the table. A three, eight, and a King, which didn't do much with the five and Jack that he held. He narrowed his eyes at his opponent, then reached out and tossed two bottlecaps into the pile in the middle of the table.

The table in the rec room was more 'authentic', Mystique said, though there didn't seem to be anything authentic about the bright green fuzz coating it. The lighting was certainly atmospheric, and he had hauled along several bottles of what the replicators had gifted him when he asked for bourbon, though Mystique had made a face when she tasted it. They were playing there instead of her room because supposedly there were going to be more players tonight, an eventuality that Pullo relished. Not that he didn't like playing with her, but damnit, she knew all his tells.

Which was probably why she called his bluff, and his next two bluffs, and probably why the pile of bottlecaps was much bigger on her side of the table than his, and growing.

"Godsdamnit, woman, stop taking all my money! How am I going to pay the dancing girls if you keep robbing me blind!"

[tag into any TL you like - there's no posting order, just go nuts! wheeee!]

the_iceman

There were only very few people in the world who had seen Mycroft Holmes without a tie. He only took off his jacket in extreme circumstances, but his tie, in a double Windsor knot, was a set feature. Come winter, come summer, in England or Dubai; Mycroft would always wear it.

He had only taken it off now because he didn’t want it covered in flour. It had taken him long enough to get the wardrobe to provide him with one of acceptable quality and he took great care of it.

It took him some time, and great patience, but eventually he managed to gather all the ingredients the recipe mentioned – though he did find himself needing to make some adaptations to the original, as the food replicator only seemed compliant up to a point. But he managed to gather them without swearing and that was saying something.

Now, to business; cake.

It was his brother who was the master of ingredients – be it of a chemical kind – and who, through years and years of practical experience in measuring, compounding and mixing, had perfected the science. Mycroft had never quite bothered to put scientific knowledge to practice – let alone engaging in any attempt at cooking or baking. And though he did understand the basic purpose of a whisk (no genius required there), he had never before held one in his hand.

He felt quite ridiculous – and he was not even wearing an apron – but in quite good spirits. He didn’t feel particularly useful as such, and baking a cake could hardly cure the mental tedium from which he suffered, but it was something.

((Yup. You’re reading it right. It’s not a figment of your imagination, or a door to another dimension. Find him at any point, either gathering ingredients, baking a cake, or somewhere in between, coming to terms with the fact that he’s actually doing something.

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.

elementaire

Sherlock had explored every inch of the station he could get to, scoring a communicator along the way that allowed him access to a few more rooms. It had taken him the better part of three days and not yielded any definite result.

Then he had found an empty room, curled up on the bed, and slept through a host of horrific nightmares before waking up, a good day later, ravenous.

Asking the replicator for scrambled eggs resulted in something quite like porridge, but not quite, whose ingredients Sherlock was unable to all identify (alien?), and he wolfed it down before he took a shower, changed into another set of the same white-grey-black casual clothes, and ventured out of his room, smiling genially at the person in the hallway.

"Morning, neighbour!"

Never mind that it was early afternoon. Mornings and evenings were a bit useless on a space station.

daughterofthefifth

"Now, listen, everyone!" Lwaxana stood poised near the door of her soon-to-be-former quarters, the very picture of command in a black and crimson tunic over dark grey leggings. "I'll need two of you strong young men to carry the bed and another two for the dresser--I know, it's not heavy, but it is awkward and I don't want any accidents!

"Those four cases--" she gestured toward a set of identical, utilitarian boxes, "Can be brought up and set near the dresser. They shouldn't be too much trouble.

"The wigs need to be carried by hand! They are delicate and without my valet, Mr. Homn, to restyle them, I'd have to negotiate with this mercurial computer on giving me just the right ones again."

She surveyed the room. "The lanterns aren't heavy, and neither is the draping, but I don't want them wrinkled, so take them one at a time!

"Oh, and that lamp, please."

She clapped her hands together and beamed at her small crew of helpers. "That's it! Any questions?"

daughterofthefifth

Lwaxana had elected to leave all the additional furniture in the Taj Mahal room after the unveiling party, so the setup tonight was comparatively simple. By nine o'clock Friday night, she was standing back, admiring the effects of the orange and green paper lanterns she'd found. In the spirit of Erik's decade, she was wearing a long sleeved tunic-length dress in a purple and ivory paisley, over matching purple leggings and black mid-calf boots. Her wig was loose and long in the back, flowing from a bouffant wrapped in an ivory scarf. All in all, she had found the effect rather reminiscent of old Starfleet uniform style, but Earth was strange like that.

The table was laid with an assortment of mid-twentieth century foods, including a number of things that Lwaxana was almost 100% certain were not from Earth, as well as something the computer had identified as "Ambrosia." The centerpiece was a three-tiered display of sugar cookies all iced with purple and red, cut to resemble small helmets. Crowning that was an oddly-shaped cake, the only cake the computer would produce, and it had done so over and over again until she had given up and taken one: sides iced in white, topped with red and edged with black, cut to the telltale curve of a u-shaped magnet. Apparently the Proserpina had a sense of humor today, further evidenced by a number of alcohols that were not gin and one set of a Gin Rummy game.

Here will follow two top-level comments: the first, an initial Everybody Except Erik Arrives post! Tag there to mingle, comment on the slapdash '60s mod theme, poke holes in the Magnet Cake, and pat yourselves on the back for your part in the party planning! The second, an Erik Finally Arrives SURPRISE post, for all your hilarity needs.

morethanhuman

Saturday night had been the one night of the week that everyone in the mansion had taken off from training, some (Raven) because they insisted on a few hours dedicated to nothing but enjoying themselves, others (Charles) because with no one else around, there was nothing to do. Erik had never quite gotten into the spirit of it; having never spent much time forced to maintain a formal schedule, he'd never seen the weekend as more worthy of celebrating than any other day of the week. He was somewhat surprised, then, to discover that his fellow castaways shared his opinion; Saturday nights on the station were usually quiet, almost to the point of desertion.

Left to his own devices, Erik wandered, too bored to read and too restless to sit and divert himself with random alien cinema. He found himself at the wardrobe room and went in, thinking back on something that had been teasing the corner of his mind for a few days, but that he hadn't had the opportunity to look into (meaning in this case, the privacy to investigate it in solitude).

At the terminal, he typed helmets. Millions of choices; he sorted them by time period. 20th Century. Thousands. He scrolled through them, but it was overwhelming. Finally, reluctantly, he typed Magneto. He was almost surprised to find a handful of choices; over a dozen. Erik selected all of them and waited as the rack came sliding out. When it came, the rack didn't just hold helmets-- a bar at the end displayed capes and suits as well, but he ignored those. The closest helmet gleamed, scarlet and shining, and he reached for it almost in disbelief.

He had barely lifted it before he dropped it again, more than mildly horrified. It was plastic. Most of them were, in fact-- from the simple and understated to the lurid and ornate. One or two were metal, but thin and cheap, more like tin foil than the impenetrable alloy of the helmet he knew.

They were costumes. Some of them for children. It was unfathomable-- hadn't Mystique, Abed and every news article he'd seen made it clear that he became infamous, a terrorist, a villain? And they made replicas of his helmet for children to play dress-up in.

He was so busy staring wide-eyed at the rack that he didn't realize someone else had come into the wardrobe until they were standing practically beside him.

daughterofthefifth

Lwaxana stared down at the flame of the candle she cupped between her hands. She let it fill her vision, let it dazzle her, so that when she turned her gaze upward to the gathered crowd, she saw only the sparkles and dark at the edge of her vision and not the faces that all reflected some part of her own sadness.

"We have come together to remember our friends, Jane Shepard and Amelia Pond," Lwaxana began. Her voice caught on Amy's name, at the memory of one so like a daughter, another daughter lost. She thought of Kestra and then of Deanna--

"It's easy," she began again, "to lose ourselves in these horrible tragedies; to wade deep into anger and let it burn all else away or to sink into the mires of melancholy. To prowl in edgy wakefulness or wallow in sleep. To distract.

"We can't let ourselves be distracted. The deaths of Amy and Jane are not the first losses we've suffered, but they're the most violent, the most obvious. We must not let ourselves be distracted, because we must not let ourselves forget them. Any of them."

With an edge of challenge and defiance, she continued, "I remember Amelia Pond. She traveled far in time and space and hated to be trapped here, fixed in place. She humored a silly old woman and found wonder again, a glittering doll's house in a bubble of cold metal. I think she would've been happier, if she'd had a little longer..."

Lwaxana trailed off, staring out at the stars through the window of the observation deck. "Well, I won't forget her!" she huffed, brave bluster that didn't hide the tears.

[[Please excuse a rather maudlin Betazoid! She's probably feeding off the energy of the room. Put up some posts remembering others that have died or disappeared, and mingle if you like.]]

girl_who_waited

She could tell it changed. She was sitting, alone, in the woods after she'd seen that crack, seen that shape, and then it changed. It changed and she was sitting in a sort of room, she supposed, because suddenly it wasn't cold, there wasn't a breeze or anything, just a room, with the hum of some sort of air unit, and she could see lights under her eyelids. "Doctor? Doctor, where are you?"

"Doctor?" She pressed her lips together, not really knowing where the communicator went, so she's just talking to air. "Marco?" Philip and Pedro and Crispin were both gone, and Marco'd been there, but he'd walked away, and she sighed. She sighed, she could tell that she was somewhere, and she couldn't hear him or anybody or anything, even though she knew that could not open her eyes. She reached up, and touched the back of her neck with a wince, wishing she knew what'd happened-- and finally, she just scooted back on the bed, pulling her knees to her chest as she just sat with her eyes still shut.

She had no idea how much time passed-- she must have fallen asleep, or something, but she jolted awake when she heard a voice. ...elcome to the space station Proserpina. We're happy to have you on board... "Hello? Hello, who's there?"

The woman kept talking, and Amy took a deep breath, trying to turn herself as squarely as she could towards the voice, and then opened her eyes.

It was only a moment, a moment where the blonde woman was she swears she saw a flash of an Angel, and then it all was black. She missed the way the engines groaned, the lights dimming for a moment before they returned to full capacity, the offered meals, and the rest of the speech.

---

It happened with a complete lack of fanfare. Amy Pond lay in the center of the Hub, unconscious, but breathing. She had no physical injuries, and she was wearing the station uniform, just like everyone else did when they first arrived. Nothing unusual in that, right?

She'll come to a minute or two after your pup finds her. Can be gathering, if multiple people want to be together!

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Edge of Forever RPG

November 2013

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the city on the edge of forever

[[ a pan-fandom roleplaying game ]]

Entries tagged with pc:lwaxana troi

Kitchen GP

Gathering: Countdown

Backdated: [End of Monsters]

Fors Fortuna (GP)

Sanctuary

bow in the presence of greatness

Knockout: The End (GP)

wake-up call [gathering post]

4.24 | 07:06

Gathering Post - Day 2 - 18:00

(no subject)

Ante up!

And keep your jokes to yourself

Beach Party GP

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Moving Day

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ERIK

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[[Backdated: Monday, 9/24]] Memorial Service

the days are coming that you will never forget

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November 2013

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