edge_of_forever | Entries tagged with pc:sherlock

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.

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.

born_guilty

[5.31]

Everybody's favorite mutant terrorist (sorry, Erik!) bites off more than she can chew in a fight with a few lickers, only to find out from Abed that the resulting T-Virus will either turn her into a blue brain-eater or advance her mutation!

There's nothing Mystique values more than her X-gene, but the excruciating transformation may prove there can be too much of a good thing. Luckily, her old teammate Forge helps her through the worst of it, proving there are still a few sparks leftover from their X-Factor days.

[Here]

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.]

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.

wise_ass

Bert walks out of the sickbay with a small crowd, all of them having been nudged out by the doctors who needed time, space and a piece of silence for their examinations.

In the small waiting area just outside it, the remaining residents of the Proserpina are in varying states of bewilderment, panic and exhaustion. The people they've lost-- all of them, apparently, boasting some kind of magic ability, at least to Bert's limited understanding-- had been all been tracked down and brought into the sickbay; those left standing had done whatever they could to help John, Lauren, and Sherlock hook the patients up to the machines that might be able to save them.

And there's the matter of the clock to contend with, which hasn't disappeared, but just run down to zero.

"Is everyone all right?" he asks of the room at large, breaking up the alternating silence and whispered conversations. Of course they're not all right, but Bert can't stand to worry by himself in silence.

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.

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."

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

This holodeck, as they called it, was really quite extraordinary. It wasn't Sherlock's first time in it, of course, but it was his longest uninterrupted time in it. He was currently standing on a street in no city he could identify; probably not one from his world, either in the planetary or dimensional sense of the word (or both), for all that the people looked human. He had been making notes in his communicator, and now he felt ready to move on to another décor.

"Computer," he requested of the AI apparently running the virtual reality chamber. "Random simulation, if you please."

As the world shifted around him, a rectangle marked the opening of the door, and Sherlock frowned sadly. It could only have lasted so long.

dr_lauren

Lauren shows up to the party on time - well, okay, she's five minutes late, but for most people that's still pretty much on time. Lauren knows this and yet she's still there at five minutes past the hour to find... a completely empty room. Well, not completely empty, there's a few bowls of what looks like snacks, some bottles lined up along a table, and some red and silvery decorations on the tables and walls. But no people, not even a host.

"Happy Valentine's," she says aloud to the room, a self-deprecating smirk on her lips. Fitting that someone who managed to screw up not one, but two relationships should now be in this position. At least there was booze. And thankfully few hearts and cupids.

[PARTAY! Tag in as you wish - if you want Lauren just say so, otherwise she'll be quietly drinking in a corner somewhere.]

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.

Profile

Edge of Forever RPG

November 2013

S	M	T	W	T	F	S
					1	2
3	4	5	6	7	8	9
10	11	12	13	14	15	16
17	18	19	20	21	22	23
24	25	26	27	28	29	30

Syndicate

Page Summary

Style Credit

Style: Plain for Tabula Rasa

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags

Page generated Dec. 24th, 2025 06:32 am

the city on the edge of forever

[[ a pan-fandom roleplaying game ]]

Entries tagged with pc:sherlock

Docking Plot: Dolios

(no subject)

Fors Fortuna (GP)

(no subject)

Sanctuary

bow in the presence of greatness

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]

[ Backdated to yesterday, noonish. ]

(no subject)

debut: Elphaba

Ante up!

And keep your jokes to yourself

Beach Party GP

In The Holodeck

It's Valen-time!

Holiday Plot 1 : The egg nog is in the details

Profile

November 2013

Syndicate

Most Popular Tags

Page Summary

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags