There are no mistakes in life, some people say; it is true, sometimes, you can see it that way.
{{OOC: Backdated and wobbledy-dated to sometime mid/late Trickster Week}}
Time Agency Eletor 462O1/J, variously known as Jack Harkness, John Thane, and too many other identities and subidentities to make listing them convenient, is having kind of an odd week.
He's kinda given up avoiding people, for this week. The harder he tries, the more the universe seems to fuck with him. To that end, while he's splitting his time between the job at the junk shop Lynn was kind enough to give him back and the Kashtta, where every time he turns around is an awkward conversation waiting to happen.
Given this city, anyone who wants to run into him - at the shop, in the Kashtta, or navigating between the two - is probably going to.
Also variously around the city, Dmitri Lang should probably not be up and about, but (a) she doesn't care, and (b) she doesn't have much of a choice.
You see, Green Rifts have decided that they love Dmitri Lang. And because of that, she's spent the last few days winking in and out of existence and winking back in at unpredictable intersections in Chicago and Cicero. She only seems to lose a few minutes every time in this time and place, and only seems to spend a few hours in the various green-rift universes she's been exposed to, but like hell she's going to be a good girl and haunt Torchwood's infirmary when she keeps waking up in trans-universal Amsterdam.
She's procured a digital camera and a lot of memory cards. Hell, the contributor fees paid by the National Archives of the Angel of Knowledge Board of the Sciences should pay back the camera and change.
And in one of the sunrooms of the Main Gauche, Elashte is putting enough jazz flourishes and improvisational solos on a violin piece that, unless one listens carefully, it's difficult to identify its base melody as Poker Face.
...even three-hundred-fifty-one-year-old demons can have a sense of humor.
Time Agency Eletor 462O1/J, variously known as Jack Harkness, John Thane, and too many other identities and subidentities to make listing them convenient, is having kind of an odd week.
He's kinda given up avoiding people, for this week. The harder he tries, the more the universe seems to fuck with him. To that end, while he's splitting his time between the job at the junk shop Lynn was kind enough to give him back and the Kashtta, where every time he turns around is an awkward conversation waiting to happen.
Given this city, anyone who wants to run into him - at the shop, in the Kashtta, or navigating between the two - is probably going to.
Also variously around the city, Dmitri Lang should probably not be up and about, but (a) she doesn't care, and (b) she doesn't have much of a choice.
You see, Green Rifts have decided that they love Dmitri Lang. And because of that, she's spent the last few days winking in and out of existence and winking back in at unpredictable intersections in Chicago and Cicero. She only seems to lose a few minutes every time in this time and place, and only seems to spend a few hours in the various green-rift universes she's been exposed to, but like hell she's going to be a good girl and haunt Torchwood's infirmary when she keeps waking up in trans-universal Amsterdam.
She's procured a digital camera and a lot of memory cards. Hell, the contributor fees paid by the National Archives of the Angel of Knowledge Board of the Sciences should pay back the camera and change.
And in one of the sunrooms of the Main Gauche, Elashte is putting enough jazz flourishes and improvisational solos on a violin piece that, unless one listens carefully, it's difficult to identify its base melody as Poker Face.
...even three-hundred-fifty-one-year-old demons can have a sense of humor.