Days dissolve into the ether, condense like clouds and come raining back down…
In the halls of the Kashtta Tower - one rather rusted-out and old-blood-stained hall, to be particular - something is happening.
That "something" happens to be a door splintering apart and a ranting pseudo-Angel of Knowledge stumbling through the broken bits.
Dmitri Lang is gripping a pickaxe which shines faintly with clean gold light, and thus ( Read more... )
That "something" happens to be a door splintering apart and a ranting pseudo-Angel of Knowledge stumbling through the broken bits.
Dmitri Lang is gripping a pickaxe which shines faintly with clean gold light, and thus ( Read more... )
Comments 79
So now he is doing what any good spy would do in this situation: screaming and punching his door, mostly to attract attention, partly to show that bitch of a possessed door who's boss.
"HELLLLLLLLLLLLLP!"
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Owen can't hear gunshots or walls breaking or the rending of flesh or anything, and he can't smell fire or alien blood or sweat, so he's going to assume it's probably nothing terrible. So he does what any concerned Torchwood citizen would: he saunters until he finds where the noise is coming from, and then sticks his hands in his pockets as he looks at the door.
"Yell a bit louder, mate," he calls. "You've almost got UNIT to come running from London."
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Never in his life did he think he would ever seriously consider demonic possession as an explanation for something.
He facepalms.
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"Well, this city hasn't wanted us to think much of anything else is beyond it, so I don't see why not," he says. "...what sort of shit goes on in your life that 'possession by evil spirits' is the first thing you think of?"
Aaand, the knob. He'll just be seeing if that will turn, now.
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She lowers the gun almost immediately when she sees where the sound's coming from, and actually recognizes the person underneath all the dirt and bloodstains. "Dmitri?"
Well, so much for that month she spent trying to get the journal system trying to work as a GPS locator. Of course Dmitri would reappear right in the bloody Tower.
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Dmitri pauses in a shower of drywall, spinning around so fast she takes a chunk of wall with her. She brandishes the pickaxe, staring down the hall until she sees another person, and then brandishes it a moment longer until it occurs to her that Tosh is not a monster.
"...Oh, that's REAL NICE, she yells at nothing in particular. "Yeah, I was just telling Dante that - hold on." The pickaxe lowers a bit, and she starts toward her. "You're actually - I mean, the hair alone, but I could - Toshiko?"
She does not drop the pickaxe. The pickaxe is her friend. But it does lower and Dmitri picks up her pace, jogging up with apparent disregard for the PISTOL, and stopping just about a metre away to scrutinize Tosh from apparently every angle.
"Sweet reticulated Rama, when did you get here?" She doesn't leave enough of a gap to answer in. "All right, guns, bad idea, can't find ammo around here for invectives or prayers, and are you ( ... )
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"Dmitri," she says slowly, "do you know where you are?" She doesn't look very well... but then, who knows where she's been for the past two months? ...and she'd feel a little more comfortable if the babbling Dmi would put that pickaxe down, but she'll take it one step at a time right now.
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She brandishes it.
"-and it has taken me through the walls to a lovely place, I think it was a hospital, and then it took me here, which I'm thinking Silicon Valley in the Silent Hill municipal. I'm hoping for Google. I always wanted to visit Google HQ. When did you get here?" She swallows, and her face pales a little. As it was pretty flushed before, it almost makes her look normal. "I thought - I mean, there was Dante, but he-"
She swallows again.
"I am going to hug you," she says, "because you are going to need it."
And she does.
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But she's even less sure why she's invisible. She can be invisible if she pleases, more or less, but not literally.
"Owen?" she says after a moment. She kind of needs someone else to confirm her invisible state.
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He is a bit surprised when she's nowhere to be seen.
He puts down the magazine he was reading, standing up to take a better look around the place. No. No Matoi. Which is a little creepy, even for her.
"...yes?"
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"I don't want to be invisible."
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"Uh." Owen tries to hone in on the source of the noise. It doesn't go too well. "I assume you're standing somewhere where I should be able to see you?"
Nope. Still no Matoi.
"...then, yes. Yes, you are invisible. And have you tried..."
He grinds his teeth for a moment.
"You haven't been touching anything in Tosh's lab, have you?"
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She relaxes a bit.
Hello. Are you feeling better?
She doesn't bother trying to conceal the quickly-fading panic.
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:: ...my mind was wandering, :: he realizes. Well. That's not happened in a few hundred years. :: My apologies. I hadn't meant to startle you. ::
Of course, there was all that time on Gallifrey which he never spent in a dissociative coma which might account for something.
He performs the mental equivalent of straightening his shirt and brushing off his sleeves, and the previously amorphous presence develops a bit more coherency and form.
:: Hello. Apparently my cognitive functions are no longer tied up in deep conscious trance; this is a promising sign. How are you? ::
There is, perhaps, a bit of concern to that query. He did recognize that initial response for what it was.
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There's a moment when she debates what to... think at him. The news she has is probably not the sort of thing anyone wants to hear, especially when they've been in a coma since November. But she's still scared, and she doesn't like that. And if anyone knows how to handle something like this, it's the Vesmier.
And I'm a bit jumpy, sorry. It's just that... The Master's here. In Chicago. He left a message on the journals.
That should explain it all, really, especially when she can't even think that name without it being coloured by fear.
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There's a moment's pause as the Vesmier begins to consider that this is not the best time to be lying somewhere in a coma, and then he moves quite matter-of-factly on. :: Has he approached you? ::
He can't sense the creature on her. But he's not exactly at his best. The low, demiconscious chords darken and deepen, slide momentarily into a complex minor key. If he has to drag himself out of a healing coma by the inflection of his base instinctuals...
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The contact is a bit startling, but Ivanova recovers quickly enough. Crisis-management is useful for all sorts of misadventures. The fact that she spilled most of a mug of coffee on herself is incidental. Hot, unpleasant, and a waste of what has to be the best damn coffee she's ever had, but incidental.
Still, the Vesmier may catch a brief flash of pain and some rather inventive cursing as she hastily cleans up scalding coffee.
:: ...Vesmier? :: She doesn't even need to ask the question, not with a mental presence that's unmistakable, but asking is reflex. :: I didn't expect to hear from you this way, I'll admit. ::
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:: Commander Ivanova. :: There's equal parts recognition and greeting in that response. :: I'm sorry to have startled you. I wasn't expecting to be projecting. ::
Which is fascinating, in a way. It's been a long time since he's had this loose control over his psychic abilities.
...it's actually somewhat concerning, not that he didn't hit "concerning" when he was put into a healing coma.
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There's some dry humor in that thought, but her point stands. In those circumstances, it's understandable.
:: I'm just happy that there's something there to project. ::
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::Indeed,:: he agrees, with warmth which would seem understated for anyone but him. ::And I'm glad that there's an external world into which I can project. The last week had me somewhat concerned.::
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