Wandering lost in the House of Mirrors, Crane regards his reflections with the barest trace of amusement. He doesn't look the type to be visiting a carnival, let alone actually exploring one of the attractions; prematurely solemn in a tweed suit and spectacles, what on earth he's doing here is left to the imagination of any observers. But he is enjoying himself, and moves slowly through the maze with his hands clasped behind his back, making only a few mistakes.
Rachel isn't entirely clear on how she's wound up at a carnival. It's certainly not by choice--they bother her, really, all the noise and the crowds and the weirdness.
And sometimes there are clowns. That's not cool.
So there was already all that working against this experience. And then she had to go and appear smack in the middle of one.
So not on.
She ducks into the first building she finds, happy for the dark and the quiet, for the distance from the crush of people outside. Until she realizes it's the House of Mirrors.
Lovely.
She doesn't move through the maze so much as she quietly spazzes through it, trying to ignore the mirrors, trying not to get flustered when she misses a turn. She's so intent on finding the way out that when she turns a corner and there's someone there, she nearly jumps.
"Oh!. Um. Hi. Sorry. Didn't know anybody else was in here."
A scrawny man with bleached-blond hair and stubble hunches through the fair, cagey and on-edge. Dressed in black trousers and workboots and a black hoodie over a worn red t-shirt, he could be any chav slumped in from some less-than-fashionable corner of the multiverse.
Except that he smalls strongly of ozone and, as he walks, draws in deep breaths, nostrils flaring, scenting all of the cheap food and frantic life of the fair.
He stops at a booth selling candy floss, and considers, eying the bags of blue and pink and purple spun sugar-and then eying the vendors with the same expression. Which would taste better, fluff or flesh? Maybe he'll take both.
The Master, being a Very Scientific alien who does not believe in magic, isn't accustomed to the feel of it-each universe operates on a physics uniquely its own, a core DNA of identity that differentiates its inhabitants from those of any other universe, and the Master has never encountered Tereza's before.
But he does sense energy-though he interprets it as vitality. The absurd hair, the quick smile, the loud clothes and obvious youth-this girl seems dedicated to life and motion.
She looks as though she would taste very good.
He answers her smile with one of his own, and nods towards the counter. "Go ahead."
She may notice that, at this close range, he smells of acetone-the sweet, fruity smell of starvation-as well as ozone.
Loitering near the entrance to the tent is a small, shirtless young man, looking entire nonchalant about the fact that several people are closely examining something on his back and muttering to each other. He watches Castiel serenely and openly, hands tucked into the pockets of his worn jeans. Perhaps unusual for someone who is ostensibly working with the carnival, he bears no tattoos, gaudy or otherwise, or else they're concealed by what clothing he has on.
It's only when he turns to answer a question from one of his observers that the appendages on his back become clear: they are wing stubs, ragged and torn, bloody and leaking ichor from where they most definitely grow out of his skin. There are still a few grayish-white feathers clinging, but by and large, it's clear that something (or someone) ripped out the majority of each wing. Yet what could be termed the aura emanating from him is still peaceable, if perhaps not holy. Once he's finished answering the question something to do with how he sleeps (he doesn't) he gradually
( ... )
Ngh I was just about to go to sleep. Will only have time for this one tag; more tomorrow. :)servus_perditusFebruary 27 2010, 06:15:49 UTC
Castiel's attention remains occupied by the woman in the glass box for another few moments, but then a certain, quite familiar feeling distracts him. Sensations seem to dim and center, like a camera focusing on a single object of interest, and his eyes fall on a young man who is standing only a few feet away, watching him.
Castiel's shoulders tense the slightest bit. It has been a long time since he felt this; his brothers and sisters, after the prevention of the Apocalypse, only very rarely walk the Earth, and he usually does everything to avoid them. When the young man turns around and reveals his wing stumps, though, Castiel relaxes--and feels a surge of sympathy. His own order of angels don't possess physical wings, so he can only try to imagine what that kind of loss would feel like. He doesn't think he wants to, though.
"Greetings," he responds as the young man addresses him. "My name is Castiel. I'm afraid I don't recognize you."
So ponies aren't... exactly out of place at a carnival, but they're usually found at pony rides and petting zoos, not being led around. Brody didn't intend to come here (he wouldn't have brought Mew, the three-foot-tall miniature horse he's leading around, if he had; Mew is trained to be comfortable in crowds but this is sort of pushing it). Winding up in places you don't expect is sort of par for the course with the Nexus, though, so he's not too put out. There are just way too many people and it's making him anxious; he retreats to a bench, sitting, holding the pony's leash and crossing his legs tailor-style. He's trying to think of how he got here and how to get back without using his PINpoint (a pain in the ass, with the pony), who is meanwhile just hangin' out, munching on what grass there is and flicking his tail nonchalantly. As you do.
Every so often, Grif likes to drive around the Nexus, just to see what's out there. He didn't expect to encounter a whole town today, but neither can he say that it's something he couldn't have expected, if he'd thought of it. The Puma's radio just finishes up a jazz-industrial remix of "Swinging on a Star" as he rolls up to the carnival.
"Huh. Well, how 'bout that."
Intrigued by the possibilities, but also wary from past experiences, Grif gets out of the Puma and reaches into the storage in the turret well. The extra-provisions backpack and the usual small forest of guns get secured on his back, and he sets up a running sensor feed to his base's computer, just in case. He PINs the Puma back to Blood Gulch, then heads on into the carnival.
Mabel hates carnivals. They remind her of the ghosts of murdered children and the screams of things neither living nor dead. Bright colors, tinsel music, and laughing screams put her on the edge, and she spends her time staring at every dark corner she could find, looking for things that didn't like to be found.
(Hi her childhood was all sorts of fucked up, ask her how!)
As such, she doesn't see Grif until she practically runs into the guy, and since he ought to stand out, this is probably some sort of Clue to what kind of things she was used to. "Shouldn't you be holding balloons or something?"
Under other circumstances, Grif probably would've detected her sooner and moved so they wouldn't collide, but with so many people around, Mabel's is just one of a multitude of blips on his motion tracker. Still, his reaction time is good, and when he notices her almost but not quite running into him, he's able to keep himself from doing the same.
Mabel's question confuses him slightly, and it's a moment before he answers, "Yeah, 'cause I need balloons to make me loom that much more over the crowd. That's a great plan."
"Sure it is!" Mabel smiles, a slow, patient smile of someone who knew that everything around them didn't make much sense and she was talking to a seven-foot-something in yellow armor, so why the hell not?
"Then you get all the little kiddies following you around, and then you get their parents trying to get them to calm down - it can't be any less chaotic than it already is, can it?"
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And sometimes there are clowns. That's not cool.
So there was already all that working against this experience. And then she had to go and appear smack in the middle of one.
So not on.
She ducks into the first building she finds, happy for the dark and the quiet, for the distance from the crush of people outside. Until she realizes it's the House of Mirrors.
Lovely.
She doesn't move through the maze so much as she quietly spazzes through it, trying to ignore the mirrors, trying not to get flustered when she misses a turn. She's so intent on finding the way out that when she turns a corner and there's someone there, she nearly jumps.
"Oh!. Um. Hi. Sorry. Didn't know anybody else was in here."
Reply
Except that he smalls strongly of ozone and, as he walks, draws in deep breaths, nostrils flaring, scenting all of the cheap food and frantic life of the fair.
He stops at a booth selling candy floss, and considers, eying the bags of blue and pink and purple spun sugar-and then eying the vendors with the same expression. Which would taste better, fluff or flesh? Maybe he'll take both.
Reply
(The comment has been removed)
But he does sense energy-though he interprets it as vitality. The absurd hair, the quick smile, the loud clothes and obvious youth-this girl seems dedicated to life and motion.
She looks as though she would taste very good.
He answers her smile with one of his own, and nods towards the counter. "Go ahead."
She may notice that, at this close range, he smells of acetone-the sweet, fruity smell of starvation-as well as ozone.
Reply
(The comment has been removed)
Reply
It's only when he turns to answer a question from one of his observers that the appendages on his back become clear: they are wing stubs, ragged and torn, bloody and leaking ichor from where they most definitely grow out of his skin. There are still a few grayish-white feathers clinging, but by and large, it's clear that something (or someone) ripped out the majority of each wing. Yet what could be termed the aura emanating from him is still peaceable, if perhaps not holy. Once he's finished answering the question something to do with how he sleeps (he doesn't) he gradually ( ... )
Reply
Castiel's shoulders tense the slightest bit. It has been a long time since he felt this; his brothers and sisters, after the prevention of the Apocalypse, only very rarely walk the Earth, and he usually does everything to avoid them. When the young man turns around and reveals his wing stumps, though, Castiel relaxes--and feels a surge of sympathy. His own order of angels don't possess physical wings, so he can only try to imagine what that kind of loss would feel like. He doesn't think he wants to, though.
"Greetings," he responds as the young man addresses him. "My name is Castiel. I'm afraid I don't recognize you."
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"Huh. Well, how 'bout that."
Intrigued by the possibilities, but also wary from past experiences, Grif gets out of the Puma and reaches into the storage in the turret well. The extra-provisions backpack and the usual small forest of guns get secured on his back, and he sets up a running sensor feed to his base's computer, just in case. He PINs the Puma back to Blood Gulch, then heads on into the carnival.
Reply
(Hi her childhood was all sorts of fucked up, ask her how!)
As such, she doesn't see Grif until she practically runs into the guy, and since he ought to stand out, this is probably some sort of Clue to what kind of things she was used to. "Shouldn't you be holding balloons or something?"
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Mabel's question confuses him slightly, and it's a moment before he answers, "Yeah, 'cause I need balloons to make me loom that much more over the crowd. That's a great plan."
Reply
"Then you get all the little kiddies following you around, and then you get their parents trying to get them to calm down - it can't be any less chaotic than it already is, can it?"
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