capeandcowllogs | Where your eyes don't go a part of you is hovering

Where your eyes don't go a part of you is hovering

WHO: Everyone who's signed up for the Shadow Märchen plot and the people who get involved with them.
WHERE: All over the City.
WHEN: February 1st through February 9th. Specify the dates when you tag in.
WARNINGS: Probably a lot, since this is a festival of dark sides.
SUMMARY: The City plays host to a twisted theater of the mind as numerous imPorts become darkened, monstrous versions of themselves.
FORMAT: To be chosen by the thread-starters.

The start of a new month shouldn't mean anything special for the City--but this time, it does. Even if it's only because of an accident.

The pull of despair within each victim might come from nowhere, or it might seem like the most natural extension in the world of their current circumstances. However it manifests, the results come quickly: one living shadow all too eager to broadcast its nature far and wide, attached to a monstrous witch that warps the world around it in order to feel at home.

Where once there was an ordinary building, there now might lurk the entrance to a distorted dimension controlled by one of those witches. Where once there was a friend, there's probably now a monster. Can't find the friend that's become this monster? Don't worry too much about missing the chance--the familiars of their witch roam the streets looking for those who can be dragged into the labyrinth.

But take heart: what's within is still the same familiar person...in its own way.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

John was outside getting some lunch and a few other necessities when the change occurred. It's not unusual for his mind to wander during this time, especially when he's bogged down with clinical paperwork on a long, boring Sunday afternoon. So when it strikes, it consumes him entirely, seamless as it dons him like an old comfortable jacket.

For a man who craves excitement and adventure, the tedium of these mundane tasks can take its toll and he swears, loudly and suddenly, spooking some nearby pigeons into flight and attracting the attention of people walking by him. Instead of ducking his head and issuing an apology, he confronts them with raised hackles and bared teeth.

"What're you looking at?" He demands hotly, heat creeping up his neck and into his face. Foul, vitriolic thoughts begin swirling around in his mind and pouring out through his heart; an organ bloated with compassion and sentiment and emotion. Resentment. Blood pounds loudly in his ears and he flicks his wrist with a loud crack, flipping the bird at the people watching him. "Piss off!"

Turning on his heel, he strides back towards the clinic, becoming lighter as he begins to transform entirely. By their own design, hospitals are natural labyrinths to people unfamiliar with them and this is his environment, his battlefield.

His shadow slithers out from beneath him and flips open his communicator. He has a little announcement to make.

After speaking with John's shadow on the Network, Sherlock didn't need to be dragged to the clinic-- he practically ran. At first he thought HABIT was trying his hand at some sort of game again, but he never tried to imitate the people he possessed, or at least not so well and with so much personal information.

When he reaches the block of the clinic, it's been practically abandoned, and an ominous feeling emanates from the building itself. Normally, that sort of thing never bothered Sherlock, because it rarely meant anything. However, this crushing, oppressive feeling almost felt like entering a still smoking building. It doesn't help when he opens the door and the lobby of St. Bartholomew's hospital greets him. This is the last place he wanted to see again from home. Not here. Not now. It didn't make sense-- St. Bart's is several floors taller than the clinic. He of all people would know. When someone approaches him from inside, he rushes up to meet them.

"I realize there's something wrong with this place, but I need to find--"

Sherlock stops midsentence when he notices through the strange haze of the hallways that the person isn't a clinic employee at all. Decked in desert combat gear, a soldier with a seared face and very little remaining of his torso lifted his assault rifle.

Inside the clinic, the atmosphere and layout is radically different from its usual design. Originally meant to encourage healing and ease physical and emotional distress of its admitted patients, the ambiance of the building is dominated by a thick and heavy tension, warped by the memories of a man who originally started his career within these walls. It's lonely, it's sterile and it's suffocating.

And only someone who has witnessed the atrocities of war would fill his dungeon with people he failed to save along the way; friends, comrades, brothers in arms, all summoned to fill the dungeon and defend it. The soldier snorts and staggers forward on his broken bones, shoving the muzzle of his rifle right into the detective's chest. Its eyes are hidden, lost somewhere within the charred, red tissue that now comprises his face, but its intention is clear.

"Doesn't anyone listen to public service announcements anymore?" The tannoy system overhead, crackling and howling with audio feedback, laments with John Watson's distorted voice from deep within his labyrinth. "Go away."

Sherlock slowly raises his arms in surrender, though he isn't quite sure that this man, if it can even still be called that, will recognize it. The horrible atmosphere of the hospital, something that never affected him back in London, slows his brain. Only after he hears John's voice again does he snap together a plan to get past the soldier.

"Never been much for those," he calls out. The rules of this place clearly weren't like the real world, or else he wouldn't have a reanimated fusilier pressing a rifle to his stomach. Hopefully, John would hear him-- the real one. "Where are you?"

"Oh, come on. You know that isn't what our readership wants." His tone is scolding, bristling with intensity, which seems to give the impression of shaking the hallway around Sherlock. "They want to read about a thrilling pursuit, a dramatic showdown, a startling revelation... stuff like that!"

Subconsciously or not, John has left a trail for people to find him: green and yellow post-it-notes, sporadically stuck against the walls. They carve a path through the twisted tribute to St. Barts hospital and most of them (the yellow ones) are blank, but a few carry failed deductions and random commentary, not unlike the ones found in his casebook.

"Last chance to turn around."

Sherlock grits his teeth; he's never really given a damn what John's readership thought. Of course, that had been used against them, but it especially had no place here. His eyes have caught sight of the little notes, though. He recognizes them, but there won't be any reading them if the soldiers overpowered him.

"You'll have to make me." He shoots out a downward palm that knocks the soldier's aim away from him. It growls at him and starts to fire, riddling the wall with bullets as Sherlock grapples with its arms, pinning them against its bloody chest. He manages to deliver a low kick to sweep the soldier off its crunching knees and then stomps on its face with a shout that distracts him from the crumbling under his heel.

These violent methods were rare for him, but not new. Not with what's at stake here. Sherlock helps himself to the assault rifle and prepares to move forward. He never did like to listen to John's safety warnings.

The thing, is, though, Sherlock isn't alone. Or rather, there's the sound of feet making their way quickly along the corridor, like whoever they belong to has heard the tail end of the violence, the ratatat of bullets and the shout, and he's racing to catch up.

He's holding his gun and tactical flashlight ahead of him, arms crossed at the wrist to support the weight of his gun, and the beam cuts through the darkness of the corridor. Bradbury skids to a stop when he catches sight of Sherlock up ahead, not exactly surprised to see someone in here, but he doesn't recognize Sherlock by face; they've only ever spoken over the comms, and Bradbury's never seen what he looks like.

He can hazard a guess as to who would be braving the plunge in, though, and he lowers his arms, glancing down at the body at Sherlock's feet and grimacing.

"Sherlock Holmes, I presume?"

Sherlock's ears are too busy ringing to hear the sounds of Bradbury's footsteps, but he is alerted to something's presence by the light. He lifts the rifle in taut, anxious hands, fairly certain these soldiers can't operate torches. However, there was no accounting for what else John's subconscious might produce, if that indeed is where he currently found himself.

The muffled call of his name gets through, and his grip on the trigger loosens. Squinting past the light as it gets closer, he's able to recognize John's friend, the mayor's head of security.

"Bradbury," he calls out louder than he realizes, pressing a hand to his ear. "I'm afraid the clinic's out of service for the moment."

"Yeah, I think I worked that one out too." Bradbury looks a little worn at the edges, like he hasn't had a good night's sleep. He's alert enough, though, and he rolls his shoulders back, straightening with a wince. He moves in to stand closer to Sherlock, realizing only now that the man must have difficulty hearing himself. He doesn't want him to keep yelling, in case they attract, well. Something -- or somethings.

"You're looking for John." It's not even a question; he tips his head curiously. The motion exposes a fine, long scratch along his chin, like someone might have pressed a knife against it. He's wearing his civilian clothes instead of his usual bodyguard outfit, heavy jacket and boots and all. He nods at Sherlock, indicating the rifle he's holding.

"You know how to use that thing?" Like it's every day he walks into a messed up version of a hospital, or simply that he doesn't have the energy to invest in surprise.

Hearing becomes easier the more Bradbury talks in a tone quieter than a shotgun blast. Soon, the ringing starts to subside. It's relieving that Bradbury, while clearly not the sharpest knife in any drawer, is at least quick on the uptake.

"I take it that's why you're here." Fellow soldiers and all that. Of course, John hadn't told Sherlock that Bradbury had once been a marine, but it was written all over him, from his build to his haircut.

Other, more immediate things are noticeable to him now. Injuries, a sense of preparation for all this, and the general lack of surprise.

"Was City Hall like this or worse?" he asks, pointedly ignoring Bradbury's question. He knows how an assault rifle is used and can quickly adapt, but that doesn't necessarily mean he's tried before.

"How did you--" That does surprise him, and he starts, then stops, shaking his head. Unlike John, there hadn't been any mysterious announcements over the network for Mitch. Then again, he realizes, he's speaking to Sherlock Holmes. Or at least a Sherlock Holmes. It really shouldn't be a surprise.

He also realizes Sherlock hasn't answered his question, but instead of calling him out on it, he takes a step further down the hallway, looking ahead warily while he responds.

"What's worse than your best friend being stuck in this?" He's bringing his gun up again, and there's military efficiency in his motions, the confidence of long practice. Taking point, even without being asked.

"Please don't shoot me in the ass," he adds, after a beat.

Edited 2013-02-13 08:37 (UTC)

"Rumors, for one. Your injuries, for another." Even if Bradbury doesn't finish the question, Sherlock is more than happy to answer it. "I was on my way to investigate the reported strange atmosphere around City Hall when this took precedence."

Sherlock is quick to keep Bradbury's pace, while again not bothering to answer his question. It shouldn't have to be.

"It's not really them we see, is it? Not completely. The eyes are wrong." He adjusts the rifle in his hands, raising an eyebrow. "Personal experience?"

Should have figured a detective would be a chatty type; Bradbury makes a face, but he doesn't attempt to correct the observation.

"Something like that." He moves efficiently, ever-wary for any signs of more like the monster Sherlock so efficiently took down. "All I know is, the sooner we find him, the better."

Mitch's other selves had looked so much like him.

Bradbury's equally evasive answers start to harp on Sherlock's nerves, but he lets it go for now. He stops in front of one of the post-it notes on the wall, pulling it free. On it were case details of a missing person investigation that never went anywhere. Things only John would know, but this thing wasn't really John. Or was it simply a part of him?

Removing the note caused a light to click on a ways down the hall, by a stairwell. Clearly, these were meant to illuminate a path. The slight relief of finding that out quickly dissipates when another soldier creeps down the hall toward them.

Then again, that's what Bradbury's here for. The twitch of movement down the hall is met by him bringing up his gun in one smooth motion, pulling on the trigger. What gets fired is no ordinary bullet -- it doesn't even sound like a normal gunshot, and it tears through the soldier's head like it's a rotting pumpkin, leaving the body to stagger aimlessly before collapsing.

Bradbury, who's wearing gloves, lowers his gun, the slightest trace of a wince crossing his face. Motherfucker, he was never going to get used to the recoil, or the heat. He turns to glance at Sherlock over his shoulder, like he's considering something, before he finally speaks up.

"If actually you wanna know something, ask me better questions. I don't know what answers you're looking for." He pauses. "It was different. It didn't look like this."

The shot happens in the time it takes for Sherlock to even lift his rifle. He looks from the fallen corpse to his new comrade with a furrowed brow.

"The hell--" Powers, of course. All their kind had them, but again, not the most pressing issue at the moment. When Bradbury finally tells Sherlock off, the detective just scoffs angrily.

"Of course it's bloody different. Clearly these pocket dimensions contour to the prisoner's subconscious." He briskly walks towards the stairwell. "This is a hospital in London, or a projection of it. I don't imagine Mayor Hundred has had a reason to be here." He heaves a shaky sigh as he starts up the steps. The last time he ascended them still keeps replaying in his head like a torturer's tape.

"What I need to know is what the hell that thing was pretending to be John and how to stop it."

After a bout of silence from John, his voice bursts from the speakers around Sherlock and Bradbury, accompanied by a distant, whistling howl in the background and feedback that muffles his voice.

"Pretending?" What is discernible from the broadcast is the strain in his voice and the utter misery. But before either man can respond, an exasperated sigh follows and the labyrinth begins to change, "Are you really that dense?"

Suddenly, the stairwell becomes shrouded with smoke and ashes begin fall around them like snow. To the trained person, it smells like white phosphorus and tendrils seem to curl around them, intent of smothering them within its grey shroud.

Edited 2013-02-14 12:43 (UTC)

Bradbury would have responded to Sherlock, told him that these things, whatever they were, didn't seem to appreciate their existence being questioned. It was too late, though, the voice from the speakers drowning out anything he might have said.

When the smoke starts filling the stairwell, Bradbury swears, bringing up the sleeve of his jacket to cover his nose and mouth, urging Sherlock up the stairwell, or whatever's left of it.

"Fucking move!" Sherlock knew the geography of this place better than Bradbury, so he was better off leading them onward.

Sherlock's heart jumps when he hears John on the speakers again. Is this form of him, whatever it is, omniscient, at least in this space? He's starting to suspect that somehow, they've breached John's mind itself. The prospect is daunting, if not horrifying. Sherlock can think of few greater violations than that of the human mind being invaded by outside influence.

He punches the wall in frustration when the speakers go dead again, only to feel the acridity of smoke creep into his nostrils. This isn't normal smoke, that much is clear immediately. It's the smell of a bomb after it's made its mark, and the phosphorus is more than familiar. Sherlock quickly brings his scarf up around his nose and mouth, but he can feel the sentience in the smoke grasping at his ankles.

Unable to warn Bradbury about this new menace, he demonstratively kicks it away the best he can and tries to resume climbing the stairs-- they'd have to get off on the next floor if this kept going.

Bradbury doesn't need much warning, since he can feel the smoke plucking at his clothes himself. He turns to shoot through the fog again, gun almost seeming to spark, but the cloud muffles the sound almost completely. It's unsettling, but the grip on him eases for a moment, and he takes the opportunity to run after Sherlock, keeping him in sight as best as he can.

They break through the fog and hit a patch of sterile, cold hallway much like the one they were in before it started filling with smoke. Bradbury winces, shaking out his hand and dropping his arm from his face. That'll teach him to use a mutant-enhanced gun one-handed.

"Wow, its almost like he wants us dead." The deadpan was because the words were true, at least if he could relate the situation to what he'd already been through. Either way, he sounded resigned, but he couldn't keep the question from slipping free.

"The fuck did you do to piss him off so much?"

Coughs rattled Sherlock's frame once they reached the safety of the next floor. Luckily they hadn't had too much exposure; nothing showed on the inside of his scarf. He glances over at Bradbury, also relatively unharmed, except his hand.

"You know how to use that thing?" he echoes, arching a brow at the gun. Maybe it wasn't to do with his power after all.

He ignores Bradbury's dry remark to rip another post-it from the wall. 'My Mental Flatmate Made My Life Hell.' A joke at the time from that ridiculous casebook, but paired with Bradbury's next question, Sherlock crumples it in his hand. Not a word slips from him as he feels something sink in the pit of his stomach. He turns and gives the ex-marine a deadly stare that lingers uncomfortably before he starts down the hall again.

"I do." Bradbury glances at the Post-It, having the time to read at least the start of it before Sherlock balls it up in his hand. The look Sherlock gives makes him shift his weight uncomfortably, and he reaches out with his other hand to touch Sherlock on the shoulder -- it's fleeting, and he removes his fingers of his hand quickly enough, but it's there.

"Hey. I'm serious." His tone (past the scratchiness in his voice) certainly implies it, and his expression has a certain earnestness about it. He's never had much of a use for subterfuge, and the concern on his face is genuine.

"I don't exactly know what's going on, but..." He frowns, unsure of how to word what he's trying to articulate. "If you wanna get through to him, maybe it's worth thinking about. Give us a start on figuring out how to stop it."

Sherlock whips around when Bradbury touches him, though he doesn't lash out. Logic always prevails within him, and hurting his only companion here would be entirely pointless and counterproductive. Of course, that doesn't mean he wants to tell the whole story to someone he barely knows, John's friend or not. It's obvious Bradbury just wants to help. He'd even succeeded with the mayor, or there'd have been news about it. Sherlock purses his lips and starts to walk again.

"John has assisted me with my investigations since we've met, and made a hobby of documenting them. He was quite fastidious about it, right up to our last case at home." His voice stays even and detached. "Then I died."

Bradbury doesn't need to know that's not the whole truth. If John sees fit to tell him, he'd deal with it then.

"He mentioned that." And then, to add a little clarity as to what exactly he's referring to, "Said you jumped off a building. The whole being dead thing was a pretty big deal."

The advice Bradbury had given him, at the time, was to punch Sherlock. He's not sure if John actually did it, but...

"This might kind of be a long shot, but this--" he waves his free hand at the hallway around them. "--this doesn't exactly make it look like you got things worked out."

"People usually do take the passing of those they're close to rather hard," Sherlock replies in a tone that makes it very clear that he does not want to talk about this, definitely not now.

However, he still flashes back to their month of not so much as talking, their shouting match at the MAC, and how even now he occasionally caught John sitting in his armchair at their new flat, staring off into space, looking like the most lost man on earth. Maybe, he thought, things weren't as resolved as they could be. Of course, he hadn't expected John to just forgive him and carry on like always, but he also didn't expect this mental projection of his anguish.

"We need to get to the roof."

february 3rd

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