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.

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Ugh. Five dollar words. April is getting the feeling she is not going to be getting a 'get out of jail free card' here, but hey. Can't hurt to try. So she keeps with the slowly backing away plan.

"I don't-" Ngh. Okay. Focus, April. "Someone else messing up isn't your problem?"

"Right. Great."

She kept glancing behind her. She couldn't help it. April wasn't really the kind of person that normally worried about being horribly murdered...but living in the City gave people a certain kind of paranoia. Even in dreams. She slowed down, looking at the machines, even though they meant nothing to her. Zero. This was all...it was just...

Mitch. Like.

"Somewhere I want to go?"

"That's what I said," Bradbury murmured, pushing himself gingerly to his feet. For a moment he wondered if he'd be able to, as his balance faltered, but he caught himself before he could fall, straightening his now-ruined shirt. He dug a hand into his pocket to pull his handkerchief out, using it to wipe off the blood on his chin and at his wrist before holding it to his chest, applying pressure to the wound.

He looked over at his boss, then, something wary and guarded in his expression -- under the same familiar, quiet concern. "You all right?"

He had to ask, of course. Some things never changed.

A certain amount of tension doesn't leave Archer's stance until that last image flickers out of existence. But even then, he still looks rather serious and troubled. "Do you think that's the last of it?" He glances around. "If everything is back to normal now, there isn't much we can do but wait and see what happens."

It's like all hell has broken loose. Everything seems to happen at once, the briars reaching for him and the familiars diving at him, and he won't let them touch him. Immediately his shield is surrounding his body in an orb, blocking them out even though they're bombarding him.

But his shield is stuttering. Because that scream, that shattering, painful scream just will not shut up, and it's getting into his head. It's hurting his ears, it's making him lose his focus on his powers. That's the thing about telekinesis. Julian acts like it makes him invincible, but it doesn't. In theory, his powers are only limited by his thoughts, but that works both ways. Unless he can focus enough to think, his powers are useless.

The shield fractures, and he desperately tries to keep it up while that scream reverberates in his ears. Then one of the briars gets through, locking around his wrist and cutting into it.

"Fuck! God damn it, Karkat, when I get hold of you I'm going to fucking kill you!"

More briars are getting through now, dragging him through the labyrinth, and even yet the scream is going on. He curses again, unable to concentrate enough to bring his shield back up, and having to use what power he could to throw back those evil little mini trolls. He has no idea where the briars are dragging him, but until he can get his head on straight, he'll have to let them do their work.

"Karkat, if you think these assholes are gonna keep me away, you better think again!"

[ He doesn’t think that’s an answer. At least, it’s not one that satisfies him. She’s here because she’s waiting for a sign?

Predictably, while she’s flaring at that last point, he’s getting annoyed all over again. ]

I didn’t do this, Kanaya! I didn’t break him, and neither did anyone else. He did this to himself. All of this is how he sees the world. Covered in blood and full of mirrors that see the worst in everyone. That’s his head. No fucking wonder he hates himself.

Have you seen how you feature on Planet Karkat? You and all your friends, you’re here. You’re like tiny little demons. They were following me through this place, they’re vicious little monsters. That’s how he sees his friends.

So given that, do you really think you’re getting through to him? Because why, because you love him?

Friend. The word makes Larsa ill at ease, watching Bradbury from behind the helmet with a critical eye. He has no friends, right? Larsa hides too much here to be fully open with anyone, being content with being written off as being strange rather than explaining why he behaves the way he does. He has no friends in Ivalice, their lives have all taken such different paths: orphans (that the Empire turned them into) into sky pirates, rebels to queens and all he is left with is courtiers that garner his favor because he is Emperor.

Maybe it isn't the fact that Larsa can never bring himself to be honest for fear of the Empire collapsing, but it's for fear of being abandoned. What if James found out that Larsa's brother had killed his own father, what if he worried that it would happen to Zatanna? Or worse yet, what if she got scared off by it? Mitchell learning of the Empire's transgressions, despite Larsa's attempts for change.

"Then your search has been in vain, Bradbury."

Because, even a kind man like Bradbury would soon learn the fate of those who would protect him and think him a threat. Isn't that true?

How fortunate they were that the familiars were kind enough to wait for their short exchange. Even if she's been twisted by repressed emotions, she still values manners somewhat. That and they feel no threat until Archer himself shows hostility.

Minako will luck out as they turn their attention on Archer as though he was the guest without welcome. Guess she's still mad at him.

Unlike anyone else entering this labyrinth, she's the only one that could make Larsa shine through. In reality, he's terrified of how much he actually has come to love this woman. At first, he thought that she she simply adopted him so that she wouldn't skirt the legalities of getting him out of the hospital. To him, the way that she nurtures him makes her family and for so long, he was actually free to be a person.

When she gets to the top, the figure stops to stare at her. She can't see his face, that confusion that even she would dare step foot in this place. Shame threatens to consume him; of all people, she is the last person that he wants to know about how his life. He's terrified of her leaving him--whether it's through marriage to James (that whole incident was a nightmare realized) or through-

Well, this.

"What are you doing here?" He asks, panicked that she's even standing before him. He looks her over, looking for any injuries that his labyrinth gave her.

"Leave- you should not be in this place."

"It is my problem," He hisses, "Woe is it to Larsa, to have a brother named Vayne."

Isn't it? He can't help it, those feelings of anger rising to the surface and daring to show.

"He did this, he did all of this."

He blinked, eyebrows rising. He patted his chest down, over his jacket, and then leveled a look that was mostly 'are you shitting me' at his bodyguard. A break that shattered the chill in the air, for just the briefest moment. Eyebrows quirked, a half-smile that was mostly disbelieving.

Really, was he alright? He wasn't fucking bleeding, at least. For once on a Saturday, he was wondering if he should just call it and spend the rest of the evening actually out of the office. He didn't really want to be here for much longer. It raised the hairs on the back of his neck, made him feel antsy.

"Are you shitting me? I'm not fucking bleeding."

He gives Minako the briefest of nods before he turns back to the armor before him. His swords are leveled at these empty enemies. "Heh, what kind of things are you to fight? Empty husks of shining armor--"

Isn't that what he is, though? For just a second, he hesitates.

Then he lunges forward, the twin swords flashing in his hands as he lays into his opponents. "You're no match for a real knight, so get lost."

He can say a thing like that because it's for Rin. She needs him to be a real knight for her, so he will be. Just for now.

"Not really," it explained. "This isn't your normal dream, I'm sorry to say," it admitted. Actually, it wasn't a dream at all, but it had no way of conveying that. "It's--"

It paused, trying to figure out how to say it, but after a moment of struggling, the helmet tipped, only slightly. "I know what it is, but not the words. It's not important, either way."

It led her on, through the great machine around them, and into the darkness on the other side, through a hallway with more of the same. The pistons and pressure gauges, this time steam that was a bit more cloying than normal billowing from the floor.

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.

[ she ducks instinctively, shielding her arms over her head, though the arc is probably high enough that she wouldn't have needed to. if mirrors are breaking there could always be falling glass. she steps forward, closer to his ring. ]

I know what it's like to want to punish yourself for your shortcomings, but...they don't matter. Not to me. I know you probably don't believe that, especially not from me, but I'm sorry. I have to say it anyway, someone does. Someone has to help you see.

You don't have to be like this. [ this, karkinos. like the other witches she's dealt with this week, but not one she knows how to solve. just one she wishes she could, with everything she has. ]

[ she quietly seethes at that last comment, thrown at her like an accusation. ] He's important. I'm responsible for him. And they aren't vicious, they're just territorial against trespassers.

I never said you did all this, but you could certainly make it worse. Have you listened to yourself, what you're so insistent on getting from him? You don't care about him or the fact that he's in this state, you only came to retaliate for a perceived slight.

Don't you think he punishes himself enough that he doesn't need you adding to it? You're practically leading him on!

She had adopted Larsa because she wanted to. Admittedly, she hadn't really thought it all through. She had money, he was self-sufficient -- even at twelve. She hadn't expected him to become such a big part of her life. Sometimes when she looks at him, she wonders if this was how her father had felt about her. Unquestionable love. She could never compare herself to her own father because she was nowhere near as dedicated or protective. No, she couldn't live up to that.

However, Zatanna would try.

She recognizes his voice before she does his profile. Any injuries she has are nothing compared to how deep losing him would cut her. They'd heal. Loss wouldn't.

Casually, she brushes some stray strands of hair away from her eyes. "I'm here for you." It's matter-of-fact and she searches him, quietly wondering why he's not running toward her and their escape.

"I'm not leaving without you, Larsa." She extends a hand to him, ready to pull him into her arms and take their leave. "If you're being held here, I don't care. I'll cut down anyone that hurts you." Her eyes flicker coldly for a brief moment, conviction in her words. No one would ever hurt him. And, if they did? She'd make damn sure they wouldn't have a second chance.

With a warm smile, she quickly adds: "Let's go home, honey."

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?"

"Hey, haven't you heard? It ain't over until the fat lady sings." Not that Larsa's life was a grand opera or anything, but what else was Bradbury supposed to say? He tilted his head to take Larsa in, the armor obscuring anything recognizable about him except his voice, and he remembered Mitchell's doppelgänger with its legs of steel and living metal.

"You mind telling me something? Is that armore for keeping other people out... or for keeping you in?"

"Comes with the job," was Bradbury's dismissive answer, shaking his head. What he didn't add was that this normally wasn't in the job description, or at least not protecting himself from the very people he was supposed to protect. He looked around, trying to place exactly what room they were in, before he hobbled over to the door, reaching out to pull it open.

He paused, hand on the handle, and looked over his shoulder at Mitch.

"No offense, sir, but I think you should be getting home. You don't exactly look up and at 'em."

"Of course." So much for that tactic. Maybe there's a way to get her to open up about whatever is generating this labyrinth. "In that case, will immediately commence service as your counselor. Can listen to what's on your mind- frustrations, concerns, challenges to your rule. Provide input, new perspectives."

Mordin just hopes that the concept of the Queen needing someone else's advice on anything isn't the sort of thing that gets one executed in this cardboard court.

[ truth be told, the witch, and all of its pain, is still too vital, too fresh for words alone to break through to the consciousness held in stasis within.

it does, however, take notice of her as she nears its circle, wherein "notice" is extending a monstrous sickle, the tip of the blade aimed directly towards the place where she stands. ]

The protest he held fell on his lips, and died there. "No, I--" he stopped, feeling the strain of too many days working, the exhaustion settling in. Normally, he mitigated it, drank enough coffee to keep himself going and crashed whenever he had the few hours to spare.

The problem was that after this, he felt the effects, the exhaustion settling in early. He rubbed at the back of his neck, eyes diverting to the high windows for a moment. It was still early, still late-afternoon.

"Er, actually I probably should."

"Oh, easily." John replies, keeping his gun trained on the creature. He can't stop his lips curving into a smile when the Moriarty in his voice wanes. He takes this as a sign of encouragement and continues to talk. "Just delete a few of those bird types and forget half of the periodic time... job sorted."

And strange as this labyrinth is, John hardly bats an eye when a door suddenly materializes in front of him. It stops the spider, who rears back on its legs and snaps his pincers hungrily at him, but John grasps the handle and runs through before it can even scramble around the other side and attack him.

He slams the door shut, and turns around to face the violin music that lured him inside. "Am I getting warmer?"

"I don't even know what this is. And, seriously-"

She frowns. Hesitating for a brief moment on the next step back as a thought occurs.

"Wait. You have brothers?"

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