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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She's probably right. Someone probably should have told him that. But it's far too late now, and the words that he needed to hear an eternity ago only make the briefest flicker pass through the shadow.

"You're not going to help me destroy him, are you?"

(I'll regret it, I'll ruin it, I'll destroy it eliminate it erase it end it with my own hands regret it regret it.)

"Farewell, Minako Arisato. Drown in these ideals and die."

Suddenly the sword is facing outwards, flanked by a half a dozen more on each side, and all of them are flying at Minako.

Her gasp is reflexive, and so is the rest of her reaction - the card manifests between her hands in a flicker of blue, turning from The Fool to Judgement, and the red and gold armor of Orpheus Telos vanishes, leaving Minako bleached to Messiah's pure white, hair and skin and clothes and all. Only those red eyes keep their color.

She draws wings and mantle instinctively close around her as a shield against the swords that come flying at her, and the blades clash against the white coffin-faces.

"I won't help you destroy yourself," she says, more calmly than she'd really have given herself credit for in this situation. "That isn't the answer. It won't take away your regret."

"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."

"It will." But it's hard to make out his words now among the sudden roar of fire and the clash of steel. "It will, or he'll prove to me those ideals are still worth fighting for once more, and either way I win."

The faceless puppet-knight waves its arms as if conducting. More swords rise from the ground of the hill and hover in midair. There seems to be an endless supply of the things here.

But where the last swords thrown at Minako landed, cracks run through the ground. The scent of fresh air creeps through the smell of ash.

For Mitch, the goal of the labyrinth had been the center, but there's no reason it shouldn't be different here. After all, the damn thing was completely different from what Mitch's had been like. Sherlock seemed to know where he was going, though, sure as anything, and a flash of inspiration hit Bradbury like a thunderbolt.

"This is it, isn't it? This is the building you jumped from." There's a faint quizzicalness to his voice, like he can't imagine why Sherlock would. Much less in front of a friend.

Welp. Mordin thinks fast.

"Learn from him," he suggests. "All challenges can be opportunities, especially for persons with vision and intellect. Always a way to benefit. Just a matter of identifying how."

Mordin's beginning to figure things out here. The smaller entity is clearly the talker and thinker of the two, while the larger ooze-thing is the threat that he has to be wary of. It's similar to Minako's situation- the chained figure, with its shadow speaking for the 'true self.'

Mordin looks around with satisfaction as the landscape around him fades back to a normal, scientifically-recognizable reality. "Glad you're all right," he says. "Should rest for now. Can investigate what caused this later."

Because Mordin still doesn't realize it's happening all over the City.

The witch bares her teeth, sharp and far too numerous, as his hand approaches her face. But she doesn't snap, even as she keeps her eyes locked on his fingers until he starts to speak. Everything, she wants to say. Everything has happened to her, and she's tired of it. All she wants is to take everything that's hers and sequester herself away, to just stop.

But she can't.

The other voice is quiet, hardly there, and so the witch ignores it. All it does is shake its head slightly, lips closing over its teeth and expression warping to one of sadness. It doesn't think there's anything he can do.

At least he didn't get his throat ripped out for his audacity. Sanji's hand dropped, though he didn't back away. "I don't know what happened to make you like this," he went on, "or why this place is all topsy-turvy, or the dogs, or anything, but I want to help. Can I get you out of here, at least? You want to come with me, see if we can find someone who can turn you back to normal?"

He wasn't the type to stop if there wasn't anything he could kick. Unlike his thick-headed crewmates, he knew how to use his brain. If he could talk the Nill-harpy into escaping with him, maybe someone else could figure this whole phenomenon out and help her. Anything, to see if this horrific shape could be returned to the cuteness he expected out of Nill. He reached to take her hand in the hopes of encouraging her.

The shadow, for a second, seems satisfied with the answer, but the expression barely flickers across her face before she's back to scowling.

"Fine," she says. "You have certainly proved your intelligence. You have come here to gain information from us, have you not?"

The arrogance of the shadow is starting to bleed through here, as she finally attempts to establish eye contact with her visitor.

Nepeta chewed her lip worriedly, just barely resisting the urge to make another face at that horrible voice following their every step and slinging some insults of her own back at it. This was a dangerous enough situation as it was; she didn't need to go exacerbating it just because of her first impulse.

Her attention was quickly drawn from the malicious echoes of the palace (and what a horrible palace it was) to Kanaya and her actions. Nepeta only had the most basic understanding of what she was doing but hovered close behind all the same, ready to strike out if the portal yielded something decidedly more threatening than a dead cuttlefish.

The room, though filled with the soothing sounds of a violin nocturne, is a grotesque scene. A collection of different crime scenes cover the floors and the walls with broken glass, bodies, and bullet holes. Chalk outlines rest where there's any room to stand, and to a doctor's trained nose, the air smells like blood. A chorus of unfamiliar voices creeps in beneath the music.

We can't be having children on a crime scene. This isn't your bloody science class, go home.

This is Scotland Yard, not Dick Tracy's amateur hour. Clean the coke off your nose and maybe they'll let you in the academy first.

For Christ's sake, Greg, I told you to stop letting this freak near the evidence room.

It's a room full of failures, not necessarily Sherlock's, but of those who wouldn't let him on the case when he was younger, leading them to becoming hopelessly unsolved.

Sherlock doesn't turn to look at Bradbury this time. He knows every fallen line on his face would give him away, and he just thinks of Molly's words again. You look sad when you think he can't see you.

"This is St. Bartholomew's hospital, in London. Historical landmark, actually. John and I met here." Again, he keeps his voice level and emotionless, a feat in his current condition. "I used the labs for my cases, but he was trained here before that."

"It would be at least polite," sneered Edward. This made him uneasy, this whole violation of his agency. This whole being somewhere he didn't ask to be. And part of him -- deeper down, hidden -- worried if this wasn't real. If it was a hallucination, a worsening of a disorder he had long, long denied ever could have existed in his brilliant mind.

Edward retaliated with intimacy. It was his bravado, his form of challenging the personal status quo. He drew a finger down the mask's cheek (what would be, but his estimation), and killed the comfortable space between them.

He tested what would happen.

Intimacy, no matter who or where it came from, was a long-forgotten, long ignored thing for Mitchell Hundred. No matter that this was a reflection of himself, it was still far too old and alien for him to feel comfortable with it anymore. Edward's touch forced the figure back, several steps, attempting to force an invisible wall of separation between the two of them.

If this were actually Mitch, there would be outrage, or incredulity, the mask, though, it stared straight at him, or seemingly so, with the blank mask giving nothing away. The mask might now, but the figure, the frame did. The tense in motion, the way it moved was sharp and tight.

"I thought it were obvious. My name is Mitchell Hundred. You know that, don't you? You're my fucking deputy mayor."

A real knight? It outrages her to hear him say those things now when she's well beyond saving and it shows with how fiercely they strike against him. Each familiar is out for his blood specifically now and they seem endless; an assault that Rin herself may have wanted to give to Archer long ago.

She's mad, bro. Real mad.

He doesn't know Sherlock well enough to read his tone of voice without seeing his face, but unless the guy's ice-cold, maybe it's just his way of dealing with this whole mess. Besides, Bradbury can empathize with not wanting to leave his secrets out in the open.

"Yeah?" He murmurs, flexing his fingers and taking up his gun again, with both hands now. "Then I guess that means you know the fastest way to the top."

Not that it's easy for them to get there. Even with Sherlock's familiarity with the location, it's clear that it's become warped and twisted, hallways telescoping in ways that wouldn't fit into the real hospital, or choked with more of the same bleeding, broken soldiers that seem intent on having Bradbury and Sherlock join them.

Between the two of them, they manage to find a way through -- and Sherlock has ample opportunity to put that rifle to good use -- though it feels like a small eternity before they finally burst out onto the rooftop, Bradbury entirely uncertain of what they'll find there.

Tohsaka. When he calls her by that name, she thinks of the man in white with his hair down wearing blue and a goofy smile on his face. Strange, she can't even think of Shirou Emiya as his own separate person much these days. When did that start to happen?

"Well, what is it?" Rin cries out loud enough to be heard over the grinds and crackling fires. "What is it that you'd really like?"

That bit of red seems the safest place to go, so she'll make her way there all while keeping a watchful eye around her.

"You're not quite Mitchell," he said, his skepticism like a venom on his tongue. "You might call yourself that, but the two are not equitable."

Was this an addition to the sum of parts? Eddie knew Mitchell to be a fractured man; Mitchell has a past. Mitchell had secrets. But how deep did a fissure dive within the psyche of Mayor Mitchell Hundred? Edward chewed on his lower lip, considering the variables of recent events. He knew something was going on, that's why he wanted to leave City Hall. But it seemed that something had come to him.

After it came to Mitchell.

"I am not yours."

He lurched forward, fingers reached to yank away that mask.

Although this door should have opened to the roof of St. Barts, the labyrinth has led them into a chamber instead. Upon bursting through the door, the first thing that will hit Sherlock and Bradbury is a wave of heat radiating inside. Mist rushes out the door, darting between their feet like rats, but it doesn't seize them like the smoke back on the stairwell did. The rest swirls around inside the chamber, making it impossible to see what awaits them – not until they crossed the threshold.

Unlike the rest of the hospital, the temperature has swiftly turned humid and stifling, much like the climate found in the far-east. It gives the impression that the walls, crumbling Victorian architecture, are struggling to breathe under the strain. On closer observation, they will discover they are. They pulsate wildly in an unsettled rhythm; it's not unlike a heartbeat and is designed to unsettle visitors to the labyrinth.

Spread across the walls are scores of multi-coloured post-it notes, newspaper clippings, evaluation reports, and photographs of family, friends, colleagues, and acquaintances, whose faces have been scratched out with thick black marker pen and scorched out in frenzied vengeance. They go on for as far as the eye can see and resemble veins in their erratic placement on the walls.

Hanging from the zeniths of this chamber are four chains, which are anchored down in the center of the room. Each one is coated in thick red rust and vanishes into the mist, which ripples across the floor like gentle waves from the source in the center of this chamber. The chains wavers slightly, as if pushed by a phantom breeze or pulled on by an unruly child, but they remain shackled and seem to serve no purpose than resembling some gruesome wind chimes.

And in the center of this organic chamber, sitting in a battered armchair, is John Watson. The grey mist pools from underneath his burgundy chair and a notebook computer rests, unused, on his lap. His fingers are steepled over the keyboard, but they don't move an inch. He seems completely lifeless until, sensing their arrival, his head snaps up like a marionette doll and his golden eyes smoulder with malicious intent under the brim of his ridiculous deerstalker hat.

"You made it all the way here." His voice filled with quiet awe, before his lips twist into a mockery of his friendly smile. "Just what people will expect from the hero of Reichenbach." His eyes flicker back down to the computer screen and he taps away on the keyboard.

"But like I said before, I'm busy writing up my case notes." So far, John hasn't even acknowledged Bradbury is here and flicks his wrist, waving them away dismissively. "Sooo... you can go back to the flat and wait until I'm finished."

It was easy enough. Mitchell had never-- Well, even the fractures of his psyche, they weren't going to be masters of physical combat. It didn't matter that to him, he thought the creatures that likely carried his name could be. He didn't have the training or the capability to make himself, fractures of himself that wore the faces of people he could have been, any more astute than he was.

Which meant the helmet came right off with Edward's hand. He was far better at the physical confrontation thing than Mitchell, which should have said something.

The face it showed was Mitchell, at least in part. The circuitry that lined his face was only a part of the mess that came through the side, left-over gore and flesh intermingled with something that looked like muscle if it were a neon green. Missing an ear, the entire side looked like it'd been blown to pieces, and only the circuitry remained in place. Even the features that were left seemed slightly out of place, a picture of what he'd look like if he'd never gone under the knife to repair his face.

"Motherfucker!" It stepped back again, arm swiping up not to retaliate, but to hold over the mess left.

Damn right.

[she's standing still, letting the conveyer belt close the gap between them as slowly as physically possible. the people before and behind her are probably unbelievably confused, but hahahaha michiko giving a shit yeah that's happening.]

So what the hell are you doin' here. [IT'S A QUESTION!! she steps from the top of the escalator, having reached the point of no return, and approaches the shadow with measured footsteps.]

Even if she had any intention of fighting back, there are far too many swords, not even a moment's opportunity to let her defenses down.

Not that Minako means to fight back, anyway.

"If those are the only options," she says from within the protective shell of her own Persona-granted wings and mantle, "then I'd rather help prove to you that it wasn't your ideals that were wrong."

What Kanaya saw would be... more stairs; how anticlimactic. However, there was more to these stairs - they were more ornate and inlaid with gold, and the walls were painted a richer, more tyrian purple. There were also dark torches laid into golden sconces every few feet; if only she had some way to light them.

She can't be there for him, she shouldn't be. Larsa doesn't want to even express how losing her would make him feel. The idea of one day waking up and knowing that she's gone. Death, death was one thing; at least there was no infinite possibility of her coming back. When she had left when James broke her heart, Larsa once again was an adult. But, he had Mitchell to lean on and Mitchell had taken care of him.

He was an adult trapped inside the emotions of a fourteen year old. Despite the hard stare at her hand (he wants to believe that, he really does), he doesn't budge.

"And what will you do then, learning of all of this?" That proud voice cracks slightly, the heavy Archadian accent slipping into the one that he usually reserves just for her.

"My treachery knows no bounds, I will not have you tangled in its web."

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