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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While annoying, it appears as though they're the only two able to save Minako right now. So he'll just have to quietly suffer.

But it looks like they weren't the only ones out to save Minako. The guy in red? Shinjiro scoffs; that man wasn't a people person. But it's true that he's still the only one with experience concerning Tartarus, so, in his own way, he warns Archer. "I ain't saving your ass if you do something stupid." He calls ahead.

Soon, the three will reach the top of the building, and Shinjiro does indeed see a familiar picture painted before him: the entrance to Tartarus. This means the differences should stick out like sore thumbs.

"...Ikutsuki?" The Chairman? Or is there more to it? To go to the moon. It must mean that. It's going to be a floor-clearing cram session, it would seem.

"If this is how I think it's going to be, avoid the shadows, and keep moving. Look for stairs. We need to get to the top in one piece."

Zee wasn't there, of course. This was all the "robot mayor", in a way. The room was empty, really, save for the figures on the other end. Addressed, the dog turned its head, looking straight at April with eyes that weren't the usual soulful look of a normal dog, but bi-colored, one bright green, the other purple. Tongue lolling, it gave her a look, head tipping like it was questioning what she was doing here. The figure, the other one, it didn't talk, it just stayed where it was, eyeing the dog like it was liable to either eat him, or go running for April.

After a moment, the dog did approach. Its head tilted, like it was telling her to go back, telling her to sit at the other end of the hall, try and escape, escape, flee.

With the tog out of the vicinity, the figure in the really fucking dorky superhero getup relaxed a little, pulling off helmet and goggles, giving April the full-fledged face of her boss, albeit a sweaty one, helmet hair tended to do that.

"Worried that all the times you posted shit on Youtube's going to come back and haunt you?"

Not that it would really help her, the Imperials move closer spears drawn and closing in on April. Would they bring her to him to dispense with? No, but that did not mean that the ever changing nature of the labyrinth was not to her advantage. They were slowed down by the fact that Larsa's hidden aversion to the truth would change the layout of the bottom floor.

He couldn't hear, though it would have mattered little. Larsa stood above the city, not quite looking at it because it has become a place that he had loved so much. This tower would protect it wouldn't it? It had to.

Unlike most monsters, Dracula understood the importance of behaving a certain way, regardless of his feelings, and save a few exceptions, had always had enough self-control to do so.

But not today. Today, decades of denied anger, disappointment and thirst are stronger.

Inside a movie theater, his labyrinth has taken the shape of an old cemetery. Covered in a thick fog, the only real source of light are the candle lamps carried around by his familiars - humanoid figures dressed in black, with mirrors instead of heads - turning, along with a fair amount of empty graves, what would be an otherwise easy place to navigate into almost a maze. The familiars, rather than directly fight intruders, will turn on and off their lamps in an attempt to get them lost, or even to make them fall inside one of the graves.

Anyone who manages to make it to the center will find Dracula there, resembling a monstrous bat rather than himself, perched on top of a headstone.

Even just slinking past was enough, one step in what could be considered City Hall proper, the next was a step into darkness, a flood of shadow that overtook and drew in the Deputy Mayor before his steps could backtrack out and away. Go figure. Try to escape the weirdness, and it found you. As it was, it was no normal darkness, inky and thick, cloying, almost. It was cold, icy, even, but the only moisture and condensation seemed to come from the human body itself, everything else the sort of icy cold that would only be associated with metal and machinery.

Save, of course, for the occasional venting. That ran hot, very hot, thick smoke coming with it reminiscent of, well, it came with a certain scent, musky and rustic, a sharpness that comes from midnight gatherings stolen in dark evenings.

The vents blew through metal grates, on all sides, a standard, long hallway, light flickered in a bright white, from somewhere far in the distance. Like the hallway was suspended over a chasm, precariously placed over vats and vats of liquid that was toxic green, cartoonish, even. Far down below, but it didn't add anything to the moisture in the air, if it were at all possible. Undulating below, far below.

The walkway would cease, after a good three-minute walk, opening to darkness, a new room, this one with a heavy layer of steam that covered the ground, bursting from pipes from the ceiling. This time no scent, but it hugged the ground like he was entering a swamp, or what the movies considered a swamp.

Lining the wall were more machines, pistons and gears all fulfilling the same purpose, all in line with the goal at the end, working toward the door on the other side, moving inexplicably toward that door. Blocking his way, though, was a figure in armor and leather, familiar signet emblazoned on the chest, but the helmet was off, more Rocketeer, less dork. The jetpack leaner, more wires, two casings, one centered on either shoulder blade.

Edward wouldn't be able to see it, but there was a smile behind that helmet. The boyish, stupid smile that he had whenever he got to meet a new superhero of the week, reflecting that familiar, easy enthusiasm.

Edited 2013-02-05 05:18 (UTC)

"How inconvenient." Archer's voice is detached--maybe a little annoyed. He glances over Mordin and Shinjiro, taking in their appearances with casual recognition. "I thought I'd go find her on my own, but you guys showed up...I guess I'm stuck with you." He doesn't appear to be armed in any way, but he still shows every sign of intending to head into the strange tower. "You're totally free to avoid 'saving my ass,' though. I won't do you any favors either." He shifts his attention to Mordin as they approach the tower. "I don't know if you'd call me her friend, and I'm not from her world like this kid. But I've had my share of experience with things that could be called 'shadows.'"

He tilts his head back a little to examine the lettering, slowing his steps. "'The ignorant will be saved equally,'" he mutters for Mordin's benefit, just in case Japanese characters weren't something an alien doctor needed to learn. "I don't consider that promising...but we didn't come here for fun."

With a quick, grudging nod to Shinjiro, he starts into the tower, no fear at all on his face.

The motorcycle was pretty god damn distracting, and in another place he would've been all over that machinery, but the man and his statement commanded his attention. The man reminded Dirk of something. He had a nagging sense of familiarity, if but vaguely. He knew that he had seen the stranger, or, if not the stranger, someone who looked a hell of a lot like him somewhere before. Or maybe he had spoken with him, walked past him, fuck, did something with him at some point in time. Somewhere...where?

...he couldn't remember, but he knew there was some connection. The thought danced just out of range.

(Although, as it would turn out the nagging sense of familiarity came from the fact that man reminded Dirk of a character from some completely irrelevant movie made back in 2037, his universe. The Cold Return. It was the story of a war hardened soldier and a cute dog named Jake who sailed on an 'unsinkable' ship and killed aliens. It wasn't really his thing, but the dog had made him snicker a little. The Mayor thing? No damn clue.)

"I guess," he replied, sliding his hands into his pockets, and, with all the ain't gonna give no shits about nothin' he could muster, shrugged. It seemed better than the alternative of tensing up and pulling out a weapon. God, he missed having Cal around. "I stopped to use the bathroom and somehow ended up here. Your doing?"

In contrast to the words, even knowing what Mitch could do -- he knew the sound of that voice, knew what it meant -- Bradbury didn't lower his gun, though his grip tightened a little.

"I dunno. Do I?" This was fucked up in so many ways he couldn't even begin to handle it, but he wasn't allowing himself time to think about that, just how deep this rabbit hole went.

Forget science fiction, this was more like a straight-up acid trip.

"You gonna tell me how to get out of here, or you gonna get out of my way? I don't plan on sticking around."

"Not mine, no," he mentioned, hand rubbing at the bald head. It wasn't his doing, not really. At least, he didn't think it was. In some ways, it may have been, but he didn't know. He only had limited knowledge of what was going on here, all he knew was that he had a purpose.

This Mitchell Hundred did not question his purpose. Why should he? It was what he was meant to, born to do. The bike stalled, halted itself and died. The three prongs at the front, ostensibly wide, large headlights that shone green died out.

"I doubt you would comprehend it, though. It's fucked," it was a simple admission, a hand loosening from the bald head to rest against the bike. "I can tell you what you need to do. Mostly it boils down to fucking right back out."

"You're not supposed to," he mentioned, it was simple and terse. Hot and cold, just like Mitchell had been from the moment his ex-friend arrived in the City. Before, he'd been joking, but now the darkness clouded in his expression, lips tightening across a face that was scarred and too worn and broken. The scars tugged at his lips, even then, like it was still trying to pull it up into a smile, leaving it broken and ugly.

"You don't understand, Bradbury. You never have, and you can't, and that's why you can't go any further. The door isn't meant for you."

Technically, it wasn't meant for anyone, but it still opened and led downward. He didn't assume to understand it, but it was there, but he couldn't move further in. Each slice had a purpose, each slice a new wasteland. The center that they all revolved around, that they all worked for reigned king.

The slices above each rotated, closing over the door, held in place.

"Why do you want to move forward? Why should I let you?"

The sudden terseness made him tighten his grip on his gun again, but he didn't comment on it, any more than he would comment on the way the scars twisted on the other guy's face like a living thing, almost painful to see.

So maybe he wasn't a guy who liked reading a lot or exactly what anyone would call cultured, but what the fuck was this supposed to be, some kind of test? It felt too much like one, the question posed like it was a challenge, like he was waiting for the right answer, but fuck if Bradbury knew what that was.

He didn't have the right answer. All he had was an honest one.

"Because I need to find my boss," he said at last, lowering his gun, confusion still making his brow furrow, but a calm certainty taking its place, the litany of the purpose that had driven his life for the past few years.

"Because the only thing I need to understand is that I've gotta watch his back," another step, taking him into arm's range this time, and he stopped still, meeting his eyes, tipping his head a little to compensate for the difference in height.

"And if you really were him, you'd know I'd kick the shit out of anything that kept me from getting where I'm supposed to be, so fucking move."

All the man with his boss's face could do was laugh. He didn't understand it, of course he didn't. This was Bradbury, and Bradbury rarely questioned, he rarely did much of anything to disprove his loyalty.

Just the one time. The most important time, he'd refused to follow orders.

Well, then, and now. Now he wasn't listening to him, but this wasn't his boss, and somehow he knew it. Maybe the scars, or maybe just because he was that stupid he went on the old "knew it in his heart" type of thing, but either way, the frustration spread across the face of the shadow. It couldn't step aside, he had to know that. He had a purpose, a mission, fucking orders. It was something the guy would appreciate.

The arms of the armillary sphere came back to life, splitting from the doorway.

The figure with his boss's face turned, eyes widening just slightly. Deeper in, it beckoned. You may pass, it said.

It was his doing.

He stepped aside.

"You still won't understand, and you're not going to be able to do shit, and it's because you're not listening. Just like I don't. You won't learn much more if you go further."

"I'd say that's my problem, not yours." He released the breath he hadn't been aware of holding, already stepping past, brushing past the ghost of Christmas whateverthefuck the guy was supposed to be. He'd been anticipating a fight, or something like one, so this was more than a little fucking weird, but he wasn't going to question it, any more than he was going to hesitate, stepping through the doorway.

He'd always been in the dark, where Mitchell was concerned. This was just par for the course. So he moved forward, grip tight on the flashlight on his hand like he could count on its soft, weak light to show him the way.

Klarion frowned, as more soldiers filed in. Well, this was unexpected! He looked around, trying to find an exit. Ah-ha. An elevator. "Come, Teekl!" he called, running towards the elevator, scurrying out of the way of soldiers. Smile on his face, he jammed the door shut button then, for lack of a better idea, pressed the button for the roof. He could make his way down if needed.

As Teekl turned back into his normal, house cat form, Klarion picked him up and started to stroke him. Just what was going on here?

Mordin's right behind them both, holding up his glowing omni-tool as a source of additional light in the dark tower. He tries using it to scan the structure for the nearest set of stairs, but it beeps and he frowns. Whatever is going on here is something the technology of the omni-tool can't make heads or tails of.

"Need course of action once we reach the top. Identify way to help Minako, reverse all of this." This is directed more at Shinjiro than at Archer, since it's clear he's the one who recognizes what's happening here.

It didn't say anything else, no more words of wisdom, but it stayed where it was, obedient to it's place. An unusual thing for something with Mitchell's face, for certain. Bradbury wouldn't be in his sight for long, either way, but he did watch him for every moment he could, something... well, if Bradbury were to look back, it would be indiscernible. Not something that really anyone would be able to figure out.

His hallway was dark, and it stretched forever, or so it seemed. There was a metered grind, like something large and heavy ticking down, and after a good five minutes of walking, the hallway descended, before reversing direction, a long descent, another ten minutes or so of silence and darkness. There were no lights, so it was a good thing he brought his flashlight, or maybe there were no lights because he brought his flashlight.

Either way, when the hallway finally, finally ended, he'd find himself stepping into a room too bright with light that wasn't white. If anything, it was red, like a fire, or a red sky, or something to that effect, it cast a shadow that was longer on everything.

Up above was the source of that grind, a large, huge device, a network of gears all grinding in one direction, save for a sparse number of small ones, that turned the other direction, defective against the rest of the machine. Even so, even while they stuttered against the rest of the device, occasionally the force was too much, and they slipped in the right direction, before trying to go back to the way they were.

It never worked.

It was like stepping into Rockefeller Center, on the ground floor. No Christmas trees, it wasn't the season, but it was still cold, and the floor slick, up until the stairs. He'd have to hike back up the stairs to where the tree normally sat to get a good look at anything, where the heart of the whole mechanism was.

It takes him a while to figure out why his shadows led him in this direction, before he rolls with it. The Shade is often the sort to simply take everything in stride, the Victorian in his all-too-aged garb sliding through a cemetery was no unusual thing. In fact, he would say he was too accustomed to it.

Or rather, the romantic ideal of himself was. He didn't favor them, but he'd been to one or two. However, the way he glided along, it looked like he belonged in one, the darkness no consequence for him. With or without the light, he could see, and all turning off the lights did was give him more shadows to work with.

When he stepped from the fog to find, well, a bat, he chuckled his cane coming out so he could lean against it.

"Isn't this a sight?"

He didn't look back. Bradbury never did. After all, he was so rarely the one who left anything behind, it simply never occurre to him.

When he finally stepped out of the hallway (the path taken not at a walk, but a brisk trot slowed only by carefully navigating the descent a sudden urgency rising in him -- or perhaps it wasn't that sudden?) he found himself squinting hard against the light. Vision thrown off by the sudden brightness of the blood red sky, he had to pause to let his night vision adjust, blinking the afterimage of his own flashlight away.

He looked up, of course, and jesus, if there was any doubt this was Mitch's fucked up psycho-dream or whatever, well, the sight of that put paid to that idea. Not that running into freaky, weird versions of his boss wasn't enough of a hint. Looking around, there wasn't any other way to go but he stairs, so he headed for them, taking them two at a time and heading up to the platform he could just make out at the top.

"Onward and upward," he muttered grimly, more for his own benefit than for anything that might be listening in. "Further in and higher up."

She is inside, but not in the form he might expect. The labyrinth has expanded even more, it seems, and there at the top is the witch that had sprung from Nill's darker side. The selfishness and the fear personified. The creature has roosted at the top of the labyrinth, her familiars wandering around below.

One of the dogs smells Sanji, and lets out a howl. The closest minor creatures flock towards the entrance, waiting.

No fear is good. They don't have time to run in and out of the tower. And who knows if teleportation within it is possible or safe.

If there are lesser shadows in this tower, they'll take the form of all sorts of objects and beings. They could encounter anything from a gloved hand that walks on its fingers to dangerous beasts to a monstrous, towering knight in heavy armor. And if they stop too long, those haunting chains will rattle. Their support persona-user Fuuka called it 'sensing death', and they never wanted to stick around on a floor long enough to see what it was.

The various floors each have their own unique look, and something in the structure always appears broken, destroyed, or bloodied even though it's stable (as far as he knows).

Sadly, he was the least versed on how to deal with Minako. She had strange, yellow eyes and wasn't acting like herself. "She's probably being held hostage by a shadow guardian. They're more powerful than the little guys."

But one thing bothered him; how did shadows end up here? Supposedly this was a different world. Unfortunately, there's no time to consider that. They need to keep going up.

"We're coming, Minako...hang on." He mutters softly.

There really aren't that many Shadows compared to what Shinjiro is used to, and most of the ones they see aren't very powerful. What they are - especially as the three proceed upwards - is subtly wrong in ways that they shouldn't be. It's not long before the crawling, amorphous blobs of darkness and the other usual kinds of strangeness give way more and more to humanoid figures - a bound angel, a winged statue. A corpselike figure crowned with and surrounded by mushrooms.

They all wear the usual Shadow masks, branded on the foreheads with Roman numerals (a lot of VIIIs and XVIIIs, although there are others ranging from I to XXII, and a few with stylized swords instead, which is new), and considering the many and varied forms they take, they'll probably have been proceeding for quite a while before they catch sight of one that Shinjiro might actually recognize as having seen Minako summon.

As they move through the twisting passages, snatches of writing flickers into view where the uncertain light touches the walls - scrawled haphazardly in red as though someone dipped their hands in one of those ominous pools of viscous fluid and went on a mad finger-painting spree.

Don't cry. This is how it should be.

It was all a lie, wasn't it?

Do not hesitate to kill me.

And one phrase that repeats itself over and over, most often in formal and archaic Japanese but sometimes giving way instead to a jumbled scrawl using any number of the language's possible combinations of first- and second-person pronouns in various degrees of formality or familiarity:

You are me, and I am you.

Edited (swear I'm done now) 2013-02-05 19:22 (UTC)

Once they're inside the bizarre tower, Archer has the decency to stop complaining about his companions. Actually, he doesn't say much at all, instead choosing to focus on dodging around anything that looks like a danger and running deeper and deeper into these passageways. He wouldn't have anything very cheery to say anyway: he isn't optimistic enough to be certain that a way to save Minako waits at the top of the tower, and if it doesn't, other actions will be necessary to keep this strange metaphysical corruption from spreading.

So it's a pretty familiar situation to him despite the weirdness, all in all, and habit keeps his feet light and quick on the stairs.

"If the outside's any guide to the inside, we aren't far from the top. You should be ready."

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.

"You know act-"

tions having having consequences is against my religion. Was what she was aiming for. Where she really wanted to go in order to pretend this was- even by City definition- normal. But at the end of the day, April wasn't a superhero. She wasn't a villain, either, or even a politician. She was just...some kid. And this, no matter how you cut it, was weird. In the disturbing, save the jokes for later kind of way. So even while she crouched down to reach out towards the dog, she had to pause and swallow, the former sentence completely aborted.

Time to try that again.

"Mm...Am I in trouble or something? ...Are we dead?"

And while it had been years since April ditched competitive sports, years of escaping the consequences of her actions had kept her in pretty good shape. Meaning that when she started running- not walking- through the moving corridors, she got to a pretty decent top speed. Even on the stairs. She didn't stop and do anything silly like think about where she was going, just ran where the halls lead her.

"I hate this stupid place!"

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

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