Rooms

[Private to Muerte]
[Groggy, hungover, worried about Gotham.]

Hey, I need you to step out of the door. Something's going on over there and I'm no help if I'm a ghost.

[Jason T.]

Bruce is gone. Can you tell me what's going on?

[Selina K.]
[Shouted from the floor of the apartment's office:]

You here?

[Donna C.]
[Later after texting Faol.]

Hey, are you okay?

[Immediately after this]

what the FUCK happened

[After this. His handwriting is loopy & affectionate.]

Gasp!

Batman you did better than I could have ever dreamed!
Glory!
Glory!

[Call to Harry O]

[Early morning, while still hiding in the Morgan Library & Museum, and still aged down (thanks, Gotham!). Flash isn't answering texts, and she can't get Peter to text or pick up, despite trying a bunch of times overnight. She doesn't actually know who is around and who isn't, so she tries Harry next. Ring.]

Who: Mina and "Lily"
What: A run-in & seeking Vanessa
Where: Banning Clinic, London
When: Nowish
Warnings/Rating: Unlikely, unless they kill someone

( Diversion complete, she returned to her progress, nearing that brick and stone bastion of mental health. For, surely, hysteria was true concern when it came to the health of women. )

[During this, in Irene's sitting room. Grumpily.]

I am in search of a man and any assistance would be much appreciated.

He is an unimpressive man, neither especially ugly or especially handsome. Some average height, perhaps somewhat less, 5 ft 7 or thereabouts. He comes from moderate wealth, though not the peerage. He has traveled abroad a distance, and he has had an opium habit for some time. There is some evidence to suggest he is not British. Possessed of certain imagination, he has a wife or sister that is blonde and well-favoured.

[To Irene: "There. Are you happy?"]

Who: Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler
What: Teaming up (and a lot of annoyances)
When: Recently (fuzzy because of plot)
Warning: None

( Mr. Sherlock Holmes did not feel fatigue, and he had taken enough care with his appearance to make it seem that no one suspected the previous night's work may have worn on his nerves. )

Who: Victor & Vanessa
What: The great search for Vanessa continues!
Where: St. Etherelda's Church.
When: Morning time, after Mina's contact.
Warnings: None yet.

( Victor was not a religious man. )

Who: Tony & Selina
What: A dream, 'cuz he's kinda dead.
Where: Um. His head?
Warning: Unlikely. PG13.

( Blue icicles of power dripped down from the shadowed ceiling of the cave. )

[INT. SAFEHOUSE APARTMENT -- EVENING.

Thai restaurant below makes this safehouse particularly fragrant. Exterior windows lit by the blue neon sign at street level below the frames. Refrigerator hum is loud, but wall insulation is thick, and restaurant murmur very muted.

An arm, still boasting the shiny Witchblade, is knocking on the Louis' makeshift bedroom door. Polite. Tap tap.]

[After this.]

Are you okay?

[Public]
[As a result of Emily going Deathly, reality shifts for "Ed" Nashton. His hands go transparent and then the game controller that he was holding suddenly drops to the floor. If she's Death, then he's got to be dead. And if he's dead? Then he's a full on ghost. He does his best to communicate with his electronics:]

W͖͕͍̪͉̟ͅe̴̮͇̤̹̫l̞͖͙͢l̵̦̰̟͔ͅ,͕̝͜ ͇s̘h҉̠̬͉͎͉̗i͙̰̘̲̜̳t͈̼̤͔̗͟.͍͇͈

Who: Wren H & Ryan R
What: Ballet studios!
When: Recently. In the last week or so.

( Read more... )

Who: Bucky Barnes/Matt Murdock
What: Bucky is having a stakeout party.
Where: Disused office building across from a major Manhattan hotel.
When: After rescuing Tony.
Warnings/Rating: TBA.

(  He watched her in the scope. Did he train her? Did it matter? )

Who: Anyone who wishes to attend
What: A reluctant party
Where: Wayne Manor grounds (Exterior. The Batcave is inaccessible, and the Manor is locked to non-thieves and non-family.)
When: During the Gotham age-down plot
Warnings/Rating: This is a group log. Please place locations in headers, and use warnings where required.

Crowded, the party was upscale. College kids littered the grounds of Wayne Manor, but the decor was still the best Gotham had to offer, despite the relative youth of the attendants. The front steps were lantern-lit, and the stone landing and fountain circle were the center of the festivities for the evening. From the landing, a DJ played college hits, and there were two white tents erected for dancing. Around the twinkle-lit fountain, there was a well-stocked bar and an opulent buffet, and someone had even ordered an ice-sculpture swan to glitter in the lantern lights. Only the best booze, only the most expensive hor d'oeuvres, and it was a Gotham charity gala in miniature.

The doors to the big house were locked tight, but the grounds were unguarded (save for a certain inaccessible Batcave). Beyond the verdant and unlit field, a gamekeeper's house sat locked, and the stables housed a horse or two, empty stalls and impressive hay stacks. The greenhouse was warm, even in the evening, the day's heat still holding onto leaves and blooms. All around the property, the largely-untamed gardens were barely lit and perfect for slipping away, benches and trees and shrubs to hide behind. Early in the evening, and they were already crowded, the gardens, with pawing teenagers two-bottles deep.

Beyond the gardens, trees grew tall and eclipsed the moon and stars, and the loud music from the party barely carried there, where the canopy shut out the world.

[The hospital Meredith got moved to was more like a resort than hospital, at least it felt that way to Sam. It was a recovery and therapy place, yeah? But still full nursing and doctors or whatever, private rooms, and it looked like some place for vacation, and Sam figured Neil's guilt was bankrolling the thing hard.

Sam had been at Cris' a few days now, and she was clean. A pair of recently stolen, too-loose and cut-hem jeans, along with a long-sleeved green shirt stolen from Teresita's room, hair tied low, and Sam looked ok. She was starting to jones like crazy, though, and an early morning perusal of Cris' place revealed no money that wasn't in a fat, pink piggybank, and she wasn't that low YET. But, yeah, she needed something fast, or she was going to break that fucking pig. She knew it. Maybe she could find something cheap to sell, but she'd ask around first. She'd already pocketed a spoon for when she scored, and her belly hurt like it was eating itself through. She was jittery as a result, yeah? Like a string pulled too tight.

Maybe it wasn't the best day to go visiting or whatever.

But here they were, walking down the marble halls and passing gift shops and indoor swimming pools. Open doors revealed rooms that looked like hotel suites, and Sam was hella aware that she and Cris looked like maybe they'd ended up in the wrong place. That, or they were someone's poor relations or whatever, but they definitely didn't look like they belonged in this place. Sam edged away from the walls, like they were too clean for her to brush up against, and she motioned down the hall, to where the woman at the nursing station had told them Meredith's room was.

She'd asked, too, nosy, if Neil was there, and the nurse assured her Meredith was alone again, and she said it like she wasn't approving or something. There was a story there, yeah? But Sam, she wasn't asking.]

Despite all things said on the journals, Destin - who wasn't really Destin, like Emily wasn't really Emily - had all the game of a blind geek with a magic phone. At least the damn thing seemed like magic, because he knew all the words that flowed across the screen without actually reading a single letter. It wasn't close to normal, but it didn't feel off. It felt - right - and it was one of the few things that did.

Much like it felt right to talk to her - Stephanie - even though his palms felt slightly damp and he was currently staring at his closet - where he knew his closet to be, the phone informed him, as if it held some secret. He reached out, fingers running over shirts that he knew the composition of - 95% cotton, 5% spandex, 50% cotton and 50% polyester, 100% cotton (that one, it felt smoother under his fingertips). The phone told him it was white, but the one two hangers down was dark gray and that seemed to be the better choice if only because it was more forgiving than white. (White being the color that showed lipstick and coffee stains - as the phone also informed him.)

Gray it was.

And dark blue jeans that had probably been ironed (no, said the phone) - if they'd ever been worn (correct) - but it wasn't as though he could check himself in the mirror. (He looked clean and preppy - or so he was informed by the thing chained to his wrist.) The last thing to go on were his sunglasses that he wore around campus, and out he went, no stick in sight, nothing to help him but the steady flow of information from the phone about where to go, who was coming, which corner to go around - don't trip over the passed out fratboy - and to her dorm.

One nervous rub of his palms against his jeans, a deep breath for courage, and he knocked, lightly, all knuckle on manufactured wood.

[Days after the collapse of the underwater lab, Bruce had been too many places. The Hulk had carried him up out of the bay, and didn't stop until he'd traveled far. Far, far. Following some sort of internal compass even in his hurt and grief. He had to stop, sometimes, just to shout again, trying to let out the tightness and awful feeling at the back of his throat, but the sound never worked. Neither did striking anything - trees, old buildings, the ground. Most often, the ground, and never anywhere with people or anything that would lead to anyone being hurt. He followed the compass - north, south, north, west, west, west. He stopped with his feet in the water, salt in his throat, a rocky cliff at his back. And he knew, somehow, that the place he'd found was the right place to be. So he stopped. And sat.

Bruce woke among the rocks, salt still in his throat, feet in the water. The ocean lapped at him, and far above, perched on the cliff - in the cliff - was a familiarly rounded building. Edged in glass and modernly west-coast, even from the strange angle, Bruce knew Tony's Malibu home.

It was awkward, climbing up, finding his way toward an entrance. He was tired and hungry, and thankful for JARVIS letting him inside. There was food. There was a change of clothing. Everything around him screamed Tony, and Bruce did his best to wade through it while forcing back that same raw pain that had driven his counterpart. It was too much to be in Tony's space, at least a space that was so much him. Down to the sometimes-lingering traces of cologne and shop grease in the air. He couldn't stay. If he stayed, the Big Guy would make a reappearance, and he didn't really want to tear the Malibu house apart. He needed to leave, even if the only place he had to go would also hold traces of his friend. It wouldn't be quite as bad as his one-time home.]

[Before stepping through into the DC door to go to the lab in Gotham:]

[JARVIS]
JARVIS? Let me know what people are planning for a funer-- [...] for services, okay? [That's all he can manage to say about that.]

[Selina, Bucky (as James), Gwen, Pepper]
I have to go for a while. I hope everyone's okay. I just [...] have to go.

I'm sorry.

[As MJ W.]

[...] Okay...

[After the reports of this come out.]

[Public]

No matter what the news reports, I feel the need to reiterate that not all mutants are terrorists.

[Individual locks: Faol R, Ronan X, Pepper P, MK R, Wanda M, Billy K]

I need to know that you are safe.