The Universe's Mixer

The world spun and refused to stop.

Haku didn't know what had happened exactly, but he instinctively recognized the symptoms of a curse. He struggled to focus his thoughts, but his mind refused. He struggled to stand, to shake his head, to snap at that annoying pressure wrapped tight around his jaw like a - oh, it was a muzzle, he blearily realized, made of bits of metal and fabric that could be easily torn if he could just -

But his muscles wouldn't obey. His eyes rolled wildly, taking in his impersonal surroundings. Claws scratched weakly at a smooth floor, finding no purchase. Even if he could get his feet to listen properly, there were other restraints to deal with, though they seemed unneccessary. He couldn't even stand, let alone run or fly.

There were voices, too, but they sounded far away and Haku didn't bother to try and hear what they were saying. They were likely the cause of this curse, so they'd have to be dealt with eventually, but he knew better than to try and fight them while they had control over him. The first step - the first step was - was -

Something was pricking him under his scales.

Haku wanted to snap at it. His jaw twitched and the muscles in his neck clenched with the effort of twisting, but he barely moved. Even his tail, normally barely under his conscious control and much more prone to reacting violently than the rest of him, couldn't deter the sharp little pokes in his flank. Part of his mind could tell that something foreign was inside of him, as damaging a pollutant as oil in the Kohaku River. He couldn't figure out what it was, though, and it became impossible to try as it wrapped around his thoughts and drew them under.

And then it didn't matter what was happening because the world spun the other way, and Haku tumbled into the darkness like a pebble cast into the sea.

The demon known colloquially as Crowley, was confused. First of all, he was on a bed. Which, while in and of itself wasn’t strange - he liked to sleep a great deal, it was that he wasn’t in his own bed. That much registered with him. Except where he was, was clouded. He didn’t know how he got there at all. When he tried to sit up, he ended up flopping back down. It was hard to sit up. Exhausting even.

( Clasping his hands on the bed, slowly, he inclined his body back into a sitting position. )

Sweeney wasn’t happy, but he was surprisingly calm for someone who had been denied his cigarettes and booze. Instead he chewed on a piece of rolled up paper that he’d previously inscribed the words “Fuck Bran” repeatedly in purple crayon on. He fumbled through the cards in his hand, organizing, strategizing, all without looking up from his cards or giving any indication on his face as to what was in his hand.

He transferred his hand of cards to his left hand completely and brought his right hand up to fiddle with the rolled up paper between his teeth. Sweeney pulled it out as if to speak, narrowed his brow, put it back between his teeth and fiddled with the cards again.

( He knew where he was without a clue how he got there. )