The Universe's Mixer

Even though she'd broken free days prior, Wanda still felt a little like an animal in a cage. As a very young child, back when her family life had resembled something approaching normal, her nanny had taken Wanda and her twin brother to the zoo. She'd been in possession of a better attitude back then, but her empathy had been lacking. She'd enjoyed looking at the animals and, when they hadn't moved to her satisfaction, she'd been happy to tap on the glass.

These days, the very idea of harassing something in a prison made her nauseous and angry. It was a sick, queasy feeling that she vaguely recognized as shame. She felt like the animal in the zoo enclosure, and Wanda strongly suspected that the face on the other side of the glass felt very little empathy or shame over what it had done to her.

Oh, there'd been attempts at making amends, but Wanda hadn't accepted the overtures. After her escape from Arkham, there'd been nowhere to go; keys appeared in her pocket, but she refused to use them. It felt like a trap. Instead, she'd slept in parks and abandoned buildings and had made use of the facilities in public recreation centers. Not a comfortable existence, but she was used to discomfort.

Unsurprisingly (given her hatred of feeling trapped), the new morning found Wanda out-of-doors, seated on a bench at a bus stop. She looked pale and unhappy and she was busy slowly destroying a croissant, which she plucked apart and tossed carelessly to a small group of pigeons. She wanted to destroy something. It wouldn't make her feel any better, not really, but lashing out was what she did. If she felt hurt or like she'd lost control? She broke something.

The croissant-tearing increased in pace. A nearby mailbox creaked abruptly and Wanda drew in a hiss of breath. Her head snapped up and she turned wide eyes on the source of the sound. The creaking stopped.

He hadn't expected this. Not at all. Harry remembered the firebomb that had ignited his apartment. He remembered how quickly things had started to burn. He remembered hearing Mister inside, among the flames, and using his magic to shatter a window so the cat could escape. He even remembered the pain of falling off the ladder while trying to help his elderly neighbors escape, breaking his back in the process.

But here, in front of him, was the building. Untouched by fire, full and complete, even the familiar battered steel security door that led into his basement apartment. Extending his magical senses, Harry could feel the wards he had placed around the apartment. Still in place.

( Not even that prepared him for what happened next. )

The young doctor behind the desk looked through the paperwork, then glanced at the blonde who was sitting in front of his desk. She was braiding, unbraiding, then rebraiding one of her pigtails. She looked bored. The doctor frowned slightly and looked at the file in front of him yet again, certain that there was a mistake. But no, it was there, printed very clearly. ( She was to be released. )

Eric moved through the front spaces of Fangtasia, confused and more than a little irritated. He'd stayed here last night in a special place reserved for himself and Pam. He'd gotten up, expecting the night to be like any other night. Of course, when he'd opened the doors he realized that nothing was the same. Looking around for that stupid idiot of a day girl and not finding her just confirmed it. She might have been lacking most of her brain cells, but she knew enough to do her job, do it on time, and do it well.

He couldn't be sure how he'd gotten to this new place, or what this new place even was. It was just not his place, that much was obvious. He was pretty sure it wasn't even Louisiana. His home state had a certain feel, a certain smell, and of course a certain look. This place had none of that. None of it at all. He was in some new, very unusual city, and he was quite sure he wasn't going to like it. At the moment, he wasn't even willing to give it a chance.

At the moment, he was actually trying to get rid of the fucking "Help Wanted" sign that was on the front door. Every time he took it down and threw it away, or crumpled it up and then threw it away, or tore it to tiny little bits and then threw it away, it just reappeared on the door where it had been. He didn't need help. He didn't want help. He had a staff. He would find them and bring them back. Or he would find a way out of this place, where ever it was. Or he would just hole up in Fangtasia until whatever drugs he was on wore off. The thing he would not do? Hire new help. It was out of the question.

Eric sat at the bar on one of the stools. Trying to think of what he should do, how he could get out of this. Trying to control his whirling emotions, though they didn't show on the outside, he had a storm on the inside. Things he wasn't used to feeling normally, things he didn't like feeling. Like confusion. It was not often in his life, even in his life as a human, that Eric had found himself truly confused about anything. That he was now, at this moment, made him more than a little angry. Angry at himself, and the place he was now in. Angry at everything that he could conceivably be angry at. Or about. How does somebody go to sleep one morning and wake up upon sunset in an entirely different place, yet in the very building they went to sleep in?

( Fangtasia. That was new. )