The Universe's Mixer

It was lonely up at the Bates Motel.

Norman sat on the wooden-planked porch that stretched out across the twelve cabin motel. It was of the old fashioned variety, where one could easily pull their car up in front of the door to their room and walk on in, complete avoidance of other people. The only interaction (on paper) occurred when the guest signed in the guest book. Norman was never too particular about who his guests were or where they came from. He just liked to keep a log, for the sake of professionalism. And, in the off chance, that he might have to bill for damages. Occasionally, teenage kids would shack up at his motel -- yes, he knew exactly what they were doing -- and, occasionally, things would get broken. Norman didn't like it when people disrespected his establishment. It was a reputable business, after all. People didn't seem to appreciate all of the hard work that went into running a motel. Even a small motel required delicate care to the details.
( The Bates Motel was always pigmented in black and white. )

Snake didn't think it was possible, but he may have finally found the one place he could not escape from.

Then again, it had only been a few days, so he wasn't counting himself down and out. Not just yet.

He hadn't slept since he'd arrived in The City. Sleep would put him at a considerable disadvantage if the truth behind his new location finally decided to show its teeth. (Or its claws, or its institutionalized police state, or anything else it might have been hiding.) As was to be expected, Snake was not a man who trusted openly. In fact, he wasn't a man who trusted at all. Once upon a time, he had devoted his life to a cause, but when that cause was shred to pieces like a bleeding man fed to a tank of starving sharks, well, he decided that there was only one person on the planet that he could put any stock in. And that was himself.

His energy was beginning to wear. And the hours of walking were showing scrapes on the toes of his combat boots and blisters on the bottom of his feet. But he was a soldier. A soldier, a fighter, a man to be reckoned with. (Even with one eye.) But even the best of the best needed to close their eyes every now and again, and fill their bellies with sustenance.
( And an eggroll, free of charge. )

Logan looked down at the spreading crimson stain on his shirt. He put his hand to the newly made wound.

"Hm. Well, that is not how I thought this would go down," he said with a dry laugh.

Really, this wasn't funny. Not at all, but he'd been on a reckless tear ever since Veronica had not returned from her internship with the FBI. Anything to find her, to make sure she was safe and get her home.

Keith showing up on his doorstep at summer's end hadn't been what Logan expected. With the news that Veronica was missing, Logan's stomach had dropped out. Not again. Not another ex-girlfriend.

His father was gone, beyond blame for this mysterious disappearance. Besides, Daddy Echolls always did like to leave a body, Logan thought with a twist of hatred for the man.

Logan never had been much of a detective, but for Veronica, he would follow any lead. He'd gone to confront Gory Sorokin, the man responsible for posting a racy video of Veronica and her other ex-boyfriend, Piz, online. He'd figured that Veronica might have gotten herself in over her head with her revenge mission against Sorokin. If he'd done anything...

Logan closed his eyes, the pain from the chest wound was now receding. When he'd banged on the off-campus housing owned by that maggot Sorokin, well, Gory Sorokin had been expecting somebody all right. Maybe he'd even been happy to pull his gun on the guy who'd hit him in the face in the school cafeteria.

Somehow, Logan had a hard time caring about the motivation. He just knew that he'd failed. So much for getting information about Veronica, he chided himself.

At some point in time, Logan realized that his back was against a solid, slightly spongy surface. He moved an arm and winced as it scraped against something that felt like cement. Logan opened his eyes, and blinked in an attempt to clarify his surroundings.

He wasn't sprawled out on Gory Sorokin's front porch. As far as he could tell, he wasn't even in Neptune. Skyscrapers stretched toward the night sky on all sides of him. He sat up and looked down at his shirt. Blood-his own blood, from what he could remember-colored the front of the shirt. Logan reached beneath his shirt to the point where he'd felt the bullet impact. Nothing. Well, not nothing. Skin and muscle, but no hole, no goosh of blood. He lifted up the shirt and checked underneath it. There wasn't even a mark. No sign of the wound that must have stained his shirt. Nothing.

He got to his feet and looked around the cityscape, mystified.

"I knew all that 'hell is fire and brimstone' talk was an exaggeration," he remarked aloud to no one in particular.

Eric had waited a few nights before venturing out of his club with the purpose of finding the dark haired woman who had attended the opening. He thought that attempting to find her immediately might have seemed a little awkward. After all, he'd only seen her the once. And so briefly. He hadn't even talked to her. Yet she intrigued him so very much.

It was unfortunate that he wasn't a were. Or at least had a were on a leash to help him with his tracking. It would have been so much easier to have a dog around, able to pick up her scent trail and lead Eric directly toward the mystery woman. As it was, he had to randomly go places and wait a moment to see if he could pick up that peculiar smell she'd been giving off. That more-than-human smell. Not a vampire, definitely not. Eric very badly wanted to know what she was.

The world he encountered was very unlike the one he was used to. The streets moved, and not even his speed could outrun it. The buildings shifted, and though he could watch them doing so, he couldn't predict what they would become. He had no idea if he'd been in a place before until the picture was fully formed. Even then, sometimes things he'd seen on one street were on a different one entirely. It didn't confuse him so much as anger him. Things should be still. Inanimate things, anyway. He might have been more curious about it if he weren't currently looking for somebody. The moving streets and buildings made it infinitely more difficult to achieve.

There were other things, too. Things he couldn't quite place. But he'd have to sort them out another time. He tucked them away in his memory for when he found somebody that could answer his questions and would be more willing to do so than George-but-Milly. Or at least, more willing to be less snarky about it. He wanted clear answers. Not ones he had to force.

Eric stopped in front of the entrance to a park. He was fairly sure he'd seen the other side of this place not too long ago. It gave him the feeling that either he was being fucked with, or the city wasn't all that big as he'd thought. If it were the latter, it meant the movements of streets and buildings was more constant. If it were the former, well, he just wasn't going to be very happy about it.