What happened

OOC: You can always trust a Michael Jackson television special to deliver chock full of cracky and RP inspirational moments.

Max was lying flopped out on her bed when Babs came in. She watched her enter, upside down and let out a very audible groan.

"Don't. Want. To. Talk. About. It," Max said very clearly. That had been the whole point of coming up to her room. She didn't want to talk about Jesse or her mood or the trial or anything else Babs could come up with. She felt confused and horrible enough as it was without talking about the damn thing.

It all bothered her. It was something like a weight sitting on her chest that just kept having things piled on top of it. First the trial, then the verdict, then she'd been fine until she and Jesse had had to go and get into this dumb argument. And to top it all off? Babs had come over to deliver the best news ever. Something was wrong at Arkham.

"Maxine, this is ridiculous. You haven't said a word since I got here.."

Shaking her head, Babs moved closer to Max, looking down at the girl. "I know what you're worried about. There's no point in trying to lock it up like this. You live in a house full of detectives... I don't doubt that we all know what you're worried about."

"So can I worry alone please? 'Sides, that's not all of it."

"Want to share the rest?."

"Babs."

"Maxine." Babs' voice was sterner now. "I thought we'd gotten over this? The whole sneaking around and hiding everything phase?"

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Continued from here

"I won't be going to see any movies until that bastard shows up here and undoes what he did. This is rediculous. Death, make your brother appear."

Desire took a long drag off of the cigarette that was perched between fingers.

"We'll go see the puppy movie once everything's fixed, Del."

If Dream didn't show his face soon, Desire was going to do something drastic. It hadn't been decided what yet. But something.

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Desire had been out of the loop for way too long now. Dream's stupid little punishment was keeping her locked in the Threshold. But she knew, knew that the other had to be having adverse effects as well. You couldn't just take one of them away and have it all work like it was supposed to.

You can't Dream without Desire.
You can't live without Dreams.
You can't have Death without life.
And Delirium was all completely wrapped up in all of it.

Who knew if those that were absent were feeling the same things.

The longer Desire was kept in this box he had made, the more devious thoughts sprung to mind.

What horrible things could be done to the people of The City.

Desire sat in the chaise lounge that allowed him to look out the eyes and into the world.

"You'll break soon enough, you pompous asshole. You know just as well as I do that you can't keep this up forever. As much as you might hate me, you need me. I'm a part of you." The words were spoken to the air, knowing that HE would get them, no matter what.

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Delirium popped into a slightly off-putting material form and hovered delicately just above a piece of broken space ship. So far it's occupant(s?) were no where to be seen, most likely in search of a bathroom or rascally varmints to scare. She considered its metally-ness with a slight frown.

"hMmmsS. tHis bEd is ToO hARD!"

With a pleasant bubble gum snapping sound, Delirium once again ignored the laws of physics and appeared in the bedroom of a mansion. It was a very fine looking thing with plenty of fancy thing-a-majiggers. Delirium scratched at her nose with the pinky toe of her left foot, while her shadow flopped on top of the expensive covers.

"hMmmsSSSs. tHIS BEd iS Too soFTss!"

Once again, Delirium was in search of the perfect place to take a nap. She found it in a more modest home which smelled pleasantly of cosmic things and the youngest of the Endless felt right at home and she crawled into the strange bed sheets.

"oHhhhss. THis bED is juuuuSt ri--"

The tiny red head started to snore loudly.


ooc: I'm not trying to take over the boards, I promise! >.>

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whOs? dElly-bEArs anD blINdy mAnss

whAts? blInDy mAn iS suPposeD to BrinG chEesecAkes buT inTErviEws pOoR dEllYss iNSteaDs

whENs? uMmmS.. jUSt nOW! hA!

whErES? aT thE oNE pLaCE wHERe bLindY mAN weRKs

bLINdy dUde:

Following the deposition with Ms. Gordon and Max, Matt was still going over his notes. Karen had dilligently typed up the dialog from the testimony into braille.



For Jack's support in the trial, there was certainly a cast of characters. There was someone he had to speak to called Delirium. On the list of witnesses, there was no contact address or telephone number to reach this person. How was he supposed to get a deposition if there was no contact information?

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It might have distressed those of the Wayne estate to learn that there were somethings that could still successfully go bump in the night, with or without the high tech security system of a mansion. Of course, these creatures were few and far in between, but Delirium could count herself as a part of this exclusive group.

She felt Jake differently now and given her last encounter with him she felt compelled to see him. She sat on his bed and folded his bed sheets into different origami shapes, her favorite being the life sized John Lennon. She was going to work on a tiny Ringo Starr to go with him out of a pillow case while she waited for Jake to come back to his room.

The tea party had been rescheduled, but this didn't bother Delly too much. She knew exactly where her favorite trickster had gone, along with all the other shiny fishes that belonged to her. She would have to go visit them soon, too.

As she started to fold the nose of the former Beatles drummer, one of her multicolored frogs appeared and croaked appreciatively at her work. At least someone would like it.

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It always happened like this. The pain. The loss. How the world outside his body dulled, while the world inside was expanding to a multiverse of pain.

And then, silence. Stillness. An absence of everything that was so much worse than the pain.

As he did each and every time, Jake Chambers of New York opened his mouth and screamed as life slammed back into his body. It was only a matter of seconds before his body remembered how it was supposed to behave. The painful overstimulation was gone, and the boy looked around curiously.

"Roland?" The first word to leave his lips, the name of his father. The man who was truly his father.

Roland. He'd been with Roland. In the Keystone world. He'd pushed Sai King out of the path of the truck, and took the lethal force on himself.

It didn't horrify Jake as much as it would have horrified others to remember the details of his death. It was the third he could recall. But this one was different. Death was final in the Keystone world. So why was he here now?

"Roland?" he called again, a note of uncertainty making him sound like the eleven-year-old boy he was. Not the cold and natural-born killer that he also was.

The satchel of Oriza plates was heavy against his hip. Jake wondered briefly if he'd had hem when he jumped from the car. Then he just hope that the dishes had given Sai King one hell of a fucking bruise.

Jake looked up at the skyline, through the misting rain. There was the line of the Empire State Building. And over there, that looked like Central Park. Right? Was he back in New York again?

Familiar ground. That was all he was looking for. He was heading towards the park when he heard footsteps. Jake spun, each hand dipping with blurring speed into the satchel at his side, and lifting a plate in each hand, ready to throw.

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It was a grey sort of day in the City.
The sort of day when a storm starts brewing early, and does'nt seem too keen on the notion of moving along.

Storms can be mighty inconsiderate that way.

Just when this one had finally started to let up; when the rain and wind had started to lighten, and the lightning had finally quit, there was a crashing boom that was unlike any thunderclap before it. Metallic, with a hollow clattering that did'nt echo. This was because it was no thunderclap, but some outlandish amalgamation of metal, wiring, and fuse welds.

Well, half of one anyway.

Blinking hard as he planted a hand to the greasy grating he'd found himself facedown upon, Captain Malcolm Reynolds pushed himself up and regained his feet with a muffled groan. Punching a button he complained into the speaker, "Wash, there's easier ways to kill me than bad landings-" nothing, not even static. "Wash?"

A fresh gust of wind got his attention. Turning around, with even parts dread and regret, he saw half his cargo hold, and a view of the weather and some sort of cityscape where the other half ought to be. Stepping down, and hopping the couple feet onto ground level, it was half in a daze that Mal took stock of what had happened. He had half the hold.. and a wing. The rest was gone. Not wrecked, and strewn along the ground with him, oh no.. just gone.

"Huh."

He backed up a few steps before turning around, and facing- well he did'nt rightly know which one it was, but whatever backwater port he'd landed on the edge of, it had to have a comm unit someplace he could use to try and raise the rest of Serenity.. right?

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The city was fantastic. It was new, and strange, and it was never the same.

Jack really liked that it was never the same. It sort of fit his brain. It fit him. Ever changing. Never normal. Even if appearances said otherwise.

Yes.

The City was a good place to be.

Plus, it left special little computery presents on your doorstep. Fantastic!

He was finding it a delicious time, just wandering around and seeing what kind of people were here. There were plenty of different sorts. Luckily though, he didn't run into that big hairy beast female. He was pretty sure he'd missed that date, and maybe a little unintentionally. He'd really forgotten when it was supposed to be, and by the time he'd decided to try to think of an excuse not to go, the day surely had passed.

But now, now was for the now, and now he was playing in a park. He'd already scared all the little children away. His laughter was too much for some. The swings were his! And he was abusing that privelage.

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It was a nice apartment, although it was not the sort of apartment Del herself would have liked. For one thing, everything was solidly attached to the ground. Sure, you could push the chairs around but they didn't float and they held a very plain and very consistent shape. It was a bit depressing.

It wasn't the bit of cooking Delirium had tried to do that made the noise. Del had turned off the kitchen sounds. Well, they were on which were why the dogs in the neighborhood seemed to bark so loudly, but they weren't people-on. Those were entirely different things.

No, what started to make the ruckus in the kitchen of the apartment that was not very much hers at all were the frogs. There were frogs of all different colors and sizes and the first ones croaked as frogs tended to do but some of the later ones started to sing old Johnny Cash songs and instead of hopping about they rolled around the floor leaving colorful trails of slime that tasted like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on wheat bread.

And when the oven went off, which didn't actually make a people-sound, Del pulled out a cookie tray of little chocolate people. Each chocolate person, which actually tasted more like one of those rainbow confetti cakes than chocolate and were bungle berry filled, did something different. One of them tap danced. Delirium decided to taste test the chocolate dancing man by biting his head off and when she set him down he held his tiny chocolate arms out and tried to feel around him blindly. A couple of the other chocolate people shrieked in horror.

Then the tea kettle went off. More dogs barked. Delirium thought of Barnabas and smiled.

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After his conversation with the magician, Dream went immediately back to his palace, in the Heart of the Dreaming. Without a word to anyone, he strode to the Gallery of the Endless, where portaits representing each of his siblings hung on the walls. For Destiny, a book. Death, an ankh. Desire, a heart made of glass. Despair, a barbed hook. Destruction's portrait was black and empty, with a white sheet covering it. When the youngest brother of the Endless had made his intent clear to abandon his post, Dream had not agreed with his plan, but had respected his desires. The last portrait, for Delirium, contained a multi-colored, abstract swirl.

Dream examined the portraits. The sigils for Death and Delirium were glistening, at the ready. The others were frail, shadowed. Simple objects, nothing more. No trace of the power they should have held. More mysteries. But at least now he knew which of his siblings were accessible.

First was first. Dream took the ankh sigil in his hands. "Sister, I stand in my gallery, and I hold your sigil. Will you speak with me?"

The portrait canvas rippled, like a pool of water, and a pale hand reached out, followed by an arm, then a leg, and Death stepped out of the frame and immediately threw her arms around him. "Hey, little brother!" she said, her voice cheerful. "I was wondering when you were going to come and visit!"

She was here, and she was holding him. Dream felt himself relax, sinking against her, one pale hand cupping her head with his fingers threading into her hair. "Your portrait went black. For a time... we feared -- I feared... you had gone the way of the Prodigal."

Death laughed. "Without telling anyone? Never." She smiled. "I'm still working. Just me -- the main me -- is here. Like you." She tilted her head and looked around. "But this is the Dreaming. Right?"

He nodded. "A portion of it." He moved down the row of portraits until he came to the one for Delirium. Death smiled. "Family reunion?"

"There is not much family to call." Dream picked up the swirl and spoke again. "Sister, I stand in my gallery, and I hold your sigil. Will you come and speak with me?"

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Peter had been fighting with everything he had. He had been freaking out, his movements desperate and sudden, as he'd fought earnestly for his life. At first, he fought to do damage. After a while, he fought to keep from taking too many blows. By the end, he was fighting to keep his eyes closed, pain dull and sharp and constant and throbbing all throughout him all at once. He had his eyes forced open, one rough-skinned fat-fingered hand tearing the lid just barely as it wriggled thumb and forefinger in, around the slightly soft, jelly-ish curve of his right eye. Peter fainted when the optic nerve snapped.

It felt like half a second later, if that, that he was raising his hands up over his face, fighting off a much smaller, almost sweet-smelling warm body, his breath coming in choked, short gasps. He pushed the young nurse so hard she fell back, hard on the sterilized linoleum flooring of the hospital. She made a surprised cry, and scrambled for the door.

Peter heard her howl down the hall, "Room 516's awake!"

One hand slammed up against his face, feeling, trying to assess the damage. There was no bandage there, only a mass of skin that had healed over, scarred tissue and a suspicious hardness beneath the layer of skin, as though there had never been an eye there in the first place.

Peter felt his stomach churn, and he tore the IV lines from his arm, falling out of bed. He hauled himself to the bathroom before he got sick. Before anyone could so much as ask him his name, he said gruffly, "I want to check out."

He had to find MJ. And Aunt May. If they weren't there, by his side, it could only mean that something had happened to them.

By the time he hit the streets, in a set of borrowed hospital scrubs and red nike sneakers, it had started to rain.

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