EVENT: MELPOMENE ▒ HOME

[ataraxites]

CHARACTERS: Ensemble production!
LOCATION: Corridors in the belly of the Tranquility
WARNINGS: Creepiness, disturbing imagery, violence, etc.
SUMMARY: Characters discover slices of sanctuary deep in the maze.
NOTES: Open to all! Covers Stage Four of the plot & Escape.

You've been running and fighting for what feels like weeks now. Exhausted and desperate, you find another door, stumbling through into— You're home, finally, far away and safe from monsters or spaceships. You're not alone, someone here who's been waiting for you, and they're so happy to see you. Relief overcomes you; you just want to rest, and there's no reason to believe anything here isn't what it seems, is there?

Comments

Edgeworth, locked to best fwend Serious Black

[jurisimpudent]

[It's when he takes a breath that he realizes where he is. His old house always had this smell about it. When he was little, he didn't know what it was; it was just the smell of home. He can pick it apart now a little better: it's old cedar, and musty carpet, and the jasmine in Mom's garden, and the cleaning solution the maids used. They'd come once every two weeks, scrub down the counters, and they used this all-natural cleaning product that smelled floral and nice. It's the ocean, too. He'd forgotten how strong the smell of the ocean was here. They lived so close to the sea.

A step. Under his feet, the floorboards give a familiar squeak.

He feels afraid.

The windows are open. It's the early afternoon, and the sun is shining through the leaves of the trees. He knows he can go out - through the sliding glass door, living room to the garden, and he can go and lay on his back and stare up as the wind stirs the leaves. He can spend an afternoon like that, listening to the leaves, and the birds chirping to one another. He can go and pick a lemon from their lemon tree. He can sit with Dad's law books, try to understand legal decisions just beyond his comprehension. He can sit and wait for Dad to get home, drumming his feet against the chair under him. Thinking about putting on a language tape. Spanish, maybe; he wants to learn Spanish, and he's been told that this is the best time to learn a language, when he's still little.

No. He's not a kid now. He's a grown-up. And he's wise enough, and experienced enough, to know that this is all illusory. It's -

Somewhere else, somewhere in the house, a floorboard squeaks. There's someone else in here. And Miles turns to Sirius, illness churning in his stomach.

And he whispers:]

Oh, God.

[doggedly]

[There's no hook of Apparation, no guts-twisting magical means of transport. One minute, corridor, and the next--it's like swimming, like breaking clear of the surface and getting in a breath of air. And the air smells of-- jasmine, Sirius recongises that from potions and from flower-gardens both. Great-Aunt Cassiopeia's garden, he thinks, but no, there's a sweetness in this place that's like nothing his family ever touched. Sunlight and saltwater and a breeze in a tree.

And Edgeworth. The second Sirius focuses on him, he goes for him, strides across the room with the intent of grabbing hold of his arm. The expression on Edgewoth's face stops him maybe midway, and he looks around for some threat--though a threat in this place seems unimaginable, it would be out of place--]

What is it.

[He's already going for his wand, turned toward wherever Edgeworth's eyes are focused, looking for-- what? A dragon, a dementor, a manticore, something that would have made Edgeworth's face go paper-white.]

Where the hell are we?

[The ship, he answers himself, it's the ship playing silly buggers again. Business as usual. If Remus is in a room like this one, he might actually be happy about it. At least there's books here. The terrible misgiving that Sirius feels just at the back of his neck makes that stupid thought seem even stupider.]

Firo Prochainezo | mostly open

[foundafamily]

[Anyone who manages to escape the manticore-guarded prison cell that is Firo’s nightmare will soon find themself in a much more pleasant place. His “home” is a large room, a tastefully decorated restaurant. The entrance is lined with barrels of something sweet-smelling—honey, if you care to inspect—and there’s a bar off to the side. The floor is dotted with tables, but only one is occupied.

The visitor might recognize Firo, though he looks strangely un-alert, like some blank-faced doll propped up in his chair. The woman with him has never been on the ship; but she hardly looks threatening. Her slight frame is clad in a black suit and there seems to be a smile on her face. That changes in an instant.

Firo still stares vacantly ahead, but at the first sound of footsteps the red-haired woman’s head snaps toward whoever’s entered.

Careful, she’s soft-spoken, but no pushover.]

[ooc: Actually waking Firo up is locked to the first tagger edit: Anne, but feel free to run into him after/during the escape!]

Pepper Potts || OTA

[the_other_eight]

[when pepper enters the tower she's confused, this can't be here. This version of the tower was destroyed by Loki during the battle of New York; she and Tony had revolted but it still looked different. As she looked around she noticed the familiar face sitting on one of the couches, a glass of champagne in his hand].

Phil?

[it didn't make sense, why was still there? Why was still holding a glass of champagne? Yet at the same time it made sense the last time she'd seen him was when he visited the tower to give Tony the dossier on the other Avengers. She had swapped the dossier or for a glass of champagne that night, but why was something from her memories manifesting here and now.

She could see the glowing light off to the side where Tony had entered in his suit. It was like a shining portal; and fell back in her over].

[onetouch]

Uh... [ he had never actually seen stark tower, not inside. he had walked by enough times, and others had spoken of tony. he had even talked to him once, in the city. it was what had first made him curious about the one-eyed man at the jump, even if he didn't exactly resemble the one he had known (of). different versions of different people from different worlds had become commonplace, but different versions of the same person were getting a little tiresome.

but he does recognize the place, at least when he sees pepper. this isn't like before - there's no fighting. this feels... peaceful? but who is that on the couch. pepper called him phil. where's tony? shouldn't he be here, above anyone else? it all feels off to ned, who isn't even familiar with the space. he shifts uncomfortably and clears his throat. ]

Éowyn » Closed for (actual sack of potatoes) Jaime

[wroughtsteel]

[ Somehow, she had made it through the beast, she had reached the door for the city of Minas Tirith. And somehow, incomprehensibly to her, the door was not blocked, and with a single push she managed to step inside.

But when she did, it was not that city that she found.

Another trickery, she tried to cling to that thought, for suddenly she was stepping through and right into Edoras. Home.

She was home.

How can it be? Minas Tirith and Edoras are so far away, and she had but stepped through a door. She goes on nonetheless, until she climbs the stairs and pushes open the doors to the Golden Hall, her heart stopping in her breast when there is someone there greeting her. The one she has been dreaming of, reaching for her in her sleep, the one she worries about and thinks of so often, the one she misses so. Her uncle, Théoden.

Yet it feels almost like a dream, even now. She is too stunned to run and wrap her arms around him, even as she feels emotion well up until it almost spills from her eyes, but she cannot move. Her uncle smiles, speaks, beckons her closer. He does not speak of the battle, nor does he answer when she finally manages to ask about it, voice weak and almost broken, but she does not insist as much as she ought to.

Minutes, hours, days or weeks may have passed, she is not sure. She does not keep count, and she stays close to Théoden through it all, nary a soul to be seen or heard around them. At one point, a faint light begins shining on a door right behind the throne - and it is the strangest thing, because she does not remember seeing that door before, but stranger still is how Théoden keeps insisting that she step through it, that she will find peace and a place to rest on the other side.

And she would trust perhaps, she should. It is her uncle, like a father to her. Yet suspicion rises within her, and vaguely at first, Nathan's words pass like a quiet murmur at a far corner of her mind: It will try and tempt you.

She looks from the light, then to her uncle, smiling still, beckoning her closer to the door, then she takes one step back, and another, moving away from him. ]

[regicidium]

[ A groan of ancient wood and iron spills fresh light into the grand hall, the figure of a man stepping in with the affect of being lost, as if it were impossible to enter Meduseld without knowing exactly where you were. A man with blonde hair like beaten gold made lank and dull after so many days of endless travel, a bristle grown over square jaw, breathing through his mouth like a dim canine.

The squint he casts inwards is much like one too, the doors settling closed behind him. He bears a sword and a knife, made from wealth, but his clothing is simple and unlordly. His right arms ends at the wrist, so his weaponry is situated accordingly.

They have met before.

Jaime stares across where the lady is backing away from an old man he does not recognise, but by now, he recognises that glow beneath unfamiliar door. His left hand drifts to clutch the hilt of his sword, but beyond a few initial wandering steps inwards of the hall, he doesn't approach any further. ]

frodo baggins | ota!

[wheeloffire]

[ Frodo was so tired.

How long had he been here? It felt like ages, years. The Ring was hot around his neck, blood dripping from the open sores it had created. It felt like he was there, but not really there. His mind was enveloped in a swirling hell that cursed him, and taunted him. His body was in pain. His very soul was in pain.

Frodo stumbled through the corridors, the ring of the Nazgul's echoing inside of his head. The Ring was heavy, his shoulder was on fire. He just wanted to give up, right there and now. Why not? The Ring would never make its way to Mordor here. Knowing that the very person who made that little artifact made things only more worse.

He limped his way to another door. Frodo opened its lowly, afraid of what he would see...-

The Shire was there to meet him.

Everything was here. The blue skies, the fluffy white clouds. The smell of grass, the gentle breeze. The colors were bright, and everything was where it was supposed to be. The smials were all there, the flowers were planted to perfection. It only surprised Frodo more when he saw a special someone standing in front of him...

Samwise. Samwise Gamgee was here.

Frodo could feel his eyes filling with tears, blurring his vision. ] S-Sam...?

[ Sam welcomed him with the brightest, trusting smile. He was so bright, and so healthy...just like a young hobbit should be. Frodo began to sob, and started to wonder closer to his friend. ]

sdjaiofsdjo I HOPE THIS IS OKAY???

[ofthekindlywest]

[Bilbo was beginning to wonder if he would ever find a way out, although it did not do to think that way. Still, this endless stream of ins and outs was frightfully tiring, and he should so like to take a rest himself. Maybe one of these rooms could be a kitchen, or an orchard, or something nice like that? With food and rest for a weary hobbit before he should start the search for a way back up again once more.

And then, of course, he found himself stumbling through a door and onto the green grass and rolling hills of the Shire. But hang on, there was someone else there. Another hobbit - two other hobbits, in fact. And he had taken fine care of his garden, it's true, but when had it looked quite as magnificent as that?

Bilbo took a step forward, feeling rather awkward for intruding but he should feel even more awkward for standing there and just watching the scene play out instead. He cleared his throat as he stepped forward, sliding Sting back into its sheath - he won't need it again at the moment.] My dear fellow. This is such lovely country, for you to be as upset as you seem to be...

DOOM: RRTS Barracks | Semi-open

[c24]

(( ooc: Information and references on John's Home can be found here. This thread is open to those previously spoken with; however, please contact me about walk-ins! ))

[ The barracks are as bright under the florescent lights as they should be. It's cold and little sterile, but obvious people have tried to make it a little more homey. In a very testosterone-laden sort of way. But nothing's out of place as is expected from a Marine barracks. Beds are made, personal affects placed up high and off the floor. The only thing unnatural is the lone man sprawled out on one of the several identical beds lined up.

John looks just the same as when he was last seen before recon began. He's in his RRTS uniform like always. He even has his shoes on in his bed, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. A ball in his hand is tossed against that plain wall. It ricochets with a loud pop, and comes back to him with perfect precision each and every time. His hazel eyes never leave the ball--Hell, they never blink as they remain possessed on the slow, repetitive action. But there's nothing fervent in his eyes that suggests possession. There's really nothing at all, no light, as if he's in some kind of trance or royally spaced out.

It's just him and a ball pilfered from the sports equipment on the shelves, hitting the same spot over and over. ]

CRASHES INTO THIS.

[northerner]

[ it's somehow easier to stumble into unfamiliar places than it is to tolerate anything resembling home. there's nothing ambiguous about this place. robb knows it isn't his, and he knows that what he's seeing is unnatural. ]

Reaper. John.

[ this isn't like arya. he doesn't move, doesn't turn to look. it's unsettling, the blankness in his eyes. robb takes a step forward, finds his progress impeded by a woman, john's name ringing in her wake. ]

Reaper, we must leave this place. You cannot stay.

Biggs Darklighter | OTA (Escaping reserved for Luke Skywalker)

[hisowndream]

Biggs was learning firsthand that this ship was not at all the haven from death he had expected.

The overstimulation had been one thing, but Biggs had written off the event as an isolated incident, an impossible accident brought upon from some side effect of the ship's old tech. Then the recon team had vanished, and Biggs and Luke had set out with many others in pursuit... only to find much more than they bargained for in the bowels of the ship. Rather than carrying out the rescue mission they had planned, it was beginning to seem as though the ship had merely baited more prey.

Their entire adventure had been impossible and Biggs no longer held a firm grasp on time or on reality. Had it been hours since they had been sealed inside the cockpit of an Imperial starfighter, barely room to breathe (though it should have been impossible) and none to move as bodies and a lurking presence knocked against the viewport? Or days since they'd been pursued by the same vicious, eyeless beasts through a battlestation that should have been vaporized? Perception warped and their energy spent, the two men scrambled through another door that Biggs feared may kill them at last... and were greeted with the familiar and overwhelming heat of twin suns, present even after passing through an arch cut into thick white rock.

Nothing on this ship was the least bit rational, but slipping through a wormhole and ending up on Tatooine made more sense to Biggs than the interior of a single ship manifesting worlds inside of it. Tosche station seems exactly as they had left it - parts sprawled across the work tables, seats angled oddly about the room as the young men that had sat on them rushed around to complete other tasks or meet with friends, and no manticores to be seen - in other words, they were home.

He isn't entirely sold on the illusion until his eyes fall upon a young woman seated at one of the benches, hands folded on her lap. She has none of Camie's shrewd mannerisms and when she turns to the doorway her smile is honest and wide. There are no bruises or signs of struggle on her skin or clothes, her hair is clean and neat, her blonde fringe is braided and pulled off of her face. It was as if she had never left her spot, waiting patiently as Biggs ran errands for his father, safe and untouched by sand people. After all of this time, she remained the picture of loveliness.

Biggs had thought holding on to her hologram had been a method of healing, a way of respecting her death and keeping her memory alive. It is only now he realizes it had kept those wounds from closing, and to find her well is so at odds with the corpse he parted with that his grief festers and tears open.

He feels fourteen years old again, dreaming he were taking her home after a long day together - the most difficult of dreams, for he would wake to find she wasn't anywhere anymore. Now, no matter how many times he blinks, she does not disappear.

If the Tranquility had brought him back from death, similarly unscathed, what stopped them from resurrecting her?

The answer was nothing. "Kandji!"

Biggs nearly forgets that they are not alone - he approaches the table without needing to be summoned. She beams at him pleasantly, recognition in her eyes though ten years have passed between them.

This couldn't be real, and yet...

She says nothing. And in understanding that there is nothing to be said, she simply takes his hand.

[last_ofthe_jedi]

Luke had fought his way past the same horrors and he's tired as though they'd been at it for weeks, though he's also lost complete track of time. It's a similar sort of disorientation he'd felt in engineering and he's hoping against hope that this won't cause the same side effects. Those seem to be finally subsiding after months and he's ready to be rid of them completely. Still, just getting out of here alive would be nice.

He's not far behind Biggs and as he ducks through the same door he pauses in surprise at the familiar and welcoming scene. It's just as he remembers it and Luke allows himself a moment of reverie before forcing himself back into reality. He knows this can't be real. All of it's been an illusion, he knows that. And as much as he wants to believe that he and Biggs are home, there's no doubt in his mind that this will disappear just as the rest did as soon as they leave.

The other places had been full of dangers, things that were hunting them. Luke immediately scans the area in case more creatures are hiding behind the counters, ready to strike, but his eyes are soon drawn to what Biggs has found. Or rather, who.

Luke has never met the girl but he knows who she is, especially when Biggs says her name. In an instant Luke is suddenly uneasy. While she and Biggs reunite, Luke continues searching the building. It's strangely empty. Usually at least Fixer and Camie were around during the day but it's totally deserted except for Kandji.

He doesn't like this. He tries to reason that it's because Kandji can't be real because she's dead but then so is Biggs, and yet he's here. But he came from a pod and she didn't. Did she? No, of course she didn't. She's an illusion just like everything else here, right? Luke's not sure now but he just can't shake the uneasy feeling.

There's no rhyme or reason to the feeling so he stands back and watches quietly from the shadows, leaning against an adobe wall to rest. He'll give Biggs a minute or two but he knows they need to keep moving if they're ever going to find their way back to the passenger levels of the ship.

As he watches there's a pang of something unpleasant inside him. He tries to ignore it. It's that feeling again, that's all. It must be.

Elizabeth of York » Closed to Cesare » cw: vague references of incest

[skjalf]

[ yet another door? the labyrinthine web of interconnecting rooms has taken much out of her. both the excessive amount of walking and the truly horrible places she'd had to muck through to arrive at this point. dark lands, blood-soaked churches—and of course, the crypt beneath the chapel of westminster. she had been in and out of sanctuary during her life, but those six longs months when she was four years old had been the worst.

truly, one cannot blame her for being equal parts terrified and wary of opening that door. but onward, the phantom had recommended. to journey's end, had said another passage she had recalled much earlier. to the end of what? of this neverending hell, or of her very life? she cannot know for certain. what she does know was that only suffering might be found at her back. there truly is only one way to go: forward.

taking a deep breath to fortify herself, elizabeth grounds her feet upon the floor and squares her shoulders. she might cover her eyes; but neither of her parents had ever cowered from danger. she will not break such a legacy. thus, she opens the door, she is surprised to find a familiar sight. it is none other than the throne room of westminster palace, down to the tapestries decorating the walls and the fleur de lys painted upon the tiles of the floor.

the air is easier to breathe, here. cleaner, less stale than it has been up to this point. this, she notices, all the while her eyes are riveted immovably from the lone figure seated in the ornate throne at the end of the hall, alone and without his queen in sight. automatically, she curtsies low and looks up after a few heartbeats have passed. ]

Richard— [ whoops. she corrects herself. ] Your Grace?

[ she hesitates upon rising, frowning in her mind but appearing outwardly calm as she takes a step forward. her slippered feet shuffle softly upon the floor beneath her. ah, it really is home, isn't it? she takes this possibility with a sharp stab of regret; that she might never see some who have come to mean so much to her again. it has utterly escaped her mind that she would not remember any of them; their faces or their voices if she truly were home. but she does take note of the empty hall, mysteriously free of the nobility and of queen anne.

something.. something is wrong here. something she can't pinpoint just yet. as a wry smile curves her uncle's mouth and he rises from his throne, it is difficult to try and piece it together. the light of the candles gleams and sparks upon the ornate crown he wears, gold inlaid with all manner of precious stones. her heart stills in her chest and then begins to thunder the nearer he comes to her.

finally, when he is a respectable distance away, he offers his hand. ]

"Princess Elizabeth, will you do me the honour?" [ the timbre of his voice is certainly just as she remembers, and she smiles before extending her hand. ]

Of course.

[ so, they dance. palms inches apart, pressed together, whirling and spinning about the floor. the longer they dance, the less aware elizabeth becomes of the fact that many somethings are amiss here. time bleeds away, until there is only she and her kind, whom she cannot deny without giving great offense.

she cannot even have the presence of mind to feel terrible for doing this while anne is likely minding her son or resting in bed. there is only this moment. and the beautiful, blinding light coming from the door their whirling steps seem to be leading them toward. ]

[naytheist]

[There were several things that were concerning Cesare. He had seen the warnings on the network, ventured through his own personal hell and heaven and had cautiously sent Elizabeth a message to warn and check on her. When he received no reply, he donned his armour, placed his blades at his sides, and made his way into the corridors in search of her. Elizabeth had told her of her claustrophobic past and he would not have her live it again.

He runs through what seems like hundreds of rooms, past people in need of aid, in search of Elizabeth. When he finally finds her, he is taken aback. She does not seem upset: she is not screaming, nor are there tears running down her cheeks. Instead, she seems almost content, her face a hypnotic calm. It unnerves him. His eyes move to the man in the crown, then back to Elizabeth.]

Do you know this man?

[It seems as if this King may be her Caterina, her siren luring her away. He walks towards the two of them, already pulling out a knife, one that is placed behind him so that she cannot see. In truth, he craves carnage or action, and it seems as if now, today might be an opportunity for it.]

Rey | Prelude

[circumitus]

The scene is the same, but the script changes.

Through the foliage rooftop of the Watchers' Tower, a thousand feet over the mist of a town called Old Wayfair, through plants of colors red and yellow and orange and peach and green invading the gardens, through vines and dead trees -- she stomps over white flowers, daisies, strawberries blossoming from rope-like plants, with the snarl and snapping of manitcores at her heel through the maze-like overgrowth, leading to various pathways that all -- all -- all of them to the same place -- the same place, the--

I am wicked.

The scene's the same.

I deserve to die.

The script changes.

"Have to come help."

The preface is muddled. One moment she's there, running from teeth and bones. The next, she hears gunfire. Climbing up over the railing of the Watchers' Tower, she fires into the dark again. And again. Her foot slips -- no, not slipping. She doesn't slip.

She jumps.



The script changes.

Rey | Locked to Charles Xavier

[circumitus]

At first, there's the sensation of falling. And then the world stabilizes. After a moment, there's a sort of odd, familiar peace.

Upon entering, it's hard to say whether anyone has ever lived in this room at all. It houses only the bare essentials one needs in a living environment, with a scant wardrobe and a single bed of white sheets, white pillows, and a redwood bed frame. The hardwood floor is spotless, only adorned by a ray of moonlight peeking through the window revealing the Old Chicago streets. Though if one looks out, there are no people, no cars. Just an empty avenue devoid of life.

The only sign of life, if you can call it that, is the man and woman sitting on the bed. At first glance, they appear identical. The man is taller than her, slouches, his clean ash brown hair a little mussed. His eyes are a paler shade of green than the woman's. With the exception of the lack of scars and obvious masculine features, they share an uncanny resemblance to one another.

The woman's eyes are glossed over, her eyes fixed on the window. How long has it been? She doesn't know. She doesn't care. Whether she's even conscious of her surroundings, of her brother's presence beside her, is anyone's guess.

It's not the first time.

The man turns his head to the door. He stands up when it opens.

Rey doesn't even blink.

Lagertha | ota

[ex_halberd259]

[ set against the picturesque backdrop of a fjord and a mountain range lies a quaint little farmstead. it is literally a one-room shack (but very well-built!) with a wall or two to give the illusion of privacy.

lagertha can be found doing busywork, joined by a girl of twelve who chatters quietly and smiles every so often. the girl bears a striking resemblance to her mother, and they make a fine picture while they toil in the garden and skin meat to cook over the open hearth.

the girl never seems to leave lagertha's side; not once. it is more than a little odd. ]

"Mother, can you give me another lesson today?" [ lagertha looks over at her and nods once. raw meat takes time to cook, and there's a lot of it. the men will be coming back from kattegat at any time, so far as she thinks. it was easy to fall prey to this illusion.

of a time when life is simple and happy. uncomplicated. the women venture outside, past the skins drying on a rack to use for blankets or clothing later. they each bear a wooden sword and shield. it is with a great sense of pride that lagertha seems to teach her daughter to defend herself.

they lunge and parry and block, and at one point gyda attacks with a skill lagertha might not have remembered. while she crows her delight, lagertha smiles for the first time, full of joy and motherly pride. ]

Well done! You're catching on.

[alionsheart]

[ Robin's heart is heavy as he steps through yet another door, fearing the worst. His bow is at the ready, ready to fell any potential beast awaiting him.

He's completely surprised to find himself approaching a small homestead, and the sound of laughter carries across the soft wind blowing past him. He lowers his bow, not wanting to alarm anyone unnecessarily, and approaches slowly while continuing to assess what's going on. ]

Hello!

[ There's a soft look in his eyes, the hint of a smile on his face. ] Do pardon the intrusion, I wondered if you could tell me where I am, precisely?

( C L O S E D ) ✗ robb stark and gendry

[wolfchild]

[ her memories were playing tricks on her.

arya saw people running or limping or being dragged the opposite way. healthy and injured. men and women. all of them wore the same gaunt look of fear in their face and their eyes. crew of the tranquility ( mayhaps the passengers. ) the ghosts of them.

but when arya looked at the flood streaming past her, all she saw were the men and women fleeing the destruction of the riverlands. she saw again the groups struggling past them on the kingsroad toward king’s landing. they never really looked at her or the others bound for the wall; they did not lift their heads.

so when she stepped through a door she was not surprised to raise her eyes to harrenhal's cavernous great hall.

nymeria had grabbed her by the arm to keep her from entering. when arya had shouldered her way in ( too dark, she could not see what was beyond the door ), her wolf’s teeth had torn her sleeve and her skin.

blood ran down her arm and dripped on the floor. harrenhal. it's scope was something she could barely wrap her mind around when she still lived within its walls. her memory failed to do it justice. the sheer size of it —

arya turned around to find a fireplace where the door had been. with non of the fireplaces lit the air was cold and misted in front of her. the walls amplified every sound: her footsteps, nymeria’s growl, the clicking of nails on floor coming closer.

she did not wait to see what made the noise. when nymeria’s ears flattened against her head and her eyes flashed, arya ran.

two years older than she had been when she came to harrenhal for the first time and wiser and armed and with a direwolf beside yet harrenhal made her into a frightened little mouse again.

she heard baying behind her ( a dog? it’s a dog? ), but after a year on the tranquility, arya does not believe it only a dog. it’s moving too quick for that and its stench began to reach her. she ran faster. harrenhal was a gigantic maze, but she, little mouse, knew its halls.

she burst into its abandoned courtyard. ( empty and big and the entire castle seems all the bigger for it. harrenhal was always too big, but it took too long to reach the courtyard. she has been running too long. ) her face wet and her lungs heaving for breath, she fled into the tower of ghosts. nymeria did not follow. she stayed to stand her ground and was deaf to arya’s screams. arya raced up the steps, gulping lungfuls of air, to a room with a window that overlooked —

winterfell.

winterfell and there her mother, standing in the middle of the courtyard, watching the gates as if her children and husband will come riding through them if she would only wait long enough. it’s snowing, she thought. she could see nothing beyond the gates but white.

“Mother!” arya lunged out the window, climbing down the wall as she had seen bran do half-a-hundred times. never did she stop crying for her mother.

and there has remained, clinging to her mother’s skirts, catelyn’s scarred hand passing over arya’s hair. the thought of her brothers is far away now, as is the fear for nymeria and the ache in her arm. she shakes and cries and hugs her mother tight.

real, real, real, this is real, this is real. ]

CRASHES IN.

[northerner]

Arya.

[ robb's voice is thick, wrenched. this is their home, this is winterfell, this is--

it's all a lie. robb's tripped through westeros twice over on his way here, and he knows this time will be all the same. this is a lie, and their mother has left, and robb cannot lose arya to this. he swore to bran that he'd bring her back. he takes a step forward, trying not to look anywhere else, trying not to look at their mother though her gaze turns towards him at his call. ]

Arya, come back to us. This is no place for us to dwell.

[ the words feel false in his mouth. this is winterfell. this is the only place for a stark, but it is not so here. not until they've returned for true, and not been lured out and away, into something false and cruel. ]

BRAD COLBERT ( ota. )

[makedo]

[ there's a beach — it has few really distinctive features, but the original can be found in california, near san diego — with white sand and waves that are too high for swimming, but perfect for surfing. maybe sometimes, out of the corner of your eye, you'll catch the impression of someone actually surfing.

sitting on a surfboard, but still on the beach, is brad colbert. despite disappearing on the recon mission, he appears unhurt — but his eyes are entirely vacant and even when approached, he will not look up or react. it seems his situational awareness is all gone. instead, oncomers will be faced with one cpl ray person, essentially walking a perimeter around the still figure of brad, though he doesn't look like he's walking a perimeter, seemingly relaxed and talking. ]

[darkart]

[ It's entirely possible that no one could look more out of place on a California beach than Severus Snape. Covered head to toe in black - a coat over his TQ jumpsuit - he's even got gloves on, though he's pulling them off now to shake away the remnants of manticore blood from the room he just stumbled from. He's squinting in the bright light as he walks slightly unevenly over the sand, one hand raising to shield his eyes.

He's expecting monsters, not people. When he recognizes the figure sitting on the sand he stops, wary. He doesn't know the one walking. Severus takes a moment to assess the situation from a (.. relatively, guns exist) safe distance first, staring. ]

CASSANDRA ANDERSON ( ota. )

[mindtricks]

[ she'd barely made it out of the burning room on arima again — at least this time, for all the trouble she'd run into, morgoth hadn't been there. it had invoked memories of recent trauma, but it hadn't been a complete replay of the worst of it and while she's exhausted, it doesn't quite mirror the exhaustion of the ordeal with morgoth.

her mind is unharmed; there are hallucinations, there is fear, but she is trained to handle fear and peach trees taught her to push through it. it's better than it was. she made it out alive again. it's better.

better doesn't mean good, and when an open door leads to an apartment she knows, the first emotion she feels is relief rather than distrust. her memories of her childhood home are hazy, blurred by time, but the figure of her mother approaching her, arms held out and smiling, looks just like in the picture anderson has of her.

home. it's home, and she hasn't had a real home in so long, she'd been ten when her parents had died and younger still when they'd been placed in medical care, no longer able to look after a child, when she'd been placed in the system. the hall of justice gave her a place to stay and a purpose, but home, that's something else. she hasn't had a home in a long time, and she hasn't been a child in almost as long, but there's some of it written across her features now when she takes a step into the room.

she's painfully young still, it's easy to forget when she carries herself like a soldier. now, not so much. ] Mom?

[exponentiate]

[ simulations upon simulations. a fascinating collective consciousness affected by personal nightmares. tobias would love to investigate it if he wasn't stuck in the middle of it.

he's worn in a way that goes beyond the merely physical. the unexpected has been greeting at every turn even when he comes to expect it: battlefields of a magnitude he could not imagine, immense forests, wide plains. tobias wipes his palms on his pants and fixes his grip on the gun. the weaponry on the ship is more advanced than any he has known; he spent long hours in gunnery until he could shoot as easily with them.

real or not, he doesn't plan on dying.

he has the rifle to his shoulder when he bursts into the room. a quick look around and there doesn't seem to be any immediate danger. only anderson and another woman, but he knows better than to drop his guard. the gun remains up though not pointed at either woman. ]

Anderson? [ are you okay, check box y/n ]

GRANT WARD ( ota. )

[dissociable]

[ he's so tired of it all — running, the well, the memories he can still not suppress even though he knows it's a weakness, weakness that keeps running through his veins, that leaves him caring, makes him think his brother never should have done this to him, never should have made him do this, his parents never should have let it happen and garrett called him out on thinking of himself as the victim but he was, wasn't he?

being stuck in a well, he'd truly believed it for a long time until the manticores had pulled him back into reality because the only monsters that had been standing around the well that day had been him and his brother. with his grasp on reality reasserting itself more strongly, he remembers why he'd come out here in the first place.

fitz is somewhere out here.

the grant ward people know would go after fitz no matter what; he's a protector and he cares even though he's not great at showing it. the grant ward garrett knows wouldn't care, but would keep his cover intact under all circumstances and so the action is the same even if the motivation is entirely different.

( the real grant ward exists in a space somewhere between the two, caring-not-caring-trying-not-to-care-it's-a-weakness but it doesn't matter because it's clear to him what he needs to do. )

and so he'd clawed his way out of the well and he'd fought the manticores and now he's tired of it all. it's not even just physical exhaustion — it's having to keep up pretenses, of having to constantly be on his guard, be wary of slipping up.

it's hard, not caring. caring. either, whichever — but when he stumbles into the next room, it's a campsite he knows well. it's a place he created for himself after garrett left him, it's a place that was his and his alone for months and he's never felt more like himself anywhere else.

and then buddy comes running, tail wagging, and grant goes to his knees and greets the best friend he's ever had, a real smile on his face that doesn't dim even when he gets dog slobber everywhere.

he doesn't have to pretend with buddy. ]

[brainsqueeze]

( Maria had had some help getting off the helicarrier. She'd known before going in that none of what she would see would be real, that there would be things trying to distract her and pull her away. M aria had assumed that she'd be able to handle it, and had agreed that by staying in a group that they'd be fine.

They weren't fine - or she wasn't. Maria had been separated and had spent hours- days? Maria had spent an indeterminate amount of time on the helicarrier. She'd been about to stop herself, to pull her thoughts back together when she'd seen the first Chitauri, and it hadn't ended there. She'd quickly run out of bullets but there'd been enough debris to continue fighting. The only issue was that they seemed to keep coming, and she was alone.

Eventually someone had come along - someone that had never been on the helicarrier, and hell wasn't even from her world. That had happened make her realise what this was, and with a little more dodging and finally some running they'd gotten out.

But then they'd been separated and Maria was back to square one, at least with regards to finding those that had been lost. More door openings took Maria to more locations, and finally she saw someone. Someone and... something very different from the horrors she'd seen already.

This time it was more picturesque - a little campsite, a man and a dog. Except in this case the man was familiar, and the entire scene was very unexpected - for him )

Ward?

( He'd obviously come on the rescue, which was an obvious expectance. Either she'd missed him in the corridors or he'd been with Tyke's team. But he was alone. If they could manage to stick together maybe they could find the others )

captain hook | closed to emma and.... gold........

[capsize]

[ The cabin is small and dimly lit, half the room cast in shadows. There's a sense of movement that doesn't make any sense, all things considered; the heavy rocking of the sea, the shifting moonlight and the sound of waves filtering through the windows.

Hook's sitting at the chair behind the desk, unmoving. His gaze is fixed on the map in front of him, but there's no real recognition in it. He doesn't look up when the others arrive, simply stares ahead blindly. Were he alone, there'd be little sign of life — but he's not alone, of course, and the repetition of the waves is broken by the light hum of a woman's voice.

She's seated on the corner of the desk, one hand trailing gently over Hook's jaw. For her part, she seems to be ignoring any newcomers. She remains as she is, and while her position keeps her features guarded by a curtain of dark hair, there's no lack of details otherwise: black hair, intricate leather, the glint of elaborate jewelry at her neck and hands. She's humming something under her breath, quiet and content, and the sound remains unbroken regardless of who enters the cabin. ]

slinks in tail between legs

[gilding]

[Out of all the doors that Gold has stepped through since entering this wretched maze, this is the first one he has immediately wanted to turn back. Ships bring back bad memories, and this one in particular houses both reasons for that, visible straight away upon entering. He spares the scene a long enough glance to register that, as well as the fact that Hook seems caught in a similar state to how they'd found Emma, and decides that he has no interest in attempting to interrupt.

He turns away, and starts looking for another door, the exit out of here.]

Kate Bishop | Closed

[alsohawkeye]

[ This door opens into a small apartment, complete with cheap incandescent lighting, the muffled noises of neighbors next door and traffic outside, and the smell of coffee, freshly brewed but beginning to head toward burnt. It's kind of sparse, like whoever lives here hasn't really gotten around to moving in. There are still cardboard boxes in the corners, the furniture is mismatched and has seen better days, and the color scheme is -- well, there isn't one. Archery targets and literally piles of arrows are as close to decoration as you're getting. Just inside the door is a set of metal dog bowls with the name Lucky on them, perfectly placed to be tripped over or stepped in.

Kate is on the couch, legs folded up, arms hooked around one knee. The tv is playing some show that appears to involve dogs who are police officers and it looks like she's watching it but she doesn't move or even blink when they enter and her stare is glassy in a way that doesn't seem right. Next to her is a girl in her mid teens, tall and gangly with long blonde hair, leaning into Kate's side, head almost on her shoulder. She turns sharply when the door opens. Her tone isn't entirely friendly. ]

Who are you?

[pushfall]

[ She isn't sure how she's made her way here, not really. It's a spinning collection of darkness and disorientation and coming out of dreams and moving into nightmares. After being split up and split apart from the people she had come down with, she had stopped trying to keep track of the number of puddles she had stepped and fallen into. The one thing that beat persistently in her mind remained the entire reason she had come down here in the first place, although that's not entirely truthful. Kate had been her main goal, but she can't stop herself from feeling guilty that she hadn't been able to reach everyone.

Claire knows that's an impractical goal, as she steps in through the door and is surprised enough that she steps to the side and trips over the metal dog bowls, announcing her presence with a metallic clatter. She blames it on being overtired, having pushed herself to the edge of even her capabilities, and she at least doesn't fall and make an ass of herself but who would even care because Kate is staring at her from a sofa with who the hell is that? ]

Kate.

[ She practically breathes it, and the door is still hanging open with one of Claire's hands wrapped around the frame and her foot in the dog dish, and she doesn't take a step inside, alternately hoping for and against some kind of back up. The look in Kate's eyes is enough to alarm her. ]

God, I'm so glad I found you.

Cosette | OTA

[littlelark]

[The view from Cosette's door is a peaceful one; the garden, though overgrown, is full of flowers, the picturesque image completed by the small butterflies flitting from bud to blossom. Though it is all contained within the confines of an iron gate, the garden itself has been left to run wild to match the bohemian heart of the girl it belongs to. At the side is a small cottage, it's door nearly overtaken by the flowers and vines that cover the enclosed grounds.

At the center of the garden sits a stone bench, half obstructed by bushes and flowerbuds. However, it is not so much the bench itself that draws attention, but rather the man sitting on it; an older gentleman, dressed plainly, with peppered, graying hair and a kind smile. Her father. He motions for her to come to sit beside him, and it takes very little for her to run to his side as if she were a child once more. He whispers sweet nothings to her, barely audible, as he strokes her hair and coaxes her to be completely at peace.]

[jondrette]

[Cosette's happy place, perhaps. But Eponine's bad one. She had been running for some time, rushing from place to place to try to find each door, and this one had brought her into an alley. A very familiar one at that. No- she knew this alley! She knew that gate and the garden! And, worst of all, she knew that girl and that man.

The Lark.

The Man in the Yellow Coat.

Eyes narrowed, she moved closer towards them, hoping, yet dreading all the same, that perhaps Marius was lurking nearby. To see him again-! He'd been haunting her dreams and thoughts, and the further into the maze she got, the more she could feel him.

Approaching the gate, she could make out low growls in the distance, intermixed with bits of argot. A combination of- No, she couldn't think about it. She didn't have time, before they came plowing around the corner- her father, Babet, Montparnsse. But they were different. Their nails were claws and teeth fangs, and from teh back of their trousers protruded a tail. A tail of a scorpion.

Mantacores.

They made a beeline for her, but acting quickly, Eponine began to scramble up the gate towards the garden.]

Cosette! We must go- they are here! [Spoken before she even realized that, perhaps, she should leave the girl here to die.]

closed | for gold & regina

[uncurse]

[ mary margaret’s loft is a brick-walled, open-concept studio with a single bathroom hidden behind frosted windows, and beds stashed on two different levels. the table is set for three, though no one is seated there.

behind the kitchen counter, emma stares blankly into a mug of hot cocoa with cinnamon powdered on top of the whipped cream. henry sits at the breakfast bar in front of the kitchen, opposite his mother, swinging his legs and waving a wooden toy sword around to keep himself occupied.

when gold and regina enter, emma doesn’t react. she stands unflinching, unresponsive, but it’s henry who rises to greet them. ]

Hey! [ he sounds exactly like the boy regina misses dearly, but he’s much less welcoming than her own imposter had been. ] You’re not supposed to be here!

[unmothered]

Henry... [Regina swallows. It's so close to her own vision, but so different now that he's Emma's son, not hers. It's the reaction she's always feared she'd receive from Henry at any given moment, that he'd choose Emma instead of her and want nothing to do with her anymore.

Knowing it's not real doesn't help as much as it could. It's still all of her fears come alive.

She straightens and strides up to Emma. Trying her best to ignore Henry, as much as it hurts.]

Come along, Miss Swan. It's time to leave.

ned, the pie maker // 100% open

[onetouch]

[ home. home used to be in coeurs d'coeurs. papen county. where he grew up. where he thought he was going to die. one day. die and never come back. the thought is almost comforting in that morbid sort of way, but when he looks around it's the city. the place that had been his home for two years. in more than a home-away-from-home way. in more than even his original home had ever been home -way.

he knocked open the pie hole doors and looked around, but it was empty. which was strange. zatanna or jack or even digby - at least - should be here. april, minako, any of his regulars friends or employees. they should be here, but they're not. he swallows, getting a really bad feeling that has nothing to do with his acid reflux for once. ]

Who's there? [ he asks sharply, grabbing his rolling ping off the counter and spinning on his heel. he's pretty good with that thing, watch yourself. ]

[inspirited]

[being lost in the halls and ending up between one place and another, she wasn't sure how long it had even been but opening this particular door there was a slight familiarity from finding herself in the pie hole but there was definitely something about it that seemed different, she was looking around trying to find someone when she hears ned] Ned? Hey- it's just me!

Éponine » locked to combeferre and/or cosette

[jondrette]

[The door swung open and Eponine ran full-tilt into the room before she even realized where it was. Her foot tripped over an uneven floor-board, tossing her on to her hands and knees on the grimy wood. This wood, she realized. She knew it.

And the boots that appeared in front of her, she knew those, too.

Slowly, she raised her head and eyes, to find herself gazing up at the very last person she'd seen on earth, in her life-time. The man who had been haunting her steps for the last month. The man she loved, would die for, over and over again; Marius Pontmercy.

He extended a hand, and instantly, Eponine took it, rising to her feet. His smile was warm, as was the inside of the inn.

How funny it is, 'ponine, he began, that I should find you here, in the very inn that was named for my father. The Sargent at Waterloo- it is my father that yours saved on those very fields.

He was looking only at her, smiling only at her, here, in her family home in Montfermeil. She isn't sure if she can breathe.

Come, sit. I will bring you tea and a warm blanket. I will not leave your side, Eponine.

Tears spring to her eyes as she follows him to a small table, and Marius wastes no time in wrapping a blanket tight around her shoulders.]

Re: Éponine » locked to combeferre and/or cosette

[but_civilization]

Well, at least it was not the barricade anymore. Combeferre had stumbled through that hell as best he could, though unable to get to any of his friends. When he had tried to go towards what he believed were their places along the barricade, and to climb it, for that matter, he'd been dragged back, chased by monsters in the half torn uniform of the national guards.

Now that he was here, in this much quieter place, he found himself taking a deep breath. So far, it seemed nothing was coming for him here, but even so, it did not do to be overly hasty about anything.

There was no telling how much time had passed, though it must have been a week, at least, and seeing Eponine, seeing anyone, but especially her, made him smile, even as he stared at the scene in front of them, confused as to what was going on.

"Eponine, are you all right? When we were separated, I...I worried." He was still not certain where they were, somewhere in the country, maybe, by the look of this place, but it was better than what he'd come through before.

Combeferre: Open!

[but_civilization]

After the chaos they have passed through, Combeferre is relieved to find himself in a place that he knows well. The small cafe closest to the Necker is a place that he has shared with only Joly, of his friends. Simply decorated though it is, with frames to hold newspapers on each table, and ensure that they aren't stolen, and rather old, almost ancient furniture, this place is just as much a home to him as the Musain or Corinthe.

Over there in the corner is a deep grove worn into the flooring, and Combeferre has to laugh each time he spots it, well remembering study groups around the large table, and can almost hear an elderly man warning them not to lean their chairs back on two legs too often, due to damages. Alexandre never did take that point well, even after Beaulieu had crashed himself into the floor and needed stitches, which an over eager group of medical students had been excited to provide, sitting in this corner by the window, where the light was best.

There is a quiet spot for reading too, or if one wished to be alone, and Combeferre walks toward it now, seeing as no one else happens to be about. He's just pulled out his chair, and sat, when a familiar hand settles on his shoulder.

"There you are, Combeferre. I've been combing the city for you." Enjolras exclaims, more of relief coloring the words than any sort of anger or exasperation. "You make yourself hard to find, my friend."

"I've been...well, it is not so important now. Not nearly so much as what brought you here."

"I have a few assignments. I was hoping you would take one." Enjolras is all revolution, even now. "And I've missed you as well." He adds, putting a steaming mug in front of Combeferre, before settling next to him, close enough to touch. "What did you make of Feuilly's proposal,last meeting?"

He did not know how, or when, and perhaps he did not care, but every moment with Enjolras beside him, even if it only were a moment, or a dream was to be valued above all else.

Thus, if anyone should find him now, Combeferre can be found at the small table in the alcove, his head bent to his best friend's, happily working away on that proposal now that everything is all right in the world.

Galadriel | Open

[inafadingcrown]

[Home. It's a powerful thing, even if Galadriel knows that this cannot be real. But the smell of the trees is the same. The way the light hits the leaves of the Mallorns is precisely right. She almost swears that she can make out familiar voices among those raised in song.

The flets here put the modest ones built in the Oxygen Gardens to shame; it's a full city nestled among the branches of the forest and it's beautiful beyond words, a place out of time. But it's something- or rather, someone- on the forest floor who has fully captured Galadriel's attention. A beautiful silver-haired woman approaches her, holding out her hands.

And though Galadriel knows that is not right, that this cannot be, she gives the woman her hands anyway, tears springing to her eyes with only a few words from the figure: Mother, how I've missed you.]

bran stark || open

[wolfdreamer]

[There is something wild about the wood. The trees stand close together, sentinels brushing their grey-green needles against the leaves of the oak and ironwood trees, as if trying to join their hands.

And in the middle of them stands the heart tree, the white weirwood with the carved face. Its leaves are deep red and reach toward the sky, far above all the other trees. The face is carved deep, and red sap is clumped at the corners of its eyes. It is a tree that has done its weeping long ago, and now stands long-faced and firm in the face of the winter that is always coming.

But even in the cool of the shade, the air feels a little warm. It is summer even in the North, some nameless summer where the breeze was not quite so cold, where the summer snows fell but rarely and always farther north. And Winterfell still stands, or else has been regrown from its razed stones, and in the godswood, all is quiet, undisturbed by the song of any bird or the voice of man. The needles and leaves of the trees whisper together in the breeze, but the cold water of the pool beneath the heart tree does not so much as ripple.

The Lord of Winterfell sits beneath that tree, beside the still dark pool. This is his castle, and his lands, and his godswood--but he does not look up at the footfall of any who find themselves trespassing there. He has eyes only for Bran, who sits at his feet, his robotic legs stretched out before him, leaning against his father's leg. Ice is strapped to Lord Eddard Stark's back, the great broadsword gleaming in what little summer sunlight manages to filter through the red leaves of the heart tree. But he smiles at Bran as he speaks, and Bran smiles back. He is without his direwolf, but there is no fear in him, not while he sits at his father's feet.]

[regicidium]

[ Westeros again. Further north, now, where the trees come up like towers from black ground, but warmer than Jaime remembers it being when he made his latest fateful visit.

His sword is out, held in left hand, even as weariness aches warm from wrist to shoulder. His lame armed is folded at his side, kept out of the way, and he walks slow and cautious, a lion padding silent through unfamiliar territory. Awaiting the next monster to spring, ready to cut it, ready to run as he must.

Part of him still hopes he will find her. Hidden, if only he could find the right realm.

What he finds instead is heart sinking, even as he steels himself against it. Dead Ned and his crippled boy under their old god tree. Immediately, whilst out of sight, Jaime sinks back a step, prepared to just leave. He turns to double-back.

Pauses.

And slides his sword back into its sheath. Damn.

(Now he really does have to find Brienne specifically to punch her in the mouth for making him give two shits about the welfare of Stark brats.)

When he approaches, he is a very different Jaime to the one Bran had met, what feels like an age ago. He is not the golden polished knight of the Kingsguard. This one is a duller, greyer version, showing better forty-odd years in this world, wearing leathers and wools that have taken on dirt and grime and wear and tear. This one is tired, and cautious. ]

Bran Stark.

[ And quiet, too, halting some distance away once in earshot. His whole hand is lifted, splaying his fingers as a sign of peace. ]

sirius black || mostly open!

[doggedly]

[It's one room: a tower room of stone and tapestries, wide windows with thin stone tracery bisecting the panes of glass. The sky beyond is dim, coloured with the soft glowing light of some mid-autumn evening. Here is the faded red carpet, worn and comfortably threadbare after hundreds of years, hundreds and hundreds of feet--and the red-and-gold wall hangings--and the red curtains that hang around each four-poster bed, old but well-cared four.

There are four four-posters. Four bedside tables, four trunks, decorated in scratched-in letters, nameplates, stickers. The room smells comfortable--a little musty, a little like woodsmoke from the fire, a little like boys--the posters on the walls, the photographs that wave and smile on their own, the Quidditch pennants--books and magazines and comics and rolls of parchment, loose bits of clothing, robes and wool socks and jeans--four boys live here, comfortably, have lived here for years, and nothing about the room will ever change.

On one of the four-poster beds, Sirius sits hunched over an unfurled roll of parchment, dotted with tiny ink footsteps that are labeled with names, moving through corridors and rooms of Hogwarts castle. And with Sirius, as always, is James. Younger than Sirius, Hogwarts-aged--he fits in this room just the way that he is. Lamplight makes his glasses flash each time that he looks up at Sirius, his fingers tracing along the Marauder's Map. There is some mischief to be had here--even if you can't hear what he's saying, his grin is promise enough of that. It isn't yet after hours, but it will be very soon. And Sirius stares down at the map, glassy-eyed, but grinning, vaguely, in return.]

[fullmoon]

[ Remus stops as soon as he's inside the door, caught off guard and brought up short by the scent before the sights can sink in. This place could have been pulled out of his memory as easily as Sirius's, every detail, down to the two boys plotting on the bed, and for a moment he feels dizzyingly, blessedly sixteen. But only a moment. Stepping closer hurts, first of all—Remus is aching more than Madam Pomfrey ever would have made him stay conscious to experience—and then brings him around to see Sirius better, in the wrong clothes, with the too-old and not-quite-right face that marks him as the Tranquility's.

The stab of disappointment may not be a betrayal, quite, but it probably is cruel.

James is right, though. James is someone he knows, exactly the way he remembers. Impossible, but so should all of this be.

Remus sits on the edge of an adjacent bed—his bed, his discarded clothing bundled on top of his trunk, his parents smiling at him from the nightstand, his books toppled stack of books piled haphazardly on the floor beside it—and watches, uncertain but hopeful, silent. Even if he knew what to say, he wouldn't be able to say it just yet. ]

Nathan Petrelli's Home | Petrelli foyer | OTA

[cargojet]

[ Even knowing what he was facing in the beginning, even knowing whom he would face, Nathan wasn't prepared for quite how punishing the reunion would really be. Stepping into the foyer at last he knew he was home the instance his feet hit the black and white tile. A stairway immediately curled up to the balcony above, and a modern art spiral chandelier loomed immediately above. The big front door was oak; Nathan left it open behind him and took a deep breath, preparing himself for what was about to come, one part trepidation and one part hope.

His eldest son Simon approached from deeper in the house, down toward the kitchen, walked past the elegant phone on its elegant table with its elegant hall chair and stood shyly in front of him, just a few meters away.

Nathan swallowed, counting the seconds, trying to convince himself not to do it, not to move, not to let the place win. Just as it seemed he had won that victory Simon broke away from his spot, cantered across the space and threw himself against him. Nathan was kneeling for the hug by the time Simon reached him, gathered him up into the air with relief and pleasure swelling through him, and span around once for good measure.

He even felt like his son. God, it was good to hold him again, Simon laughing 'I missed you, Dad' in his ear. It was hard to remember, hard not to believe that by some chance he'd stumbled out into the right place and found himself home at last, the place he'd hoped for years to find himself again, without any real expectation of getting it.

He came back down to earth, putting Simon down on his feet and grinned at him. ]

How you doing, champ? You miss me?

[adhesion]

[ Peter turns, now, at the sound of a voice, having begun exploring the fancy house he'd stumbled into half a minute ago. Just in Nathan's blind spot, there appears an unwelcome party to this reunion; rangy of limb and already awkward in the sit of his posture, Peter places a hand on one pristine door edge as he watches father and son.

His knuckles whiten in tension expressed through his grip on wooden finishing rather than in his expression, or twanging through his heart.

This was all a dumb idea. He's done this before, and it sucked, before wandering adrift and alone again, like he couldn't save anybody. He should sink into the background, let the politician do as he do, move on. Find a way out. Find Scott, or Kate, or Darcy.

He worries bottom lip with teeth, before stepping more clearly into view. Hesitant; ]

Mr Petrelli?

[ His smile is thin, flat. His slouch is apologetic. ]

That your son?