Open Musebox Post

[ersatzdivinity]

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Beverly, Trekverse

[tothefly]

[After Alexei died, she'd thought the idea of a support group was not only unnecessary, it was insulting. She'd known his assignment was dangerous. They'd both been prepared for the worst. The notice, when it came, had been all but expected. Why did she need a support group, filled with people grieving for strangers, each in their own kind of pain?

Ultimately, six months after, she'd caved to her counselor's gentle insistence, and she was glad she had. The moment she'd seen Beverly, blue eyes meeting green across the room, she'd known. There was a kind of knowledge in that look, a knowledge reflected in their introduction, something that told her here was a woman who understood her loss. Beverly had lost her own husband almost a year prior, and the conversation they had that day had stayed with her so insistently she'd come back the next week. And the one after. Soon, conversations had bridged the gap between meetings, written notes, and eventually...

Opening those same green eyes, Natasha slowly rolls over, careful not to wake her partner. Almost a year now, they've been living together, the three of them, and almost three now since she'd met Beverly and little Wesley. Hard to believe. She'd never seen herself with children, with a family, not like this. Her career was important, the work fulfilling and necessary. And yet, here she was. Reaching over, she brushes light fingers over Beverly's upper arm, and an unintended smile tugs at her lips.]

[dancingmd]

[Beverly stirs at Natasha's touch, drifting in that pleasant, comfortable place between wakefulness and sleep. It's rare she gets mornings like this, mornings where she's not awakened by the alarm and on her feet immediately: coffee, toast, uniform, see Wesley off to class, lab. No lingering in bed, simply enjoying the warmth of Natasha's body next to hers and the softness of the pillow beneath her head. She is hardly going to let such an opportunity pass her by. So, eyes still shut, and murmuring something unintelligible, she scoots closer to the other woman, burying herself into Natasha's side.]

[tothefly]

[Days off together aren't incredibly common for them--between Beverly's medical career and her own in communications, working closely with the diplomacy corps, their time is often in high demand. But she's trying something new, making arrangements to allow for this at least once a month: at least one Saturday where they get to sleep in, as much as either of them ever do, where they get to have these little moments before Wesley wakes up and before the day begins. So far, she thinks, it's worth it.

Beverly doesn't wake, exactly, but she does murmur something and roll closer, eliciting a smile from Natasha--a small, private thing, even now, in bed. Shifting carefully to fit their bodies together, she wraps an arm around her partner's waist, brushing a soft kiss over the top of her head. She doesn't say good morning, not just yet. Now isn't for talking, now is for running her fingers over the lines of Beverly's spine, fitting a hand to the small of her back, breathing in the scent of her and memorizing the feeling of contentment it all brings.]

Pepper

[tothefly]

Seriously. Tactical lingerie. It's a legitimate thing, I swear.

[onehotpepper]

Okay, I'll bite. How? Why?

When?

[tothefly]

Because a belly band holster looks like a really ugly cross between a girdle and an ace bandage. This is much better. See?

10K, prompts for voicetesting

[overfivethousand]

apocalypse.

He doesn't know how long he's been separated from the others. He doesn't know how long he's been unconscious, either, only that his heart is racing as he jolts upright and scrambles to his feet, wincing at the pain in his temple. Fingers lift to the side of his face, come away sticky, but the scream that woke him comes again, leaving him no time to do anything about it, he can move, so he does, grabbing his fallen rifle and heading for the noise, eyes peeled for anything else on the horizon, human or not.

it's in tents.

A fire might not be the best idea, never know who you're going to attract these days, but 10K knows without it they're both going to end up with frostbite or worse. As long as they keep an eye out, everything should be okay; the Z's hate the cold, if undead monsters can hate anything, so they shouldn't have to worry too much. Not that that'll stop him.

Putting another small log on the fire, he lifts his chin at his companion. "You should sleep. I'll take first watch."

hit me with your best shot.

Whatever you want here!

Apocalypse

[amos_moses]

Scream is one good descriptor for it: yelp is another as Amos twists his ankle (hard to do in combat boots but he's always been special) and takes a tumble, rolling through the dry grass to scramble back up in a crouch, twist, and bring his 1911 to bear on the zombie that's waaaaay too close to grabbing him and snacking on him. Undead are gross and disgusting and Amos hates zombies with a passion. Despite his grossed-out disgust he is quite capable of shooting them dead again and as it falls, sits and pants for breath before motion in the corner of his eye makes him flinch and look.

Kid with a gun and a headwound. Amos blinks wide dark eyes and says, in a voice far calmer than the situation suggests, "Please don't shoot me, that's not fun."

Re: Apocalypse

[overfivethousand]

His rifle is already up and at the ready, finger on the trigger, when he hears the shot and sees the source of the noise: one zombie, down and not getting back up, one human on the ground blinking at him, looking far too calm for the situation. He guesses it could be shock, maybe, but by now he's pretty sure that anyone who could die of shock already has. He doesn't lower the gun just yet--never know, this guy could be part of the group his had tangled with. He'll ask in a second. There's something more important than that to deal with first, though, and that's:

"You bit?"

apocalypse

[agirlcalled]

Hope doesn't scream. She learned a long time ago that there's no point. And it's not like she didn't know this was going to happen. That this is always what happens. So even as Emil screams again she aims and takes another shot. She does take notice of the figure moving toward her, potential threats (and far, far more rarely, potential help) has to rated higher than another person lost.

[overfivethousand]

He's close enough now to hear the sounds of Zs, a rasping, guttural thing that still makes his spine crawl no matter how many times he's heard before. No time to really look at who they're attacking; it's human, because that's all Zs go for, and that's all that matters. Bringing the butt of the rifle to his shoulder, he lines up his first shot, lightning-quick eyes assessing targets. He picks off the one that looks like the biggest threat to whoever they're attacking, then starts thinning the crowd. Five of them, and three are down in as many seconds with clean shots to the head. The last two he can't afford to waste ammunition on and the angle's bad, anyway; catching a glimpse of red hair, he quickly shoulders the gun and moves in closer, pulling his slingshot out to aim.

"Duck!"

in tents + my own shot + bonus questionable science, yolo

[livandletdie]

With a lower core body temperature, Liv seeks heat like moths seek light. These days, she goes from camp to camp, a mysterious stranger on a personal quest. (A quest that she can never speak of, a quest that would get her killed at best, or lead to her turning monstrous and killing innocent people at worst.

The company is a nice bonus.)

She's slow as she approaches, cautious. In the firelight, she looks paler, even if she's eaten recently.

"Hey." Liv crosses her arms and shivers. "Mind if I join you?"

yolo away boo

[overfivethousand]

There's a hand on the rifle beside him as the footsteps come closer, though it doesn't exactly reach for the trigger. She's just a girl. Not that that means anything, he's met a lot of girls who could and do kick ass. But she isn't holding a gun. And she looks cold. And he's not cruel, even if he is cautious. So he lifts his hand away from the weapon, shrugging his shoulders in agreement.

"Go ahead. It's cold out here." He gives her a minute or two to get settled, eyes habitually scanning the trees behind her and seeing nothing. "What are you doing alone out here? Nearest town is miles back."

hello I heard there was an apocalypse

[birdsbirdsbirds]

Robin wishes that he could say he's surprised to wake up somewhere he doesn't recognize, with no sense of time or how he really got there to begin with... But at this point, his thoughts are mostly, "Oh, this again," followed by systematic observation from where he's sitting in the middle of everything.

The screaming seems pretty important. Just his guess.

He blinks hard, clears his eyes, and gets up to his feet. He's dressed way too well to be a proper denizen of the apocalypse (nice suit jacket, fancy leather gloves, shoes that have never been on a hike), so that may make him pretty weird looking when he finally comes in sight of someone else heading in the same direction he is.

I THOUGHT I'D REPLIED TO THIS ohmy god

[overfivethousand]

Any motion around him draws attention, because any motion around him could be a fresh Z on its way to devour anything nearby. He's on high alert as he runs, finger along the trigger guard of his gun. Movement out of the corner of his eye draws his attention to another figure heading the same direction as him, and he's got the gun up to his shoulder before he even thinks. But the figure he sees isn't moving like a zombie, fresh or old. It moves like a human, and while he does lower his gun, he doesn't lower his guard.

"Did you hear the screams?" he calls out, waiting for some sign that this newcomer is still human. Or at least able to speak.

Gaby/Nat, modern AU

[tothefly]

Natasha's no stranger to undercover work. In fact, it's more or less what she was made for; to fit in, to blend, to be just another face in the crowd to everyone but that one unlucky individual in the moment of their death. She's pretended to be any number of things. But frankly, the idea of this one makes her itchy. She's always worked better alone. Still, the job is the job. She'll always do that well.

The party is quiet and refined, the company glamorous, and this redhead is no exception as she steps softly up behind the brunette she's partnered with, one hand sliding lightly across the woman's back as she smiles brightly at the man Gaby is currently in conversation with. "There you are, darling, I'm glad I found you. And who's this you've run off and left me for?" And does she need to tell him his advances are unwelcome, she seems to imply, like the woman she's playing would. That woman would care. Natasha herself, maybe not so much. Mostly.

[eastwall]

Glamorous parties are not exactly Gaby's scene. She doesn't know how to be refined, and wouldn't bother to even try, aside from rocking the dress she's wearing. But there's always someone entertained by her bluntness, or intrigued by the fact that a woman works as a car mechanic - despite the fact that it's the 21st century already - so she never fails to attract a few fans. And she's enjoying themselves, promising she's got contacts who can locate rare parts for their rarer cars, and she's got the skills to fix their cars as good as new. The men are interpreting this as flirting. She doesn't mind.

Which is why she stiffens when she feels a hand suddenly sliding across her back. "Darling," she says, making no attempt to disguise her annoyance. "This is Francis. He was just telling me about his cars.."

She's getting these men to trust her. That's the job, and flirting gets the job done. And Gaby usually goes off by herself too, to ensure it's done right. Even if Natasha at least seems somewhat competent. And not the worst person to fake a marriage with, overall.

[tothefly]

The annoyance in Gaby's voice just makes it better, honestly. Natasha was not on board when they'd told her just what kind of cover they'd established, offering a dozen other potential solutions--not that she minded the idea of being intimately involved with a woman, or even specifically with Gaby; that was obviously no bother at all, just...it seemed so forced. Perhaps it's the intimacy it implied, the construction of a life shared. Of course, she could be good at it. There was very little she wasn't good at. It just...got under her skin. An irritation she found lessened ever so slightly by sharing that irritation with her new partner.

"How fascinating, I'm sure," she all but purrs, deliberately leaving that hand exactly where it is. "I know all about your love of getting your hands dirty. I'd love to leave you two here to keep getting acquainted, but I must steal you away for a moment. Madeleine is here, she was just telling me some news about the Corviere's youngest you simply must hear." Her voice is throaty, pleasant, faintly British--and not at all to be argued with. After all, the words are part of their code, aren't they?

[praeteriens]

"I'm not really surprised that you murdered him."



Spider threads caught at her face, a sign that no-one had been there yet.



Half the names on the list had already been crossed off.

[tothefly]

There was a certain kind of silence one found in old familiar places rediscovered, a kind of quiet that lay in rooms where no one had walked in years. The dust muffles any sound, dulls the way it travels through the air, and what's left seems to catch in the cobwebs. Those hang limply in every corner, only the slightest breeze from her passage stirring them. Natasha doesn't disturb the silence. In fact, she seems as much a part of it as the dust and the thick, sweet scent of decay in the air. Some part of her feels in a strange way like she's come home.

This isn't the facility where they made her, trained her to be what she is, both a dancer and a killer. This was just one stop among many. A house not of safety but of planning, where the red rooms were literal as much as they were metaphorical. She'd only been here a couple of times at most, and not at all since she'd started her work for SHIELD. But when the entire world was out to get you, when the worm turned, when all your other resources were lost...well. There's not a lot she won't do to survive anymore, not many stones she won't leave unturned. No one will look for her, here, and she knows there's still supplies left behind for a someday that never came. It's enough. She can rest here for a while, reach out, make contact with some old friends who still owe her a favor or three she hasn't cashed in. She's going to have to rebuild her web strand by strand, but she's already put too much work into things to not give it a shot.

Reaching the door to the bunker entrance, hidden behind a panel of the wall, Natasha depressed the hidden latch and let the door swing open. Spider threads caught at her face, a sign that no-one had been there yet. Not in a very, very long time. If she were the sort to let her mind play tricks on her, she'd swear that there were voices from below, children's voices raised in song...

Another sound catches her ear and pulls her firmly back to the present. A sound that isn't supposed to be here, a sound that isn't dulled by dust and distant memories. Slipping back into the shadows, she conceals herself behind a drapery, leaving the door open as an invitation. Let whoever it is who's followed her think she's gone downstairs. She'll show them exactly what sort of spider they think they've caught.

[praeteriens]

If someone put a gun to his head and demanded to know why he came back here of all places, well, the man who once called himself James Buchanan Barnes would probably shrug and then shoot the person with their own gun because he doesn't do things like answer demands with weapons pointed at his head these days. Not anymore, at least; he did all sorts of fucked up and not-great-for-his-wellbeing shit while on the command protocol from HYDRA and the Russians, but most of that is dead air in his brain these days, and PTSD-fueled nightmares.

So he hopes. On bad days he's sure that everyone who has ever laid eyes on him in the past two years is going to march up to him and start speaking trigger words directly into his head and he'll have to go on a murderous spree of some sort in order to save the world. Or just himself. Hard to tell.

He's here, anyway, because it has supplies and because he has...fucked up but not entirely bad memories of the place? He's pretty sure he was living a semi-charmed but mostly cursed sort of life as a human-shaped guard dog training young women to become lethal, and that he'd gotten hung up on one in particular - but the details change by the hour, when he can focus on them at all, and he figures he's probably lucky he hasn't had a seizure or a nosebleed just by walking onto the campus.

There's an open door and he almost follows it down...almost. Instead, he lingers, tilts his head and waits to hear confirmation that someone is actually down there and it's not a trap. Anything could be a trap, really, but here? Probably a trap.

He smells sweat that is not his own and takes a sharp breath in; now his heart is racing and he doesn't know why, so he freezes where he stands. Definitely a trap.

Charlie, online shenanigans

[fishboyblue]

[ There is nothing he loathes more than to waste time, and today had largely felt like a day of wasted time. His experiment had failed, despite meticulous planning, and he'd taken long enough figuring out why that he was almost late to his chat for today. hopefully, Charlie wouldn't mind. ]

bluefish: Hey man, hope your day was better than mine. Pretty much had to be.

Yees

[coldslither]

[The ping of an instant message catches Charlie's ear, and it's easy to minimize his Illustrator window to focus on something much more fun than recoloring this commission for the third time. His smile fades as he sees the words waiting, though, and the response is commiserating.]
coldslither: That's an ominous way to say hello :( what's up?

meet cute pt 1: union HQ coffee shop & gardens

[anacardiaceae]

Pamela stands from the stool in front of her workbench, stretching her arms above her head and bending at the waist backward a little while looking at the ceiling. The digital watch with a traditional face buzzes on her wrist as she brings her arms down and lets out a loud breath, rolling her neck and shoulders. "Alright," she says with a vague annoyance as the buzzing continues; time to do some walking.

The stairs are a good option, considering she's only on the third floor, not the rooftop greenhouse today; they're almost always empty except people like her, trying to get a certain number of steps in for the day, for whatever various reason. Late in the afternoon most of those who work in the building are already settled in their offices and labs, behind their counters. Pam exits the stairwell and curves past the people waiting in line for said counters and enters a new line, this time for caffeine.

She gets a blueberry muffin after a second thought to go with her macchiato, rose flavor, and heads towards the gardens to check on the plants there.

People can come in, of course, but it's like a garden in any unexpected administrative space - sparsely visited, except by those seeking zen or a hiding space.

The flowers turn in Pamela's direction and whisper in her mind, greetings and gossip and curiosity, sunflowers wide and bright, lavender rich and heavily scented. She stands next to flowers that tower over her and breaks her muffin into little pieces, turning her head when she hears someone behind her.

Perffff

[noheroics]

Truth be told, Morrison doesn't mind these trips so much. The paperwork, while complicated, is both necessary and satisfying to complete, and knowing it'll give his clients the results they're looking for helps make all the tedium of waiting in line feel like nearly nothing at all.

Of course, that doesn't make it any less frustrating when he makes it to the head of one line after half an hour or more of waiting, only to be told that he's in the wrong line and needs to join another in order to file the paperwork in his briefcase--and then to be told after another half an hour that he needs to wait for someone to be available to meet with him and file it. He's half convinced one of them has figured out who his father was and is doing this to spite him. The other half is sure they do know who his godfather is, and have no desire to be helpful for any part of that family. There is no winning.

However, one of the perks of having visited the Seventh innumerable times as both a teen and an adult is knowing where all the best nooks and crannies are to spend the next hour or so with a cup of coffee. It's a beautiful spring day, not a cloud in the sky, and so after fetching himself a cup of coffee, Morrison heads for the little-known gardens out back of the stately granite building.

Everything is in bloom, he marvels, even the things that maybe shouldn't be at this point in the season, but that's not all that surprising; after all, they must have a gardener with the touch, or a botanist or plant-based lifeform on staff. One never knows. Either way, he relaxes as his dress shoes crunch softly on the soil, taking a deep breath in and exhaling to take in the heady scent of lavender. After a moment, he starts down the path, humming a quiet tune as he ambles deeper into the greenery. Finally, he pauses to examine a stand of sunflowers, completely missing the woman standing within them.

"Well, aren't you gorgeous?" The sunflower he's speaking to has a head easily a foot across, yellow petals vibrant. He's always had a fondness for them.