beyondtherift

Gracin Collinsworth is really impressed with how far the Crowbar’s come.

The architecture has always been impressive. The fact, Gracin isn’t sure as to how you could cram so much compromise into one place. Wanderers and weaklings left and right, and normally this isn’t a place he would ever set foot in under any other circumstances, but he is there to make a point. He’s in Chicago to make a point, otherwise he and Sheridan would be far from here, and he would have some other piece of business to attend to, but orders are orders and Gracin always obeys his. Bad things usually tend to happen if he doesn’t.

He knows from the minute he walks in the door that he stands out. He’s well dressed and well mannered—most of the people in here wouldn’t know proper etiquette if it decided to bite them—and his disdain with the place is obvious, but this is a power play, and he isn’t about to back out now. He makes his way to the bar and sits on one of the stools, his fingers making a face at the sticky substance that happens to on the top of the wood finish. He sighs, before looking up at the bartender with a thin smile.

“Dalmore ’62,” he says, before holding up his hand. “Two fingers.”

In a different part of Chicago, lurking in the darkness of Grant Park, Paz Mendoza is cleaning up after another kill. This time around, however, it isn’t a human—Wanderer or otherwise. She was looking for some fresh blood on her hands, but instead she finds some kind of beast that has fallen through the Rift instead. She’s covered in oozing blue blood, and has a corpse to deal with, but this isn’t really anything new for her.

It doesn’t stop her from feeling disgusted with the situation.

Never let it be said that she doesn’t clean up her messes, however. She drags the body out of the public view, pouring gasoline over the corpse. Striking the match, she looks it over for the moment, sneering at this mess that the Rifts leave for them to clean up, before dropping the match onto the pile and letting it burn. The smell will attract someone sooner or later, but that’s not really her problem, is it?

Finally, in a back alley alongside a bar in the grittier area of Chicago, Stefan Salvatore is escorting a pretty blond into one of the darker corners of the alley. It’s unclear if she’s there of her own free will or not, but she seems pretty relaxed with him, so at first there’s no reason to be alarmed. In fact, it looks to be your standard make out session until Stefan sinks his fangs into her neck and drinks her completely dry of blood.

Yes, he’s aware that this isn’t the healthiest way to be dealing with his issues, but he’s having a good time. And he should be allowed to have a good time in Chicago. He has always loved this town.

Once he finishes with his ‘date,’ he lets her body drop to the ground, before turning and making his way out of the alleyway and back onto the street. After a quick check to make sure he isn’t covered in blood and that his face is clean, he slides his hands into his pockets and starts walking. His appetite is sated for now, but give it a little time and that could change. Especially if the right morsel happens to come along.

The Kellis-Amberlee has been spreading through Chicago for a month. Its pace is slower than in its home universe, crippled by the Rift and hampered by the natural immunities of so many here in this city, but it is gaining ground bit by bit, person by person.

And today, just after dark, the first person infected died.

It was a stupid accident - a young woman dressed as an angel had a little too much to drink, and didn't spot the car coming as she crossed the street. She broke her neck, and then got up, and bit the driver who'd gotten out to check on her. She bit two of her friends, and several screaming passersby. Two of those bitten died. One amplified. And that was enough.

The pack of zombies grows as it wanders through the city. The blood, the shambling, the slack, not-quite-there expressions... they're easily overlooked tonight, in the dark, among so many costumes. The live virus is loose in Chicago for the first time, and no one is expecting it. Happy Halloween.

[OOC: Once again, information on Kellis-Amberlee can be found here. Not everyone bitten will be infected, but those susceptible to the virus should exercise caution. And those who are immune can still be mauled to death, so... I guess they should be careful too.]

[OOC: Forward-dated to Halloween. Open like an open thing. Treat this like a party post. Slowtiming and backdating is beautiful. No pressure, just tag around and have fun with it!]

It is almost with tentativeness the people of Chicago celebrate Halloween.

Then they remember the Rift pulls all the stops frequently whether it is the 31st of October or not, and they usually decide, to hell with it. Those that decide not to celebrate the occassion find themselves swept into the evening in some way or another. For instance, the Rift often plays pranks on those that did not dress up willingly, forcing them into ironic or amusing costumes they would not choose for themselves.

Have fun with that, kids.

There are costume parties everywhere anyone can think of. The Crowbar, the Kasthtta Tower, the No Name club--they're all hosting their own events, and will have plenty of entertainment, food, and games for those that choose to grace their doorsteps. The festivities aren't limited to those three places, it should be noted. Party goers will find an interesting time of it anywhere else in the city that is hosting their own event to add to the pub crawling affairs. Maybe you'll find you win the costume contest, or maybe you find yourself somewhere you're not supposed to be.

Not all of it is fun and games, naturally.

Once midnight strikes, the veils between the Otherworlds and the Rifts become increasingly thin once again. Monsters of all shapes and sizes, frightening in their countenance and intent, fall through the Rifts at alarming speed, attacking whoever they find. Creatures once found only in mythology books and horror movies will take shape and become alarmingly real. A carnival appears on the outskirts of town, filled with spooky rides, ghosts and haunted mansions, danger and eery fortune tellings. Characters are confronted with their worst fears, physically or emotionally.

Because of all of this, plenty of people decide the safest course of action is to stay home, eat a lot of candy, and watch the scary movies instead of actually living them out.

There's no telling what can happen on a night like this one, but regardless of what everyone does find this Halloween, it is a night that will surely be remembered.

In the middle of Grant Park, a crow hovers over a stooped figure on a cross. It squawks and flutters off, leaving the man to his peace. For the moment at least.

Badly lashed and bruised, Dan Faraday is barely recognizable. He's stripped down to his underwear; a crown of thorns bites into his head. Nailed to his feet is a sign that simply says, "TRAITOR."

It will stand long enough to make the point. The impact. Eventually, Ivan knows, dropping a cigarette at the dead man's feet and crushing it, the display will be taken down. But the images will stay with everyone.

He turns, disappearing after the crow.

It's a cold, snowy day, though not as cold as it has been, and to anyone who's been in Chicago for most of this winter, the one degree below freezing feels balmy by comparison.

This, thinks the demon who just strode into the Kashtta Tower like he owned the place, is likely the City's way of welcoming him back.

Elashte called from the airport when he got into town, after a truly impressive series of flight delays due to weather. True, this isn't generally how things are done, especially not when one is visiting an old... partner, and especially not when bringing a foreign dignitary to meet said old partner, but it's always been in Elashte's nature to be cautious, and he dislikes telegraphing his activities before he has a sense of his surroundings. He's not naive enough to think that Chicago hasn't changed, in the months he's been gone.

The foreign dignitary in question, a 5'2" woman with a wary, calculating air, has made herself at home by the at-the-moment-empty reception desk, idly flipping through the maps of the building they keep there and glancing at the lobby's access points. It's in her nature to be cautious, as well.

Upstairs, in his office, Jack Harkness is putting the last of a stack of papers he'd rather not be the one dealing with into order, before he piles them into a folio and goes to meet the man who's just arrived. He's got a lot of questions, and Where the hell were you? is only one of many.

As he starts down the hall, he's really not sure if this is a sign of things in Chicago looking up, or things in Chicago heading down.

Then, it's Chicago. There's no reason to assume it isn't both.

They're interruptable, if you'd like to talk to them, and Elashte's expression, at least, is self-assured and even inviting. Jack looks a bit more like he swallowed a live eel. Surprise visits from the local political powers have just rarely ended well for him.

Iris Fortner is in distress. Of course, this isn't unusual, what with the metric fuckton of fail that living with the Fuchizakis drops on her on a near-daily basis. But this isn't that kind of distress, nor is it the kind that comes with snowstorms and blackouts and other strange manifestations of the Rift. No, this is almost entirely mundane; at least, as far as Chicago goes.

See, she's heading to her shift in the Kashtta, and being that this is the Kashtta, she sees absolutely no reason not to have her wings out. Unfortunately, this has caused the Tower's compliment of teleporting kittens-- well, we did say almost entirely mundane-- to peg her as a giant walking cat toy. They're pouncing on her wings, wrrr-wrrring with excitement and biting and clawing at the feathers. A number of them are actively dangling from her, their claws finding great traction in all that fluff. She isn't happy.

"Stop that!" she protests, shaking her wings and brushing frantically with her hands at her many feline attackers. "Get off! You're ruining my feathers!"


Later, she's at a gym somewhere downtown, checking out the equipment and looking disappointed. There are weights for training your biceps and your triceps and even machines for running or cycling, but nothing to help her improve her flight stamina. See, this is the side effect of not having supernatural visibility in Chicago, she thinks. A girl can't even find a place to work out her wings.

And then one of the staff walks by, and she's engaging him in passionate conversation about the need for wing machines. The poor guy, quite obviously, does not have a clue. The girl's clearly crazy. But she sounds terribly sincere.


And later yet, when the night's set in and people's breaths have turned to white ghost-clouds against the chill midwinter air, Iris is dancing. She's dancing to her own imagined tune, out in the woods of Grant Park, holding up a candle as she slowly turns. Her wings are out, paper wraiths among the shadows, shivering with the cold. It's a bad night to be out, but she wants to celebrate. She's whole, at long last. And nothing can take that away.

Even if cats have tried.

December 25th, very, very early morning. Just after midnight. All isn't quiet in Chicago, but then, when is it ever? There's people spilling out of bars and clubs, celebrating the coming of the day with a little too much alcohol and quite enough joy for the entire city. There are couples in Grant Park, taking a stroll to enjoy the freshly-fallen inches of snow or having silly snowball fights or just watching the moon glint off Lake Michigan. There are little kids in bed, fast asleep, and older kids excitedly waiting for sleep to come so they can all get up and open presents that much faster, while their parents are doing last-minute wrapping and stocking-stuffing so 'Santa' will come. All over town, a myriad families are celebrating. And some aren't; for some, it's just another day, albeit a day when most of the city shuts down.

It looks like just another typical Christmas early morning in Chicago.

Then a rift opens up, high in the sky, and out comes not a monster or a plague, but a sleigh pulled by reindeer carrying a rather bewildered, very rotund old man. He peers down at the city below him, then pulls his list out of his coat, checking it over. And then blinks, takes off his spectacles and rubs them on his beard, and looks at the list once more.

The names have definitely changed. He takes a moment, as the city passes under him, to turn around in his sleigh, pulling his bag of presents open a bit. Definitely new presents in there -- and many more than there had been before; the magical sack had been nearly empty, only the present for Mrs. Claus left.

He settles back down, making himself comfortable in his sleigh again and flicking the reins. He has a lot of work ahead of him tonight.

( A lot. Of work.Collapse )


All through the night, Santa delivers the contents of his magical sack to the denizens of Chicago, knowing that they will elicit joy and bittersweet tears and wonderful emotion for all that receive them. Anyone and everyone in the city gets a present. And when he's done, he climbs back into the sky in his sleigh, his ascent taking him across the moon.

"Merry Christmas to all!" he calls out, his voice echoing across the busy buildings of the city. "And to all a good night!"

And with that, there's a flash in the sky, and the Rift snaps him back up, sending him back to his home and Mrs. Claus.


[OOC: I AM SO SORRY THIS IS SO LATE IT TOO KME LIKE FIVE HOURS. There may have been Christmas dinner in the middle of it, though. But anyway!

I know not everyone is in this post, 'cause I wasn't sure what to get for those that didn't comment on the Santapost in the OOC comm, but feel free to tag in your character receiving a present if you have one for them, even if they weren't mentioned! Santa is everywhere in Chicago tonight, so he will be sure to hit up everyone!

Tag in with your characters reacting to their presents, comparing them, basically just have fun. Treat it as a party post! Go wild! Have fun! :D]

Rain is falling everywhere, puddling up on concrete and seeping into the wrinkled clothes of the young man lying unconscious under Cloud Gate.

His long utility coat with its many cargo pockets is thrown wide open, revealing a tear diagonally down the front of his light blue shirt that resembles a Japanese boy's high school uniform except for its colour. Beneath the torn and bloody fringe of that shirt is a wound that's already starting to heal, one that's hardly bad enough to account for his loss of consciousness. His belt, despite its many attachments, tools and bags, holds no ID and only a few unplaceably foreign copper coins, some metallic-looking tarot cards, and bits of unidentifiable plants, rocks, and explosives-- nothing of immediate use. But he clearly hasn't been mugged by any of the Chicago thugs' usual weapons: his wound, moderately severe, is the mark of a large animal's claw. A very large animal's.

Clotted blood from his shoulder and upper chest is starting to break into small globs from the rain and wash into the pale blue, pure silk ribbon tying back his very long blond hair. His face is deathly pale, his eyes closed in cold slumber, and he smells like something's beginning to rot. It's only the waterlogged supplies in his pouches and pockets, but to look at him, you wouldn't be quite sure.

Cold and delicate, Roxis looks like Sleeping Beauty. If Sleeping Beauty were dressed in a boy's clothes, mauled by a tiger and exposing an obviously flat male chest. He probably won't awaken from a kiss, though.

Mio Hongo is in a dark alley somewhere. If you've been looking for her at the Kashtta recently, you wouldn't have been able to find her, because she's only been there for a few hours at night to sleep. Since joining Torchwood, she made the mistaken assumption that being able to spend her  energy working for the Wanderer community meant that she wouldn't have to hurt people using her powers anymore to maintain her sanity.  She stopped tracking the potential targets she'd been setting up, and she stopped talking to rape survivors to learn their experiences and try to help them heal from them. So when about a month or so back when the urges started getting to strong to ignore, she clamped down on them, and started trying to minimize interactions with people she could possibly hurt. For once in her life, she had the opportunity to be a good person, and she didn't want to jeopardize that.

So that's how she ended up in a dark alley in a bad part of town, with a dead body at her feet and a splitting migraine after committing one of the most brutal mindrapes of her life.  After she was done, the bum she had grabbed begged her to kill him, and she had no choice in conscience but to go through with it. A good portion of her previous targets would have nightmares for the rest of their lives, but still retained most of their sanity and were still able to function independently when she was done with them.  This man...not so much.  If he had ever been "all there" to begin with, years of alcohol and hard drug addiction had eaten away at his mental faculties. But what she did to him was ten times, a hundred times worse than that, and in the space of slightly less than an hour rather than over years and decades. Killing him was the only mercy she could have given him. 

Too incapacitated and too much in pain to even type, Mio pulls out her phone and speaks a locked journal entry into it.  She hopes Torchwood can get here quickly, because if someone came by with ill intent before then, she doesn't think she could even focus her eyes long enough to aim her gun at them.

Luka Petrovic is in the hospital.  For the past six weeks, she's been in a medically-induced coma.  She'd been dealing less and less well with Arlin's absence, and having more and more nightmares, until it reached a point in which she thought it would be best if she never slept again.  So she went and bought a bunch of methamphetamine and ecstasy from a local dealer, and then over the course of the next three days proceeded to consume about as much drugs as most hardcore addicts take over a month or more.  It's a wonder she didn't kill herself outright from the overdose.  When she didn't respond to standard treatment at the hospital because of her unique metabolism, the hospital staff figured the only thing they could do is keep her sedated until the drugs worked their way out of her system normally.  Today was the first day her blood chemistry had reached "normal" levels, so the hospital staff allowed her to wake up long enough to see how she was doing.  She sits in her hospital bed, IV in her arm, staring at her journal.

[[Feel free to have characters stumble upon Mio at any point in this process.  Also, nearby psychic types will definitely be able to pick up on Mio's pyschic transmissions although they may not be able to tell exactly what the content is because she is focusing her broadcast on her poor victim.  (Basically, things are leaking out the edges because she's not being super careful about shielding.)]]