multiversallogs | ( open ) liberate your sons and daughters the bush is high but in the hole there's water

It's a strange day. It starts as insane lightning storms in the cool of dawn, still dark, past the hills of Chnum and out into the farmlands. Unseen by most save for those that are always watching, a man stands as lightning strikes him repeatedly -- or from him. He disappears, after a while, riding the lightning up into the foggy grey sky above him.

A dreary day continues charming, before the first rumbles of real weather begin to brew above the city proper. Thunder cracks, felt like a shiver through the air, clouds thick and ugly grey, throwing Brock Marsh into shade, and some surrounding areas. The heavens open to torrential rain so suddenly that people might suddenly be running for dry cover, water striking silver off of the backs of horses, rooftops, collecting deep puddles at any suggestion of an incline on the roads. At least it's just water.

Except it isn't. Under the influence of the rain, which moves through the city vaguely north beneath driving winds, those caught in its wet experience something strange. When they had no powers before, they suddenly have something new -- everything they touch changes colours, for example, or perhaps they can fly when they hum a tune, or they can turn shoes into marshmallow and snails. Other examples might be super strength, turning invisible, telekinesis, but many of them range for the truly odd. In other cases, those with powers already may find them replaced or added to with the above, or their power has been manipulated in some way, or perhaps they are rendered without any power at all. It lasts for anywhere from an hour to a day, before things revert to normal.

The storm itself lasts for a few hours before finally letting up in Dryside. A rainbow shines in the high afternoon sky, before it too disappears.

The frequency with which Thor Odinson falls out the sky is probably concerning. For anyone involved.

By the grace of gods no one is hurt when he lands hard enough that it seems like he was forcibly ejected from above, the sky already cloudy, thunder rumbling. Pavement flies as debris as he tears a trench through the road before stilling, apparently unconscious, but before anyone nearby can be overly concerned, there's the whistling of something else flying through. A blockish object hits the ground roughly beside him, pinwheeling at a bounce away again as it skips down the road like a rock tossed over a lake, before finally landing, embedded; the hammer rests with its handle erect, half-buried in shattered cobblestone.

All is quiet, for a moment, but just as Thor begins to think about opening his eyes, tension pulling expression in his face, the sky opens and rain comes crashing down, thick and fast.

When it rains in Brock Marsh, it may be wise to check that the rain isn't the byproduct of some kind of horrible experiment. Distracted scientists shouting 'quick, get into the chemical bath' are usually unambiguous signs. In this case, Jason can't quite bring himself to go through with this procedure, since rain is not nearly as high on the list of prioritized concerns (and is way too heavy in any case). Not far down the street, there's a guy who just fell out of the fucking sky. He wrecked a good deal of the street in the process, while not appearing to have dislodged any of his own bits. This is a solid individual.

And while this sort of thing does sometimes amount to street theater in Baedal, it only qualifies as such if the guy's not dangerous. Jason joins the first cautious gawkers. It's someone he recognizes as being from his cohort — the shouty guy who claimed to be Thor. And sure enough, that looks like a giant fucking hammer a bit down the road.

No one is going to poke Thor with a stick, seeing as how he looks to be stirring, but the attitude is still there, even as the rain overwhelms the curiosity of many of the people on the scene.

"Kristos," someone to Jason's left mutters, trying in vain to shield themselves with a folded newspaper as they hurry toward shelter. Jason lingers a moment, squinting at Thor warily.

Suddenly, the rain in the vicinity of his head stops falling, which is odd because it hasn't stopped falling anywhere else. Jason reaches up and removes a hat. It is not a hat he recalls owning. It appears to be a Stetson. Seconds after its removal, the rain stops again. Jason makes a grunt of surprise and removes another hat. This one is a fedora, which he flings away in disgust. But then there's another hat, he can feel that much, and he gives up, unaware that he is now the proud owner of a sodden Hello Kitty hat. Whatever, a hat is welcome in this rain, even if some jackass is teleporting them onto his head for whatever godforsaken reason. Back to important matters.

"Hey, you awake?"

What Jason gets in return is a rumbling grunt of protest to-- the concept of being awake, probably. There is little very ordinary about Thor, for all that big white blonde dudes can be inherently unremarkable -- armor, for one thing, of a strange and intricate make encases his torso, dressed entirely in alien alloy and leather, arms bare to the elements save for vambraces etched with rune-like patterns. Squinting awake, he raises an arm to shield his face from the downpour, giving a bear-like snort of protest as he sets about climbing out of the shallow grave he's dug himself. He moves as if sore, or tired, for all that falling from the sky ought signify more damage than it has.

Doesn't quite make it to his feet, lumbering instead to hands and knees, scarlet cloak dragging damply from his shoulders, mud already formed to cling to metal and skin both. He peers up at Jason properly then, burning blue eyes vaguely accusing through wet rat-tail blonde locks. Then regards the street. Then Jason.

"What realm is this?" he asks, his voice full with baritone volume.

Edited 2012-09-19 01:33 (UTC)

If Thor seemed more aggressive or even just more lively, Jason would take a few steps back. He has faced down metahumans before, even ones as seemingly solid as Thor, but that was at home, where they all look and sound uniformly ridiculous. 'Thor' looks and sounds a hell of a lot like you'd imagine Thor would, which could mean just about anything here. That's serious armor. That's a serious weapon, embedded in the street down there. Jason's instincts are entirely against the common courtesy of offering Thor a hand up, but after a moment of strong hesitation, he does so as he answers. (He has to toss the Stetson aside, which is fine by him. Even if he knew he was wearing a Hello Kitty hat, he'd choose that over the Stetson.)

"Baedal." Still, he's guessing, and he doesn't say it. It's probably kind of audible nonetheless.

Yes. Still.

Meanwhile, the Mighty Thor needs no hand up! Except he does, actually, feeling worn down in a way he hasn't since he was cast on Midgard that one time when his life changed, and knows that can only mean one thing. Though he seems grudging about it, Jason will find his wrist clasped in the demigod's grip, strength tested as Thor gets to his feet to rise to his full 6'4" height. For all that his powers have reverted back to that of a mortal man, Thor's worst is still most people's best.

A look cast to the sky is one full of blame, before dropping back to Jason-- distracted by what is on the man's head, a brief squint, but there are all kinds here in Baedal. Including people who wear strange hats. (This, coming from an Asgardian.) The rain continues, unrelenting.

"These little gods do not look kindly upon those who would--"

Wait.

Wait.

Where is his--

"Hammer!" Thor interrupts himself with, upon realising how empty his hands are.

Through an effort of will (and prepared bracing), Jason remains both upright and silent, instead of uttering a very dignified 'hurk'. Regardless of resolve, however, Jason does take a hasty step back when Thor — exclaims, that wasn't really a shout, Jason has heard him shout — about the hammer. It's not about nerve, it's just being pragmatic. Besides, Thor did just say 'little gods' and while Jason isn't entirely sure about how much he believes in the active intervention of various divinities, it seems like a straightforward guess that Thor just tried to leave and they or Vague Forces of Stuff backhanded him right back down. Maybe it'd be best to stand aside.

"Over there." He points, and then pulls off his current hat because it's soaked. What the hell is that. The new hat has a wider brim, which is useful, at least. And hopefully it doesn't have a penis or a swastika on top. (It doesn't.)

Jason is not the only one experiencing a little cosmic weirdness, as a few bystanders who hadn't immediately tried to escape the rain find affect. There's a shriek as a woman somewhere behind them suddenly finds that her ponytail has grown out at an alarming rate and is wrestling her for her umbrella, until she kind of just gives in and crouches slightly as prehensile hair helpfully opens up the tool and holds it above her. Cool. Okay. Across the street, someone else is glowing different colours at will, toying with the ability with the affect of someone who has never previously done this before, neon splashes of colour basking down the slicked street.

Thor ignores all of this, though, turning to look where Jason indicates, although not before affirming, distractedly, "That one is better."

Trudge, trudge. Thor starts for his hammer, but his gait is not a stride -- in fact, there is a certain reluctance, now that he knows where the object has landed. He doesn't even walk all the way over, stopping after a few paces, his primary hand twitching like he'd raise it, before halting the movement as well. Open pensiveness is worn as kicked-dog scowl, chin tucking in. He doesn't really want to try.

The encounter (if that's the right word) between Thor and hammer seems to be awkward and personal, and Jason wonders if he's supposed to not watch. There are a lot of other things to look at, from his growing hat collection to all the people around them. But nobody seems to be in immediate danger, or immediately dangerous. He gives the Hello Kitty hat to a small, miserable child who has stopped talking because tiny frogs fall out of her mouth every time she speaks, which at least seems painless for all parties involved. He keeps his eye on Thor throughout, and once the child has wandered off, hat jammed down low over her eyes, goes back to watching.

Why reluctant? It seems to be more than uncertainty in his strength. (Across the street, the little girl scowls and spits frogs at her brother, who shrieks.)

Jason isn't the only one watching. People taking less of a hands on approach to the situation are also making glances, and Thor is dimly aware of it. Maybe he's being self-conscious! Primarily, however, he is avoiding disappointment.

Hammer located. Good enough for now. Not worried about anyone, you know, stealing it, Thor turns back towards Jason as he takes his CiD from some pocket. It looks thoroughly broken, though he pushes a few buttons anyway in a moment dim optimism, or frustration, take your pick. Nothing happens. With a guttural sound of anger, Thor flings the object away to shatter even more against nearby brick, pieces landing in the quickly forming puddles.

"I will need another," he-- announces. To the street. To Jason? Hi Jason, you're still here, and possibly on the shortlist of perfectly nice people to get wrangled into assisting spacevikings along with such names as Jane Foster and Jae-Hyun Kim.

Having forgotten or discarded what he was saying previously, Thor casts another glance up at the sky, distrustful of the weather, lightning flickering through the clouds with the speed and consistency of a lizard's tongue tasting air.

Jason is on so few people's lists of helpful persons that he actually looks to either side of him, then behind, before concluding Thor was sort of generally those in the vicinity. 'Those' happen to be comprised of him.

"You should ask someone from your cohort, maybe." He is just not sure letting Thor know he's in his cohort is a good decision. After a moment of watching Thor looking up at the sky, Jason takes off his hat and offers it to him. The hat that replaces that one looks like a deerstalker.

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berserkergang - 2012-09-19 23:25 (UTC) - Expand

“It's been doing this.”

The lobby's a shove on your way, drab. Two rain-spattered windows, only one looking out on the street but both offering the same view: gray spilling down.

“You think this is bad, you should see the place when the lights aren't flickering.” Don glances up from his watch. “Jesus,” he says, respect leaking into his voice. He'd been talking, pitching, when it started, a clap of thunder like the sky clearing its throat. Rain drumming the building, the room's mood altered, all of them audience to the cascading water. He's been trying for impatience ever since; it's been out of reach.

Metal shrieks as the door's wrenched open. It flaps in the wind, admitting a couple thousand raindrops and a man still bowed by the weather. He coughs and stamps his feet. His hands are jammed deep in his pockets. Someone snaps at him to shut the door and as he backs away, shrugging helplessly, another sorry piece of human debris blows in. “Shut the door!”

Body caught in a flinch the man frees one hand, shows his palm to the lobby while he fumbles for the door handle. “D-don't--” They spray hissing from his fingers. Blue, pink, washed-out green. Filaments of color leaping for the ceiling, tangling in themselves on the way down. “Please,” he says. It's all over him, webbed and knotted. “Please. I'm sorry. It's harmless?”

Don shoulders past—shakes off the man's grip—and plunges into the rain. The cold's a restorative shock. He's soaked through almost instantly, drenched in the sound of the downpour. He moves hurriedly but with purpose, hat clutched to his head, until he finds an awning and a bench. He sits slumped, head tipped back. It's a minute before he plucks the strand of orange—wild as a scribble, and not the last of them—from his arm.

Irene's shoes send up tiny explosions of water whenever she takes a step, and the wind is apparently jealous of her umbrella. She's got her CiD held to her ear, but the rain steals her words, leaving only fragments of strained sentences audible; "...can't...dear..."

She doesn't look at Don, but she's seen him; he's quietly unmistakable as the only thing on the street not moving. "...then my answer's still--" Her voice doesn't fade out into the rain this time, but is cut short when her umbrella is dragged inside out, looking like a time lapse flower blooming on a television screen. She determinedly doesn't swear, clenching CiD between damp shoulder and powdered cheek as she tries to shake it back into shape, holding it into the wind and letting it reverse its own damage. She holds it up again, for what good it might still do, and moves faster. Her voice is artfully threaded through with the suggestion of things she is forcing herself not to say. It's a tone she's proud of. "I've got to dash. I've got so much on. Tomorrow night? --don't say that. I'm going." And she's gone, to him.

She slips in beside Don, still without looking, removing her CiD from her ear- there's powder smeared across the screen. She lets down her umbrella and lets it rest against the bench, listening to the rain thunder against the awning. And finally she glances across and reaches across, removing a sticky blue string from Don's shoulder and holding it up to where the light would be if the clouds would move.

"What a terrible party you've been to," she remarks, and a drop of water slips from one swirl of her hair down her neck, under her collar and right down her spine, like drops of water always seem to.

On the bench Don rolls the string in his fingers before letting it swoon to the ground, knocks some of the rain from his hat. His shirt's pasted to his back. In a minute even the relief at having something over his head'll start to turn soggy. He closes his eyes. Smooths his hair and submits to the rain's patter.

The wind snatches a shred of conversation, splits the darkness in a flash of blue submerged in green, deep but luminous. Answer. Don blinks as if he has something in his eye, tastes honey beading on his tongue. I've—dash—tomorrow. He's sitting up, sitting forward. The words are chipped. Honey puddles in his mouth, sweet and sluggish. He swallows it down; in the corner of his eye an umbrella collapses to a black streak.

“What a terrible party you've been to,” Irene Adler says. He's running a hand along her voice. It flakes at his touch, peels like an aging coat of paint. Oceanic in color and drier than anything in the next five blocks.

Don's fingertips rub together. He's never looked at her like this; he's never seen her like this.

“There's another kind?” he says haltingly, treading a damp patch of sand. Sawdust, green beans off the vine, and something slight and sour opening like a seam between those flavors. His voice is sickly purple—lavender.

He blinks again, then has the sense to turn his head.

"There's another kind," she promises him in a tone of sincere reassurance, lashes lowering for a moment. She starts to roll the string between her fingers into a faded blue ball before flicking it into the rain with a disdainful sort of flourish, like she's attempting to offend the weather as much as it offends her. Another cold droplet snakes down her neck -- around her neck. She avoids a grimace upon finding a sodden tendril of hair sticking to her skin and tries to one-handedly nurse it back into place. Then there's another, spiralling down from her updo and slithering down her neck, leaving a wet trail; she plucks at her hairstyle with affected absent-mindedness. A pin falls, accidental and entirely inaudible, but Irene feels the slight loss of tension -- the first rumblings of an avalanche. She pulls her hand away swiftly so as to not to bring on total collapse. This, she thinks, is what she needed Kate for. (No, it isn't).

"Did you storm off in disgust?" she asks. He's distracted -- no, he's confused. No, he's damp and miserable. She touches his upper arm with just her fingertips, not to pick off any more of the debris of that assumed terrible party but as a quietly pointed reminder that she's here and that she likes to be looked at. A curl unravels and another pin drops.

Edited 2012-10-11 00:07 (UTC)

Jae paints approximately the saddest picture in the world in the rain. His hair is too elaborate and his clothes are too expensive - you'd think, having lived so long in London, he'd be used to it, but he wasn't expecting rain today and was utterly unprepared. He's just glad that no one he knew was around when it first started, so there are no relevant witnesses to his initial panicked shriek and horrified bolt into a nearby store.

Now he has an umbrella, which is is glumly clutching as he makes his way through Brock Marsh to the train. Of course Martel made him come by on Freak Weather Day.

The thunder continues to grumble, having yet to move on its bulk of grey haziness despite the winds on high kicking in. The wind tunnels created by roads tug and lift at Jae's umbrella as if to mock him, but the next road he comes down is thankfully protected enough that he only has to be concerned for his shoes in gathering puddles and the lash of rain striking off his raised umbrella. An odder sight, though; some shattered cobblestone where at least two heavy things have struck it, carriages forced to navigate it carefully until further notice.

Speaking of obstructions. Competing for contender for the saddest picture in the world in the rain might be Thor, although he will lose for virtue of being relatively apathetic to the weather as it rolls off of him, enough that he doesn't seek shelter in favour of standing guard.

Sitting guard. He is seated on the curb just a few feet from where the other heavy thing that came crashing down is lodged. Lacking a plan, Thor tends to just stop until one presents itself to him, and so here he is. There is little formality about him, arms resting on bent knees, his scarlet cloak now drenched in rain water, which runs similarly off Asgardian alloy, beads on leather. His arms are bare and now slick with water.

Out of place is the hat he was given, which he wears as his only tribute to keeping the rain off his face.

He has his focus set on the hammer lodged into the road, having landed cleanly topside so that its handle reaches for the sky.

Soggy footsteps approach Thor, and then the rain lets up a bit, courtesy of the closeness of Jae's umbrella when he stops beside him.

"You look worse than I do." Hi, dude. Jae thinks it's a little funny how tiny he looks slumped there on the curb even with all the crazy space armor, but he'd never say so. He's more curious - maybe concerned, is Thor his.. friend...? - as to why he looks so miserable.

And also--

"Where'd you get that hat?" And who told you it was a good idea?

The continual thrum of water striking the wide brim of his hat lessens due to cover, second to Thor noticing the presence of another. He drags the object in question off his head as he peers upwards, and he gives the other man an automatic smile of recognition. "I was given this hat," Thor says, "by a stranger. He had many to spare."

Rather than sit and sulk on the wet curb in defiance of company, he gets to his feet, cape dragging wetly after him. He moves somewhat stiffly, slowly, as if sore and weighed down by his own armor.

"Do I look worse," he says, that smile waning, but remaining. "I plummeted from the sky, and thus have leave to. But the weather favours no one."

"Yeah." You do look worse, sorry Thor, but Jae smiles when he says it. The protection of the umbrella remains - Thor is xbox huger but only three inches taller, and so it's not much of a stretch to hold it over both their heads.

"How'd you fall? .. Why are you sitting out here?" His gaze slides over the hammer smashed in the road and.. Oh, that's probably not good, huh.

Thor follows that glance with one of his own, sort of by way of answer even if not everything is apparent in such a subtle exchange. "I attempted to leave this realm by summoning enough cosmic power so as to break through its veil," Thor explains, as if that's just a totally normal thing someone might do on any given day. "I think I was thrown back here, but I do not exactly recall."

And as for why he's sitting here-- he turns the hat in his hands in a fidget, attention now back on the object half buried in the road.

"I don't know," he admits. "I did not wish to leave it, but I cannot wield it either. My powers, they've waned." Which is a big deal, actually, as it was before and is now, but he's already had his tantrum and there is no one to punch. Technically, punching is what got him here.

Wh..

Uh. Okay.

Jae blinks at him a little with that explanation, fluttering slightly. All right, guy. The more it sinks in that Thor is actually a god the more surreal it feels to be speaking to him. Maybe it's because he really stubbornly didn't believe in any, at home - the ones here are much the same, out of sight out of mind.

But uh, it's hard to miss this guy.

"Is it really heavy?" WOW, he thinks, that sounds REALLY DUMB out loud. Jae winces.

Thor laughs -- it's mild, a baritone chuckle pulled deep from in his chest, and he tips his head as if to say something like that.

"On the best of days, it is heavy. On the worst, it is more than that. You may try it, if you wish." Which is a funnier game when Thor himself can actually lift the thing, but it's an instinctive offer. Meanwhile, some recent memory is slowly keeling over into an idea -- in contrast to the snake-like agility with which plans and notions occur to his brother, it's a more ponderous, slow-moving thing in Thor's mind.

He glances back towards where he'd pitched his already broken CiD.

Edited 2012-09-23 09:39 (UTC)

"I don't know, if you can't pick it up I'm pretty sure I'd sooner do one of those cartoon flips over it," he says. "I don't know if you've noticed but you're kind of The Rock compared to me, waned powers or not."

Jae peers across at the hammer again. If he was a bird, his feathers would have all puffed up in slight distress. He's not sure how he feels about even touching a god's weapon, but he's kind of curious at the same time.

"That is probably so. But I know better than to speak so quickly, and you are obviously more than just your shape."

Wh--

Whatever that means. Thor says it as effortless as he does words of cosmic power and attempted breakouts that scratched the surface enough to invoke divine intervention, but not to create a rain of monsters. Just water, and strange abilities.

Thor rakes rat-tail wet locks of blonde off his face, breezing by with; "Do you know where I may obtain another speaking tablet?"

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boomvox - 2012-09-24 20:03 (UTC) - Expand

( open ) liberate your sons and daughters the bush is high but in the hole there's water

god rain (brock marsh, dryside, etc)

(brock marsh)

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[canker wedge]

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