multiversallogs | the lights are going out all over television

Entry tags:

the lights are going out all over television

Who: Dorothy Gale, Cap'n Jack Harkness, a certain grumpybutt Coordinator of the CIA
What: Adventures with Creepy Monster Attacks!
Where: Near Queequeg's in Mog Hill
When: After the ~creatures~ begin popping up to creep on people.
Notes: Probably gonna be slow tags all 'round, so no stressing. :3
Warnings: Violence! Language! Angry Time Lords! Barking dogs! Spilled coffee!

Househunting is a new adventure for Dorothy. When you've lived in the same farmhouse for the largest portion of your life the way she has (and in a magical city full of sorceresses and talking animals the rest of the time), needing a new place to live never really enters into the situation. But when transplanted into a new place, it becomes a necessity.

So Dorothy's taken to wandering around various places in the city, looking for places for rent, trying to find somewhere in her price range that allows dogs and has plumbing that doesn't turn the water brown and smelly. It is more difficult than she had anticipated. Still, she's learned a lot about the city itself, like there's a pretty nice coffeehouse that makes quite frankly some of the best damn coffee she's ever had in her life, and that's saying something. And that there seems to be a biblical plague level of black birds swarming all over it.

Disturbing as that is, it doesn't seem to be a problem. There's a lot of them, sure, but all they do is stare! It's not like they're attacking! ...Yet! Even by Queequeg's, they gather in huge numbers, peering down from rooftops and gables, watching as she leaves sipping her coffee and unties Rex's leash from the bike rack outside. She can feel their eyes on her, and she'd shudder, if she didn't think they'd see that too. For some reason, she thinks it'd be a good idea if they didn't know how she feels about them.

But it's alright. She's got her dog, she's got her (frankly spectacular) coffee, and now she's back to looking for a place to call her own. What could possibly go wrong?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

There are times in Narvin's life where he occasionally begins to seriously consider the direction it is going, and he would say that this is most definitely be one of them as one of the birds swoops in with talons out and swiftly cuts three lines in his cheek and not his eyes after he manages to move his head just in time. A burst of nonsensical (to anyone who isn't Gallifreyan, so a majority of people, then) expletives comes out when another bird dives for his face, this time catching his forehead as a last resort when the armful of cloth that is the sleeve of his robes manages to protect his eyes once more.

The hollow sound of a stazer blast catches that one in the back, but the flurry of birds prevents him from seeing if it killed the thing at all.

A small explosion happens nearby and the timbre of it speeds through Narvin's mind, picking up the relevant details on the way. Projectile weapon, probably a revolver, certainly not a handgun, from Earth. The noise seems to surprise the birds and they disperse a little, just enough for Narvin to catch a glimpse of the person firing it before he has to duck his head when they redouble they attack, agitated, probably trying to get the kill in before things got too difficult for them.

"Yes, thank you!" Narvin's voice pitches furiously, trying to shake off as much of the sudden increase in clawing and the pecking as he can.

Well, he thinks. He knew he was going to die (even if he could regenerate, he wasn't sure there'd be enough of him left to do that), but going by way of birds was something he hadn't seen coming.

Dorothy literally skids to a stop-- not at the sight of the poor man being pecked to bits by the Wrong Birds, but at the sound of the gunshot. It actually takes a moment for her to realized that it wasn't fired at her, and that it was actually the nice man from the coffee shop, who had apparently followed her. While there is a time and a place for disapproving of guns, her kneejerk reaction is to shoot him a dirty look. So she does.

And then she gets to work. The victim is trying his best to fend off the birds' attacks, but his laser gun doesn't seem to be doing much damage. Maybe a different approach? She shifts a little, turning nearly sideways to the man being attacked, and makes a circular motion with her hands, almost like winding up for a baseball pitch. There's a flash, and in her hands appears what looks like a little ball of sparking lightning. A little more wind-up, and she lets it fly, straight into the midst of the flock, and there's a loud fizzing pop as about half of the birds suddenly implode.

...At least, that's what Dorothy THINKS happened. The huge black birds that were there simply weren't anymore, and she wasn't questioning it. She WAS, however, going to run over to the victim and see if she can do more from up close. That, and trust that the guy from the coffee shop was a good enough shot to pick off the birds and not hit either of the two of them on accident.

Alright, well. Damn. So much for that idea. It seemed to work for a split second before the birds are descending on the man again and then the girl is throwing herself into the mix and Jack can't help but swear under his breath a little at all of it.

And then the girl, what, fires lightning balls at the birds, and the birds seem to just dematerialize as they're hit. Okay, now that's a little odd, but he has absolutely no idea what the lightning balls are supposed to do, and that could be entirely normal. But when he fires his gun at another bird and it vanishes much like the other ones did, he starts to think that maybe something else is at play there.

Adjusting his stance, Jack starts firing off rounds at the largest concentrations of the birds that he can find that will still miss from hitting the other two people. He's a great shot--military training and all that, but he doesn't want to take too many chances, in case one of them does something a little more unpredictable.

Normally when fighting desperately for his life against a teeming flock of not quite birds, the ex-Coordinator, probably ex-Chancellor now, didn't take much time to ponder the whys and the hows, so he doesn't ponder the whys and hows of a crackling pop that fizzles the air and a cloud of black that isn't quite so dense any more. He quickly run a hand down his face and bleeds profusely into it in the small moment of peace, already feeling the ghostings of what he is certain will be an impressive headache tomorrow after having his head pecked apart by birds. The not exactly birds.

It is such an absurd thing to happen to him (and he has experienced many absurd things, not in the least of which was the election of Romana in the first place) that he feels the need to repeat it in his head some. It is, in many ways, a ridiculously difficult concept to grasp. He has nearly just been murdered by birds. Or whatever the bloody hell they are. For the sake of simplicity, he was referring to them as birds. And for the sake of not wanting to think about it, he wasn't referring them as his would-be killers. Tales of espionage, wars, and assassinations he all has plenty of and had survived many, but not birds.

Birds.

In the end, it isn't terribly difficult concept when boiling it down to the essentials of 'sharp things hurt' as one chatters a shade bitterly by his head, ripping petulantly into his shoulder in a graceful, if childish, glide before flying off again.

The cloud of black has finally dispersed some, probably wary of a repeat performance of... whatever it is that has happened, but they still hover, unwilling to admit defeat, swooping in intermittently between titters and cackles, liking reaching for a passing hors d'oeuvre during a mingle. Unappreciative of that mental image, he shoots down the next one that tries - or at least he thinks he has. They leave no body to fall, and a small team takes the distraction of his momentary bemusement to swipe at his head from behind, expelling another burst of incoherent (but universally understandable) expletives.

"I... thank you," he tells the girl who'd run to him a few moments ago, when he's done cursing, having quickly figured out that this moment of relief has probably been due to her. He says it with uncertainty, as though he's not entirely used to those two words coming out sincerely, but acknowledging, all the same, that she had saved his (now several minutes longer than it could have been) life.

"And thank you," he spits acrimoniously at the man holding the revolver. This comes out a great deal more easily, nicely lubricated with large amounts of irascible sarcasm.

And then, realising that those two words have been the only thing he has properly said for a little too long, he asks, "How did-... What exactly did you do?"

As Jack (and the victim himself, actually) takes care of dispersing the remaining birds, Dorothy's dog starts barking from a little alcove at the side of a building. She decides Rex has a point-- getting at least a bit sheltered from the birds is a smart idea; that way the birds won't be able to attack as easily, and they can be hit more easily by herself and the guy with the pistol. Helping him to his feet, Dorothy half-drags the bleeding man underneath the awning where her dog sits. He's bleeding pretty badly from the face and probably requires at least a bit of medical attention, but given the way he's cursing, it's probably not anything lethal.

Unless the birds are poisonous, which at this point, Dorothy isn't putting past them.

She smiles when he thanks her for her help, because at least it seems despite his cursing he has some manners... and then he has to go and be all rude to the nice man with the gun from the coffee shop. He only came to help, after all, and as much as she disapproved of guns, the man was a damn good shot.

"My job," she answers, matter-of-factly. It looks like that's just about all he's going to get on that score. Standing, she calls to the man with the gun. "They're leaving," she shouts, and they are. Seems as though one or two get hit, and three or five disappear alongside it. "Get the big groups, I'll take care of the rest!"

Jack stands his ground as the girl took the lead in dragging the man under the awning with the dog, getting him out of the open. It seems that the birds are dispersing, but without the man there in the open to attack anymore, Jack doesn't want to take any more chances in case the birds start to turn on him and his fellow rescuer. He can't exactly hear what the man is telling her, but the look that he gets is enough to make him roll his eyes. Christ, he knows that look. He's saving the man from getting mauled by birds. Beggars can't be choosers. Get over yourself, the look that he sends back seems to say, before he fires at another group of birds.

The girl seems to have the right idea in that they're leaving, and that they shouldn't let up now lest more come to the stragglers' aid. So Jack nods and does what she says, firing his gun at the groups of birds while she picks off the stragglers, until most of them are gone. Good thing too, since he's used up all the rounds in his gun.

Beggars can't be choosers, perhaps, but in this case Narvin would have preferred nothing over having a bunch of dirt kicked in his face, which was about as much help as he'd been. Narvin hasn't mastered facial expressions to communicate such a message over a distance, and so hopes that frustrated glare (of which he is quite skilled) back will suffice as he helps them in what limited way he can, unwilling to step out into the open again, but shooting anything he sees that falls in the categories black, with wings, and flying straight at him, the girl, or whoever the other person was.

Finally -finally- the last of them disappear, and Narvin resists the urge to sit down hard with a sigh and put his head to his knees, take a moment to gather his senses and all the rest of it, but ever the unreasonable professional, he remains on his feet and examines his stazer as running low on energy. His mind already begins to run the possibilities and methods of recharging it, and the rest...

"Look, as grateful as I am, if those birds come back, I would like to be able to stand here and at the very least know what I could do to stop them from trying to pick the marrow out of my bones while they're still inside me."

The birds finally disappear, and Dorothy drops down to one knee next to her dog, giving him a thorough petting. Part of it is gratitude that he was smart enough to find some shelter on his own and direct his people to it (she always was a good judge of a great dog), and part of it is just trying to come down from the adrenaline high in the least embarrassing way possible.

"Are you a witch?" It's an honest question. "By the looks of you, I'd say no. If that's the case; probably not what I did."

Dorothy hadn't wanted anyone in this city to know what she was or what she was capable of; at least not right away. Showing her hand this early was never a part of her plan, but then again, neither was a terrifying monster invasion. At this point all she could do was hope these two were halfway trustworthy, and pray they could keep secrets.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

the lights are going out all over television

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject