Dominick "Sonny" Carisi, Jr. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ottimismo) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixthiterationlogs2016-12-15 05:12 pm
ottimismo) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2016-12-15 05:12 pm
001 ✝ there's an angel with a hand on my head
WHO: Sonny Carisi
WHERE: The fountain and the inn
WHEN: 12/14
OPEN TO: Everyone
WARNINGS: Nooothing? Will update as needed.
STATUS: Open
THE FOUNTAIN
At first, Sonny thinks he's dreaming.
There was a place their parents would take him and his sisters on vacation when they were little. As he got older, he learned that they were really just visiting his mother's family in Jersey, which really isn't much of a vacation at all when you live in New York. But they always got to swim in their auntie's pool while they were there, and Sonny would swim until his fingers were wrinkly and his eyes were red from the chlorine and his mother had to tell him three separate times that it was time for dinner.
He and his sisters got older. They did more sunbathing than swimming, and Sonny found he enjoyed helping his mom and aunt around the kitchen more than taking a dip in the pool.
Still, this reminds him of that, at first. The water's around him, warm to the touch, and it takes him a moment to realize he's not, in fact, dreaming, but that the burning in his lungs is real. He's drowning.
It's all instinct after that. The water presses around him, pushing him upwards, and Sonny kicks his feet, straining towards the lighter part of the water. He doesn't think about how he got in the water, or what body of water he could possibly be in. He only thinks about getting out, about breathing, about breaking the surface. And when he manages that, it's with a dramatic gasp of air, his lungs expanding painfully as he pulls in a much needed breath. One hand gropes blindly until he finds stone, gripping the edge of the fountain.
A fountain. He's in a fountain. He blinks water out of his eyes, pushing his sopping hair back with one hand. It occurs to him quite suddenly that the water wasn't warm, but that he was numb. It's sleeting, and it stabs at his exposed arms painfully. He's aware that there's a backpack strapped to his back, but more important, where the hell is he?
"Hello?" he calls out, and he can't even be bothered by how silly it feels.
THE INN
Eventually, he gets some answers, though not very many. And in the process of that, he manages his way to the inn, where he changes into dry clothes that are apparently his and sits down beside the fire to warm up. His hair's an unkempt mess and his bones still feel cold, his eyes tired. He's hungry, too. But he's too busy thinking for anything like food or sleep.
He tugs his backpack into his lap, digging through it a second time to review what's inside. Like maybe it'll hold more answers than it did before. This is what he does, though. Review, and review again, and again, until something looks different, until you notice something new.
After all, he is a cop.
WHERE: The fountain and the inn
WHEN: 12/14
OPEN TO: Everyone
WARNINGS: Nooothing? Will update as needed.
STATUS: Open
THE FOUNTAIN
At first, Sonny thinks he's dreaming.
There was a place their parents would take him and his sisters on vacation when they were little. As he got older, he learned that they were really just visiting his mother's family in Jersey, which really isn't much of a vacation at all when you live in New York. But they always got to swim in their auntie's pool while they were there, and Sonny would swim until his fingers were wrinkly and his eyes were red from the chlorine and his mother had to tell him three separate times that it was time for dinner.
He and his sisters got older. They did more sunbathing than swimming, and Sonny found he enjoyed helping his mom and aunt around the kitchen more than taking a dip in the pool.
Still, this reminds him of that, at first. The water's around him, warm to the touch, and it takes him a moment to realize he's not, in fact, dreaming, but that the burning in his lungs is real. He's drowning.
It's all instinct after that. The water presses around him, pushing him upwards, and Sonny kicks his feet, straining towards the lighter part of the water. He doesn't think about how he got in the water, or what body of water he could possibly be in. He only thinks about getting out, about breathing, about breaking the surface. And when he manages that, it's with a dramatic gasp of air, his lungs expanding painfully as he pulls in a much needed breath. One hand gropes blindly until he finds stone, gripping the edge of the fountain.
A fountain. He's in a fountain. He blinks water out of his eyes, pushing his sopping hair back with one hand. It occurs to him quite suddenly that the water wasn't warm, but that he was numb. It's sleeting, and it stabs at his exposed arms painfully. He's aware that there's a backpack strapped to his back, but more important, where the hell is he?
"Hello?" he calls out, and he can't even be bothered by how silly it feels.
THE INN
Eventually, he gets some answers, though not very many. And in the process of that, he manages his way to the inn, where he changes into dry clothes that are apparently his and sits down beside the fire to warm up. His hair's an unkempt mess and his bones still feel cold, his eyes tired. He's hungry, too. But he's too busy thinking for anything like food or sleep.
He tugs his backpack into his lap, digging through it a second time to review what's inside. Like maybe it'll hold more answers than it did before. This is what he does, though. Review, and review again, and again, until something looks different, until you notice something new.
After all, he is a cop.
no subject
"Stella Gibson." She pauses, considering, then decides to sit down in the chair she'd stopped next to. "About a month, give or take a few days."
Saying that out loud, making it real, unsettles her, though she's trying not to show it. A lot can happen in a month. She catches herself worrying about her investigation back in Belfast, about whether Spector is alive or dead, about who is going to prosecute him now that she's not there. The most frustrating thing is not being able to do a damned thing about it; the loss of control rankles, to say the very least.
"It takes some getting used to," is what she says, finally.
no subject
But for now, he's just making friends with Stella. Whether she likes it or not.
"I can imagine." He extends his fingers towards the fire, letting the flickering heat wash over him. He can't remember there ever being a time that he warmed himself by the fireside — his house had a fireplace they never used growing up, because his mom didn't like messing with it. So they boarded it up, used central heating, and got an electric fireplace for the ambient lighting.
He's sort of sad about it now. Sitting by the fireside is nice.
"You know, I thought the move from Staten Island to Manhattan was bad? Went from the suburbs to a tiny fourteenth floor apartment. Now I sort of miss my tiny apartment."
no subject
That, specifically, isn't relevant here, though it's something she's still coming to terms with.
"Mm. You'll miss a lot of things. We're expected to survive on our own here, with limited resources. Our captors are quite fickle."
There's something of an edge on the word captors, a bit of anger she's keeping in check through sheer practice. Stella is entirely too conscious of the fact that the village and its surroundings are just one big cage.
no subject
But that's not what he focuses on. Stella says captors, and it's a word Sonny thinks he hears at least once a week, if not more. Normally, it doesn't directly involve him. But this time it does. This time, he's one of the victims.
"Captors," he echoes, and his brow creases. "Like we've been kidnapped. There's, what, a few dozen of us here? There's no way three dozen people mysteriously go missing and the world doesn't notice, right?"
But he hadn't heard anything about this on the news. There hadn't been any reports of mass kidnappings. But there has to be people looking for them.
no subject
Her tone goes a little flat on that last sentence, remembering the feast and how it had just been a distraction so none of them would notice a woman being murdered outside in the cold. There's a pause while Stella takes a sip of her tea, then, "This will sound like an odd question, but what year was it for you before you got here?"
no subject
Except he's never been that good separating himself from the case. Especially when he's this tightly involved in it.
"Twenty-sixteen," he answers, shrugging a shoulder. "The beginning of November. Why?"
no subject
It's information Stella legitimately doesn't know what to do with. She doesn't want to suggest that they're all caught up in some sort of mass delusion, nor — despite what she has been told by others since she's been here — does she really want to believe that someone's altering their memories or perceptions. The idea that they're all from some sort of alternate timelines occurred to her once, briefly, but was immediately dismissed as nonsense, pure science fiction at best.
On the other hand, she has no other, more logical explanation for what's going on here. As a woman specifically predisposed to tangible evidence and verifiable facts, it's profoundly unsettling.
"As I've said, it's not exactly straightforward."
no subject
He's not sure what else to say. That doesn't make sense. Riza had told him about a lot of the weird stuff that goes on around here, given him the rundown of the situation. But he'd assumed they had all been brought here (wherever here is) all within some months of each other. But Stella's been here for a month and came from the year 2012, and somebody's from 1947--
It doesn't make sense. Sonny's a cop, he has a law degree — while he's mainly fueled by emotion, he's more than capable of thinking logically. But there's nothing logical about this.
"That doesn't make any sense." It's stating the obvious, of course. But this is frustrating. "How is any of this possible?"
no subject
"I've no problem with theorizing, but it's difficult to know where to begin." And no — she doesn't consider supernatural alternatives a viable starting point. "I think it's clear this isn't a dream or a hallucination."
Things function as they realistically should; she's found herself able to keep track of time normally. All of this is real, or so close to reality that she can't tell the difference.
"Aside from that, all we've got is a series of guesses."
no subject
Some sort of cork board would be nice. Something to lay it all out on.
"And what's your guess?" He asks, leaning forward and propping his elbows on his knees. "If you had to make a guess, what would be your theory?"
Bouncing ideas back and forth will probably help. He doubts it's nothing they haven't done before, but there's something to be said for a fresh pair of eyes.
no subject
"That this is an experiment, of some sort," she says. "We're being kept here to see how well we manage to survive, if we can cooperate or if we turn on each other. Perhaps to see what happens when we're separated, isolated from familiar places and people." Her brow creases in a slight frown. "I'm not certain how to account for the differences in how we recall time. Other people have said they believe their memories have been altered, but obviously that can't be proven."
Drugs, perhaps, or hypnotic suggestion — legitimate things that might be responsible for lost time or lost memory. The prospect is profoundly uncomfortable for Stella, which might be evident in the way she sets her tea down and crosses her arms, less nervous than sheerly perturbed.
no subject
But cops tend to be pretty good at that, too.
"I think that makes the most sense," Sonny agrees, nodding. "I mean, there's variables we can't really account for and some things that still don't add up. There's lots of drugs that could account for memory loss or gaps in time. But that's my best guess, too."
He runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. "I still don't understand how something so big could go unnoticed, though."
no subject
Still, even as she says it, Stella knows something's not right. That's an awful lot of missing persons reports, and some of the people here — herself included — work in occupations where a disappearance would be noticed immediately.
She tries not to think about the panic that must be Operation Musicman right now, with its Senior Investigating Officer suddenly vanished into what must look like thin air. Someone would have taken over for her, she knows, but she still feels as if she's abandoned her post even though she rationally knows it's not her fault.
Stella looks over at Sonny, just weighing him for a second, and then a very, very slight smile crosses her expression. "You wouldn't happen to be a cop, would you?"
It's a guess, but there's something about his demeanor — it probably shows in hers, too.
no subject
Still, it's a long shot. The victimology is so far across the board, there's no pattern, they're all from different places. Not even going through ViCAP would be useful in a situation like this. That thing is enough of a rabbit hole as it is.
He glances up from where he'd be frowning into the fire, her question makign him smile back in response. She's sharp — he'd be surprised if she wasn't one, too.
"You too, huh?" He leans back in his seat, his smile morphing into a slight grin. "Detective Sonny Carisi, Manhattan SVU."
no subject
Stella isn't yet sure how she feels about Sonny personally, but it's strangely reassuring to encounter someone here who shares her profession, who might have been a colleague in other circumstances. She finds there's a specific perspective to being a police officer that isn't easily understood by other people who don't do the work. That's insular, perhaps, but it's also true.
"I'm afraid we're rather short on investigative tools," she says. "It's not simple to try to keep track of what's going on here when we've hardly any paper or writing instruments."
no subject
(That isn't to say that he's not aware that dirty cops exist. He's very aware of that fact. But generally speaking, he tends to give everyone the benefit of the doubt.)
"I never thought I was taking my pocket notebook for granted, but I guess I was," he says, and it's with a little chuckle, even if their lack of supplies isn't exactly funny. "Looks like we're gonna have to start thinking outside the box."