001. It's do or die, nobody can save me now

[putorius]

WHO: Draco Malfoy
WHERE: The fountain and immediate area
WHEN: Afternoon of Feb 8
OPEN TO: Anyone and everyone
WARNINGS: Panic, mentions of torture, murder
STATUS: Open

---

The only sound is the battle cry

When the mind wakes to confusion and panic, it grasps at straws to fill the gaps. For a moment, Draco thought he was back in the bathroom. That he'd blacked out and now the place had flooded and he was still dying. He'd imagined the wounds healing, imagined being taken out. Myrtle was in a fit, Harry and wrecked everything, and it was over. In those moments of trashing panic, his mind finally managed to grasp perspective. Some sense of reality. He was drowning, yes, but it was far too deep for a flooded bathroom. He could see the surface, daylight. Not thinking even of magic, he just kicked as hard as he could, reaching for the light, his lungs burning.

Still confused and lost, he burst through the surface, spluttering and coughing. He didn't so much as climb out of the fountain, as tumble. Off balance from the unexpected weight of the backpack, he threw himself over the lip, falling in an ungraceful heap on the ground. Pressing his back to the fountain itself, he tried to catch his breath, shoving a mess of pale, damp hair out of his eyes, dragging in deep, desperate breaths. Nothing looked familiar. No point of reference. Nothing felt right. His mind spun, unable to grasp anything specific.

With each passing moment, with each deep breath, his head seemed to finally settle. The sharpest edges of panic slid away, allowing him at least a little clarity. His hand went right for his wand, where he always kept it, and closed around nothing but air. He patted his pockets, his pants, before finally looking down. Where were his robes? His suit? His uniform? He grabbed a handful of the red material of his shirt, dragging it away from his chest with a surge of disgust and terror. The color, design, material. It was all so unlike anything he'd ever worn that it was alarming enough on its own.

But his wand! He continued is search, hands frantically checking every part of his clothes. Sweeping the ground around him. The he twisted around, hands on the edge of the fountain, as if prepared to dive back in for it. He stopped, taking in just what he'd come out of, and a strange dread dragged at his stomach. From the depth which he'd come, how could that have fit inside a mere fountain? But peering down into it, he could only see the inky darkness of deep water.

Deciding diving back in was best left for an absolutely last resort, he shrugged off his backpack. Even the bag was wrong, nothing like what he would have had at school. It looked like what some of the muggle-born kids brought with them. He didn't have time to worry about that. He opened it and started emptying the contents onto the ground. Finally, he upended the bag and shook it, but nothing more fell out. He swiped his hand around inside, feeling for anything he may have possible missed.

"Where the bloody hell is it?!" He cried out loud, flinging the bag away from him.

Comments

[bit_fairytale]

"I'm guessing it's probably not in the giant pile of crap you're dropping everywhere," Amy says, her hands wrapped around a quickly-cooling mug of tea that she'd taken from the inn because she'd been cold and thirsty and no one had stopped her. Then again, it's not like anyone really every stops Amy without her doing a good impression of a steamroller over their objections.

The tea's getting cold, but people had helped her out when she'd gotten here, so it's probably fair turnaround for her to at least offer some kind of help. "If you're looking for calm dignity, I don't think that's in there either."

[putorius]

As he started cramming the items back in the bag, shaking each of them as if it might yield results, he started to realize how cold it was. Not dead-of-winter cold, but far too cold to be sopping wet outside. It was, however, a periphery concern. He was too insulated by dread and panic to care about something as trivial as hypothermia at the moment.

Hearing the voice nearby, his head snapped up, wadded up overalls half jammed into the bag. His gaze swept over her, eyes narrowed. Perhaps it was a benefit that he was too rattled to make any jabs at her.

"My wand, you stupid git!" he snapped, returning to his search.

[bit_fairytale]

Amy's not exactly unravelled so easily, sipping idly at her mug of tea as she lets the fading steam warm her a little, raising an unimpressed eyebrow at the little twerp, wondering if she's allowed to report people to the general population for being severely rude, but knows she probably shouldn't tempt that considering it could bite her in her own arse, down the line. "I see manners didn't get packed, either," she notes dryly.

Well, at least it's entertaining, she'll say that much. "Pretty sure wand isn't on the controlled list of items we get when we come here," she points out, gesturing to her hunter green scrub pants and standard issue bulky coat, as if they're prime examples of what she's limited to.

[putorius]

Not being folded so well, the overalls weren't exactly willing to fit back into the bag. He punched at it, fitfully, before giving up and let the mess fall to the ground once more. He had this creeping suspicion that there was far more wrong than just his clothes and wand. Something so very wrong it fell just short of making his skin crawl. But he could only focus on so many dilemmas at once.

Looking over his shoulder at her, he felt a pang that was almost jealousy. Why did the woman who looked like some long-lost Weasley cousin get green, and he was given red? That was more than a little backwards. "What in Merlin's beard is that supposed to mean?"

oooh same scrubs color

[kestreldawn]

"There's only clothes in that pack," Jyn replies cautiously. Only through the fountain recently herself, she knows the primal, visceral fear that seems to force its way into the lungs, the gut. She knows the panic, the confusion, the anger. She knows that when she arrived, she'd immediately looked for the blaster on her thigh only to find out that it was missing - that her clothes were different - that everything was gone. She imagines that this man - boy? - is doing something similar.

She'd been on her usual mapping of the town, barely a foot out of the door, when she heard the splashing of water. She hadn't heard an arrival since she'd landed here, and she wondered if that was what she sounded like when she forced herself out of the fountain. It sounded like death and pain, and it was a hard sound to ignore. She wondered if people eventually become numb to it, decide it isn't worth their time. If so, she is far from that point, and so she quickly altered her path and went towards the sound.

"The clothes on your body, and the clothes in the pack. That's all that's there," she says, standing a respectable distance away. She has no real weapon to speak of, aside from the sharpened stick she's clutching in her hand. It's beyond primitive, beyond basic. She wants, more than anything, to feel a blaster in her hand, feel that cold durasteel against her skin - but she knows there's no point in aching for that, not anymore. She knows that, in the event the "spear" fails to perform, she has her hands at backup. Her stance is perhaps a bit defensive than the situation calls for, but she'd rather be on guard than vulnerable.

Red Team Worst Team according to Draco

[putorius]

The wand was far more than a weapon for Draco. It was everything. His strength, his power, his status, his mission. His life. His father's life. His mother's life. He couldn't just lose it. He couldn't exactly write home for any old new one, and it would be until Christmas before he could go to Olivander's to get one on his own. It apparently hadn't quite sunk in yet that he was nowhere near his school, let alone London.

Looking up from trying to shove items back into the bag, his gaze finally settled on her. Someone else in the same hideously colored clothes. Clothes which he was starting to have the sinking suspicion were muggle in origin. The cut and material was all wrong for a wizard.

"How the bloody hell would you know?" He snapped, eyeing her oversized stick. Some wands could look just as roughly hewn, but it was far too large to mistake for a wizard's tool. Unless it was like his father's, but he very much doubted that by the look of the woman.

yeah jyn ain't happy about it either cause DARTH VADER but

[kestreldawn]

"We all arrive the same way into the town," Jyn explains, her tone a little biting - like she's explaining something to a child who won't sit still. She tries to remember to be patient, the experience of her own arrival fresh in her mind. Remember how kind people were to you when you arrived, how scared and frightened you were, she silently scolds herself. She rests the blunt end of the stick on the ground and leans on it slightly, donning a slightly more relaxed stance as though it might help him feel less on edge.

"You come through the fountain with that pack on your back, and the clothes you're wearing. Not sure where everything else magically disappears to," she says, half to herself and half to him. She realizes that his accent sounds similar to hers - she wonders if he's from her galaxy. "I arrived a couple of days ago."

If they start comparing notes on their worlds' big bads, they won't get along at all

[putorius]

"Well good for you," he spat, wondering just what he was supposed to do with that information, not allowing himself to think on it. But even if he refused to acknowledge it, deep down he knew what she was saying. She'd gone through exactly what he'd just done. Arrived meaning this was somewhere decidedly different from where he'd been. Her accent, however, told him that he couldn't be all THAT far off from where he'd started. Could he?

He punched fitfully at the bag, more for something to do than an attempt to actually be productive. "If you're so convinced it's gone, why don't you bugger off then and leave me to find it? Or better yet, give me yours, and we'll solve this immediately!" He'd been magically transported. She seemed knowledgeable about it. Clearly, she must be a witch, even if her clothes said otherwise.

[comfortablyerect]

Tim's adjusting. Sort of. He still has kitchen knives tucked into the waistband of his scrubs, and he hasn't managed to let go of the metal fire poker he picked up on that first night. In his defense, it's only been a little over a week. In his defense, he doesn't have his firearm, and he feels terribly, awfully bare without it.

Still, he does manage to venture out for meals, and manages to hold actual conversations with people without feeling the need to fight then and escape. It's a work in progress, really, like he's back from war all over again.

Only it's more like he's back at war. It's just not a war he's familiar with.

He's heading towards the Inn, intent on getting a warm meal and seeing if anyone has any booze stashed somewhere that they're willing to share. It's entirely possible that that's the worst part of all this. He's going on two weeks without alcohol, and it's really starting to get to him. He's distracted, though, by a commotion at the fountain, and his fingers curl a little tighter around his poker as he moves closer to see what it is.

"Lost your marbles, kid?" His accent is sweet as honey, but his tone is deadpanned as hell. "Reckon you won't find 'em there."

[putorius]

Draco was just finishing getting everything back into the bag, that now bulged awkwardly as he hadn't bothered to refold anything after he shook it out and searched it completely. He was desperately trying to shove clothing in far enough to let the zipper close, but it seemed to resist him out of sheer spite.

Then he heard that voice. He hadn't dealt with many people outside his family's circle. Most of them were like him. High class and British. There were some from other countries, Ireland and Scotland, France, Germany. All nearby, all from their respective upperclass. He hadn't had much dealing with Americans, and certainly not enough to pin down the specifics of that accent. He just knew it grated on his ears, like something lower than a house elf had just stumbled across his path.

"You reckon?" He sneered, peering up at the man. "I'd try to explain it to you, but at the moment I don't have the patience to speak slow enough for you to understand." He just turned back to his back, punching hard at the shirt that was trying to escape.

[comfortablyerect]

Initially, he hadn't planned on sticking around. He was maybe going to see if the kid needed a hand, if he had some questions that maybe Tim could answer, despite not knowing a whole lot about the situation himself. Not for lack of trying, of course — nobody really knows what the fuck is going on here.

But the boy sneers, insults, and Tim decides it's been awhile since he's had a little fun with somebody so clearly high strung. Even in a place like this, he's gotta get his kicks somewhere, and it's not like he has access to reruns of Storage Wars here. So instead of continuing on his way, he perches himself on the edge of the fountain, resting the tip of the iron poker against the ground.

"Might work better if you fold 'em up first," he suggests, watching with a bored sort of interest. "Just a thought."

[powerunleashed]

Jean had her own fair share of panic when she'd come through the fountain two months prior and she had taken to occasionally swinging by it to see if she could figure out a way to go back home through it. So far, she'd been unsuccessful. Since the snow had cleared away, she had more opportunity to actually see the area around the damned thing and she was lost in thought when Draco came up and out of it.

Oh.

She'd never actually seen someone come out of the fountain, she'd always timed it to be there just after (by accident, of course). When he seemed distressed, she knelt down next to him and gave him a look, hoping to be of help.

"What are you looking for? Maybe I can find it?"

[putorius]

Looking up from his frantic search, he looked surprised to see someone there. Bewildered, he looked her over, as if seeking some sign of what she might be. One of his kind or something else. She was there in a place where he'd magically emerged from an impossible fountain and wasn't at all surprised by it. Any muggle he'd ever heard of witnessing magic freaked out. They shouted and pointed and wrote to the newspapers. No muggle could keep quite when seeing magic which was why it was such a hassle when it happened. Wasn't it?

"My wand," he spat, decided that she had to be a witch. "What else would it be?!" With a huff, he returned to his search, shaking out the items each in turn. As if ten inches of sleek, hawthorn wood could be conveniently tucked inside a pair of socks.

[powerunleashed]

"This place takes everything from you when you arrive," Jean said. She had no idea why you would need a wand unless you were a magician or something but she didn't voice that out loud. The guy seemed agitated and considering her own state when she'd come out of the fountain, she could understand it.

"Everything you have disappears and all you have are these stupid scrubs and a change of clothes in the pack. That's it. It makes no sense."

[thesavior]

Emma usually went to the fountain and just sat at least once a day depending on the day, and what was happening in the village. Today, however, she was just sitting on the ground watching the water in the fountain for herself. Water had always calmed her down, considering who she was going to marry it was kind of funny.

What she didn't expect was someone to come out of the water, although given this place, she should have really started to expect it. It would save her some surprise.

"Are you injured?"

[putorius]

While frantically pawing through items that he'd never owned before, he seemed oblivious to her presence at first. Everything depended on his wand. His continued existence, his family's continued existence, depended on it. He couldn't do his job if he didn't have it.

At her voice so close, he snapped up, looking for the source of it, obviously startled. Finally, focusing on her, his face fell into an angry scowl.

"Clearly I'm not!" was all he said before going back to his search.

[thesavior]

Emma held her hands up in retreat, her eyebrow raised slightly. It wouldn't do her or him any good to comment on it,but this kid could seriously pout with the best of them. If you could call it pouting, actually she hadn't seen that look since she was a teenager herself.

"Because it's not out the realm of possibility that you could get hurt trying to haul yourself out of a fountain right?" She asked. "What are you looking for? They don't give you much unfortunately," She admitted quietly.

She was a blunt person, but she didn't want to terrify him on his first day.

[repressings]

More and more of them are arriving, and it only feeds into Credence's nervousness and the anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach. There's a selfish part of him, too--a stupidly obsessed part of him--that hopes that each time he passes the fountain he will see the small, pale hand of Modesty grope her way out, or Chastity's slender fingers cutting through the surface of the water as she, too, is brought here. Tina, or the one that called himself Newt--either of them arriving would be perfect, he thinks, because they'd know what to do.

Not just about the situation--about home, and MACUSA, and they'd even be able to tell whether or not Mr. Graves is who he says he is and not the blonde man with the beady eyes he'd transformed into.

Today, his hands shoved in the pockets of his black peacoat, a warm white and black scarf around his neck but no hat on, his heart leaps from his chest--there, a figure near the fountain. It's not immediately recognizable, but maybe if he gets closer, he--

--he bites down on the inside of his cheek, and he's not sure if it's from disappointment or because he's punishing himself for having the wicked thought that anyone arriving here is a good thing. dwelling on this is blessedly cut short, because of all the reactions to arriving, dumping all of the stuff out and yelling at it isn't one of them in the least.

He wonders if this boy, like the man he'd helped earlier, had been in jail, too.

"Sir?" He keeps his voice polite and soft, and nearly a whisper when he gets close enough. "I'm not quite sure what you mean, but maybe someplace warm would be better to continue your search?"

[putorius]

At first, Draco didn't seem to hear or even notice Credence. He was too busy shaking out clothes and throwing them down. Too busy cramming useless items that were clearly meant for muggles and not wizards back into the back. Too busy huffing and fuming like a spoiled child. Too busy trying to crush down the roaring panic in his gut that something was terribly, awfully wrong beyond merely missing his wand.

Finally, when he did hear Credence, he wheeled around, looking as if a fierce scream were on the verge of bursting out of him. But something about Credence made him stop dead. Perhaps it was the posture, or the look in his face, his clothes, or it could have been any number of things. Either way, rage transformed into the softer form of irritation and confusion.

Shoving his pale, damp hair out of his eyes, he sneered. "Unless you've got Ollivander himself tucked away somewhere I fail to see how that's going to be of any help, you..." His gaze swept over Credence's lanky form. It was like someone had managed to merge Harry and Ron together, stretching him out even further. "...what even are you?" He wasn't quite ready to peg him as a muggle, but he didn't look like a wizard, either.

[repressings]

He has no idea who Ollivander is, though he thinks it might not be a who and more of a what. A strange creature, maybe, from this blond haired man's universe. Like a small gnome or something, or a cat, so he can fit in a backpack.

His daydreams are cut short with that tone of voice. The other's voice is firm, but not in the same way Stella's is--it reminds him of a few of the richer children who live up near Broadway, or those belonging to the wealthy folks of Long Island.

It's not a pleasant tone. In fact, it's one that has him hunch over, just a little more.

"I'm Credence," he says softly, almost afraid that the other will somehow sneer. "You--I mean, what I meant to say is that there's a place where you can dry off, maybe get some food..."

[00nothing]

Alex doesn't wander by the fountain all that often. He's not exactly suited to being any sort of welcoming party, at least, not anymore, and there's something infinitely disturbing about seeing people emerge from the seemingly endless depths of the fountain. Something that takes his breath away, and not in the fun way (which Alex is only aware of because Sabina decided to describe it to him once, and honestly, he's still not entirely sure it isn't a myth anyway).

Getting a lay of the land means going everywhere though, and it's just his luck that one of the times his path brings him past the fountain is the time that Draco comes spluttering out of the water, only to immediately start shouting and making a scene.

He quietly notes the red scrubs on the boy that are an exact match of his own, as well as a voice that clearly marks him as British (not an exact match with Alex's own, but with enough similarity to be almost comforting, if it wasn't for all the yelling). And then he speaks just loud enough for the boy to hear him over his own state of frenzy, voice even and soft despite the necessary increase in volume.

"If you're looking for something from home you aren't going to find it."

[putorius]

Back home, such a soft voice would have been blatantly ignored. Or acknowledged just enough to mock it. It called to mind people like Longbottom or that weird Lovegood girl. People of weak wills or those who thought a good heart would overpower anything. In other words, the sorts of people that Draco couldn't stand. They were dreamy idiots who just got in the way.

His attention snapped to the young man, quickly assessing him. It was the sort of look that was keen at picking out a person's flaws. Weighing their worth against his own. Finding any vital pressure points he could use immediately if he needed an insult. But he was a bit too frantic to use any of it right now.

"Nobody asked you," was all he said before he resumed his search of the bag's empty interior.

[mund]

It's always the same, it seems; everyone comes through the fountain like it's some twisted version of a baptism, brought and reborn into a world that keeps them trapped within a village's confines. Graves personally finds it needlessly dramatic, but he keeps that opinion to himself, favoring observation above pontification.

He's been here just over a month, and there is no discernible pattern for the arrivals, only differing levels of panic and disgruntlement, and each time it's largely the same, aside from the differing shades of what they wear --- and he wonders if someone's stripped and dressed them up in the uniforms, and why they remember none of it. It's a thought that simmers in the back of his mind, pushed behind greater and more pressing concerns.

It's red this time around, on a young man who doesn't look a day older than, what, sixteen? Seventeen? Graves observes the mounting distress and panic from a distance, not inclined to interfere until he senses something familiar from him, an age-old instinct that allows wizards to identify their own kind in a world that's so often hostile to the likes of them. Magic.

But then the boy flings his bag away like it's done him a great personal wrong, and Graves decides to approach, hands in the pockets of his black peacoat. Might as well, before things get worse. Graves understands the disorientation and the anger that comes with it, the frustration and confusion that comes with being so suddenly displaced, unceremoniously dumped in a world you know nothing about. Some people take it surprisingly well, and others end up yelling at nothing in particular.

"You won't find it in there." Whatever it is; he's observed enough of them to know that no one gets to have their own personal belongings with them when they end up here. This is no different. He bends over briefly, picking up the discarded bag, stopping two, three paces from him. It doesn't take long for Graves to size him up -- young, frantic, emotional, just a touch shy of panicked, and he wonders if what he's lost is a matter of life or death (or if teenagers are just that dramatic these days). "What have you lost?"

[putorius]

While Draco was indeed overly dramatic in general, for once it had a solid foundation and legitimate reasons for it. And he was less dramatic now than he had been rolling around on the ground after getting himself scratched by a hippogryff, yelling that it had killed him. Or moaning in the hospital wing after being mildly injured as if he were half a step from death. For all that was on the line for him at the moment, he was surprisingly composed in comparison. A few years and a bit of trauma can put that sort of thing into perspective for a young man.

He didn't seem to notice Graves at first, spreading his own dark coat on the grass to search it fully. He crammed his hands into pockets, searched the lining for holes, being as comprehensive as his faintly trembling hands could manage. "And why exactly should I tell you?" He spat without looking up.

But the brain has a way of putting things into place just a moment too late. Perhaps it was something in the man's voice, something in his bearing, or some other difficult to define aspect that Draco picked up on without being completely aware of it. Whatever it was, he froze the instant the words left his lips. He whipped his head around at the same moment he snapped his left arm against his stomach, instinctively hiding the rather large tattoo. He stared up at the imposing figure of the man, something in his gut screaming this was not someone to be crossed. Whether or not Draco knew how to listen to that with anyone who wasn't his father or another Death Eater remained to be seen, but for the moment he couldn't find his voice.

[mund]

That's strange.

Graves pays little attention to the tattoo he's only glimpsed in passing. An unfortunate design choice, if you ask him, but it means nothing more to him than that. The boy, however, seems to have placed an importance on it that's as perplexing as it is strange, and he looks like he's expecting Graves to rear up and strike him at any instant.

Graves, however, doesn't. The boy reminds him of a feral wild animal in a trap, biting and snapping, but even its most vicious ferocity doesn't mask the fear, the faintest tremble in those hands as they seek an elusive prize. One learns not to add fuel to the flame, but rather -- to control the fire.

He regards him evenly, wondering what it is about the tattoo that is worthy of hiding away. "You don't. But if you want answers, ransacking your belongings will not get you there."