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

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

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.

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"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."

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.

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.

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?"

"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.

Edited 2017-02-09 18:50 (UTC)

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."

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.

"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."

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.

"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.

Jyn exhales a very slow, patient breath of air. She listens, watches while he starts the very long, very tedious process of trying to wrap his head around all that's happened. She doesn't expect anything from him; she's merely giving him the information she found to be the most helpful when she'd first arrived. He could do whatever he wanted with it after he received it. If he was bothering to listen in the first place.

"Convinced what's gone?" she asks, a brow quirking slightly. She gestures with the spear. "This? I can show you how to make it, if you'd like." Of course, giving him a weapon while he's in such a fragile state was a bad idea, but Jyn didn't need to let him know that she was aware of this. "There are branches and rocks all around to use. Though I imagine you want some food, a fire, something to drink first?"

Edited 2017-02-09 23:57 (UTC)

Lifting his head from his futile task, he spared a moment to look at her as if she were a slug that had crawled into his back. What kind of witch was she? FIND fire? Just make a fire, conjure raw flames that didn't require fuel. Simple. Call a house elf for food. Or summon it from where ever it was stored. He didn't even want to think why she'd want branches or rocks.

"Why the bloody hell would I want your walking stick?! Your wand! Stop being thick and hand it over." He held his hand out to her, palm up. She had to know what he was talking about. She just had to. He didn't want to consider that he was sitting there yelling at a muggle while he knelt, sopping wet, on the grass.

Amy tips her head to the side, asking if he really hasn't picked up on it yet, but maybe he's all fussed about his missing wand? Which sounds a bit like he's sort of really obsessed with his prick, but that's a judgment she tries not to make so quickly. "Look," she offers, relenting on her tone just a little, "you didn't come with anything else you were wearing, right? You've just got that stuff. It's all gone," she says.

"Clothes and wand," she says, hoping that he hadn't been talking about his prick or any other substitute sex toy. "We all get the same clothes, sort of like prison."

At the word prison, he cast a glance around the park. It could have been in the middle of any village he knew. The buildings he could see reminded him a bit of Hogsmead, not at all like the areas where wizards and muggles mingled, with their cheap looking houses and being all modern and weird.

"A prison?" He scoffed. "If this is a prison, then where's the dementors?" As if the Dark Lord he served didn't already command them, taking them out of the Ministry's control. "Where's my trial? Fully looking prison if you ask me!" He gestured to the expanse of the park and trees.

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."

Jyn meets his disgusted look with a defiant one of her own. She knows that look, and she knows it well. It bothered her, once. A long while ago. But she'd since learnt to absorb it, use it against the other person. Vehemently defy whatever thoughts or judgments they had about her in that moment. This is no different.

"Wand?" Jyn asks, the confusion fairly evident on her face. She has no idea what he's talking about; what wand? Her eyes drift down his outstretched palm, then slowly lift to his face again. She offers a look of slight sympathy, knowing a little of what he must be feeling - the need for something familiar, something to clutch onto lest it all fall away into insanity. "I'm going to assume a wand is some kind weapon. They aren't allowed here, I guess. I lost my blaster when I'd arrived, too."

Amy has to remember that she's been called crazy more times than she can count and she shouldn't jump to conclusions about other people so quickly, but this kid is definitely making it hard. She waves a hand absently. "Not an actual literal prison, more of the part where you don't get to leave and we all get limited clothes and you can't get back to your life," she clarifies, rolling her eyes.

"Go on," she dares, narrowing her eyes at him. "Try and get out. If you manage, you'll be the miracle no one's managed to achieve."

Having just thrust his hand inside the bag to pull out a few items to readjust them, and perhaps even re-fold them, Draco looked up at Tim with a seething glare. He felt his stomach clench in fury and disgust. Well, he told himself it was that, because he didn't want to think it could possibly be the frigid grasp of fear looking at this man.

The feeling was sparked from the realization that there was no way Tim could be a wizard. His bearing, his accent, his clothes, even the iron poker. It screamed "muggle" as much as Dumbledore's appearance screamed "wizard." Draco had almost no experience with muggles that encompassed the amount of time it took to pass through King's Cross station to get to his usual platform for school. Everything his parents had taught him echoed in his head. Everything Lord Voldemort said on the matter of muggles seared through him.

Alone and wandless, what could Draco even do? This was the enemy, was it not? The reason witches and wizards had to hide, had to keep themselves secret. That glare slid more toward gut-wrenching fear as he stared at Tim, trying to figure out what to do.

"I didn't ask for your help, did I!" He barked, pulling his hand out of the bag. Zipper be damned. He wasn't going to stay here on the ground in front of a muggle. He got to his feet, slinging the half open bag on his shoulder. He should just leave it behind, but it was the only thing he had.

Fear. Absolute, gut-wrenching, logic-devouring fear started to creep up from the pit of his stomach. Like some nasty beast made of ice and shadow, consuming him from the middle upwards. There was only one sort of person in his world that wouldn't at least know what a wand was. A muggle.

Muggles were the enemy. Less than human. Worse even than squibs and mudbloods. No magical ability what so ever, yet forcing wizard kind into hiding with their awful beliefs. And he'd nearly outed himself to one. He'd been talking to one. It horrified him. He was just lucky she was too dense to put it together.

Yanking his hand away and holding it closed a his chest, he glared at her.

"It's nothing," he snapped. He quickly turned back to his back and started hastily shoving the remaining items back into it, not saying another word.

A thought occurred to him as she spoke. The very reason his father had so willingly gone to prison was as a means of protecting himself after failing their Dark Lord. He was safer being locked away, even from his family, than walking free. He could be punished by wizard law and even the dementors were less terrifying than Voldemort's wrath. If it were true, if he couldn't return, he would be safe. Safer perhaps even than if he went to Azkaban.

But his father. His mother. They were counting on him.

"Clearly," he snapped. "No one here has been intelligent enough to come up with a plan." If the likes of Sirius Black could escape an inescapable prison, a feat yet still unexplained to him, then nothing was truly inescapable.

The contortion of his face is one that Jyn doesn't think she's quite seen before. Perhaps on Krennic, once, in one of his outbursts when he tried to convince her father to lend his genius to a "special project," and her father rejected the offer. It's one of anger, of disgust, of uncertainty based in fear. And, similarly to Krennic, this boy acts in a similar fashion - he recoils, blockades and protects himself behind a wall no one can see, but both can feel.

"The inn over there," she points in its direction, "They serve food, have a kitchen. It isn't too late in the day for you to get something there, if you're hungry." It's a vaguely worded open invitation, from her to him. After the initial panic and hysteria wore off when she arrived, she'd realized that the biggest thing she felt, in terms of physical symptoms, was hunger. Sharp, stabbing pains squarely set in her torso. And it was only thanks to the kindness of Kira that she'd gotten some food in her shortly thereafter.

She's headed back to the inn, despite having just left there only a little while earlier, before she heard the splashing of the fountain. It's a silent way of saying, 'I'm headed there now, if you want to come.' Non-committal, completely his choice. She could go for something to eat, anyway.

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?"

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?"

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?"

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.

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

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oooh same scrubs color

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Red Team Worst Team according to Draco

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

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

idk what happened there lol i was gonna say, maybe we save that for later haha

Way, way later...when Draco is willing to discuss WHY he needs to get home RIGHT NOW

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right, exactly! i'm still unsure of whether or not jyn's gonna hate him

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only time will tell

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despite my limited HP knowledge, your draco = a+++++

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