Sixth Iteration Logs

WHO: Agent Maine
WHERE: South Village fountain & inn. North Village ... everywhere.
WHEN: December 27th-30th.
OPEN TO: Everyone!
WARNINGS: Language. (Please note that Maine has a violent temper. For permissions and a link to his opt-out, check his info post.)

( Fountain Arrival (CLOSED: first come, first served!) )

( At the Inn )

( North Village )

( Wildcard )

fwips

WHO: Peter Parker
WHERE: Random tree around town
WHEN: 5 October 2018
OPEN TO: Kamala Khan & ALL - NO MORE THREADS PLEASE
NOTES: Peter is in the Great Minds plot in addition to having his new powers!

There is a machine down in the creepy bunker, and it dispenses superpowers.

Even to someone like Peter, who came to this place after riding through space with a wizard and then fought a guy for magical stones that can control the whole universe, the idea of ordering up powers like he might a Snickers is a little beyond belief. The thing doesn't even look right; it's not like the vending machines from Bioshock with their jaunty voice-overs and handy instructional videos. It looks, honestly, like something he'd cobble together from tech he pulled out of the garbage. And he's not ragging on the idea of that, it just doesn't really fit. It's weird.

But turns out it works. Or, sorta.

He asked for wall-crawling (Wall-crawling!) and spider-sense (Spider-sense!) and it gave him wall-crawling and affinity with animals (???). Trying again (and again and again) hadn't helped. Shaking the machine hadn't helped. (It had, though, made a really ominous rattling sound.) Staring forlornly at "spider-sense" on the screen hadn't helped.

So now he's sitting in a tree, on one of the higher branches, sharing a handful of blueberries with a squirrel. Whom he is presently conversing with on the state of preparing a nest for the winter.

This isn't so bad, he allows to himself, passing over another blueberry from his stash as the squirrel chitters on.

spoileralert

WHO: Stephanie Brown
WHERE: The Fountain, 6I inn
WHEN: July 16
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Violence and injury in the narrative

A moment ago (or maybe it was hours, who could even tell anymore?) Steph would have told you she was dead. It seemed obvious. She'd been fighting for hours before she was captured, throwing herself against enemy after enemy in a desperate attempt to get things under control. Then she'd been in the hands of a sadist for... days? Weeks? A lifetime. Getting shot in the chest was just icing on the cake. Definitely dead, she would have told you.

Now she burst through the water's surface with a gasp like a quiet scream. There was only one thought in her head: If I'm alive, I want to stay that way. She dragged herself to the edge of the fountain with sheer desperation, certain she was still in the clutches of the Black Mask.

[ Later ]

The inn was like something out of a movie. Then again, Steph’s experience with hotels was pretty limited to Gotham City shitholes where criminals go to hide. She tried not to think about that as she hugged the peacoat tight around herself next to the fire. It probably wasn’t the best look for a girl, staring blankly into a fire, huddled in a coat on a warm summer evening, but her black scrub top was still drying next to her. And besides, the warmth was comforting after a frankly harrowing however-long-it-was.

She didn’t shy away from company, she just didn’t seek it out either. She seemed more adrift than anything. She wasn’t sure where she wanted to go or what she wanted to do.

fwips

WHO: Peter Parker
WHERE: 6I Fountain, elsewhere
WHEN: 3 May 2018, afternoon
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: BIG spoilers for Avengers: Infinity War both in the post itself and probably in Peter's narrative in threads

( Avengers: Infinity War spoilers )

[First person welcomes/explains. Anybody else can find him at the 6I inn or wandering later, dry and curious.]

digging

WHO: Karen Page
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: 11 Dec 2017
OPEN TO: ~~All~~ CLOSED TO NEW THREADS
WARNINGS: Potential spoilers for all released Marvel Netflix

If asked, Karen Page would gladly and emphatically tell you that yes, it sure would be nice to have a life that was something approaching calm. Steady. Remotely predictable.

She'd be lying, but that's really not the point.

This is not the way she anticipated spending today or any day, but as she steps over to the hearth, her chilled fingers instinctively splaying before the wavering flames, she has to wonder when exactly she stops expecting anything.

Is it reasonable to not expect to come sputtering out of a fountain in the middle of a strange and freezing cold town? She really doesn't know anymore. What she does know is it's a pain in the ass.

How long has it been? An hour? Longer? She'd been so focused on not becoming hypothermic that her sense of time has been thrown completely off. She has no watch, no phone, no nothing except some really unfortunate-looking but warm long johns and overalls. And the coat. At least she has a coat. What she arrived in is still laying in a sodden pile on the cold tile floor of a house that looked like it hadn't been dusted in years.

And now she's here, blonde hair laying in a damp braid over her shoulder, hovering before a fire in a place with no signage or telephone or obvious employees, her wide blue eyes sweeping over the room around her.

"Excuse me!" she calls at the first sign of another human being. She starts to dart over, but reconsiders leaving the blazing warmth of the fire and just raises her voice instead. "This is going to sound crazy, but could you tell me where I am?"

[First person explains; anybody else can find her poking around any part of the Inn a little later.]

posilutely

WHO: Queenie Goldstein
WHERE: The fountain
WHEN: About 8:00, June 8th
OPEN TO: ALL
STATUS: Closed to new threads
WARNING: The thread with Sonny will eventually be ADULT

For almost as far back as she can remember, Queenie Goldstein has been a voracious reader. She'd be the first to tell you she doesn't have a head for the books that would make her smart, but there's just about nothing she loves more than losing herself in a good story. At home, she nearly always has a novel or stack of magazines to hand, and the tales of exotic places and sweeping romance are always her favorite. There was one in particular she read about twenty times when she was in school, all about a witch and wizard falling in love amidst the glittering sands of the Sahara. At the time, tucked up in her chilly New England dorm room, it had all seemed so marvelously enticing.

Now, it's a little less so.

To say the days the past couple of weeks have been hot just wouldn't be near accurate enough. It's been about like jumping into a frying pan when you're out in the middle of the day. When you walk around town, you can see it on everybody's faces: They're all waiting for the break that comes at sunset. Except now, the sun isn't going down at all. It's just sitting there on the horizon, brooding behind the cliffs like an angry dog.

That morning, Queenie had woken to another box with her name on it, perched this time on her dresser like someone had stolen in during the night and left it while she was sleeping. Inside, she'd found a pack of needles and several spools of thread, and while a bolt of fabric would've been nice, she's not about to look this gift horse in the mouth. And yeah, she did feel a little guilty about going into one of the houses and pulling down all the curtains and cleaning out the linen closet, but there's nothing in the storeroom in the inn except for scarves and heavy blankets.

It's just past eight o'clock at night, and Queenie's sitting on the lip of the fountain they all came out of, a basket of supplies at her side, bare feet dangling in the cool water as she works on the sewing in her lap and sings softly to herself. There's still plenty of light to see by out here, and the house is too stuffy even with every window flung open. Earlier, she'd cut her pants off above the knee and hemmed the edges; back home they'd be scandalous, but here they're pure practicality. Soon, she'll have a linen shift to wear instead.

Sixth Iteration

Logs

Entries tagged with !closed to new threads

Credits & Style Info

welcome aboard, space marine

[OTA] Think alike

(no subject)

[OTA] I can't control my fingers, I can't control my brain;

[OTA] Like a fadeout;

So get your hep boots on, and then you'll carry on [OTA]