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> Muselist <

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[iseethings]

[ The mansion is surrounded by these creatures with a fancy name; he doesn't care to know or remember because all that matters is keeping everyone safe. He's made a lot of mistakes in his life, and the last few years especially, but there's one thing he'll always be good at: surviving. Yet, he recognizes that staying alive don't mean much when the people who matter most are taken away. The outer walls of the mansion can keep them safe for a bit, he's heard, and some of the people here with magic have done what they can.

But it won't hold forever, and he needs to be here and ready for it when it happens. He's the first line of defense.

Of course, one of the places he happens to visit first on his patrol is the library, for no other reason than that Evie is a friend ]

[nascensibility]

[The creatures are not one-offs, or exceptionally out of the ordinary by Wonderland's standards. Accustomed to the way that the environment changes every fortnight and generally (more often than not) prepared to deal with the damage they wreak Evelyn has once again opened the library's doors to fleeing residents, a safe haven in the midst of fear. While few have congregated thus far - and those that have went off toward the wing with fewer windows - Evelyn anticipates a swell in attendance should their outer perimeter be breached.

Several citizens have taken it upon themselves to wander the halls in some semblance of patrol, which makes it utterly unsurprising that Rick is one of them, slinking into the library to make sure nothing's gone horribly wrong in the past ten minutes. Evelyn can't say she agrees with the supposition that she can't maintain the library and its relative safety; mind you, his presence isn't unwelcome, but he tends to see the worst case scenario in just about everything.]

Hallo.

[Armed and striding around the desks to greet him she nods at his gun.]

Glad to see you're prepared, but I don't think there's much risk in battening down our hatches.

[iseethings]

[ By now, he's thoroughly convinced he's one of the few people around here fully equipped - both mentally and physically - to handle this kind of threat. It doesn't mean others aren't capable, of course, but he knows how to be a leader, knows how to keep people alive, and he'll take charge regardless of what anyone else thinks.

It's possible he needs to be taken down a peg or two. ]

I think otherwise. I've seen what can happen.

[ Of course, he's speaking from experience in his world, not Wonderland. ]

[nascensibility]

Really.

[Arms folded over her chest, she raises an amused eyebrow.

Rick, who by and large has been a sensible fellow about a great many things, appears to put little stock in the experiences of someone who has spent roughly four years in Wonderland. Whether he can lead or not isn't up for debate - the mark of a true leader is listening to peers and subordinates alike.]

Back home, you mean?

[ofletters]

[ The shelves are stacked to the ceiling with books, stretch from wall to wall with dusty pages, cover the room completely with tomes in dozens of languages (mostly Latin), contents eclectic, formidable in their massive quantity.

And Father Winchester is supposed to go through them all.

The young man pulls briefly at the collar of his clerical shirt, wrinkling his nose. It's a daunting task, especially for one person, but what can they do? They've been short-handed lately and he'd been asked; it's part of his many duties to to as he's asked, after all, and more than that, he wants to do this. The archives have needed a good looking-through for years and everyone knows that Sam is most up to the task. His dogged determination for tasks set out in front of him and undying love for knowledge are common jokes within the parish, though all made in good humor. Sam had volunteered for the task himself, though, looking up at it now... ]

Alright... [ He sighs, breath fresh against the stale, dusty air around him. Blessedly, they'd mentioned a specialist (had that been the word?) would be stopping by the church later in the day to pick through some of the old books, to see if there was anything he (it was a man coming, wasn't it, a scholar of some kind?) wanted. It was to be someone respectable and highly intelligent and loathe though he is to part with any of their books, Sam is interested to have the chance to swap theories and bookish banter with someone who seems to share his passions.

Some of them, anyway, he thinks, crossing himself before getting to work. ]

[nascensibility]

[Father Winchester, who Evelyn can only surmise is a genial, elderly priest (with a drinking problem, she's sure, all the Irish Catholics have one), must be the most blessed of saints to be willing to organise a collection as extensive as the one she's arranged to see today. The research project on her plate requires religious manuscripts and, with such an expansive archive as this at her disposal, it shouldn't take more than several months to gather the pertinent information.

Smoothing the front of her dress - even out of respect for whatever the Church considers abominable womenswear, she wasn't about to change what she'd normally don - Evelyn click-clacks down one of the side halls, directed by a hand-drawn map and determination that she won't have to ask anyone which of the many doors she ought to take. The cathedral itself is a labyrinth in its own right, marble stretching far into the walls, every sound echoing up through gothic arches and pointed vaults.

Spiral steps down, two more narrow corridors, cool temperatures and the slightly-musty smell of old parchment. Grinning to herself, knowing she must be close, Evelyn rounds another corner and moves beneath a stone lintel with vague trepidation.]

...hello?

[Tucking the little sheet of paper away, she moves into a half-lit room crammed with wall-to-wall shelves and stacks of books, a single reading table in the center.]

Father Winchester...?

[ofletters]

[ Father Winchester isn't what she expected just as she isn't what he'd anticipated. The young, handsome priest sitting at the table does a double-take, blinking in confusion and glancing around.

A mistake, clearly. She isn't, er... dressed for mass. He gets to his feet and smooths down the front of his shirt, recovering with a polite smile. It's a mistake and this woman just needs to be directed to the front, or to wherever she intended to go within the cathedral. ]

Yes? [ He almost hesitates, really looking her in the eyes; she's... striking, very beautiful, and he has a very brief and fleeting desire to whip around and walk quickly away.

He can think of at least three things that his brother would say (stupid, idiotic comments) if Dean were here. ]

Can I help you?

[nascensibility]

[The priest, who is decidedly not old, nor is he unfriendly-looking in any capacity, appears roughly as confused by her as she is by him. Evelyn is not dressed for mass because she doesn't go to mass, but that's another subject to be broached on another day when she isn't trying to make a good impression on the person who will serve as a research advisor for the next several months.

...Lord, but he's tall.]

Ah...yes. I'm Evelyn Carnahan, I'm the specialist from the university. They did telegram ahead, did they not?

[Stepping forward she offers him a hand in greeting, attempting to keep her eyes from wandering too far. Her primary exposure to priests has been nothing but gentlemen in their fifties and sixties - Father Winchester looks her age, sharp-jawed with neatly combed hair. Evelyn smiles.]

A pleasure to meet you.

[lowvi]

It's been a long time since Dipper's had to deal with demons. Considering how things ended last time, it's not surprising. But this latest case is getting the best of him and he's running out of options. Especially since he has this extreme desire for more people not to die.

The part that probably should have stopped him, of course, was how many times he found himself almost bungling the summoning spell several times, almost going for a different ritual for a different demon, one he's never actually summoned himself, yet somehow he knows exactly what he would say and do to summon that demon. But he's not doing that spell. He's going for another demon, one much less powerful, and yet he's still taking no chances. There are multiple circles drawn and reinforced with all the spells he knows. No spiritual entity or physical being will be able to cross until he does the specific counter spell. It's as safe as demon summoning can possibly be, and he isn't new to magic at all. He's fairly confident he hasn't screwed it up too badly.

He chants the words, holding out a hand as his eyes glow slightly from the power. Now all that's left is to wait for the demon to appear.

[improvident]

It's been a long time.

Time is fluid, however, and not especially linear, and when you're traveling through the cosmos at a speed that puts the U.S.S. Enterprise's warp drive to shame getting anywhere late isn't a concern. Bill is never late, mind you, he simply executes a shuffle ball-change through a wormhole to arrive precisely when he means to, and since long distance time-skipping barely registers on his list of irritants Bill finds it easier to kick back with a drink and watch things unfold as they will.

With that in mind it's almost refreshing to see that one of his favorite universes is indeed taking the route he would have preferred, an old acquaintance, an old(er) face, and even more ancient words on a tongue which has not spoken his name in years.

(To be fair this particular name is one of many, a single entry in laundry list of titles Bill has adopted over the course of millennia, a being notorious for assisting mortals and worshipped in at least three different religions - one which is the primary denomination on an outlying planet in the far reaches of The Milky Way. Not malevolent, but not benevolent, either.)

Bill feels the gentle tug of the summoning and allows himself to be pulled along, noting the circles into which he manifests as a swirling mist to cloud his identity until he's absolutely certain he can get this kid to shit his pants. A low voice, guttural like the insides of a sewage pipe, rattles through the room and the gaseous form refuses to commit to a shape as its darkness hovers over the summoner.

"Y̡O͡U ̵HAVE SU͜MM͜O͘N҉E҉D҉ ͘M̶E."

[lowvi]

Jokes on you, Bill. Dipper is way too prepared to shit his pants. He went to the bathroom before starting the summoning. Come on, he's not that much of an amateur.

Which isn't to say he isn't scared, but Dipper spends a lot of time terrified. He's much better at not showing it than he used to be. He sits, carefully outside the circles, and stares into the gas. Demons are malleable in shape, this much he knows. This form doesn't mean much to him, except that this demon isn't giving him much to go off of.

Which is fine, honestly. He just wants to get the information. He looks at the demon coolly, like the professional he is, and says, "I'm looking for information."

[improvident]

Consider this triangle Very Disappointed™.

The swirling mist continues to swirl ominously around the borders of the summoning circle, as if testing the limits of the spellwork. Not too shabby, actually, although there are a few fine points that could be tidied up. Bill excuses them, because Dipper Pines certainly isn't a warlock and he won't be any time soon - he does have the look of an insomniac, however, which is expected at this point.

Dark bags are his eye's fashionable accessories as he settles on the outskirts of the lines, watching the cloud. For shits and giggles Bill changes colors, gray to pale pink, pale pink to navy blue.

"W͡H̛A̡T̀ ͝K̡I̢ND̶ ͜O͏F̶ ͢ÍN҉FO̷R̡M̀ATION?"

[hulk]

[ Maybe in hindsight, Egypt isn't the best choice. The Middle East lately is anything but calm and ordered, with as many levels to the conflict as there are grains of sand. Then again there are a finite number of places Bruce can go and hide without asking to hitchhike with Thor. Not that he could now, with the Asgardians Brothers Karamazov back off to Asgard and him hightailed out of New York. Arabic is brand new and makes him yearn for the days of butchered Portuguese and Brazilian muppets but the country is slightly more forgiving. Bilingual signs and a half dozen more languages spoken in the streets help him along as he mutters phrasebook pages to himself in the search for a job.

Agent Romanoff had said S.H.I.E.L.D. kept Ross off his tail before and she would keep S.H.I.E.L.D. off him now — promises that were nice in theory but Bruce is reluctant to test. Thankfully there are always intrepid expeditions in need of extra hands and he looks for the one heading farthest out for the longest period. Archaeology and its practical studies never crossed over with nuclear physics or biochemistry so he feels safe enough dipping a toe back in academia without fear of being recognized. (One of the few benefits of Hulk that he'll admit to — nobody without seeing firsthand evidence would connect him with the monster bellowing at alien warships above Manhattan's skyline. Tony Stark can have that media circus all to himself and welcome to it.) It doesn't matter that it's not his sciences, not the cool clean lines of a controlled laboratory; the excitement in the air is the same as is the looks of expectations on the faces around him. It slakes the ache in his bones — getting some sun on his face after too long out in the cold.

Of course the only cold in this situation is metaphorical because it's hot as Hades, sweat beading down the back of his neck when he sticks his head in the main tent. ]

Excuse me, ma'am, [ he offers with a respectful tip of his baseball cap. ] I heard something in here was on the fritz?

[ There's a veritable fleet of machinery that's been toted out with them. Computers for logging everything, metal detectors to ping out anything buried too deep for coring, sonar emitters sonograms to probe potential sites without wasting manpower, scores of lights, and generators to power it all through petrol or solar panels. The constant war with sand and wind guaranteed at least something breaking down in a huff but with only one certified engineer on site... Well. What was the harm in taking a look? And stop things from grinding to a complete halt. ]

[nascensibility]

[It's temperature feels like Hell, but there are some parties so accustomed to the arid climate that they have adapted, thus sufficiently proving Darwinism to spite those belonging to societies not unlike that of the "Flat Earth." Beyond localised and regional evolution there are special cases, people who prefer the warmth and bask in it not unlike adders, or cats.

Evelyn is one such creature, whose love of Egypt's climes might give the impression that she were actively cold-blooded and required solar power to thrive. Even with sweat-damp skin and flushed, freckled cheeks, she appears perfectly at ease behind a beaten laptop that has both seen better days and is probably struggling with its own air conditioning issues.

Archaeology is an inherently sticky field, and there are some things to which one must become accustomed.

The intrusion isn't unwelcome. She looks up quickly, picking out a new face - not yet listed on the roster? she must ask Jonathan - that is likely in to work on their more mechanical issues. No one comes out this far in the desert without damn good reason.]

You must be our engineer. Please, come in.

[Evelyn grins at him, always eager to make a new acquaintance, and happily shuts her suffering laptop. Moving around the work table and several other boxes of not-yet-unpacked material, she belatedly supposes he's expecting an introduction to the project leader.]

Dr. Evelyn Carnahan, and yes, a few generators have been acting up, as well as our lidar equipment. Did you just get in?

[hulk]

[ Nodding himself in, he feels the need to clarify a few points. ]

Pretty recently, ma'am, [ as he doffs his hat, swipes at his forehead with the back of his hand. ] But I'm not your engineer. He's at the other end of the site and wouldn't be done fixing the solar panels for a bit. I have a little experience with these things, so he sent me over. Figured I couldn't make things much worse than they already are.

[ Bruce smiles at that, unable to suppress it in the face of that irony. ]

Lyle Decker, [ and the lie comes too easily for Bruce not to feel a little sick with himself. But he can't help an eyebrow at the way the laptop fan whirs on, whining its abuse before finally slowing down. That was another problem in the making, and he adds it to the list. ] If you're busy with something delicate, though, I can wait until you're through.

[nascensibility]

[He's polite, even though formalities aren't exact necessary out here. By the end of a dig, almost everyone has seen everyone else's underthings and oi, shitwad has become a term of endearment.]

Ah. Apologies.

[With the number of people present on an active dig site of this scale, it's often difficult to keep track of everyone's names and positions - though she does make an extremely concerted effort to try. Lyle Decker, arbitrary facilities laborer, is not a face she remembers hiring herself, and he has the look of someone unaccustomed to the heat. An unusual trait in a person who should have some small experience in desert work.

The meat of it is that he sticks out like a sore, pale thumb, and Evelyn's immediate desire to probe for more information is tempered in light of the fact that he'll be working in her tent for the better part of the next hour, making him a relatively captive receptacle for questions.]

No, not at all - I was just cataloguing some of the acquisitions, I won't get in the way. Part of me wishes we could go back to a time where half a million dollars' worth of equipment wasn't required to do work out here. [She picks up a clipboard, frowning at its contents briefly before giving him a wry smile.] Not that I don't love ground-penetrating radar...

[dewitticisms]

1 | 2 | 3

[nascensibility]

[The first time, it was partly a mistake.

Alcohol had been involved, supplemented by a very unwise conversation and the subsequent flirting, weeks after introductions at that horrid little speed-dating debacle. The second and third times were similarly circumstantial, but Evelyn can't claim that the fourth time wasn't an active choice, that it stopped being "the last time" and started resembling a pastime.

Now, groggily reaching for consciousness as a thin beam of light stretches through the curtains and over a landscape of bodies under rumpled sheets, Evelyn might grudgingly admit to herself that she enjoys the company of this utter wreck of a human being. She normally has higher standards than this - carpet that smells like cheap cigarettes, an overwhelmingly masculine odour and lack of interior decoration sense - but can't entirely bring herself to care at the current juncture, trapped under his arm. Playing little spoon has always appealed to her tremendously, heat at her back and breath ghosting over the shell of her ear.

If only the big spoon were a reliable businessman and/or academic, instead of an agreeably mussed private detective. Evelyn turns in his grasp and stretches, absently patting at Booker's cheek with the back of her hand.]

Oi.

[dewitticisms]

[ This thing with Evelyn isn't something he's sure he wants to name. He's not a fool. He knows a woman like her is so far out of his league she ought to live on another planet instead of just in a better part of town. In spite of that, they keep sending up like this and he can't bring himself to complain. She's gorgeous, smart and has the sort of attitude that doesn't let him get away with anything.

Mornings are definitely nicer when she's around. He's almost forgot the simple pleasure of having someone to hold. He'd be content to sleep away the morning if not for her patting his face. Arms wrap tighter around Evelyn as he wakes up.

He still looks sleepy as he grins at her. ]

You know, we've gotta stop meeting like this.

:TTTT

[chardismastic]

[nonscriptum]

[He can remember everything, in clear detail.

In spite of the haze of adrenaline-spiked panic - something he has faced before, something he knows too well when life on the streets leads to unfortunate encounters with local authorities - Nate can remember the scrambling anxiety clawing into his chest with every jump he had made. The blood on his cut fingers had been nothing compared to the blood spilling into Sam's chest, killing him faster when Nate watched him fall through a sheet of corrugated metal and into the dark.

He feels that way now, tunnel vision dragging him through each obstacle as they arrive, rather than looking with any real foresight. Distantly he recalls events that transpired between the mental video of Sam's death playing on a loop, a private jet and a cargo plane, a chopper out to site, everything so agonizingly minuscule and far away. Too far away to draw, to touch, to know. At the edges Rafe would shift in, tell him the plan, before distributing orders elsewhere.

Operating on autopilot leaves him listing out of the loop and he's aware of the whispers of crew members, suggestions that he's not clocked in, that the lights are on and nobody's home. Scotland is mist and mystery, as much a future as he is capable of seeing.

Nate sways in front of Rafe's work desk, by all accounts a wreck and a half with a few cuts on one cheek and muddied jeans, the inelegant aftermath of a snapped rappel line when his belayer lost the anchor. For the first time, fucking up wasn't his fault. The vaguest humor creeps into his voice, some small satisfaction in feeling more alive from the fall.]

Reporting for. Paycheck pick-up. Sir.

[chardismastic]

[ Rafe hears the rumors too, in spite of the crew knowing better than to deal in anything but the business at hand when he's around. Not that he can blame them for talking. Not only is there nothing else to talk about in the middle of the highlands, it is painfully obvious that his consultant isn't all there. Hasn't been since they got off the plane.

But Rafe understands the nature of a long term investment. He also understands when the short supply of experts on 17th century pirate meets his high demand for finding the Gunsway treasure, you take what you can get. Whenever the stagnation starts to gall, he reminds himself people have been searching for this three hundred years already — putting him well ahead of the curve. So he hasn't pushed yet, just presents what needs doing and nudged Nate forward a step or two to get going with it. Idle hands and all, right?

Standing beside his desk, he's sorting through the day's photographs. Cursory polaroids, more detailed negatives developed on site, documenting every inch before the crew start gridding off a new area. Nate's appearance earns a wry appraisal, eyebrow arching before Rafe's lazy smile makes an appearance. He scoffs good-naturedly, flicks the picture in his hand to skim across the others. ]

Nate, come on. Do partners call each other sir? [ He doesn't bother asking what happened — of course he'd heard about it. The belayer in question will spend the next several days inspecting every cable in camp for any other weaknesses. Not everybody on the end of a snapped line is Nathan Drake, and if he'd lost that asset after the time he's already paid in? One brother's already bitten the dust. Rafe can't afford losing the other. ] You seen the medic yet?

[ Rhetorical twice over. He knows what goes on at his site, and after these weeks here he knows Nate. Or at least the Nate that's been stumbling around in a daze.

Which is why those small changes are immediately noticed. His focus sharpens, the shift to calculation hardly noticeable behind lidded eyes. ]

just tea for two and two for tea

[noterrol]

[nascensibility]

[The waiting is excruciating.

Evelyn has never been a particularly patient woman, though she might better prepare herself for the functionality of "going to the mattresses" if she knew anything at all. A whisper, a glimmer, something brief and even fleeting that might tell her where or how Rafe is, but the pressing silence crushes inward steadily, leaving somnolent quiet in its wake.

After the first week the house was assigned a security detail, a steady stream of nonstop visitors and well-wishers with handguns stuffed into their waistcoats and jacket pockets, complacent conversation murmured in Italian. Rarely to her, so much as around her. Even the three boys who rotated shifts during the daytime and came over for meals would treat her with an enforced distance.

Many of them still don't trust her.

The second week passed without event, so Evelyn worked while a small guard followed her through her own home, to the archives, to the library, to the museum. They rarely spoke and when they did, it was to tell each other off-colour jokes. As though she hasn't been speaking Italian to them for months. There is tea, there is monotony, and there is no news.

They are well into the third week when one of the young men informs her that security is expanding, that distant watchers will be required to guide, person to person, dogging her steps. She accepts the news with grace, wrapped up tight in her nightclothes and kimono. From the second story window she sees the messenger skip out across the walk, almost running into the bumper of a dark work vehicle that's just pulled up. The lanky frame stepping out of the driver side is unmistakable - having watched her countryman take on various jobs in the family it almost comes as a relief that he has been assigned guard duty, if only because their conversation tends to come so easily.]

I'll be damned.

[noterrol]

[Harry's been working for Alieri longer than Evelyn's been around. That is to say, Harry's been working for him long enough to deserve to be told some bloody information and not be held at arms length when things go sideways. And yet here he is, looking at week three of whispers and tenuous pay and a lot of sideways glances his way that have more to do with his outsider status than anything. After all this time, why are they still convinced he's going to cut and run? Last time he was in Hell's Kitchen, he broke three fingers and lost a tooth.

Of course, he absolutely would rat every single one of them out given the chance to part with enough money, but this is Italians versus Italians and no one's throwing any his way. So the point is moot.

Flynn is genuinely surprised when he gets word from Rafe himself that he's being put on Evelyn duty. Surprised, because he doesn't trust just anyone with his wife, and also because he's been left out to dry when things've gotten hairy in the past. But, gift horses and mouths and all. Of all the people he's been forced into contact through this bloody job, Evelyn is one of his favorites. She's the only one around who understands how important a good cuppa and how breakfast needs to be substantial—none of this coffee, a cigarette, and airy pastries shite. And, much like he and the Drake brothers, he and Evelyn have an alarming amount of things in common. Sure, she's as posh and crisp as they come, but they both miss home (and for as much grief as it caused him, London still is home). Plus, you know, she's the only bird he ever sees anymore that's worth a anything. Bloody gorgeous, absolutely wasted on Alieri.

So it's no skin off his nose to agree to the assignment. Might as well enjoy himself while everyone else is strung thin with stress and espresso like they usually are. He manages to be (spitefully) chipper the morning he's scheduled to go over. The two dago shits driving with him easily ignore him in favor of talking about him in rapid Italian, like he hasn't learned the bleeding language by now, and he can tell his own ease makes them even more tense. Once they arrive, he hits the brakes hard enough to get them to knock heads, and he's laughing and out before they can scrape the sense together to throw a fist his direction. Giving one last smirk and tip of the hat to the men behind him, Harry strolls to the front door and rings the bell and waits.]