cape_kore | Entries tagged with { oliver sumner

[ Sometime before dawn the video clicks on, though it might not be terribly obvious at first; a night like this in a place with such little artificial light means that the video begins terribly dark, but eventually it focuses to show the strange constellations in the sky above Cape Kore. ]

Good morning. May God give you a good morning, adios, good bye, vas a Dios, you go with God, so it has always been attributed to higher and distant and foreign powers, that there is no control to be had over our spinning through the 'verse. Trapped on a rock, in a dream, trapped and here we are, back to ourselves.

Worse for wear. Damaged, cracked, broken, missing pieces, missing tunes, missing bones, missing missing missing...

Some of you are new, agitated and angry and odd like all the others. Why are you here? We don't know. How do you go home? We don't know but she can tell you, she can tell you this...

When you go you are taken and when you are taken it is sudden, and when it is sudden it sets the entire axis to spin in the wrong direction.

[ She sighs. A hand moves to blot out some of the stars, fingers spreading a bit to let the light back through, but not all of it. ]

If God is here then God is trapped along with all the other rats in the maze.

Come on new voices. Come on and upheave your suffering, vent your frustrations, scream to the sky. Make noise that we may be able to better identify the new notes, she and I, make noise so that she may be better able to say goodbye when you're gone if she remains.

Announce yourselves, oh friends of mine, that she may feel reassured you haven't gone to dust like the carbon in starts that sits in our very bones, the iron and silver and atoms that are only as close as they will ever be. Nothing ever touches.

Announce yourselves for I am tired and angry and will set my soul to wounded hearts like the anchor and she won't be tracking you all down today. No, not today.

So much happens from sunset to sunrise. So much happens during the day. So much happens in so few hours, a handful of moments and it may be a miracle we haven't set the woods alight.

Why haven't we?!

[ Private to: Steve Rogers ]

Would you like a list? The dead and the missing?

There was a murder and there are several who did not wake in their beds.

[ Private to: Daneel ]

You have been a good friend to Ned. Thank you thank you thank you.

This means you have to keep yourself whole. Do you fight? Can you fight?

charring

[There's one very normal looking Charlie looking into the device with a small smile on her face. It's an entirely relieved look, as minimal as the expression is. On occasion, her hand will reach up to rub at her mouth as if she's checking that those teeth really are gone. Which she is. She has a quick message for a few people but isn't bothering with filters. Mostly because she doesn't give a damn. It's not like any of this is super secret personal.]

Doctor Banner, thanks again for helping me out with my ever so delightful diet change. Hopefully, I won't need it again.

Tony, do you want the clothes you loaned me back? They're clean.

How's everyone else doing? I was...concerned. [And yes, that was just as hard to admit as it sounded. She's just not good with caring about people.

The video gets shut off. She's done.

She'll be outside, wandering the town for anyone that wants to run into her.]

enchangement

The air tastes strange. [ River knows the video is on but she's not looking at it, allowing instead for the broadcast to show the hallway of house seventeen in the waning afternoon light.

An arm reaches out and a door swings open to a bedroom. Bed rumpled and several books scattered around but otherwise empty.

They took him and she doesn't know when. They took a note, the whole song is wrong now.

[ River sounds exhausted. ]

The air tastes strange. All the notes should be careful and keep themselves in tune.

bonesandskin

[There have been blips like this since his arrival, some four days ago now, but most of them have just been static-filled flashes of scenery or nonsensical bits of conversation that have only lasted for a span of seconds before cutting out. Nothing spectacular, just bits and pieces of what poor Charlie has had to deal with since acquiring a certain Victorian ghost in her attic. Oliver's communicator, as if it were a living thing, isn't sure how to handle him. He and his body chemistry both just really do not like machines, which is an interesting thought, given the words that come through, crackling and muttered against the backdrop of lapping ocean.]

The first principle of the machine is Purpose. The machine designs itself to this chosen end, aligning all functionality to a single outcome. [The visual transmission cuts out but the words continue, tasting of quotation.] The machine, by its nature, cannot fathom or choose its purpose. It must be handed down, as revelation or as doctrine, from a being of higher stature. [The picture returns, laced with static, and Oliver has sat himself at the end of a pier now, hands folded together, knuckles pressed to his lips as he sighs, quiet.] In this way could it be considered divine.

[It may be noted that he's looking a bit better than before, though no more pleased with his current situation. He's cleaned himself up and he no longer looks like a walking corpse, even if he is by no means done with the necessary healing. The scar across his throat is still an angry line. Staring out at the ocean, something he had never seen prior to his arrival here, his eyes don't so much burn as they do smolder with an almost literal fire. Until, that is, he realizes that he's broadcasting, blinks his eyes back to clear blue, and curses.]

Christ's own bloody--

[He slaps a hand down over the communicator and it stops.]

mentis

Ah. [ Straight away it's clear that the bloke peering down at the screen has absolutely no idea what's attached to him or what he's doing. He's got a boyish countenance, blue eyes that are more tired than anything, and a small almost worried crease between his brows. But he doesn't say anything for a moment, just peers at his new ... addition. He holds it from his face like a clock face and throws a glance over his shoulder, the image dipping to take in the flash of yellow and blue uniform. ] Erik, look. I think it's recording something.

[ The other voice is vaguely accented Euro-something (a panglobal accent? sure!), and carries a timbre like its owner is smiling through gritted teeth, a smile on a tether tight enough to snap. ] Mine isn’t.

[ The former person holds his wrist aloft for his partner - Erik - to see. Even glowering, he's handsome and dressed in the same leather as the first. Blue eyes flick away and look to him, mouth twisting into something of a smile despite how obviously stressed the pair of them are. ] Well, that's what one gets when they're as volatile as a powder-keg.

Call it preparedness. [ The smile slips an inch and winds itself back in like a winch, lower row of teeth showing. ] It’s metal, whatever it is. But it won’t—[ He can’t remove it, this thing attached to him that as far as he can tell is some kind of small television, and for Erik that’s as disconcerting as not being able to feel his own skin. Showing that much vulnerability is not in the cards, however, so he centers himself with a visible squaring of shoulders, light eyes scanning their immediate area. ] Never mind, that’s the least of our problems.

I agree, we --. [ Need to find the others, find Raven but he stops, touches it and lets the furrow grow more over-pronounced. ] Call this a longshot, but this reminds me of something ... [ A pause, and he arches up an eyebrow, fingertips drifting to his temple in silent request of conversing a little bit more privately. Erik nods and Charles falls silent as though that's the end of that matter. ] The CIA had communication devices like this, I believe we can use it to contact whoever brought us here, bargain for a way out.

[ Because under his bloody single-mindedness Erik is virtually always thinking in thirty directions at once, he notices Charles’ mild mimicry of his phrasing despite the bizarre and unsettling circumstances; he arches his eyebrows in a ripple of interest that quickly fades and then sharpens into focus on the much more relevant subject brought to bear in his head. His nod this time is a quick, disjointed jerk, a bodily command that looks exactly like what it is even if he’s not saying a word aloud. ] Do it.

[ Charles' smile goes from small and private to wide and bright just like a flashbulb going off, his shoulders straightening out as he focuses his attention to the thing wrapped tight around his wrist. He doesn't allow himself the time to worry or feel embarrassed about it, just talking in a smooth, mind-mannered tone. ] My name is Charles Xavier, this is -- [ There's barely a fraction of a second of silence, his knows Erik, knows he's done some things that even Charles couldn't fathom. Giving out his name mightn't be the best thing. ] -- my associate. If someone could fill us in, let us know what's going on and how we can go about our business that would be much appreciated.

( ooc: so replies will come from both

mentis &

violenthearted. Also there's been a little bit of an addendum to my permissions so if you can have a look that would be swell. )

bonesandskin

[Static flickers, the image of what looks perhaps altogether too much like another corpse visible between the stuttering lines of interference. This corpse, however, is not a familiar one. The view is pointed upward, showing the body to be that of a man, leaning against a tree near the edge of the forest, dressed in slightly ratty, Victorian-esque clothing and spattered with blood, oil, grease, and gods know what else. Though the picture sometimes cuts back and forth to black and white, there's enough time with color to show that his skin is tinged an unhealthy shade of yellow which has gone a little green in places, including along the edges of the dark circles that mark his slightly sunken eye sockets and around the bruises visible through the scruff and stubble along his jaw. Creamy, off-white lines and crusted smudges mark various wounds, all of which appear to be in some stage of healing, including the most prominent of them, a thin line that spans the base of his throat, just above his collarbone. It's obviously fairly fresh, even though it's already closed over, as it's one of the injuries that looks somewhat raw at the edges.

Now, squint and you might almost be able to tell that-- oh, yes-- yes, he's breathing, before the video is consumed by static and the audio picks up a thick, British accent draped over a raw-throated voice.]

Hn? Well, this is-- interesting.

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Entries tagged with { oliver sumner

River Tam | Day 64 | Video

video:

02 || River Tam || Day 55

002 Video | Day 49, morning | Oliver Sumner

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001 Video | Day 45 | Oliver Sumner

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