trans_9 | Grif, Kaya, Sherlock, Azula, and John's Bogus Journey

"You're asking us to what?!""

Oh, it was clear enough for Kaya, although it still took getting used to, deities appearing in a place like this. From what she had been told, in order to interact with spirit beings, you usually had to go to their world.

Nonetheless, what they were asking them was still pretty heavy to hear.

"What are we going to come across?" She asked, already processing the "what" and wanting to know the "whos."

"We're leaving," Sherlock declared. "We're not idiots."

A pause.

"Well, I'm not an idiot."

Another pause.

"Neither is John. Though I can't speak for everyone else definitively."

Edited 2012-05-22 04:31 (UTC)

John jabbed an elbow into Sherlock's side, though he's just as rattled by what the angels are asking them to do as Grif. That was...certainly a a task, especially since there are people back on the ship far more powerful than they are. Why assign them this job?

Silently, sullenly lurking like a spent storm cloud with no more angry thunder or flashy lightning, the pale, thin former princess of the Firenation said nothing. She hadn't said or even looked at anyone since she was forced into this mission. Her presence up to this point had been that of a ghost following silently without even a simple acknowledging glance.

Her face was set in stone, her eyes hallow and empty. Bags of sleepless nights left shadows under those eyes which for the moment were hidden by unkempt bangs. She looked like a teenage runaway in this modern setting. One could hardly tell if she even was aware of what was going on.

They were painfully beautiful and they were exquisitely terrible, exuding a brilliant light that seemed like it should have been painful to the eyes. They gave the impression that they could cause blindness (or death or complete annihilation) at a moment's notice.

When they spoke, it was with the underlying echoes of a heavenly choir, but the voices of those souls singing in rapture sounded more frightening than beautiful.

H̡e ̡wan͏t͟s y͞o͞u tó ̷go t͢o h͞e͞ll̡.̧ ̶He wan̕t̴s͘ y̷ou ̶to ŗesc̕ue ͠á ̢lo̢st҉ s̸oul̶.͘ Ìn exchan͘ge,̸ He̴ ̧w͞ill̢ ̡pļed̛g̸e͝ ̶his ͟en̢tire̷ host҉ to y̢o͢ur̶ ̀cau͢se̸ and hel̕p ̶y̶o̶u̕ ̶f͜ig̡ht͘ ̢yo͞ur ͏w̧a͡r͏ ̢a̴gai͜ns͞t t̢h͘e d͜estro͝ỳer̸s͞ ̛ơf wo͟rl͘d̶s̵.

The angels looked at them with faces that didn't have eyes and it was likely impossible to not realize that they were completely serious. The mission was to run an errand for the supreme deity of this world in exchange for backing in the war. The "errand" apparently involved literal trip to hell and back.

Grif folded his arms across his chest stubbornly.

"I'm with Captain Deductions on this one, guys. I'm out. I quit."

"And lose a chance to actually have some aid in this war?" Kaya looked dubious. "Exactly how many good options do we have in finding out what we can do to restore everything? Do you guys want to be like the last crew, at the whims of Stacy and the Daligig until they kill us off? Is that really the best option, to not even think about it?"

The deaths were still fresh in her mind. The senselessness, the fear, the lack of not even knowing. How could they let things continue that way? Could they win this war without allies?

And what was hell in this world like anyway

Sherlock leveled a long stare at Kaya, then turned back to the angels.

"Ignore the girl, she's clearly insane. We'll all be taking our leave."

Sherlock turned on his heel to go, assuming quite naturally that the others would follow along because the mission was clearly insane, when the air blurred and suddenly, there was another angel in front of him, pointing at him.

It was just pointing, doing nothing else, but somehow this was the most ominous, threatening gesture any being could ever make. That rapturous choir that echoed in the angel's voice became more cacophonous and shrill, as if it was full of screams instead of singing.

Y̛ou w͜il͘l n̕o͠t ͏disp͘le͘ase ̢H̡im.́

"And if we do?" asked Sherlock. "'Displease' him?"

Y̴o͘u͏ ẁill ̀n̢ot ̨díśpl͠ease҉ ̀H̢im͝.

"I suppose simply leaving is out of the question."

Y̷̢̦̭̪̰̝̬̼͙̤͈͖͔͙̱̪̣̭͛̈͒̈̈͟͡ǫ̴̥̞͇̖͕̟̗̰̺͍̪͚̩̜̟̓͒̈́͋́̕͟ͅŭ̴͍̺̮͕͚̑̐̒̽͊ͣͥ̈͆̅̎̑ͥͤ͜͞ ̸̴͉̪̝̹̠̺̻̜͕͕̫̭̘͉͙̼̦̬̩ͣ̌̉͊ͮͧ̅̉̉͆̏͆͛̓̊ͯ̚w̷̷̸͈͈̫̺͈̙̠̭͍̙̘͕̱̳͕̟̖̹͕̔̈͒̐̏͌ͦ̽̀͊͂̓̃́͜i̵̪̙̼̫̯̰͌̆̈́̏̃̋̆ͯ̓̉͂͞͝l̛̳̺̬̝̼͖̬̳̟̙̱̰̼͈̭͉ͯͥ̄̆̎͡l̶̨̛͇̯̗̫̹̩̥͆̉̋̍͂͗̇̚͞ ̵̸͚̝̞̙͕͙̬̰̥̞̟̟̟̺̉̊͆͊̑̊́̑͋͆̕ņ̵̨̪̫̙̔́̈ͨ̔͋̒̉͘͞ơ͕̤̟͍͖̠̫͙̺̗̞̻̬̖͎͚͕͙͔̎̅́̽̉̓ͨͮ̒͐͑͑̌̓ͤ̀̚t̑̋ͨͨͧ́̔̋̆ͯ҉͏̴͍̺͕̟̰̬͙̠̫̜̖̦̹̺̰ ̸̵̞̱̳͇͎̘̺̗͎̪̑ͪ̑ͧ͊̏́͠d̨̧͉̺̬̫̮̮̞͙̘̼͎̯̖͖̻̤̖̂̆ͩ́ͥ̾ͦͩͣ͒̋͒͊́̚͘͝ͅiͭ̈ͪͫ̔ͯ͌ͩ̐͑ͣ̎̾̽ͥ͑̒̆̚͏̤̦̘̮͉͔̻͖̣̫̗̝̠̰̻̠ͅͅs̵̜͔̺͎͔̹̬̞̫͇̈ͪ̏͛̊́͑͆͐̔ͫͥͤ̑͛̃̚͞p̡̱̱̠͎͈̫̦̰̭̥̺͖͖͉̣̹̬̱ͣ̇ͣ̄̈́ͮͥͮ̍̀̊͢l̴̷̡̛͖̙̖̠͍̯͙͔͕̩̙͖̤͇̞̱̹͓ͯͤ̓̔ͣ̾̽̈͆ͭ͛̊͞ͅe̡̧̧͓̮̜̞̱̫̲̳̘̣̜̾̓̈́ͦ͗ͧ̓̾̾ͦ̀̚͘aͧ̉̌ͤ̚͏̶̥͓͚͍̳͈͍̣̘̙͖͈̫͚̝ͅs̷̅͋͒̈̎̃̊̿̐̍̉̏ͥ͠͏̘̦̭͉͈̬͚̰̺͓̗͈̤͉͞ͅȩ̸̛͈͇̹͚͓̗͎̺͕̘͓̜͖̓ͨ̽̀̍̏̏ͫͬͯ̿̽̚͜͠ ̷̶̥̘̝̪̙̘̞̞̖̼̉̎͆ͨ̿̆̄H̵̴̡̛͈̻̙̞̰͖̞́͒ͩ̓̎̓̓͂͟ͅi͖̠͈͚̦͎̯̭̭͉͉͈͎̪̖ͯ͗̈́ͪ͌ͪͦ͛ͩ̊̔̈́͟m̸̰̝̲͔̦͇̪̭͍ͧ̾̑̿ͦ̅ͥ͊͟.̧̢͎͓̘̪̯͕̲͕̯͚͕̣͇̠̯̭̒ͤͪ́͒͒̋̔̀͠ͅ ̛̖̞̬̮̫̬̝͍̥ͣͥ̂͒̈͋̐ͪͨ̍͆̈̈́̑ͤ́̑͢͞ͅ

Sherlock, usually quite collected, swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing, and looked back at the others.

Edited 2012-05-24 05:54 (UTC)

John grabbed Sherlock's coat and pulls him back away from the angel, stepping forward at the same time so that the two of them were on level. His guts felt like they'd liquified, just standing here along side Sherlock and trying to stare down a God's damned angel (who he really hopes can't hear his thoughts).

"All right," he said, licking his lips. "All right, you've made your point. Just how do you expect the five of us to do this where you in all your power -- sorry, the power that He bestowed on you -- can't?"

The air blurred and the angel's hand was at its side as if it had never been raised at all, without having been at any other position in between.

He̛l̷l ͏is ̴t̕h̶e s͡ḩa͜do͞w c̶as͠t by H̸i͘s l͞igh̨t.͞ S͞hadow c͘a̶n͘no̧t ͘e͏x̵i̸s̢t̡ i̷n͜ l̨ig̵h́t̵,̛ l̛i͡g̡ht c̨an͞nót̷ exis͟t ͏in͞ sha̡do͞w̶.͘ ͘Oǹl͏y̷ lost͝ ͘sou̵ls or͝ ͜mor͝t҉al͘s ҉c̡an͡ ͢e͘n͢t҉er̡ ͜the r͢ȩal̵m̢ of th̢e̕ s͟o̡n̡ of̕ ͝t͜h̸e ̡m̛orning.

Souls. Angels. Spirits. It's funny how far she had come from her world and yet so much remained the same.

Beings of supposed great power still came to mortals for help.

Mortals still grew frustrated and angry with things they could not understand.

To think that she, of all people was being called upon now to help beings of such radiating strength. The disposed princess, the broken fatherless girl.

It didn't matter. None of it mattered. Perhaps this was just a faster way to get to her final resting place. Perhaps then she could finally close her eyes and rest.

She remained silent, unfocused. This world, these moments didn't concern her. Nothing concerned her anymore.

It took Grif a moment to swallow his heart again after the angel stopped Sherlock, but he managed to go on without quavering.

"So you're going to drop us into hell."

He shook his head.

"I don't know how often you hang out with mortal people? But we aren't exactly fire proof."

Clearly Kaya objected to being called insane, just as much as she understood that it didn't matter. They could have all opposed the plan, the angel was still not going to have them walk away.

So much for saying no.

"If you can supply me with enough water, I can make a shield for us," she said. "Of course, that's if its real fire, and not some enchanted devil fire or something."

Or a certain strangely quiet firebender could help. Why was Azula so quiet. She looked over at her questionably.

Th̨e͟r͢e a̢r̕e p͜l͏ace͘s in͟ ͢H͢ell tha͢t͞ ̡a̧re ͠d́ev͜oi͘d ̸of fir̢e. ͡T̛h͘e̷r̕e ar͠e ̛many ̛paţhs̵ y̧ou͢ ̷ma̡y͢ ̕wál̀k.҉

One of the alley lanes of the bowling alley widened and grew taller, growing into a gaping maw that looked as if it was trying to swallow the whole bowling alley.

The light exuded by one of the angels brightened and Sherlock felt a tingling in the back of his brain. The others would likely have felt it as well.

"What did you just do to us?" he snarled.

H̀ȩ ̴ha̕s g͟iv̡eǹ yo̢u̧ a ́gíft ͞of ̷c͟lou͠d̸ed s͠ig͏ht̨.͝ ̷Yo̷u ͝will̛ n͡o͘t̕ se̡e ̧H̀ell a̵s ̢i̵t̵ ͠tr̷úl̀y̢ is͟ b̵u͝t́ ̡a͢s ̀your̴ mind ̧can ͘ac͏ce͠pt ̴it̡ ͢w͡i̸thout goíng̀ m̡a͞d.͠ ̛You҉ wil̡l͠ re̕triev̵e t͜his͏ ̷soul.̢ H̡e̛r ̀tr͜u͜e̸ n͝ame i͟s͟ Cr'͘lin͡. Y͘ou҉ wi͡l͘l n̛o͢t ͟dis͢pl̕e̵a̡s͞è H͢į͡m.̷

The gaping maw at the end of the bowling lane grew until the floor warped under their feet in a slope that they'd start to slip on. Even Sherlock was showing signs of mounting panic. Give him a good murder and a serial killer to face and he was fine, but this supernatural stuff, literally going to hell, was an entirely different story.

"You can't just send us to hell with no knowledge of what we're about to face or any preparation! This was supposed to be a diplomatic mission--we were only sent to receive your terms, not to be forced to conform to them against our will!"

Ỳou ̴ẁi҉̢ll̵̢ ̵͢n̕o͜͝t̨ ͟di͝sp̧͠l͢e͝ą̢̀s͘e̢̡ ̶͟Hi͟͢m҉.̛ ̕.̷͘ ͟͠

There was nothing stopping it now. The floor was sloping, sending them sliding towards the void.

Edited 2012-05-25 01:15 (UTC)

"That a prophecy or a commandment?!"

John flung himself flat, trying to get as much as he could of his body in contact with the floor (and working with friction) to slow him down. He scrabbled at the gutter of the bowling lane right-handed, flailing out with his left to get a grip on Sherlock. Didn't do them much good, though. John started swearing, loudly, and with a great deal of creativity, no longer caring about offending the angels.

Azula didn't make a sound.

Her stomach fluttered as the ground pitched forward and she felt her feet slide out from underneath her. The first sharp strike of her body against the floor that had betrayed them landed on her hip. Then her back. She tumbled on her side. Hair whipped in her face and the world spun as her slender athletic body rag dolled down the slope. She didn't fight it. She didn't question it.

Grif swore furiously as the floor suddenly became a slope. He managed to remain mostly upright for a moment before falling. Armor, useful though it was, didn't give him much useful friction and he was quick to lose his grip on the floor and start sliding.

"Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit!"

When the floor sloped she shifted her stance, although it was abrupt and did trip her up a bit. She actually moved with the slope to run into the fall, rather than have it shove her into it.

Not that it made her any less wary. It was pretty plain she was just as scared as the rest of them.

The darkness swallowed them all and plunged them into the freezing void. There was a moment where it would feel like they were being turned inside out, and even though there would be no pain, it would be so intense that unconsciousness would take them.

When Sherlock startled awake with a gasp, his face was pressed against some crushed flowers, he was shivering almost convulsively, and there was a thin layer of frost clinging to his face. The asphodel was gray, stems and all, a very boring, very neutral gray, somewhere in the very center of grayness. It was the grayest gray that could possibly exist and exactly the opposite of color.

Sitting up abruptly, he called out, "John!" but then when he saw that John and the others had all fallen near him, he relaxed just slightly. But only slightly. Darting over to the side of the other man, his eyes flitting to the others to see that they were breathing, he looked around at where they were, drawing his coat more tightly around himself. The air was just the perfect temperature that he couldn't even tell what the temperature was, but at least the of the void was dissipating.

It was a vast, vast field of flowers--asphodel, in fact--flatter than flat, that met gray skies at the horizon. Only the texture of the flowers distinguished it from the sky. Far off, there was a castle of some kind, also grey, spiraling up impossibly, with seven gates (also gray). Gray people in gray clothing milled around the castle like zombies (or perhaps they were just zombies).

The group from Stacy were the only splashes of color in a dreary gray world.

"I believe we're not in Kansas anymore," he said. "...Why is it Kansas in that phrase? Who would want to be in Kansas in the first place?"

Grif was wiping frost from his visor and stretching, feeling it crackling in his armor's joints. He looked around for a moment, frowning to himself.

"Is this hell? Cause if this is hell, it's actually not that bad."

He got to his feet a little clumsily.

"Unless it's the magic eye thing making like... piles of flesh-eating maggots look like flowers."

Helpful, Grif.

Azula remained laying still in the frost and cold for a long minute letting her body adjust to the stinging throbbing pain of the rough tumble it had taken. When she sat up she looked just as pale and grey as the world around them. Her natural pale features and dark hair blended perfectly

She shivered and the empty hollow look had flickers of sharp irritation. Cold and ice were miserable horrible things, and she had never cared for flowers.

She sat there lost, looking around almost disinterested remaining on the ground for now.

Kaya arose assessing the situation. Grey everything, grey people and the words reminding her that this was a projection in their mind, that what hell really was could unnerve them. So, for this time, they had to trudge on, had to be strong and do what they were sent here to do.

Insane? This whole mission was really, but what other option was there? Sitting on the ship, waiting for the newest catastrophe? Making herself a sitting duck here? The options were ugly, but they had to be met. She had to tell herself she would not falter. There was frost here, so she had THAT at least. Worse come to worse, she would do what she could.

It took a moment. Her back to the others, she put her fingers together and imagined her will as a three sided force around her, around them. Ground and center. Repeat the litany of fear in your head. Take in the surroundings. Breathe, in. Out. Again. Stay strong.

"So I guess the destination is to that castle," she said aloud. "Then we'll concentrate on that. Better not to think about what this place really looks like."

Edited 2012-05-27 05:12 (UTC)

"You can quote The Wizard of Oz," John said to Sherlock, because being incredulous about the things his friend deemed "important" was a better idea than focusing on the fact that they had just been chucked into Hell by a bunch of angels.

He shot Grif a dirty look -- of course the person protected from touching the ground by a complete set of armor would bring up the possibility that they were actually sitting in maggots -- and climbed to his feet, brushing bits of crushed plants from his trousers. He noticed that the pale girl (Asula? Azzula? Azula, yes, that was it) hadn't gotten up yet, and moved to offer her a hand. "Come on then, up you get."

"Castle is the only thing around," he agreed with Kaya. "Not sure I like the look of the people, though."

"Is that what it's from?"

He could quote it. It didn't mean he knew what the quote was from. Deleted it.

"And if they attack us, you can shoot them in the head," Sherlock said, perhaps just a little callously. "That's how it works with zombies, isn't it?"

He stood up himself, brushing ~~maggots~~ crushed flowers off of himself. Something about his body language made it look oddly like he was trying to hover protectively around Azula and Kaya simultaneously. One had saved his life and the other...the other was too broken.

Edited 2012-05-28 07:02 (UTC)

Grif, Kaya, Sherlock, Azula, and John's Bogus Journey - Part 1

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Limbo

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