entranceway | [ACTION mostly] Fair is foul and foul is... frightfully far gone from reality

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[ACTION mostly] Fair is foul and foul is... frightfully far gone from reality

Buckingham feels uneasy from the moment he wakes up.

From the moment he wakes up thinking he heard the sound of crows. Thinking just for one terrified second that he's trapped in the last event's fog. But the colour is different and his hands aren't stone; they are still flesh, damp and shaking from the cold.

It's mist, mist like the one looming over the moorlands in the south and how long has it been there? Well over an hour, but Buckingham can't know that. He can only get dressed, faster and with less care and more urgency than he can reasonably explain.

He sees his own breath dancing in the cold when he hears the crows calling again in the distance. The floor underneath his feet feels soft like mud, despite the vague recollection that he ought to be indoors, on the tenth floor no less. That there ought to be no drops of water falling from the ceiling.

But they do and something is wrong, something is wrong in a way that feels far more imminent and oppressive than usual, in a way that makes Buckingham forget about his communication device and the option to laugh it off over the network.

Because something is out there and now it's banging at his door, suddenly and without warning, louder and louder without pause or mercy until the wood cracks and dark water spills into his room, soaking his boots and breeches up to his knees.

He aims his guns at the door, but nothing and nobody follows through. Nothing but a cold draft and the crows calling again.

Buckingham curses the mansion through his teeth. A rat scurries out from under his dresser and disappears through the door. With his weapons ready at hand he follows it into the corridor where the water only barely reaches his ankles. No more wading, but the smell of dirt and moss and rot remains.

As do the drops coming from the ceiling, as do the walls that are peeling from the moisture.

A stray bundle of tall grass here and there, swaying in the wind. In a place where neither grass nor wind ought to be, but Buckingham no longer thinks about that. He thinks about a play he saw at home, about fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air, was that not how it went?

About how he's suddenly not so sure if their malicious cackling is only remembered or if it's right--

There! He spins around, aiming his gun at the shadow he was convinced he saw without even looking back. But it's nothing again, nothing but crows mocking his effort from the distance and another rat--

Another rat that won't escape his dagger this time. The weapon is drawn and tossed in an instant. The creature only twitches once. Then it stills and disappears in the mud. It's as close to triumph as Buckingham will get, at least right now, now that the rhyme is coming back to him again in sing-song voices.

Foul and filthy indeed. Foul and filthy and so rank it's almost tangible, crawling down his throat and nearly choking him, forcing him to take sharp breaths into his sleeve before he gives up and falls against the wall, retching.

And then it reveals itself at last, laughing at him cruelly from ~~the end of the corridor~~ the distant hills of the moor, red eyes staring and daring him to come closer.

Buckingham stumbles backwards.

Buckingham stumbles backwards and halts, immediately resenting himself for stumbling backwards instead of drawing his pistol (like he does now) and approaching (just like now).

...Just like now as he stomps towards an ominous and unseen foe, continuing a scene that would be far more impressive to outsiders if they could see more than a strutting and fretting madman on the tenth floor corridor.

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It was his mistake for assuming there would be logic to this fog, really. Jim had, upon his realization what it was this fog did, grabbed a gas mask and tried for a higher place - the last fog, after all, had not made it that far up the mansion. So Jim with his suit and his gas mask had made it to the top of the mansion, only to find that there was no more nor less fog than anywhere else in the building.

He notices the dishelved duke a little late. Namely, from the sound of laboured breathing, followed quickly by the thud of a knife embedding itself in the wooden hallway floor.

It's not hard to tell how far gone he is.

Jim stays out of the way, or at least tries his best to.

Somebody is there.

Buckingham spins around, pistol more waved than pointed, but... but no, no, somebody was... ~~somebody seems to be everywhere~~ over there first, so focus, focus.

He turns back towards the shadow and shoots, shoots without hesitating, without bothering to get closer now, just to make those eyes shut up.

It flickers. Moves. Approaches. Faster. Too fast. Not a person, but--

The crows.

Too many wings, angry and loud and flapping past Buckingham, claws and beaks scratching his face before he can cover it, before he lets out a scream, dropping his pistol and falling down into the mud.

Edited 2012-09-01 19:25 (UTC)

Well, if it weren't for the gunshots, this would be a fascinating display. As it were, Jim would much rather observe this from a distance. On a screen, preferrably. Now he sees the man clawing at his face, screaming, and falling to the floor from no discernible attack.

As he drops the pistol mid-fall, Jim takes his chances and approaches a few quick steps, in an attempt to take the madman's gun. He recognizes the man, now. Slytherin head of house, but also, and mostly, the one who'd appreciated the smell of opium wafting through the library.

Not very dignified now.

Ah yes, the good old opium den. As far as exotic future substances go Buckingham might just have a small preference for that one. That one over this one, over knowing that the crows may be gone, but the danger is far from over.

He scrambles to his feet in a hurry, looking even worse for wear in his mud-covered, crow-pecked imagination. He reaches back and makes a grab for something real, for his gun, for--

That wasn't there before.

Seeing... that he withdraws the hand that was almost on the weapon. Slowly. Slowly this time. Stumbling back again, but not far. Not frantically.

Buckingham is breathing heavily, but his face is merely frown, not fear or fury, merely blinking and rubbing his eyes and trying to make sense of what he's seeing.

"You..."

"I do hope you're finished," Jim answers coldly, looking at the duke with some disdain. There is no way of being certain Buckingham was with him or even seeing him as himself, but at any rate, he is quite tired of being shot at.

Jim picks up the gun in Buckingham's stead, and has no intention of giving it back at least until further notice.

There is another hanging on his belt. As is his sword. Knives, hidden in more places than Buckingham himself currently recalls. And none of those weapons receive any attention at the moment.

Because his head hurts. Because he can't focus. Because the thing in front of him is... is...

Is finally becoming clear to him.

(Another rat scurries past. And another.)

"You said-- You said the fog would keep them out, you said there would be none of them in London for months."

(One more. This one sniffs at his boot before he kicks it aside.)

"You were wrong. Or were you? Perhaps you lied."

Buckingham starts pacing, throwing nervous glances all around him, only pausing to breathe deeply into his sleeve.

"Then the book lied as well. The air, it has to be the air, how would they know better? They weren't even there, were they, doctor?"

Eventually, George had thought of gas masks or had the idea suggested to her. In any case, she is certainly wearing one when she encounters an old-timey Frenchman wielding a pistol. And she is certainly wishing she'd brought one with her for anyone who had never heard of them before.

Shit.

"Hey, uh." George puts her hands up, hoping he isn't adding her into his hallucination as an enemy or something. She figures that's too much to ask. "I'm not gonna hurt you or anything."

Buckingham spins towards her and glares. So far George is all herself. A somewhat distorted and brighter self perhaps, but herself no less.

"You said there... was no cause for concern. You said so last time," he hisses and stumbles backwards, not quite daring to lift his pistol against her just yet.

In the back of his mind the fog pulls at a conversation they had, the briefest exchange at the beginning of an event George claimed to be perfectly harmless. An event that led to Buckingham's death over and over again. Athos was responsible, clearly, and Santana was there, always there, but... but now?

Now George is as ill an omen to him as this ghastly fog itself.

Ah, well. So he hasn't come to his senses after all. Moriarty has little patience with his insane rambling, so he silently turns to leave. It is none of his concern what Buckingham is on about, and what little valuable information could be gleaned from it would be much easier to acquire from talking to the man in an at least somewhat more lucid state.

Now, hopefully the madman will let him walk away.

Yes, that sounds like something a mad Buckingham would do. On opposite day.

"Don't you dare turn your back on me, don't you--"

He lunges forward and makes a grab for Moriarty's collar. Pistol be damned, if he even notices it to begin with.

"Don't you dare let me die and rot with the rest of them."

His first plea is furious alone, the second offers fear to go with it.

Jim sidesteps, not with as much ease as he'd like, but he does. It pays, having seen this coming. Then he gives Buckingham his best completely uncaring smile, whether the duke is looking or not.

"Please. I am hardly your crutch. Surely you can find the way back on your own."

George swallows. This is...not great. She should've told everyone, honestly, fuck whatever Rube said about not mixing with the living. She'd done plenty of mixing.

And now people really did think she was the one at fault.

"This isn't last time, alright? That was different. And once you calm down and--"

She hesitates, not sure if she wants to risk it, but finally takes the mask off and gingerly holds it out to him. "If you put this on, you'll feel better." She bites her lip, extend her arm a little further. "I promise."

The duke is looking at Moriarty all right, but what he sees doesn't leave much room for expressions. As far as physicians go he has perhaps not made the wisest choice in his delirium.

"I have been here all morning."

The hiss is as much as he can do to stop himself from screaming as he attempts to block the other man's way.

"I might catch it, what... what if I caught it?"

Buckingham glares at the mask with such disdain, George might as well have offered him the head of a decapitated infant. And even that might still rouse less suspicion than whatever idea the duke's frayed mind has projected onto the mask.

"Quaint, that... is a rather quaint design for a heretic's fork. Or is that not what it is?"

He laughs shakily and turns away from George.

"Silence me, will it? Calm, so... very, very calm."

"The fuck?" George drops her arm, cocks her head a little. "It's not a fork. It's a gas mask."

She gestures around. "For the gas."

"A face piece filled with herbs?"

Buckingham's reinterpretation of the mask comes with a scornful laugh. That is, if he was even listening to begin with.

He slowly turns back to George, but his intentions, whatever they were, are interrupted by the rats, too many rats crawling out of the fog and gnawing at his boots.

He kicks at them. Shoos them away with an angry hiss. Directs the same tone at George.

"A little late for your tricks, is it not?"

"What-- what tricks?! You're hallucinating!" She gestures at his suddenly dancing feet. "I'm just trying to help!"

The rats appear and disappear, faster and faster until Buckingham's feet, until not even Buckingham's eyes can follow them; black and vicious dots, blurring and hissing and merging, merging to grow bigger and bigger and--

"You think to feast on me while I still draw breath?!"

He draws something else as well. Aims with it. And shoots. The gun goes off, the bullet lodging itself into the floor, perhaps too close to George's feet for comfort. In reality, anyway.

In the duke's vision he hits the tiny black monster square between its glowing eyes.

One last flicker of red. Then they're gone. At least for the moment.

His triumphant cackle ebbs away. His temper simmers down as quickly as it has flared up. When he looks at George his head is tilted and his voice is calm, almost sweet. Only his expression remains far from reassuring.

"...Help, Miss Lass?"

For a brief moment, George was certain she was about to lose a foot. It didn't seem likely that she'd just regrow that like her finger. But then her gaze drops down and she sees the wounded floorboard and she points at it before she can think of what it is she wants to say.

"It's-- it-- There is nothing there! Look at it! Really look!" She holds the gas mask up again, chest tight with fear. "You need to put this on."

Buckingham looks. Buckingham really looks, but of course there is nothing there now, not after he fought off another attack. And the next?

The fog chills him and he refuses to shiver. His clothing clinging to him, damp and cold. His boots almost soaked with mud and every once in a while his face twitches as another drop of cold water lands on it.

And the next attack? Not rats, that much is certain...

"If the device is so important, why not... put it on yourself?"

He advances slowly.

I only have one.

[The fog is getting closer just as he is. She takes a step back.]

"So you offer me its protection freely and... shoulder all the risk yourself?"

His steps continue. He does not sound especially thrilled by the offer.

"I haven't died here before. And-- and I don't know if it'll work on me anyway." George winces, not sure if that last part was too much information.

That is indeed the kind of slip of tongue that might make Buckingham curious, suspicious. But given that his suspicion has already reached beyond its peak there is little that can be changed by George's comment, although it certainly confirms what the duke already knew beyond a shadow of doubt.

Murder. Murder by this dreadful creature that evokes such ghastly memories of death, murder most vicious and under the pretense of lending her aid, murder--

Murder that lacks subtlety and is doomed to fail.

Lord Buckingham grins.

"You suspect... death won't work on you?"

He extends his hand towards George, towards the mask she offers.

She pushes her hand out further, instinctively, trying to get the mask in his hands so she can leave and now.

"It's complicated. I already died back home." She isn't sure if this is convincing-- it really depends on if he knows that that doesn't make one exempt and is aware she's been around long enough to know that is the case. "It just seems like I've hit my limit! That's all!"

She laughs awkwardly.

Is this why Rube didn't want her getting involved with the living?

Buckingham reaches for the mask, listening. He deems her explanation worth a loud laugh and a rather cheerful expression.

"Then this shan't even sting!"

And this? This is Buckingham grabbing not George's mask, but her wrist instead. This is the duke freeing a knife from his sleeve all too swiftly as he pulls her closer. This is a paranoid man thinking he has to be faster, because it will be her life or his.

This is him aiming right for her heart.

Catch it? Wait. Doctor? Ohh, well, he can certainly work with that, even not knowing what exactly the story is. Improvising is half the fun of storytelling, after all. Thinking quick.

"Then you're going to die. Like everybody else."

A pause, for effect.

"But don't worry, everybody dies some day."

George doesn't scream. There really isn't time. The blade slides right between her ribs and then she's gasping, clawing at his chest. Last time, she didn't feel a thing. She was reaped first. Her soul left her body and her body perished without her.

This time, she feels ever last pump of her heart.

He almost jumps back when she raises her arms, as if expecting his victory to be denied, as if expecting each of her fingers to turn into a dagger. But when he presses her back against the wall instead her fingers remain human and her hands have no power to drive him back or stop what has already been done.

Buckingham watches her body quiet and sink, silent and still onto the ground. A human body with a human end, a mortal life utterly extinguished save for the last warmth of her blood that still clings to his chemise.

He expected more.

More resistance, more difficulty in ensuring her defeat, but no matter how long his gaze lingers she simply refuses to give an encore, even as the fog washes over her body.

It only means the real enemies are still out there.

Buckingham stares at the bloody ground one last time before finally turning to leave.

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[ACTION mostly] Fair is foul and foul is... frightfully far gone from reality

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wow random action tags sorry

oh you rebel you

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