❧ Out ❧ Of ❧ Time

[tinkertank]

➷ Pick A Muse
➷ Post a Prompt: leave a picture, a line, or a full-on tag!
➷ THE CATCH!: AU-it! If they're sci-fi? Stick them in BCE. If they're Victorian? Put them in the 1920s. If they're from Candyland? Put them into Steampunk Dystopian Veggieland. WHERE IN TIME IS CARMEN SANDIAGO? them. Let's do this.
➷ Label who you're tagging.
(Also put what time period/theme, if you have something specific in mind and think it's unclear.)
➷ ♥

Comments

[cruelpatience]

[fliesonfour]

[He hadn't really the stomach for being a ship's medic, alas. When he had agreed upon the contract with the Danish Common Fleet, it was mostly in hopes of getting free passage to Greenland, whereupon he intended to open a clinic.

For the majority of the trip thus far, though, he'd been sick (mostly imagined, the crew insisted, but Joly's stomach begged to differ) and hanging half-over the side of the rail. It was in moments like these, bleary-eyes, that he felt sure he saw something flitting in the water. Not a dolphin. Or perhaps he was hallucinating?

Mercifully, he was not over a railing now. They had made a supply stop along the way, and he was seated by the beach, skipping stones against the choppy water and taking in the brisk air; good for one's health!]

McCoy!

[savageries]

Eugenic Wars of the Devastating Fictional 1990s it is!

[maythrowup]

[The sound of his own breath, harsh, was what he was left with when he was finally settled into a chair, roughly, hands bound behind his back and a cloth settled over his eyes. Real, classic movie treatment here; those old round 'em up flicks he'd sometimes watch with Jim, on Academy nights, when he was too tired from practice surgeries to go out for a drink and Jim was hiding from one jilted lover or the other.

Days long since past.

He'd been gearing up for it, that five year mission. 'The Final Frontier', Jim kept calling it, with glassy eyes as he looked out at the sky like he was going to get to know it, intimately, going to shake its hand. McCoy was a little more skeptical... turned out? He had every right to be.

Didn't know what kind of anomaly it was they struck, only that it was serious. Hull-breaching, ship destabilizing levels of serious. Only a month in. He'd been in sick bay, conducting a routine physical, one moment.

Then the next?

The very fabric of reality had broken away, split before his eyes, leaving him disorientated. When he'd come to, he was in a stark hallway; it looked old, gray, battered. Military.

He'd gotten up when he heard footsteps and made a run for it when he'd noticed the guns, the footfalls going from a clip to a sprint. He hadn't stood a chance, didn't know his way around the place...

And now? Here he was.

Great Jim, just great.

Just had to be an explorer, didn't he. Wonderful.]

[affablecharm]

Because I couldn't find a decent sock hop picture

Sock hop it is!

[laughingandlyric]

[While the adults are away, kids will play, right? That was the old adage. Or new adage, actually; relative to the... you know, age of the earth. Adages like 'I came, I saw, I conquered' were actually antiquated, as opposed to the 20-year-old cracker-jack box saying people thought were old.

...Corrections like that were probably the reason he was stirring his drink alone, weren't they? Oh well. Not that he minded!

His grandmother was having one of her dinner parties, so he'd opted to actually go to the school dance for once. He did like the rock music, and the disk jockey the school had hired was pretty good. Besides! A great excuse to push way too many maraschino cherries into his coke and stir it by the stems while enjoying being at school without any shoes on. Best? Best!

He had no intention to dance, really, just to listen to the music. He'd already said hello to a few friends, but the noise wasn't any good for talking. So, he was parked at the side of the gym, back to the wall, mumbling the words to the popular song that was playing, pretty happy all on his own, thank you very much.]

[ahero]

[kleptes]

[He'd met Silena in his Greek History class, in his Junior year. It had been nice of her, to invite him over to decorate the tree at her place; not something he got a chance to do at home, with his mom being... well. His mom.

So he's ringing the doorbell and leaning on the frame, a bottle of store-bought eggnog tucked under his arm (non-alcoholic, of course) and getting ready to wear his best smile when she opens up. He can't quite bring himself to care about the holidays; especially not since Thalia transferred; but at least this makes things a little bit easier.

Silena's a good girl, anyway. Sweet. He can actually enjoy her company; which is really saying something.]

[bellonaborn]

[peterparker]

"Reyna, woah, hey!"

Peter laughed, catching up at a few paces, after snapping the shot. She's, uh... she's pretty cute, with an arm full of balloons, rushing around like they won't make it to Space Mountain unless they book it.

He's still downright impressed they managed to afford this, putting their savings together. But hey, he's gotta hand it to the creepy, cartoon mouse who stands on two legs...

This is a pretty happy place.

"You keep rushing like this, and I'm gonna think you're the one who has a princess to rescue."

For Armand~

[stillwhining]

[angelo]

"But Louis, I do not think it works like that."

Armand trawled, peering at the ignition of the car. He knew of cars; Daniel had taught him very much of them, long ago, the jangling keys and the humming engines and the grease and the sparks, even how to make them stay between the yellow and white lines on the pavement; and he appreciated their speed. It must feel like flying, to a mortal, who could not move as they did. The wind and the humming. It gave him a little thrill, even.

But it had been a long time since he'd used a car-- how long? He could not recall. Perhaps centuries? Well, long enough anyway, that keys were no longer what was used... and he really did not know how to make it start.

Neither did Louis, by the look of it.

Armand commentated dryly, sitting in the passenger seat, but offered really no more helpful suggestions.

"If it were to work like that, it would already be purring smoke. You must try something else."

JAMES POTTER THE HUMAN STICK

[lechiennoir]

BETTER NOT BE HIS MOB NAME, DOG DROOL!

[maraudingprongs]

[James propped a foot up on the table and grinned over at his friend. The hat he'd placed on his head (he thought it looked ace, quite frankly, pinstripes and all, real flashy), drooped a little low, slipping over his eyebrows and matting his hair over his eyes just enough to have the effect of making him look slightly more ridiculous than what he envisioned he might look like, sitting at their base of operations, prepping a heist.]

So, bud. D'ya reckon we hit up that bank tonight? The one with the stuffy old manager, Mister what's-his-face? With the bow tie and the sort of creepy-eyes.

[Onto the crux of the matter:]

There's a thing on at the Palace Theater later this week, and I want to ask Evans to go with me.

[So the extra cash couldn't hurt, right? Not if he wanted to take her to a nice dinner beforehand, to boot.]

COMBEFERRE

[onewordmore]

PARIS, FRANCE | Thursday night, St. Stephen's Crown was stolen from the National Museum of Monarchal Histories. On loan from the Czech Republic national vault for a limited time in commemoration of the fall of the Habsburg Empire, the diamond-and-ruby-encrusted crown was revealed to be missing upon the opening night of the exhibit.

An AMIS officer who has agreed to speak upon the condition of anonymity has intimated that one or more alleged members of the Blondist burglary group quickly becoming known as the "ABC" may have been the primary culprit of this particular heist. In addition, he has confirmed that the thief's or thieves' target seems to have extended no further than the crown. Though a full investigation is still being opened at the museum, such modus operandi appears to resemble that of a particular Blondist ABC member known only by the call sign "Vir."

Commissioner Jean Valjean has yet to make a statement on the entire affair, but all Blonds are advised to cooperate in any and all investigations hereforth.

If anyone has any information regarding the St. Stephens Crown case, the ABC, or ABC member Vir, please contact the anonymous hotline at 01 7*** ****.

International visitors can access more information on the AMIS, the ABC, and the significance of one's status as Blond or Brunet at www.*******.gouv.fr.

NOT EVEN A MUSE ON MY LIST GOOD JOB XD HERE GOES COPS & ROBBERS.

[thereistheduck]

"The crown, really?"

There's a dryness that belays the exasperation in his voice as he sets the paper down. Curiosity, more than passionate displeasure. He's already learned to tame that, when it comes to this one; now if only he could learn to tame the headaches it caused him...

"If I didn't know you better, I'd say you were trying to make my life difficult."

Alas, he did know him better, and understood that it wasn't the case. Still, the theft left him in a bind, considering it was still one of the principle duties of a man in his line of work to, you know... actually apprehend robbers.

Why he'd taken Marcel up on his offer to do PT at the agency's profiling department, he'd never know. That was years ago now, and here he was, with a PhD, a medical degree, and a detective's badge; and only the first two of those things made sense to him. The latter kept him in the loop, and at the forefront of social movements, political sways, popular opinion... and at the moment?

Popular opinion was supporting vigilantism like this latest theft.

If he were honest out loud, he supported it too. Because he knew the cause, and for better or worse; he knew the culprit.

Folding up the paper, he set it down, sighed, and rolled back his shoulders a bit.

"They're just going to use it to fuel another campaign against 'your kind of people'." A hot media-phrase that he had no love of, and said with some disappointment. "So all I'm curious about is what you plan to do with it, now that you have it."

Peter, PACIFIC RIM AU because why not

[amygdalae]

[peterparker]

"Sooo...." He knew he'd been brought here to, yanno, 'use science' and all that. He was a bright kid, and this programme could use all the bright kids it could get its hands on, to keep these machines in top working order.

Still... he didn't see how he was supposed to do that without knowing 100% how they worked. Which, naturally, would involve a test run, right?

Tapping his pencil against his tablet and stealing a look at his supervisor, he questioned; "...When do we get to try one of these out?"

[flaskerade]

[tresjoly]

When Joly had insisted that they needed to warm up after getting sodden in the rain (an ill-fated trip from the medical building of his University's campus back to his apartment, in which Bossuet, who had been in possession of Joly's umbrella while the surgeon-in-training was laid heavy with his own textbooks and carefully colour-coded notes, had needed to veer off to meet Courfeyrac for coffee, and had taken Theo's shield with him, in the scabbard of his satchel), he had not quite meant that they both take to the tub at once. Indeed, though, his logic had worked against him in this regard.

The shower had come upon them suddenly, when they were but a block from his abode. Joly, squawking, had been almost as worried over the health of his notes as in his own bodily well-being, and had not known what to shield. Being a sun-shower, as it was, upped the chances of a sore lymph or a sandpapered throat come the morning; a sudden shift in temperatures never did anyone any good. Mood rings alone benefitted from that. A relic that really belonged squarely in the 60s, and had no part of function in his millennial life, thank you much!

Once inside his apartment, he'd shed his shoes, hung up his coat to dry, and fussed over Grantaire to follow suit. On at a ramble about the ill-effects of the damp, and how imperative it was to get into warm water quickly... he had missed the little circle he'd drawn about them both, in his haste to see them both well.

If they both must be in a warm bath at once, and he only owned one tub; who was to take the first of these baths, and who was to suffer?

After very little hemming and hawing, the deal was struck, and they both fit neatly into the tub, filled up solidly, with a bubble bath of his own brewing. Eucalyptus, peppermint and pine; he wasn't hugely convinced of aromatherapy, but he trusted his own homeopathy, and these were the scents best for keeping the sinuses clear. They would smell like a Candyland Forest after, but, well! Worse things to smell of.

Snorting lightly, and leaning back, he blew a mount of bubbles away from him, and towards his guest, at a lazy drift.

"We may yet survive to see tomorrow; no promises, though! Also, might you make your legs a bit shorter? Your toe is prodding at me."

[intotheblack]

Katniss sat stiffly in the uncomfortable chair, staring out over the see of young faces in front of her, trying not to really see anyone. The reaping was about the only time she was allowed here, and she didn't want to see what was the same. Or what had changed.

She knew one of her nephews was up for reaping this year, Prim kept her up to date with letters, and the reaping where she personally knew someone always filled her with a uniquely exquisite guilt ridden anxiety. If their name were to be called, she would have no doubt that she was, in part, to blame.

The young man who had replaced Effie some years back was going through his speech, and Katniss simply focused on a patch of blue sky above the buildings, waiting for this to end.

[peterparker]

Not much of a story to see here, same-old, same-old. His parents had died when he was young enough, as if there was any age bracket that made that 'okay.' Both at once, in an accident; again, what else was new? Whether it really was an accident or the sort of 'planned accident' that had been keeping bodies in check since the failed Rebellion, who knew? Who asked questions anymore?

Peter did, here and there. Collected old trinkets, stalked the site grounds where it had taken place, when he had time to himself. Spoke in a low voice to his uncle Ben about it, who'd taken him in after the incident. Took care of him. Or had, until a Peacekeeper had beaten Ben to death for protecting Peter and taking the fall for something he'd stolen. Just a little thing, a nothing. And a life had ended, just like that. Over nothing.

This? This would be lives ending over less than nothing.

It was maybe that numbness and that guilt that made Peter react with a brave face when his name was chosen. Like hearing it from under water, only half-aware. It was his aunt's cry of shock that pulled him out of it; suddenly he was under cold water.

Who'd take care of her? Who would she have to talk to, if he really walked up to that podium?

But, there he was, walking mechanically to take his place on it, too skinny and gangly to look worth much.

But he had a little bit of power, beneath it all. Maybe that shone out from his eyes, when he stared back at the crowd; he hoped it did.

He wasn't going down, leaving his aunt, without a fight.

When the pleasantries were over, the speeches done, he turned directly to the famous Katniss Everdeen and said in a low voice, "So, we get to say goodbye, right?"

[capitolium]

The energy was nearly bubbling off her.

Utie has been assigned a new stylist partner. And they were going to get to visit 5, as part of their training as a pair.

The last stylist had been a grumpy old man, and Utie really had no idea what had happened to him. But deep inside, she wasn't at all sad he was gone. This would be a new man, hopefully a cool man.

And one that she would be going to 5 with.

Bouncing on her heels in the waiting room, she played with one of the bangles around her wrist, trying not to over do her excitement before the Escort brought him in.

[floralprinteverything]

District 5 had always appealed to him; it was the working-man's District, buzzing with jobs that ranged from purely physical to purely intellectual. Such a range, cross-bred with the a lesser poverty than in most of the Districts made for sharp, witty citizens who were often built well to boot. (It certainly helped that they had some of the most beautiful and vivacious hair and eye colours, at that.)

He had always been the most hooked on the tragedies that involved those people's deaths, and so, as if it were some small consolation, he wanted to dedicate himself to making them as comfortable as possible while they lived, and as revered; like Gods from myths of old, risen again.

To be picked as a replacement for that District was, really, an honour.

Thanking his escourt with a nod and a sunny, if sheepish smile, he stepped inside the room provided to meet the more senior stylist; excited, of course, but almost rendered shy by just how much.

"Utie?" Greeted, once he'd crossed the threshold and spotted her, raising a hand in hello. "It's so nice to meet you... I hope I'm not late?"

❧ For De // Winchesters AU

[kleptes]

Dark and Stormy was cutting it close and cheesy. But that appealed to certain monsters, like the Arachne. Who knew that the descendants of that Creation creten would turn, by shades, more human again, and thus... more useful? It was rare to find a monster that was neither of Hades' doing or in thrall to his heed, or else already under the thumb of the Titans.

Luke's job was a simple one: find a few of those creepy-crawly descendants, and convince them that they had one of two options. Join in Kronos' fight, to take revenge upon haughty Athena; or have a personal and very final meeting with Backbiter, his blade.

So who would have thought that in looking for the spider, he'd come across another owl on the hunt?

He'd been tracking this mortal woman tracking his monster for some time now. Finally deciding that it wasn't quite worth the secrecy, Luke gave up the chase and leaned against the nearest building, folding his arms in the dark and looking vaguely annoyed and vaguely amused as he called out to her,

"Hey. You hang out in dark alleys often, or is this just a special kinda night?"

[not_cocked]

De spun on her heel, ready to give some off the cuff reply, already forming a few different option depending on who she was talking to, when all of them died in her throat.

Adam.

The surge of emotions that hit her was a strange one. Really, Adam had always brought up a strange mixture of emotions in her. But front and center was guilt, and right behind it, fear.

Because there was a solid chance Adam wasn't the one riding around in that skin.

"What the hell?" She knew it wasn't the most graceful lead in ever, but it seemed appropriate.

jehan. asylum au.

[jondrette]

The room was dark, save the small lantern that hung too high for either of them to reach. It was the only light either Eponine, or the man she'd been thrown into this small cell with had been given. That was some time ago now, she couldn't remember. Occasionally, they'd enter, see how things were, say a few things to try to speed up the process. The last time they came in, Eponine had bitten one of the orderlies.

That had gotten her dragged from the cell.

Now, they opened the door, tossing her back in unceremoniously. There was blood on her teeth as she looked up at Jehan, laughing darkly. "You need to fuck me, you know, m'sieur," she said as though it were new information. "I'm sure that's not how the high-class do it, but it is how it is for the rest of us. This treatment."</td></tr></table>

Re: jehan. asylum au.

[vivelavenir]

It was ghastly. All of it. Beyond every tale of horror he had ever combed through as a boy, beyond the sonnets of wartime miseries and battlefield injury, beyond the reaches of the sort of humanity that gave tragedy a pleasant face, now and again. It was beyond all of these things, because this was a time of peace, and because no matter what they said, Jehan could not shake the idea that it was not those who sat gently in rooms, mildly biding time and filling their stomaches on dread who were mad; but the orderlies and the so-called doctors, who dealt medicine in shades of pain, and who promised miracles but demanded lies.

It was ghastly, to be denied food and water; the dignity of one's own space, among one's own gender even; but worse by far were the restrictions from natural comforts-- fresh air. Sunlight.

Truly, he thought the purpose of such a place must be to drive the people inside mad, if they did not arrive so.

When the door opened, weak though he was, tired and ill with a sickness that came from being too long indoors and too little free (one that afflicted the mind and the joints exclusively), he still chided himself into standing up, into offering a hand (albeit, late), to the woman who had stumbled back in, reeking now of her own blood.

Again. Ghastly.

"You know I cannot." Tone apologetic, but firm, and hand still waiting out for her. "It might end this leg of suffering, but there is yet a mile to go beyond it after. ...Are you badly wounded?"