The Normpocalypse!

[thepull_mods]

Who: OPEN LOG
When: 12/12/12, beginning at 12:12am and ending around 10pm at night.
Where: Siren's Port, across all sectors
Summary: Everything detailed here is going down, citywide. Panic and chaos ensues as shortly after midnight, everyone in Port loses their special abilities. Is The Core playing a cruel doomsday trick? Or is it something even more sinister?
Warnings: Violence & Civil Unrest. Angry swearing inevitable!

Comments

[freeholding]

It's good that Harry catches John's wrist, because he was about to step away, giving Harry as much space as possible. He's as quick to offer aid to the wizard now as he is to give the man space. Sometimes Harry yanks him into drugged hugs, and sometimes Harry needs nothing more than to be alone for a few hours. John's making a concentrated effort to read when is which.

"It's stopped," John informs him quietly. His eyes alight to the smear of red left above Harry's lip. The part of him that remembers the way his mother fussed at him wants to lick his thumb and rub the mess away. Best not though... Just that he's thinking of that means he's not awake enough to do much of anything, lest he endanger the delicate peace between himself and Dresden.

That handkerchief is the last piece of the suit he arrived to the Port in, and he almost demands it back before realizing how idiotic that would be. Christ, he needs a cup of coffee.

"By which you mean the Sight is something you have to work at while a soulgaze is simply waiting for a trigger," John translates, mostly to himself. Extrinsic, intrinsic-- it is all Greek to him, the tangles of magical theory and practice. "So my ability is... which? I was using it subconsciously for a long time, so intrinsic?"

And the pinched, pained look reminds him. Harry's still got his hand, and John is loathe to deprive him of something to hang onto like a clingy sloth, but he can lean far enough to reach the bag with the pills in it. It's suspiciously full, considering Harry's meant to take one every few hours. John gives him a stern look before handing it over. "Take one or the bike's going to play havoc on your leg when we drive back."

[forzare]

The handkerchief is long gone by now. Though lost to the deep pockets of Harry's jeans is better than lost to the black hole that is the pocket of his duster and all the little bits and bobbles that he picks up and squirrels away. Fishing line. A broken chunk of cobblestone. A scarred and scratched CD. The teeth of a zipper. Rubber bands - one could never have too many rubber bands. Why, it wouldn't be long until he hauled home something bigger than what would fit in his pockets, proud as punch that he'd scored so much material - thick with use and energy and old memories.

Harry knows that his roommate wouldn't go using his blood against him, too. That's why he touches his fingers to his pocket and drags the thing out slowly, reluctant to give it back. He took it. Fair and square. Some less-than-scholarly part of him doesn't want it for material; he's not going to be that honest with himself. "Ah, sorry." He doesn't want John to think he doesn't -- well, trust him. It's weird, thinking that he trusts the guy, but it also works just right. He offers the handkerchief back, apologizing with a frown for bloodying it up.

Harry rubs the back of his hand just under his nose, as though John's staring has alerted him to the fact that there might still be blood staining his face. It's a fruitless gesture, but at least it confirms that he isn't going to bleed all over his shirt. "It's a really intelligent ability," he explains gladly, gesturing to the outline of John's body. Finally, he's let go of the man's wrist. "Entirely intrinsic, just waiting for a stray thought to drag it around your body and into your skin and boom - you're gone. Well. You're not really gone, you're just telling people you are. And they believe you. It's almost like you're impressing your will out and onto your environment - it's scary-cool."

Harry smiles, just a little. It's clear that even though John doesn't like his ability, the wizard is enamored with it. He wants to explore it, take notes on it, work with John and see where the limitations lie and how to use it in creative ways. Even if he does have a terrible headache and the other man is practically dumping pills down his throat with his demands. A faint scowl, and Harry deigns to take his medication (he hasn't been, there's nothing more he hates than being drugged to the gills and fuzzy-headed when he needs to be sharp as a tack and hard as diamond). He pops a pill, and hands the bottle back. "Time to go back, yeah?"

[freeholding]

The amount of relief John feels at having back that one piece of who he was before November is unsettling. He misses it more than he ever expected: the resources at his fingertips, the control over his environment, the armors he wore (be they kevlar or Armani), the two tall shadows that offered him their advice and camaraderie, and yes, sometimes the money. There's something reassuring in having the handkerchief back, and there is something about having Harry's blood on it now that makes him wish he had a poetic bone in his body so he could understand it.

"I'm glad you find it so intriguing. Someone should," John says bitterly. He can tell that Harry finds this bit of inherent magic worth merit and possibly study, but... John knew that when he asked Harry to use his Sight on John, it'd bring a confirmation of what he already knew. Somehow, it still stings. It's still that feeling of wrongness. And the worst of it is that, in hindsight, he can see just how often he leaned on his quiet power. He can't stop now. He couldn't support them so easily if he did.

If Harry wanted to play with it, he'd let him, because he's not so petty he'd squander an advantage. But he's not about to enjoy it.

Pocketing the pills, John puts a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Sit. Drink a bottle of water. I'll get everything back in the bike." Squeezing once, John steps away, moving to gather their supplies and replace them on the bike.

[forzare]

It is dreadfully poetic, isn't it? It was poetic when John took the time to muck up Harry's blood trail on the floor of their apartment. It was pretty poetic when he spent the time and energy hauling his ass to safety, after Harry had realized that the only person he had to contact was the one person he knew he could count on to turn up - for whatever reasons John had besides the fact that they were the only one each other had. That alone was a fact that caused all sorts of complicated feelings.

Harry doesn't have much to say in lieu of John's bitter feelings for his unwanted ability. He opens his mouth to say something encouraging, but this isn't anyone who can just receive a pep talk and a few uttered reassurances and call it helpful. Harry doesn't even think that offering anything like that is good enough. So, he shuts his mouth, and clears his throat awkwardly. This is going to eat at John, and eat him up - and the wizard knows it, he knows from experience, god damn it all. Anything short of something meaningful is not going to help whatsoever.

"It's like y--" He begins, and bites back what he wants to say. He'd like to get up and help, but he knows in a matter of minutes, all the colors are going to explode all over again, and he won't have the brain to differentiate between where one thought begins and another ends. Whee, drugs. So, while he can, Harry sits back and lets John have at the supplies, his hands in his lap and his thoughts focused on What Do I Do for as long as he can, before his ideas become fuzzy and ludicrous and far-flung and utter lunacy.

While John's busy - Harry writes notes, for as long as he can until they've become stray doodles and nonlinear thoughts and sloppy scribbles that he probably thinks are the long lost works of Marlowe or something. It's going to be a long, contemplative-slash-trippy ride back to the city, that's for sure.