20 March 2012 @ 02:52 pm
[ oo2 - I was wrong, I confess ]  
[ Action ]

[ A - 432 Peepers - Morning ]

[Following the night where he all but carved up his facetwin in the driveway, Nathan has been pretty ghost-like in terms of how often he's seen around the house. Mag and Austria and most importantly Shilo have had a great lot of space to themselves. This morning, however, he can be found in the kitchen.

Doing battle with the toaster.

Before anyone thinks he's gone completely round the bend, as he jams a chair up against the back door, the chrome toaster on the kitchen table suddenly leaps for his head in a shower of angry sparks.]

[ B - Mayfield - Late Morning ]

[Today was a day to take the car. An altercation with a set of dustbins as he crossed the street on his way to work has him in a right state, fretting about leaving the girls home by themselves. He's not particularly watching where he's going.]

[ C - Hospital - Afternoon to Evening ]

[A lot of people have come into today with injuries, so he's caught up in the hustle without any time to stop and think too much, in his element. Are you a new patient who's been attacked by an unreasonably angry person or object? He can help with that. What about any fellow doctors, care to approach your usually quiet fellow physician about any help? Nurses, any charts that must be seen to or enraged patients that need to be restrained?]
11 February 2012 @ 02:00 pm
[ oo1 - a cold and broken hallelujah ]  
[ 432 Peepers Street | Morning ]

[Shilo, you're the world to me.

His vision swam in a sea of black and red, his daughter's face a pale moon in the spotlight's gleam. Nothing seemed to hurt anymore, his wounds unimportant and superficial, his crushing guilt abating as the night's opera drew to a close. Marni was calling to him, lifting a lamp in the darkness to light his way home. He closed his eyes...

...and then Nathan Wallace woke up. The early morning sun is bright, cheerfully warm on his face. Someone is beside him, a sensation he hasn't felt in so many years. The woman is unrecognizable, her fair hair in tight pin curls, her sleep as sound as death.

He's not sure precisely how he made it outside, but he's standing on the front stoop in his pajamas blinking in the light, the steps cold on his bare feet. Pushing glasses that aren't his up his nose, Nathan stares at the cookie-cutter houses around him, at the white picket fences and the still, postcard-like quality of the scene. He sags back against the front door, nudging the metal basket of fresh milk beside it with his ankle.

He died. He died, he knows it. Is this the afterlife, some form of Heaven distilled into the shape of 1950's quaint perfection?

Or is it Hell?]

[ Phone ]

[Residents familiar with a certain Watcher might recognize the voice on the other line, though it's absent its customary dulcet accent, Midwestern American replacing Giles' upper-middle class British. Nathan is hurried, anxious.]

Is there anyone out there who knows what's going on? What is Mayfield?
Current Mood: confused