[RP] Dark was the night, cold was the ground, I could barely make out the sound...

[uberboned]

All's quiet on Chicago streets. There's snow on the ground, ice clinging to places where the salt trucks can't get to, and at this hour most people are in bed like any sane person should be.

Sane is relative in Chicago, of course.

In front of the Empress Theater, a Rift springs to life and 5'7 worth of Biblical Archangel-slash-Trickster God practically rolls out of it, hits the curb, and then scrambles to his feet just as the damn thing closes again. There's a silver stiletto blade in his hands and there's blood on it, which probably had a lot to with the fact that on the other side of that particular Rift, there's a dead archangel.

Raphael never did fucking know when to quit.

"Your timing is fantastic," Gabriel, because he stopped calling himself the Trickster a long time ago, spits at where the Rift should be. He wobbles a bit. He's not hurt terribly bad for an angel, but for something that passes as human, he sort of looks like he got on the bad end of a really vicious fight.

Probably because he totally did.

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[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

Murphy sits down, more by necessity than from desire. She's breathing heavily, shuddering from combined adrenaline, pain and fatigue.

She doesn't really believe it's dead. She's still ill at ease, still sure something is wrong.

"...We should move," she says.

Something shifts--she reaches for Gabriel's hand as her center of balance seems to do a one-eighty, dumping her on her side--but she's falling, still falling, because there's no floor where the floor should be.

She manages to fix Gabriel with one startled look, manages to think Oh for fuck's sake, before she tumbles into the alley beyond the rift that opened under her, hits her head against a dumpster and blacks out.

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

Gabriel scrambles back into sitting position with enough speed to make his head spin, completely stunned into a lack of further movement by the sight of.... That. His kneejerk response is to go in after her and beat the tar out of whatever the hell thought that was a good idea, but it's closed just as he thinks about making a move.

And then all is quiet in the theater again and, for a moment, all he can do is stare.

And then he shouts at the ceiling with enough fervor to echo in the empty theater, "Son of a bitch."