concierge: (Default)
[personal profile] concierge
Any entries earlier than this were pre-reboot.
amusebouche: (innocent)
[personal profile] amusebouche
Some people (mostly those gruff military types this space ship seemed to be full off) called this place the 'mess hall'. Andras Grauza much preferred calling it the kitchen. There were tables there, yes, and enough chairs for most of the crew to eat at once, but that didn’t mean this place ought to be degraded to ‘mess hall’.

The term gave off the impression that Andras was nothing more than a plain, soup-kitchen cook. That he was some canteen employee in charge of serving dollops of food from large spoons onto wet plates. That he could be spotted wearing a dirty apron and smelling of onions and old grease.

Andras was not and could not. No, this place was much more than what a mess hall implied. It was his domain, his pride, his life, his joy.
He loved his kitchen and he took great pride in his work. The stranger the meat supplies he had to work with, the better. The more exotic the herbs and vegetables, the more joy it brought him to turn them into something delicious.

Whenever he had time, Andras adorned the tables with flowers and other arrangements. He knew this lead to great hilarity amongst some of the crew, but he was convinced that a nicely decorated room added to the joy of dining. If, of course, there was time for joy of dining. All too often people just came in, ate and left just as they swallowed the last spoonful of food from their plate. A waste of well-prepared food, certainly, but unavoidable on a ship such as this.

Chiana – an alien crew member and one of the few friends he had here – had taken seat on her favourite spot on his counter, eating a bowl of left-over salad with her bare hands. Had she been human, Andras would have considered her manners to be very rude. She wasn't, though. She was reptilian, in a manner of speaking, and he respected her species’... etiquette. Just as he wouldn't demand a Japanese to eat with knife and fork instead of chop-sticks, he wouldn’t demand Chiana to change her table – or rather counter – manners.

She was talking to him, flirting a little, in a crude but enjoyable manner, and Andras' found his thoughts were straying.

Life, he decided, was good on the ship. If he were to think very deeply about his past, and about his life on this ship, he knew he would find it it as if clouded by a haze. There were gaps, he knew, but he found he wasn't too keen on filling them.

If he were to analyse himself (as psychotherapists had a tendency to do) he would likely suspect that he suffered a traumatic event, causing him to repress certain memories. But he didn't analyse himself. He liked his life as it was. No use dwelling on the past.

He smiled to his companion and she grinned. Likely he had just consented to something wicked. “I’ll be right back,” he assured her. He took a pair of scissors and walked into the refrigerated storage room

The first thing he noted was the smell. Even before his eyes settled on the decorated walls, even before his skin noted the warmth of the hall, he could smell there was something wrong. The expected smell of meat, plastic, and cooled air was absent, replaced instead with the smell of dry wallpaper, and old carpet. He didn’t recognize it and he didn’t much trust it.

He wasn’t shocked. There was no particular reason for that, other than the lack of an elevated heart-rate to be able to term his state as such. Surprised, yes, certainly. He was standing in a hall that didn’t look like any hallway on the space ship, after all. It was hardly something one would expect to happen.

His first reaction was to open the door again, but he found it locked. Not too strange, perhaps. It was an entirely different door. 

He turned again, rolled down his sleeves and removed his apron, folding it neatly over his arm, and tugged at his waistcoat to straighten it.

Best see what this was all about.

[Hannibal Lecter currently believes himself to be Andras Grauza. See profile and OOC info for details.]

Mar. 22nd, 2014 03:53 pm
scaleshavefallen: (looking to the side)
[personal profile] scaleshavefallen
Being here -- where everything is tranquil, normal, not a threat -- makes it very easy to forget everything that happened, before I stepped through one doorway and ended up at the Nexus.

But it's all still there, lingering in the back of my head, like an uninvited guest. Everything that's happened, all the deaths that have been pinned on me, they just sit there, rotting away, half a story told that I'll never be any closer to finding out the ending to.

It bothers me, how much of my own life I'm missing. I can't piece it back together, not without knowing the evidence, without having some else there to untangle the threads. For now, all I can do is speculate, and the longer I have here to my own devices, the more convinced I am that even my speculation is delusional.

The weather's nice today; brisk. I can stand outside without shivering, at least, although a chill goes up my spine anyway as I let myself think about Abigail, Georgia, Marissa, Cassie. I repeat their names in my mind like a mantra, the four women that a corrupt, imperfect system has been tricked into believing I've murdered.

I wrap my arms tighter around my body and stare out at the empty land around the Nexus. I am not a murderer. No one here has any reason to think I am.

So why do I feel like I'm hiding something very, very significant?
concierge: (Default)
[personal profile] concierge
A large, decorative sign situated prominantly in the lobby reads:

The Nexus Hotel
proudly presents its

Event Location
Nexus Premises
6 PM - ?

1920's themed dress recommended, but not required for all guests

The sumptuous theme of elegance that typically surrounds the Nexus Hotel is out in full force on the evening of the 31st. With efficiency and very little said, a group had entered and snapped white tablecloths on long tables in the main lobby of the hotel, turning side-rooms into similar displays of elegance. Then came the food, followed by the alcohol, and the guests were quick to follow.

Drinks were on the lawn, in the hotel, making their way into the hands of party-goers who wore shining, shimmering, jewelled gowns of all eras, but only those from the 1920’s hung on a rack in the luggage room where hotel guests entered to check in and found themselves amidst a welcoming committee like none before.

In the skies between the hotel and the stars, fireworks shot off in hourly intervals, sparkling and accompanied by a great bang that the music from the band does its’ best to drown out (to no avail). And under those shimmering lights, the party for New Years Eve roared. It was not the only party, though, as a door had been propped open that led directly to the shining lights of Las Vegas, the gleaming neon of the strip beckoning any guests daring enough to try their hand at games of chance and luck.
assistingconsultant: (um k)
[personal profile] assistingconsultant
It was seven in the morning. She knew Sherlock was still awake; she hadn't heard him come up, and it wasn't the first time he spent all night sitting on the floor with dozens of files fanned out all around him. As for her, she'd needed sleep, but apparently he was rubbing off on her; after four hours she was wide awake, and wondering why he hadn't barged in yet waking her up.

With an annoyed sigh - now even her body was conspiring against her when it came to a decent night's sleep - she threw back the covers. She grabbed the sweater she'd dropped on her chair before going to bed, pulling it on in defense against the chill before crossing the floor to her bedroom door. She ought to see if she could go help, or at least get him to go and take a nap.

That was her plan, anyway, but upon exiting her room she suddenly stopped in her tracks. She wasn't at home. Instead she was in a well lit room, with tables, and a bar, and people... it had happened again.

"Damn it!" she exclaimed, turning around but, of course, there was no door to be found. It had magically disappeared. The first time it had happened she'd only been stuck for an hour, and she'd wanted desperately to chalk it up to a bad dream - exactly why she hadn't told Sherlock about it, because he would insist on knowing every detail and pointing out the fact that it was quite easy to distinguish dreams from reality and everything could be explained. And she hadn't been prepared for that with so little information at her disposal, so she'd stayed quiet.

Since then, though, she'd made sure to carry money with her everywhere, and just then she was grateful for her paranoia. She dug into the pocket of her sweater for the twenty dollar bill she'd stuffed in there earlier in the day. From what she'd gathered the first time, she was not the only person this happened to, so she hoped the dress code at this place would not kick out confused ex-surgeons wandering around in sleeping shorts, bed hair and bare feet. Because she really needed a coffee.
notgivingyourmoneyback: Harvey Specter looking quite confused or conflicted ([neg] confused Harvey is confused)
[personal profile] notgivingyourmoneyback
Harvey takes the same route back from Jessica's office he always does. The same carpet, the same walls. At least, he was pretty sure it had all been the same.

He is also pretty damned sure his office is supposed to be at the end of the corridor and through the same glass door he knows he walked through. In fact, he knows this is where his office is supposed to be.

"Donna -" he calls.

The response from his secretary should have been immediate. Faster than immediate, actually. That it isn't is concerning. She was sitting at the desk when he had walked by. He had seen the red hair and the all-knowing eyes as she watched him without watching him.

He turns around expecting to find Donna's desk behind him - with or without his secretary - and the rest of the corridor outside his office, but all he sees is a door.

That isn't right.

He knows it isn't right. Not only is the door not supposed to be closed (he hadn't walked far enough into the office to close it) it is supposed to be glass. All of the office doors at Pearson Hardman are glass. This door isn't glass, therefore, it isn't the door to his office. It's not even very likely it's a door inside the firm.

Harvey does realize that focusing on a mysterious door is not the most productive use of his time, but given the unfamiliar surroundings, he's not entirely sure where else to focus his attention. At least, until he has some idea just where the fuck he is. And why he's there.

[ooc: Feel free to bump into Harvey anywhere really - random corridor, main entrance, etc.]

Sep. 16th, 2013 11:44 am
scaleshavefallen: (looking bored)
[personal profile] scaleshavefallen
I thought that being here would be a respite from what I had endured at home.

I was wrong. All of the time alone meant that I had too much time to be in my head. To be in Garret Jacob Hobbs' head. To be in Hannibal Lecter's head.

I lost myself once; I wasn't about to do it again.

So I learned quickly that I needed something to do, something that didn't involve answering endless questions and ceaselessly contemplating not only my existence but the very meaning of it, and/or whether or not this is all one extended fever dream.

There aren't many jobs here that I'm suited for. I don't need a psych eval to tell me that I would make an atrocious waiter or front desk attendant. And it was too much to hope that this place be by the sea, or even a large lake, where there would be motors to fix and society to ignore.

There are stables, though, and while I'm not an expert in horses, they're far more easier for me to deal with than people. I know how to deal with skittish, scared animals: some would say that I am one.

It gives a sense of purpose to my day, at least, no matter how steep the learning curve for me. I can't just hide away in my room, no matter how much I would prefer that. It wouldn't get me any closer to the truth -- about the Nexus, about why I'm here, about what happened to me at home.

So, for now, horses it is.

[ feel free to find will coming/going to the stables, or at the stables themselves, which are on the east end of the nexus grounds. ]
hearnospeakno: (worrystone.)
[personal profile] hearnospeakno
When: Friday 6:00 p.m.
Where: Attic Observatory
What: Community Support Group

As Nick promised on his open advertisements, there are chairs and coffee in the Attic Observatory. There's even a table laden with what food products Nick and co could round up.

The process of setting up for a group meeting felt enough like Boulder that Nick took a short break to lean, palms first, against a wall. It was a short, easily displaced moment, and he has no intention of lingering on it.

This is about everyone, one way or another. For all the people stuck here, and everyone new, and all those in-between. Nick left the purpose of the group intentionally vague. In the future, he assumes it'll have to be narrowed down and split up for the sake of different needs, but for this first coming together of the displaced in any non-official capacity he wants it to be open for everyone. It wouldn't be right, otherwise.

So all newcomers will find Nick by the attic observatory door, nursing a cup of black coffee next to a clearly printed sign:

Hi, I'm Nick. Welcome to the first Nexus Hotel Support Group. Whatever your problem, we'll listen. Help yourself to coffee and food.

Underneath the words, Nick has drawn and crossed out a mouth and ear, leaving an arrow pointed at himself. His pad of paper and pen are obvious on his lap.
scaleshavefallen: (Default)
[personal profile] scaleshavefallen
Spoilers for Hannibal 1x13 )

I turn to face front, half a mind to correct the inaccurate title he's given me, but for some reason, the scene has changed. Instead of damp brick and two overgrown oafs, I see a nondescript hotel room. A double bed with an ugly floral patterned duvet, peeling wallpaper, a painting of a windmill. I turn in quick circles, taking it in, and now the panic rises and bubbles in my chest.

I was cured, I had thought. They pumped me full of steroids and antibiotics. I have a clean bill of health. I haven't had a hallucination since they woke me up, and besides, this scene has no meaning to me. There's no reason for it. It doesn't fit the pattern.

Haltingly, I take a step forward, reach out with one hand, and run my fingers across the bedspread, the cheap wooden bedframe, the grimy nightstand. Everything feels real, but I know it can't be. Testing the limits of my freedom, I step towards the door, place my hand on the doorknob, twist and pull. The door swings open easily and my feet are carrying me, on automatic pilot, out the hallway. It's a slightly more lavish hallway than the room I just left, but something feels wrong, sterile, otherworldly.

I don't know where I am or how I got here or if this is even real. I wonder if I'm sick again, and then realize that I don't care. Not right now. Not after everything else. I turn back to the door I just stepped through, but the handle won't turn, and I have no key. Whatever is happening to me, it appears that I must go forward, not back. I can't help it. I swipe a hand across my brow, sweat slicking my skin; my lips pull back in a parody of a smile, and I laugh. It sounds haunted and sick to my ears, and I suppose I am, after all.

[ hover for an ooc note regarding will's clothing which is a mild spoiler for 1x13.]


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