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Where the universe is concerned, Olaf doesn't generally question its choices. Bad things happen. Good things happen. Strange things happen, but usually it all fits together in the larger pieces of the puzzle. It's why he doesn't really do so much more than shrug when instead of walking into Mike's bar, he walks into a party in full swing where he doesn't recognize a single guest.

It's not like this is the first time it's happened to Olaf. Generally, him recognizing someone in a crowd full of people is usually a start. Still, he has learned to go with the stranger events in the universe and no one's died as a result of this little left turn, so he grabs the joint he'd tucked away behind his ear and drifts into the throng of people, observing the summer-like nature of the party from the vibrant drinks to the decorations to the clothes everyone's wearing. Really, this could very well still be Auckland for all he knows and whatever he took earlier had been laced stronger than usual, but Olaf's sort of getting the feeling there's more to it than that.

With no shoes and a Hawaiian shirt fit for a king, Olaf feels like he fits right into the breezy, summer theme of the party around him. He might not know how he got here, but Olaf's never turned down a good party. This one holds a great deal of promise.

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If it's the weed that's managed to make him jump across this sort of spatial being, then Olaf has got to commend the dealer in Bali he'd managed to get this crop from. True, there's probably a more god-related reason for all of this, but there isn't any large rush to get back home, what with there only being a giant on the loose and Thor in town and possibly-Frigg -- not that he's going to do anything for it, he's the old folk and the men have gone off to battle.

Olaf is more than happy to stand here and accept drinks where he can. This is the sort of battleground he's accustomed to -- heady, clouded, beyond reproach thinking and a pleasing warmth delivered by whatever's on tap. It's being part of the universe and you've gotta love the universe.

April could say that this was the strangest day she'd ever had, and probably nobody here would doubt her. For most people, it would be a completely accurate statement—It wasn't like most people opened the bathroom door and found themselves in surreal luxury hotels surrounded by strangers from other dimensions. So yeah, April could say it was her strangest day, but in truth, if you set the whole dimension-hopping part aside, this was the most normal day she'd had in weeks.

She was at a garden party. With people in sandals and lemonade. Nobody was trying to kill her and there wasn't even any pizza.

…Okay, so maybe it actually was kind of weird, now that she thought about it.

The door that had brought her to this place had promptly disappeared, and the smiling people at the front desk had told her to be patient, so here she was, in jeans shorts and yellow t-shirt, clutching a glass of lemonade as condensation dripped over her fingers. She was trying, to mixed results, to remember how to interact with people who were, well, people, and not green or covered in fur or carrying deadly weapons.

Edited 2013-06-30 23:42 (UTC)

By this point in her life, despite there being only twenty-four years of it, Martha Jones was somewhat used to what could only be described (in an impolite and occasionally impolitic manner, but so be it) as weird shit.

That said, she had turned the corner out of the third floor locker rooms at UCH after the end of a shift, and ended up in the middle of somewhere a lot nicer and warmer, wearing the 'I have a twelve-hour rotation don't care how I look' street clothes she'd worn to work, and carrying her grubby scrubs because the bin was full.

Martha stared for a moment at the crowd, murmuring faint apologies as someone jostled her a little accidentally trying to get past. Part of it was shock, part of it was trying to work out what could have gotten her here (Angels seemed a good bet), and a very tiny part was wondering what was in the drinks with the little umbrellas on.

Actually, that part was growing by the minute.

Of all the places that he had lived over the past several centuries, Louisiana seemed to be the convergence of all things unusual and, to use the local vernacular, completely fucked up. While most of that seemed centered upon Bon Temps in particular, it seemed that Baton Rouge, too, had its share of weirdness that had suddenly been thrust upon Eric.

Normally, a vampire such as he that was capable of flight used this power only as an escape mechanism and not to find himself stuck in the middle of a party full of damned humans. Humans, everywhere, and the crowd pressed thick against him and made him thirstier than he'd been in a long time; Eric prided himself on control and that was not something he thought he could hold onto for very long in a group of this many. It was unlike being in Fangtasia, where he could feed as he pleased. This was an unknown venue and considering the current political climate, even consensual feeding might be frowned upon.

Eric skirted to the edge of the crowd, trying to maintain some distance until he could deal with the myriad concerns that cropped up when dealing with humans. Even a vampire such as he, long-lived and powerful, could have a breaking point.

There was an alarming crash as a previously charming table covered in saucers, cups, tumblers and two pitchers full of ice cubes and sweet tea, delicate containers of differing shades of granulated sugar each with its own tiny long stemmed spoon, and a carefully arranged floral centerpiece was tipped over and abruptly ceased being covered in any of those things.

Garrus Vakarian had been in the spotlight enough times, for reasons both awkward and dangerous, that there was a sort of reverse-thrill to it; a swift and overwhelming sensation of sinking downward as your spine tried to exit out of your back, that he never got used to or enjoyed.

The fact that he was in heavy grade blue and black armor probably didn't help matters. He'd felt conspicuous enough sneaking around the periphery, trying to figure out what kind of VR nightmare he was clearly trapped in, and how to snap out of it and get back to saving the day with Shepard. The Normandy had a lot of surprising spaces. He knew all of them by heart. An Earth hotel simulation room was not one of them. No simulation this advanced was.

"Sorry," he said, deep, rich but strangely unlayered voice raised along with two strange, short hands with five digits apiece. He'd fallen into a hedge and down a short flight of stairs so far, and he couldn't pick up a damn thing. His body was all wrong, all horribly wrong.

"Sorry. Sorry about that. Okay, Garrus," he continued more quietly to himself, pressing the broad, flat palms of his human hands against the sides of his angular but weirdly squishy human face, "you can wake up any time now."

Edited 2013-07-02 06:25 (UTC)

It's not every day that my apartment turns into some kinda party, but if there's one thing life's taught me up to this point, it's to roll with the punches. Only, uh, usually the punches I'm dealing with are actual fists, not fruity drinks in expensive looking bowls.

My first thought is that my ol' pal Mysterio somehow figured out where I lived and decided to throw me a surprise bash, but I haven't gotten so much as a tingle from my spider-sense since I showed up. If there's foul-play involved, I'm deep in the dark. And judging by the variety of baffled looks among some of the party-goers, I'm maybe not alone with my confusion. 'Cause all I know so far is that the door that brought me here? Doesn't want to bring me back.

I'm not dressed for a party. I've got a smelly Spidey suit under a wrinkled shirt and blazer and a pair of ratty jeans, my knapsack full of books slung over my shoulder. It doesn't take me long to decide the frazzled grad student look's less conspicuous than the colorful pajamas, but neither option is really ideal.

After a few minutes of milling around, increasingly tempted by all the food hanging around -- boy, when's the last time I ate? -- I abandon the idea of blending in entirely, and announce to person closest to me, "So... open any strange doors lately?"

It's pretty fancy for a Nazi stronghold, is Bucky's thinking. Pretty English, too. He keeps his ears perked for any tell-tale accents, any slips of the tongue, but so far he's come up with zip, nada, zilch. His pet theory for the moment is that he got knocked out when he slipped inside the base, and all of this -- the food, the luxury, the dames -- are all delicious figments of his starved imagination.

And heck, if he's dreaming, he might as well enjoy himself. Reality'll come crashing in sooner or later, and while he's on guard for trouble, he can't think of a reason not to try the hors d'oeuvres while he still has a chance.

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