orderfromchaos | Entries tagged with my actual disney princess inmate

[Public]

[He's seated in a hallway, with a flashlight. Hard to tell more than that.]

If you've got something that runs on batteries, I can replenish them. Restoring candles is trickier because the wick dissipates, but I can probably extend the lifespan on those, too. If you've got anything that's going bad without power, I can reverse it.

I'm at the end of the hall on the eighth floor if you want to bring stuff by, but if you need me to find you, I'll do that too.

[Spam]

[And sure enough, he's sitting where the door to the engine room used to be, eyes closed until he hears footsteps, most of his concentration focused on feeding restorative energy into the missing space, into whatever it is the barge needs to power itself and move.]

[Private to Elsa]

I've asked the admiral to restore your powers when he's around again. You needed them and you should have had them, and - you're ready. I think you're ready.

[Open spam]

[Like Arthas, the barge's limits on him cut out the moment they enter the arena. Unlike Arthas, he's had a lot less practice handling his power at this level. He feels cracked open, feels every leaf and bramble and rock like ants crawling through his insides, placement and pattern and chaos. He can feel a lightning-blasted tree a wuarter mile away turning from dry wood to green, hollow and weeping sap where it was cloven in two. It's too many random wild things leeching at him, gravel turning to grids, fallen leaves turning crisp and new on the ground. It's too much information, raw and strange, the twisted false ecology of a forest that isn't really a forest, just scenery for a deliberately inefficient killing ground. The wall is like a migraine on all sides, blank and blaring, unreadable, an edifice of white noise.

Dillon whimpers and curls into a ball, eyes screwed shut, hands over his ears, tries to think about his own breathing, and not rabbits in their warrens, not the footfalls of hunters and hunted, not the static-y wrongness of it all.

Around him, things thrive, feel refreshed and strong. Wounds start to close on anyone who limps into his proximity. A faint sense of serenity presses on anyone who comes near, a sense of rightness in the workings of the universe, a purposeful rhythm.]

[Public video]

[When he's gasped and shuddered and finally managed to pull himself together a little - he still feels overwhelmed and profoundly uncomfortable, but he can breathe, hold the crushing awareness back just a little - he turns on his comm, not bothering to hide the scars his mirror counterpart never acquired. His hair is neat as ever despite a few hours twitching on the forest floor, but his eyes are shadowed and strained and symmetrical dirt smudges mark his cheeks.]

Elsa? Abigail? Helena? Are you guys alright?

Is everyone - if you're hurt I'll try to find you.

[OOC: So Dillon looks stupid vulnerable but he definitely isn't - he probably won't kill people who attack him though, because he doesn't want to be around corpses right now. Uh. Yeah. I'd love him to get attacked by a couple different mirror maruaders and fend them off, and I'm totally cool with wibbly time or spam set later in the week when he's on his feet OR curled up against a tree again. Also totally up for scared people gravitating to his aura, which is basically the size the plot requires, but somewhat larger than sight-range, probably. He is also available for reviving people you don't want to have to death toll.]

[Public]

If you're hurt, call me, especially if you're stuck somewhere. I can get around okay and I have healing abilities.

[Private to Elsa]

Where are you? Are you alright?

[Spam, open]

[On the midway, Dillon is cheating. He spins the wheel and hits the jackpot every time. He is fairly well covered in confetti. He has a couple vials of what are, according to their garish font labels, antidotes for regrettably unspecified toxins, three small EMP-grenades, one very large stuffed unicorn that is neither a robot nor attacking, tall hot-pink galoshes that he will absolutely wear in the flooded areas, and an endless spring bazooka painted like an anaconda that he has, wisely, not yet opened.

At other times, Dillon can be found literally anywhere else on the barge, working his way through the levels, search for anyone in need of help. His presence has some downsides - damaged nanocreatures repair themselves much faster as he passes by - but he does what he can to help.]

[Private to Elsa]

How do you feel about working on your powers wth Rogue?

[Spam for Helena]

[He talks to Cosima first, waits a day or two before turning up. It's unfair, maybe, using his presence - but his mirror self did it, and he wants the chance for his words to have at least as much weight now.]

Hey. Bucky said it was okay with him for me to visit. Is it okay with you?

[Open spam]

[Sometimes, Dillon just lies on his back on the deck, staring up for a few hours at a time, trying to understand the things his powers are trying to tell him about the stars, about whatever strange ether they're passing. If he understood it, really got what it was and how it worked, he's pretty sure he'd be able to get to the place between, with the red sands and strange ruins and Deanna's body. If he could just - reach.]

[Public, spam]

[Thanks to the Admiral's generosity, Dillon is definitely nabbing the A-cup Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle bra currently hung on deck, labeled with his name, just as soon as he gets off his infirmary shift. The whole thing looks like the mask - blue - with the green around the edges and the nose between the cups, and eyes where his nips should be. Why god.]

[Private to Abigail, video]

Help me.

[Private to ~~Elsa~~ Kai, Text]

so uh this is your warden how are you today

[Kai probably remembers him as a perky girl named Leslie. Oy.]

[OOC: replies will come from

tactmaster]

[Public, video]

So, uh. Some of you who frequent the eighth floor common room might have noticed. An extremely geometrical tree where your coffee table used to be.

I can fix that. I mean, I'm going to. Fix that. Unless you guys like it? I mean. Whatever. It's not my floor. Let me know.

( Messages )

[Spam, chapel]

[He tumbles from the churchyard, muddy and raucous with the confused shouts of too many corpses raised still in their coffins, to the Barge's chapel, the closes equivalent whatever force brought him back could find. Make them go away, he pleaded and pleaded, hands clapped to his ears, and as earth and headstones turned into polished wood and plain pews, he sobbed softly in relief. He crawled into one of the pews, half-kneeling, half-slumped against the pew in front of him. He didn't pray. He just - shook, and gulped down air, and tried to come back to himself.]

[Public, video]

[Dillon looks a bit different. Very thin white scars spiderweb across his cheek and nose, like cracks in glass, pulling the skin just a little more taut, giving him a tiny lopsided quirk to his mouth. His hair and clothes are impeccably neat, as always, but his eyes look tired.]

...hey. I'm back. Glad I didn't miss whatever's coming.

[Humorlessly. He would be glad, if he weren't so worried about home right now, anyway. He'd want to be here. He does want to be here, if only so he doesn't have to be back there. He's just not in the mood to be happy about anything, is the point.]

I'll be in the infirmary, I guess. Sorry about missing my shifts, Doc.

[Private, Elsa]

...I'm sorry. I didn't mean to go.

[Private to Abigail]

The thing I remembered in the future still hasn't happened yet.

[Just so she knows.]

[Open spam in the Infirmary]

[In the days since the end of breach, Dillon has been in the infirmary more-or-less around the clock, patching people up, fetching and carrying, and making sure everyone who's tolling is fed if they eat and as comfortable as they can be. He drinks ridiculous amounts of coffee and has learned to reverse his own exhaustion. This will come in handy if he ever manages to go to college. When it's quiet, to keep himself awake, he sketches on the backs of patient charts, surreal intricate cityscapes that converge, impressionist-style, into a beating heart, a half-lidded eye, an open palm.]

[Public, video.]

[He's still in the infirmary, still weary and surrounded by a flock of old coffee cups. He's fairly coherent, considering.]

...so, before we went all spaceships and lasers, our resident cannibal did an art show. Remember that? And it was spiteful and gross, yes, but I've been thinking, it wasn't actually a terrible idea. I mean, art therapy is a real thing, right? Lord knows most of us could use some and are also terrible with the talking kind. The art room could be, should be more than just a thing that's there when we're bored.

But sometimes it feels like...pointless, to make things just for yourself. Or maudlin or whatever. So I thought it could be a thing, if people wanted to, a bunch of us could draw stuff - or paint or smash plates and glue the shards together or whatever you want - and we could collect it and show a bunch of it together, so that all the attention wasn't just on one person, but we'd still get to...get it out, a little, outside of ourselves.

Would anybody else want to do something like that?

[Private to Elsa, backdated to the first or second day back]

Hey, so. You come through okay?

[Private separately to Nathan and Iris.]

...I felt like the whole world.

[He doesn't really know how to deal with that. Help.]