Jᴀᴍᴇs Pᴀᴛʀɪᴄᴋ Mᴀʀᴄʜ (Tʜᴇ Mᴀsᴛᴇʀ) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
idesof) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
maskormenacelogs2017-10-08 09:23 pm
idesof) wrote in maskormenacelogs2017-10-08 09:23 pm
so if you want survival kneel on my arrival
WHO: The Hotel Castile, James Patrick March, and some poor unfortunate souls~
WHERE: The Hotel Castile
WHEN: Throughout the month of October
WHAT: March has decked out the hotel as a haunted home of sorts. What he doesn't tell anyone is that it's super haunted because he's an evil little snot who's out to wreck some folks who just couldn't resist...
WARNINGS: Plenty of horror to be expected of all sorts, will update if it goes FURTHER
In the wee hours of October, the Castile grew cobwebs. The entire hotel seemed to be covered in the things. Too large and spaced about to be real, of course, purely decorative. Already its owner decided to embrace and spread festivity. Soon this was followed by skeletons in welcoming poses near the entrance and all manner of carved pumpkin in the lobby. The staff wore costumes — witches, skeletons, werecreatures, zombies, all manner of beast roamed about, doing their appointed tasks. Fulfilling their purposes. The bar advertised new, spooky drinks that would not last long, so they better be bought fast! Key cards bore skulls or bats. Each room had some creature on its door, some smiling ghost or winking black cat. Orange and black garland wove over the railings and around the front desk. Room service was delivered with toothy grins, and the mints left behind were all pumpkin shaped.
The Castile had never seemed more alive even as it was draped in all sorts of deathly reminders.
So why have you come?
You may have booked a room, enjoying that imPort discount. You may have decided to try these spooky alcoholic beverages. You may have looked at the building and been charmed, or annoyed. You may have simply needed to duck out of the rain, or out of sight of someone in particular.
Whatever the case may be, you are
̛̹̻͎̗͟͢ͅH̩͙̰E̴̶͙̺R̴̟̟̙̞E̴͖͡ now.
̛̹̻͎̗͟͢ͅH̩͙̰E̴̶͙̺R̴̟̟̙̞E̴͖͡is aware of you, though you are certainly nowhere near the awareness of the Castile.
SOMETHING calls to you. But what? The voice of family, or friends, giggling or in pain. Whispers from voices you can't quite place. No? More subtle, then. A feeling that you need to move down one hallway instead of another. A hunch that you suddenly need to move from one room to another. Have you just stepped out of the shower, naked as the day you were born? That's fine, but the hallway is SCREAMING for your attention. Quietly, of course, but the tug in your chest to check it out is burning you alive. You must follow. You must...
And then, it hardly matters what state you're in. Your surroundings are far more important, far more dire. While the festive nature of the hotel is still there, it's muted, and wrong, it looks like it's been there for years instead of days, as though you're walking into the hotel long after it's been abandoned.
From there, a familiar figure runs past, away. A familiar voice screams, cries, laughs at you from the corner, falls apart before your eyes. Pain and suffering replays over and over, winged creatures feasting on human remains, the face quite clearly your own when you get close enough to see. The walls are bleeding and bubbling all around you, changing into something entirely different.
̸̴̝͖̫͈̬W̴̡͔͈͈̣H̤͓̩̞̩̳͘͟͟À̡͓͕̤͚̲̖͖ͅT̛̹̩̖͘
̷̪̬͙̪̭̯D̨̘̲͟I͎͙̫̜͙͖͉̙D̡̝̞͚́͜
̡̰̻̮͟Y͏́҉̗̣̼̬̖̙ͅO͈̫̬̠̣U҉̶̟͠
͍̥̻̥̲D͈̰̭̬̱̫̭̀O̵̘̱̭̖̭͠
More importantly, what are you going to do NOW?
[ooc go nuts, and if you need me to add any further warnings in the log itself do let me know, thank you!]
WHERE: The Hotel Castile
WHEN: Throughout the month of October
WHAT: March has decked out the hotel as a haunted home of sorts. What he doesn't tell anyone is that it's super haunted because he's an evil little snot who's out to wreck some folks who just couldn't resist...
WARNINGS: Plenty of horror to be expected of all sorts, will update if it goes FURTHER
In the wee hours of October, the Castile grew cobwebs. The entire hotel seemed to be covered in the things. Too large and spaced about to be real, of course, purely decorative. Already its owner decided to embrace and spread festivity. Soon this was followed by skeletons in welcoming poses near the entrance and all manner of carved pumpkin in the lobby. The staff wore costumes — witches, skeletons, werecreatures, zombies, all manner of beast roamed about, doing their appointed tasks. Fulfilling their purposes. The bar advertised new, spooky drinks that would not last long, so they better be bought fast! Key cards bore skulls or bats. Each room had some creature on its door, some smiling ghost or winking black cat. Orange and black garland wove over the railings and around the front desk. Room service was delivered with toothy grins, and the mints left behind were all pumpkin shaped.
The Castile had never seemed more alive even as it was draped in all sorts of deathly reminders.
So why have you come?
You may have booked a room, enjoying that imPort discount. You may have decided to try these spooky alcoholic beverages. You may have looked at the building and been charmed, or annoyed. You may have simply needed to duck out of the rain, or out of sight of someone in particular.
Whatever the case may be, you are
̛̹̻͎̗͟͢ͅH̩͙̰E̴̶͙̺R̴̟̟̙̞E̴͖͡ now.
̛̹̻͎̗͟͢ͅH̩͙̰E̴̶͙̺R̴̟̟̙̞E̴͖͡is aware of you, though you are certainly nowhere near the awareness of the Castile.
SOMETHING calls to you. But what? The voice of family, or friends, giggling or in pain. Whispers from voices you can't quite place. No? More subtle, then. A feeling that you need to move down one hallway instead of another. A hunch that you suddenly need to move from one room to another. Have you just stepped out of the shower, naked as the day you were born? That's fine, but the hallway is SCREAMING for your attention. Quietly, of course, but the tug in your chest to check it out is burning you alive. You must follow. You must...
And then, it hardly matters what state you're in. Your surroundings are far more important, far more dire. While the festive nature of the hotel is still there, it's muted, and wrong, it looks like it's been there for years instead of days, as though you're walking into the hotel long after it's been abandoned.
From there, a familiar figure runs past, away. A familiar voice screams, cries, laughs at you from the corner, falls apart before your eyes. Pain and suffering replays over and over, winged creatures feasting on human remains, the face quite clearly your own when you get close enough to see. The walls are bleeding and bubbling all around you, changing into something entirely different.
̸̴̝͖̫͈̬W̴̡͔͈͈̣H̤͓̩̞̩̳͘͟͟À̡͓͕̤͚̲̖͖ͅT̛̹̩̖͘
̷̪̬͙̪̭̯D̨̘̲͟I͎͙̫̜͙͖͉̙D̡̝̞͚́͜
̡̰̻̮͟Y͏́҉̗̣̼̬̖̙ͅO͈̫̬̠̣U҉̶̟͠
͍̥̻̥̲D͈̰̭̬̱̫̭̀O̵̘̱̭̖̭͠
More importantly, what are you going to do NOW?
[ooc go nuts, and if you need me to add any further warnings in the log itself do let me know, thank you!]
foggy nelson | totally open
The place is pretty festive tonight, he thinks, with cobwebs and skeletons and spiders all over the place. A man dressed as a demon gives him a drink, and Foggy squints at him a little—if he tilts his head just right, the guy would look like Matt. That girl there, made up to look like a zombie, she looks like Karen in one light, then she shifts and he's struck, suddenly, by the body on the network.
He'd asked around, about her. He hadn't turned up much, just that she was a workaholic, a loner, didn't socialize much with others. Foggy'd been trying to track down her last whereabouts when the egging had happened, and that had been fairly distracting for a while. Frustrating as well, unfortunately, like his search for who killed that woman on the network.
He's on his third shot when he hears a pained groan, off in the distance. It's a familiar groan.
Matt!
"I gotta go," he tells the bartender, "thanks for the drinks, here's a tip," and he leaves forty dollars on the countertop before he gets moving, because his friend is in trouble.
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The hallways warp as Foggy runs through them. The decorations fade, rot, seem old and wet. That ceiling drips water even as the walls peel, look more brick and block than before. Like alleyways trying to force their way through.
Drip. Drip. Groan. Drip. Drip. Look at that funny skeleton! a child yells in delight, giggles, and runs right around the corner. She runs right at foggy, pale in every way, her mouth pulled back in a canine-like manner. She continues to giggle and runs right through his legs — literally. He may look back around him but he won't see her at all, won't feel anything, and yet that giggle remains.
As does the groan.
There, at the end of the alleyhallway, crawls a familiar red-clad body. Crawls may be too generous. The man has clearly been hurt quite badly with how slow he's taking it. Slow enough that he has to take a moment to breathe. He stops, face turned from Foggy.
He groans again.
And that alleyhallway just seems to keep stretching on and on the faster anyone tries to get to the devil.
Go look at the funny skeleton man!
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A child giggles, calls out about a funny skeleton. Foggy whips around, just in time for the little girl to run right through him and, wow, okay, Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ this is fucking insane. He didn't even eat anything, he's only a little buzzed, but already his head is spinning as he turns and turns and tries to follow her, trying to get to Matt.
And then he sees him. Hears him, first, that groan. Drip, drip, groan.
"Matt!" Oh, god. Oh, god, no. What's he doing here? Oh, shit, he's hurt, he's crawling and he's hurt bad and don't just stand there, Nelson, help him! "Matt, hold on, I'm coming—"
He tears off towards Matt.
(Why are the hallways getting longer? Please let me get to him please let me get to him—)
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Not that it matters. Whether he leans down to roll him over or waits a moment to get his breath, that isn't Matt in the suit. What's there is barely human, a skeletal thing with very thin skin pulled over its frame. This is what Matt would look like should he reach a very old age and subsequently be drained of most of the moisture in his body, down to his blood.
He still groans, though. How? Doesn't matter, it's happening. In the midst of far off giggles and dripping water, there's that familiar groan coming from that impossibly animated figure now reaching out to Foggy. The gloves are drooping, wrapped around what's now mostly bone.
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Not his proudest moment.
But when he pushes himself up to a more vertical position and turns to look at Matt, he gets a very good look at what's under the suit and—oh, god. Bile rises in his throat at the sight, horror and revulsion and heartbreak and guilt churning in his stomach. This can't be real, there's no way something could do this, drain someone of so much moisture as to leave them a skeleton with skin—
Oh, god, Matt, what happened while I was gone—
"Oh my god—"
Instinctively, he tries to scoot away from the grasping hand, one hand fumbling in his pocket for his phone. To dial 911, to call Claire, to call Karen, someone, anyone who might be able to help.
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Wherever he may place his phone, the message is the same. No service, no signal, no wifi, no data, nothing. No amount of hitting an emergency service number will get through. Trying will result in static, like a radio station too far away to truly pick up on. Voices might be heard, familiar ones, but hell if he can make any sense of what they're saying.
That hand shakes now, changing to point.
Foggy.
The old Matt groans, pointing to Foggy's side, forgiveness for any mild injury freely given. He may feel wet, or not. But when he looks down, now he's the one in trouble. He's bleeding, practically gushing, getting rid of what seems like all the blood taken from his friend. Only that can't be right. It's too dark, black and slick, like oil leaking from his side rather than any human fluid...
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Jacob Taylor, Open
Since the Hotel is imPort-owned and therefore falls under the fuzzy rubric of 'imPort Bullshit' that RISE is supposed to deal with, Jacob Taylor gets sent out to check things out. At first, everything seems fine. He moves through the lobby in his armour, feeling at ease among the other costumes, admiring the decorations and the staff doing their thing. He considers sampling one of the spooky drinks at the bar as long as he's here.
Then- just for an instant- a woman's scream reaches his ears from down the hall, beyond the lobby. A familiar scream, accompanied by a series of thick, hollow thumps, as though someone was pounding against a pane of glass before being suddenly and finally interrupted. Something tingling and spiderlike starts to play across the top of Jacob's spine, creeeping up his neck, as he cautiously moves away from the bar and into the hall, ducking under a fake (?) cobweb as he passes the doors of shiny black metal embedded in organic biostructure-
(What?)
Jacob could swear he saw the metal, sewn into the rest of the hotel like patches into a coat, but when he turns his head the door is just a door, decorated with a grinning orange pumpkin.
Then he hears the buzzing, and he knows. He'll never forget that buzzing. He hears it sometimes on the bad nights, when he has the dreams he doesn't talk about, nightmares of tiny insectoid machines crawling all over him and paralyzingly him, freezing him in place before they take him away forever. You can't shoot the swarm, you can't punch the swarm, you can't run or hide from the swarm. That's how they get you. That's how the Collectors collect their victims.
The Seeker swarm appears at the end of the hall, thick and noxious like a cloud of smoke, hundreds of them swirling about. And when Jacob turns around to run, the lobby and the bar are gone. There's just more hallway and more doors, stretching into the distance, with no way to escape.
He runs.
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Sometimes he thinks he catches sight of a flash of red, a hint of black just around the corner. He chases after it, calling Matt's name, don't go there, Matt, please—
It's far, far too late when he realizes he's on a collision course with a guy who is apparently armored up and fairly panicky, and somewhere through the haze of terror and worry Foggy's logical brain kicks in and goes, what the fuck are those things behind him?
"Have you seen a—a guy in a red costume run past here?" he says. Then: "And what the hell are those?"
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"Run."
And then he's off again, tugging Foggy along with him to make sure he knows he needs to move, while the swarm fills the hallway behind them, the buzz getting louder and louder, getting closer.
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He lets Jacob tug him along, because holy shit does he not want to get caught in that swarm of buzzing insects. At least, he doesn't until he hears a scream. A familiar scream. Karen's scream, and the clatter of a can of mace and an awful, awful buzzing noise. He'd know her voice anywhere oh god what are they doing to her—
"My friend's in there! We have to get to her!"
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It's tempting, shamefully tempting, to just keep running. But Jacob couldn't live with himself if he did that. Better to be taken by the swarms while doing something decent.
A shimmering blueish glow appears around Jacob as he activates his protective barrier. He stops, turns, then holds his hands out and closes his eyes, concentrating. The barrier extends outwards, and Foggy will feel a slight tingle on his skin as it envelops him. The two are covered in a bubble of safety created by Jacob's energy, just in time for the swarm to wash over them like a wave and start pelting against the bubble like rain on a window.
"Okay." There's a strain in Jacob's voice. "We're gonna go get her. But we have to hurry. I can't hold this thing for long. Stay close to me as I move."
Inwardly he knows it's probably already too late. If that scream came from inside the swarm, that woman has already been stung and frozen in a stasis field.
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Doors upon doors, all shut to him. Several of them bubble about the edges, like they're somehow being boiled. It's all a mess, half wallpaper and room numbers, half metal. Metal decorated with grinning orange pumpkins, of course!
Until one door ahead throws itself open. He won't see anything more than a yawning void. No lights, no relief except for being out of the hallway. Potentially being away from the swarm. And it doesn't really matter if he chooses it or not, for if he dares run past it, that door darts out like a tongue to swallow him up.
In darkness. Inescapable, pressing, constant blackness. The swarm is gone. Here it's too dark and too damn silent. He won't hear anything that isn't him. Not for a while, at least, not until he has time to parse through it. Then and only then does a light flicker in the corner of the room.
The bathroom.
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For a moment, he just stands there, catching his breath, willing calm and reason to return to his mind. His training tells him he needs to secure the area. To check things out.
Step by step, he moves toward the bathroom.
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It's them, there in that tub, in rags and sobbing. A shell of an old self. Hands reach to the tile wall and tap out rhythms, leaving dark wet spots in their wake. Blood. Fingers drag down and leave more in their wake.
And still they cry. Still they keep their back to him. This person who Jacob didn't get to in time, now stuck here in this sad hell.
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"Miranda?"
He steps forward without thinking, kneels by the bathtub.
"Miranda!"
He reaches for her shoulder to turn her around so he can see her face, clenching inwardly at the sight of the blood.
(for march) when: an undisclosed october date
He's not in a festive costume but he is rocking all black should that count for anything - his shock of silver hair a little more vibrant in contrast. Peter's listening to his music when he gives up on room spying, plucking out an earbud with a furrowing of his brow.
Cocking his head to look down the corridor behind him as if to track a sound not part of his playlist, Peter lets the tunes of still hum from the earpiece as he lets it sway loose in front of him. It's freaky but he swears he just caught a chill, feeling goosebumps up his arms. The last time he felt this paranoid someone was watching him he was high on leaked space fuel.]
Yo? Annnybody there?
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Jazz music plays softly from somewhere further in the room as the door stays open. Just there, just open, just taking up space in the hallway. A light is on near the entrance. Must be; a faint, orange glow takes over the carpeting in front of the opened door. That's all that makes sense, an old lamp.]
Well?
[The voice that calls is expectant, and sounds rather out of an old black and white film about men of wealth and appetites who use money and weaponry for the same purposes. Coupled with the glow though this is definitely when the hero meets Satan in some strange cult 70s flick.]
Come along in, boy. I've plenty drink to spare!
[The door opens further. Judging by those hinges, that shouldn't be possible. But it happens.]
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He loiters for a moment or two in the hall before approaching the doorway, pausing his music and stuffing his earbuds in his pocket. Hearing the jazz more clearly, he cocks his head as if to listen for a moment before crossing the threshold and entering in upon invite.
Hands in the pockets of his jacket, Peter's got a curious but wary way of looking around him and still can't scratch the feeling of the hair on the back of his neck standing straight up.] I'd hate to intrude, but I do appreciate the offer.
[But just who and where are you?]
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These things simply happen. One moment, the room is dark, save that lamp near the door. Then it isn't. Then, the rest of the lamps in the room light up, one on a desk in the middle of it that casts the man sitting at it in an eerie, orange-red light. March sits, sucking on a cigarette and eying Peter in that scrutinizing way men in power are so good at, provoking discomfort, self-doubt, or other generally negative feelings. Like, had Peter ever imagined how he'd look as a devilish figure who shat money? Because he's getting a view of that RIGHT NOW.]
You can't intrude if you're invited, dear boy. [His voice holds more interest than confusion, eyes narrowing to take in more of that handsome face.] I have something of a soft spot for peeping Toms, even if such is not always good for business. I've met so many interesting people who had similar appetites.
[He begins to move things about the desk as he speaks, putting two glasses front and center, as well as what looks like a tea kettle.]
Come, sit. Absinthe's on the house.
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But that's not why he looks so striking behind that desk, cigarette smoke in the air.
Approaching the desk defying a reluctance that tries to settle in his feet and drag them along the floor each step, the closer Peter gets to the desk the more confusing this seems to be. His eyes drop to the glasses and before he sits, his brows furrow.]
First off, not a peepin' tom. If y'gotta call me something, call me a casual observer. [Something that won't have his Ma slap him from beyond the porter. He's still looking at the glasses as if focusing on them will help him with the next thing he wants to say, dark eyes flicking up as he instead slumps into the chair as invited. How are you supposed to bring up the fact you think you found your doppelganger, who has a terrible mustache?]
I'm Peter. You are?
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It takes John longer to notice that something is wrong, given that his version of normal is most people's living hell. The cutesy costumes of the staff and the themed drinks are things he shrugs off, at least for now. So, foolishly, he doesn't think much of the tingling sense of weirdness at the back of his neck because even in his own world, he was used to something strange and unnatural always being around the corner, poised just ready to tear his throat out.
For now, he decides to dull his senses with a drink or two. The barkeep knows better than to slide him along one of those silly themed drinks, but his usual straight vodka does taste a wee bit like Pumpkin Spice. He stares at the glass thoughtfully after a few sips,
"Well then. That's not terrible."
II | Ballroom, full-blown madness | OTA | BIG OL' CW FOR BODY HORROR
"Woefully unprepared" was a mild way of describing how John ventured into the halls. His guard down and outside the relative safety of the watering whole, he falls to the chaos in seconds. Some sort of curse, that much he reckons before the whispering and the madness trickle into his mind. They squeeze his being like a python.
Mostly he recalls black, and red, with the odor of blood and rot.
His awareness fades in and out, but after a patch of black he finds himself in the ballroom, with a substantial amount of the room on fire. The heat and destruction that usually accompanies such a blaze is oddly absent, and it even seems dull, as if it glows with darkness. There's roughly a half dozen corpses wandering around the dance floor, their flesh melting and trailing behind them, ruining the dance floor's polished wood. A skeletal-looking man with expensive clothes and immaculately-coiffed hair stares at John contemptuously. Skin hangs from his bones, falling off in rotten chunks and then disintegrating to dust before it even hits the floor.
"I͊͆͟nͦͬ͢c͂ͪ̈́̔r̓ͩ̉eͮ͑̏̃͗̐͏dͯ̈i̛bͭ͊ĺeͥͫ͑", he says, "Ì ̕ne̢ver t̢h͘o͟u҉g̵h̵ţ ̷a̕n ego͢ w͏o̵r̕s̸ę th͝a͏n m͟i̷ne͝ ex̸i͘ste̕d.̛ ͜B͟út҉ ̧you̧rs ̵got ̀m͝ìn͝e̛ kille͟d̕, ͡Jo̸hn.͟"
He was right, the bastard. Dorian had died in front of him, trying to get rid of guilt-fueled ghosts. All because John wanted to bloody show off his parlor tricks. And then another chimes in on his heels, floating slightly above the ground, burning skin and stardust beneath lavish clothes,
"Jo̧hn͞? S̴ay̸ hel͜l͠o͢ to ̕t͞h̸e gi͡r͜ls̀ ̴f̵o͠r̴ ͠m̀e͟. Rem͞in̡d̕ Ṕęr̨seph̀on͞é t̨hat ̨sh̛e'̶ll be͘ ̛s͏e̡einǵ m͘e͝ s̨oon."
Very soon, he knew, if he didn't come up with a plan. He turns to flee from them both before coming face to face with something worse.
Most people wouldn't find an unassuming-looking woman with blonde hair and a worried expression so terrifying, but John knew better. A passer-by might place them as related, but probably wouldn't be able to discern that her soul was innocent, and burning for eternity because of him. She says nothing, and that's what makes the floor rise up and strike John, crushing him into a fetal position, heaving and twitching with sobs and retches that won't quite manifest.
Still pretty much a standard Tuesday night for old Johnny, though.
III | Snapping out of it | closed to Wanda
He doesn't know whether she's still bitter about him being a bad date considering he fled her house in trauma-induced hysterics and stupor. He's also in no state at all to worry about it, and wouldn't even if he could. If she happens to be sore about it, at least he's stumbled right back into a delightful state of blackouts, meltdowns and delirium so that she can at least enjoy some schadenfreude. See, he's not always a horrible bastard.
He's still in the ballroom when she finds him, if she feels so inclined to enter this hell vortex of a building and explore. It's not immediate obvious that there's a person amongst the bleeding walls and floorboards. There's someone's dirty coat discarded onto the floor, but after another moment it's evidently breathing. Barely. Just don't pity him. That's the worst thing she could do.
[hit me up for other prompts friendssssss]
@ III
So of course she's decided to come in here and see what's up. 'What's up' is a lot of disturbing shit. One would think she'd be immune to Some Bullshit ™ here occasionally conjuring up images or the sound of her brother — not the one that's here from not-her-world, the one that's dead back in her world — but n o p e, it catches her off guard in one way or another every time. This time, though, in her current self-inflicted mental state, her emotional response to it isn't quite the same as usual. But she loses track of that hallucination, at least for the moment — damn speedsters, right? — and is following some of the other generic weird and disturbing. Which leads her to the ballroom. Which in turn leads her to a ... breathing coat, and normally she'd be sensing a familiar presence from it but this place has been having a lot of fun messing with her and so holy shit the headache she has right now means a lot of what she'd normally pick up is being ignored (the only good part of the headache is that she isn't sick from it ... at least not yet anyway).
"This is a really shitty place to take a nap, you know." Said in a flat 'no shit' kind of tone; she knows this isn't the place where someone would just decide to sleep for a bit. She looks down with a slightly lifted eyebrow, and her arms move from her sides to gently press against her head (as if that ever actually stopped a headache) and brush her hair — now with a few dyed red streaks in it — away from her shoulders. If Wanda were of her normal emotional state, she'd probably be already checking to see if he was hurt and if so where and if she could magically heal it.
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He almost doesn't notice the sound of a new voice in the mix. His life is such that he's very well accustomed to people greeting him flatly, and generally in a tone that expresses how tired of His Bullshit they were. His collar covering most of his face to block out the look and sound of the hauntings, he only catches her greeting because it sounds like how regular, living people do when they're Done With His Shit. He glances up cautiously, to make sure its not another immortal soul tormenting him for his many, numerous, several and countless mistakes. He almost assumes she's a bloodsoaked specter looking for revenge for something he did, until he feels the magic on her. That's too real to be part of the scenery. Thankfully, the other images fade a tad as he focuses on her, but he can't be sure for how long.
"Shitty? This is a huge upgrade from my usual napping spots." he grumbles, pushing himself into a seated position. By "napping spots", he of course means "ditches he passes out in". If it's any consolation to her, he probably looks the way she feels, if not worse.
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She looks around again quickly, with a dubious look to the floor. "A whole five stars, yeah. This place is like a really bad hangover mixed in with trippy effects. I got a super fun headache, but no naps yet." She slides down to sit as well, a few feet away, with her arms resting on her knees which are drawn up some. "Soo.. what happened to you?" As in, how'd he end up on the floor, exactly. All of his limbs appear intact, so that's something (her standards are kind of that low generally lately). She's assuming he's not staying here because he actually likes the atmosphere.
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He watches the wounded way she carries herself and helps in the only way he knows how: by fishing his flask out of his pocket, and sliding it across the floor to her.
"Porter added a few tricks to my equipment. Seems that thing refills itself, usually with whatever is appropriate to the mood. Shouldn't contain poison unless you really want it to." A terrible joke, but he can never quite stop himself.
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