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Who The Fuck Even Wants To Go To Oregon?

Who: Crowley, his horrible caravan and YOU
Where: THE FUCKING OREGON TRAIL
When: 31st to the 4th
Rating: LMFAO
Summary: NO ONE WANTS TO TRADE WITH YOU TODAY

Sunday: I SLEPT THROUGH THIS CENTURY FOR A REASON

It takes Crowley several long, angry, complaining hours for him to realize that this is an event, that there's no yelling his way out of this, and then to figure out what the hell he's supposed to do. After that time is spent grumbling and growling and buying supplies because Americans are stupid and settlers are stupid and FUCK THIS NOISE. He spends all of his money on oxen and food since he figures he can just eat the oxen and wait the event out if need be. Crowley can be found around the town settlement area and on the initial start of the trail trying to figure things out and locating Aziraphale.

Monday: PRAIRIES ARE BORING

Travel by caravan is easily the worst method of travel ever. Worse than horses. Oxen smell terrible and there is nothing out here. Who knew America had this much freaking nothing? Aside from the rare interesting rock formation or a fort here and there there's just a whole lot of horrible nothing. And also a river. Yeah, there's no way Crowley's going to try and turn his stupid wagon into a boat, so he's gonna pay the stupid ferryman to get him across the stupid river. And then he carries on into the nothingness.

Tuesday: WHO EVEN NEEDS ALL THESE GODDAMN RIVERS

Crowley gets dysentery today and for the first time in his life experiences the joys of shitting himself relentlessly. He makes himself as scarce as is possible on a wagon so no one has to see how horrible and uncool this all is. He also tries to ford another river that seems more shallow than it is and two oxen die and a bunch of food gets swept away. Such is Crowley's life.

Wednesday: HOME SWEET HOME!

Crowley gets hopelessly lost and somehow ends up at the Devil's Tower in Wyoming. He's feeling a little better but this is still pretty horrible, even if the tower itself is pretty cool. He really doesn't want anything to do with anything named "Devil" right now. Later in the day a bunch of aliens show up, think about abducting Crowley, then move on. Crowley hates this event.

Thursday: WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS

Crowley dies today right as they're approaching Oregon! How does he die? Does he drown in the Columbia River? Does he die of dysentery? Does he get trampled by an ox? Does he get murdered by a thief? Does he fall in a gopher hole? Does he get killed by some of his fellow travelers who want to take advantage of the fact that he's human? Either way, once he's a ghost he haunts everyone nearby until the end of the event.

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[Integra wasn't really sure what to buy so she had bought a wagon and some horses. She figured if she was going to die, she would die under the lamest shelter she could possibly get. She bought a few blankets and some food but really. The west? Not only did she detest American history but this was pitiful. She wasn't meant for this. A ridiculous event. Just as she was trying to figure out where the hell she was going to just camp out and die, she found Crowley.]

You look upset. [Good. A thing in common.] Do you detest this happening as well?

[He looks up when he hears someone speaking in a non-ridiculous accent. Well whaddaya know, it's Integra. Honestly he's still not sure what to make of her, whether to classify her as friend or foe. Talking with her is interesting, but he's also pretty sure she'd try to kill him if she had the chance.]

[Not that it really matters right now, considering they're all human and boring and hungry.]

Urgh. [He figures that alone is answer enough, but keeps going.] All these humanizing events lately, it's a complete travesty. I'd sooner just fly across this bloody wasteland, but no.

[He jerks a thumb at the oxen.]

No, I have to rely on America's inbred siblings over there for transport. And why can't we just stay here and wait the event out, I ask you?

[Keep hating on America. You're not that bad.]

I figured that perhaps staying put wouldn't be a bad idea and then I recall that consequence is a hazard. Care to join me? Two minds are better than one.

[It's also different when you actually know the guy.]

Considering Wonderland, I imagine something horrible is in store for anyone who does decide to just stay behind.

[He pauses and considers Integra for a few moments with his eyes slightly narrowed.]

Hmm, well...I suppose. Just as long as you don't go crazy and try to kill and eat me or some rubbish like that.

[She hates that bastard too.]

You hinted at being human, correct? I protect humans.

Er--well, only temporarily...

[And he might be edging back a step.]

Don't be afraid of me. [No. Please be afraid. It's kind of hot.] Like I said, I will not harm you.

Well, I suppose even if you did, I would come back in a few days with the event over and plenty of time to plan my revenge. So perhaps it wouldn't be that bad.

[Except that he's died before and he knows how much it sucks.]

I assure you, you will have no reason to want revenge. Get in the wagon.

Ngh. Fine. [He does.] I hate oxen.

My thoughts exactly. What's our plan. I haven't exactly been trained in... surviving the west.

As if I have. I slept through most of this century. I think we're just supposed to...try to make it to Oregon? Why would anyone want to go to Oregon, anyway? I suppose we'll need food and spare parts and such.

Around sunset the tower truly is a marvellous sight to behold. It's such an awe-inspiring visage of the heart of America, a picturesque view that can, for a moment, help anyone realize why Americans may love and hold pride in their country.

And then America himself reaches the Devil's Tower and ruins fucking everything.

By now he's wavering between pockets of lucidity and delirium resulting from an epic combo of dysentery, cholera, and typhoid. How he's alive right now is anyone's guess. All the color has drained from his features, his hair is lank and plastered to his forehead from sweat, and his wagon mates have probably tried to murder him at least once. Despite his physical misery he manages to smile the friendly, oblivious smile of someone who doesn't realize he's frayed the edges of every friendship he has with his bullshit.

He blinks up at the the lights in the sky and the odd tune that comes from it. After a pause, he raises a book that appeared spontaneously out of nowhere and says to a tune,

"Hello, my name is Alfred Jones and I would like to share with you the most amazing book. It has so many awesome parts--"

Light speed is as slow as a goddamn starfish compared to how fast those aliens get the fuck outta dodge.

Left with only a waterlogged Bible, an inflamed colon, and possible brain swelling, America blinks at the spot where the lights had been until the stars swim in his vision. Wobbling a bit, he aimlessly wobbles around the area. Hopefully someone will realize he's gone and care enough to come fetch him for the umpteenth time.

In his wobbling his runs right into something he things is a cactus. It's tall and pointy and angry and wearing sunglasses, which are all very typical cactus features. He coughs into the fabric of the cactus' shirt.

"If I remember right, cactus water makes ya sick, but I'm real thirsty and I read a story 'bout it workin' once, so that means it's worth a shot."

And then he faceplants into Crowley's crotch, apparently think the way to obtain moisture from desert plants is to give them blowjobs. Except he kinda just kneels there mumbling into demon dick about clocks.

Crowley is mostly just dazed from dehydration and general misery. He and his caravan have almost run out of food and water, and despite several attempts to shoot at weirdly pixelated wildlife, it turns out Crowley is absolutely terrible with guns.

At this point Crowley is just sitting with his remaining oxen, staring up at the tower and the aliens and contemplating the abject pointlessness of existence when suddenly there's an America bumbling up to him out of freaking nowhere.

"Oh no, not you again. Once was enough. No, don't come near me, what's wrong with you, have you contracted the bloody plague? America. What--"

And then America faceplants into Crowley's crotch, and not exactly lightly, and it's not like as a human Crowley can just disappear the more sensitive bits when they're in danger, and so now for the first time in his life, Crowley has experienced what a headbutt to the crotch feels like.

He goes white and just sort of falls over with a keening sound.

This is a valuable learning experience Crowley. Cherish it.

America follows suit in collapsing to the ground in a daze. He should probably wonder why the 'cactus' didn't prick him, but he's so far beyond the point of logic that it's remarkable he's functioning at all. The only thoughts he has are vague wishes for his ailments to go away and how great it would be to have some pancakes right now.

As he's wondering if cacti can function the same as zucchini, he rolls over to get a good look at the figure writhing on the ground. His stomach rumbles ominously. At least for one brief moment, he's able to recognize that this isn't a cactus.

"Heyyyy, when'd you get here?"

The worst part is he voices it as a complaint, like c'mon Crowley, why are you always around when America is miserable? Why aren't you something edible? Wait...

"Are demons edible? Or are ya like mushrooms where some are edible and others'll poison ya? Snakes are edible. Do you taste like snake?"

Nothing good can come of these thoughts.

Crowley curls up on the ground. "You--sodding--" He can't really get any words out. It's kind of like someone has punched him on every part of his body all at the same time. How can human males have such a pathetically weak point? This is so stupid.

He manages to roll away a few inches from America before he can start chewing on him or something.

"Why do you exist I hate you so much whyyyy...don't you dare try to eat me or I'll curse you into a million pieces when I get my powers back."

It's probably a foregone conclusion that the last thing Crowley wants right now is ghostly company, but that's never stopped the Doctor before. He floats up to Crowley with what is unmistakably a grin on his face, and he waves at his fellow ghost.

"I see you got shuffled off, but at least you held on longer than I managed to," the Doctor says with just a hint of a shudder. Death by an illness that attacks the internal organs is not an easy way to go. It's over now, at least, and all things considered, the Doctor's rather content to float around sedately (because what other way of floating around is there?) and visit people he knows and talk with them a little.

"Oh bloody Manchester."

Is that the Doctor? It's the Doctor isn't it. Sod it.

"How in--the world did you manage to snuff it?" Oh wait, he was asking that about himself a few hours ago. He hisses a little. "These humanizing events are wearing on my last nerve."

It is the Doctor, ghostly essence and all. But he's not so put out by it, at least. In fact, he's rather content right about now.

"Well, it wasn't pretty, that's for sure. I got a bit of a sickness, and I lasted for a few days, but it got me in the end." Human illnesses are really not pleasant to live through. Or die from, as the case may be. "I did hope for something a little different after the last few events, but I suppose hoping only goes so far."

Maybe the next one will be a little different.

Crowley winces sympathetically. Which goes with a bit of a light show, since he's a ghost.

"That's rough. I'm not sure if it was the dysentery that killed me or the falling in the river. These rivers are beastly. Why does there need to be so many bloody rivers?"

"Well, your guess is as good as mine, although I suppose if the goal is accuracy, then they're doing a rather good job of it." Of course, the Doctor's understanding of the intricacies of the Oregon Trail and the history surrounding it is probably not something Crowley wants to discuss.

"I suppose I shouldn't ask if you know how to swim." But the Doctor doesn't really have much of a sense of self-preservation, because in his experience, that tends to impinge on his ability to enjoy things and to take risks, so he just says it anyway.

"Who knew Wonderland could create such a large area? Or at least, an area that looks and feels large." Crowley's half convinced that when Wonderland creates places like this, it puts everyone on a sort of conveyor belt with dumb backgrounds moving behind them.

He frowns. "Of course I can swim. Well...I swim better as a snake. Still, it's difficult to swim when you've got a few oxen on top of you."

"Or maybe a better question is, who knew that Wonderland was capable of creating anything at all? Alright, that sounds ridiculous, but if you look back on past events and things that have happened, and if you look at things from a strictly practical perspective, a huge part of what happens here shouldn't even happen. So maybe we shouldn't even be surprised."

But of course, there's no dictating anyone's emotions and reactions, human or otherwise, so of course people are going to act surprised when odd and impossible things happen. "What were they doing on top of you?"

He shrugs, which looks weird in ghost form since it comes with some light trails. "Well...Wonderland's meant to be a dream, I suppose. Alice dreams it all up, if I recall correctly. That or it's a drug trip. Mr. Dodgson did quite like his...recreationals. And the mind is capable of creating whole universes."

It makes a strange amount of sense, and almost explains why these events keep happening. The Red Queen called them "world crashes", but what if it's more specific than that? The events are based on the memories of the residents, and memories are similar to dreams. Wonderland itself could be a dream that its natives are having. Though that doesn't explain how all of them could come to be here.

Weird that he should start thinking about all of this now.

"Oxen tend to get all over when you try to ford a river and the caulking doesn't take..."

Confusion and anger are apparently the way of things, on this day. Toothless certainly doesn't know what's going on. All he knows is that people are buying a lot of things and there are big burly animals and why is everything so dusty? He leaves Hiccup to explore, as the day presses on and most people still haven't left yet.

Perhaps he can get a clue from something around here. A clue that might tell him where he is, and where the giant building's gone. Surely a mansion just can't get up and walk away. That would be absurd. And yet, where it it?

He finds Crowley next to his oxen. The oxen intrigue him most, out of all of this. He's never seen such huge creatures. They give the sheep in Berk a run for their money. Toothless sits down a few feet away to simply watch them chew on whatever food they've managed to get, green eyes wide and fascinated.

Toothless would never eat them, of course. He prefers fish, by far.

Crowley's oxen are either the most patient creatures in existence or the most stupid, because they don't seem to react at all to the presence of a dragon. They just keep chewing cud or whatever and stare at Toothless blearily.

Crowley, meanwhile, is trying to figure out how an ox yoke even works and is failing miserably. He looks up at Toothless and gives him an affronted look.

"Now why is it you get to stay a dragon? Completely unfair, that. I should have been a dragon. At least then I would stay a dragon. Serpent can also be translated as dragon you know. Ugh."

Idly, Toothless wonders how big the creatures would be if they had wool. Very large and fluffy, no doubt, and impossible for many of the dragons in Berk to harass. Especially because they don't react to him. He's thinking of a giant, woolly oxen as he turns his attention to Crowley.

What he's talking about, the dragon can't really tell. But he does seem to be annoyed.

At least someone else is really annoyed by all of this change. Toothless is largely confused, but irritation is a factor, too.

He rumbles, sympathetic, in the back of his throat.

Someone should show you a bison one of these days, Toothless. Or a musk ox. Or a yak.

Crowley eventually realizes that he's basically talking to himself and stops with a heavy sigh.

"Thanks." Since that sounded like sympathy. "You're a good listener. Being a dragon and all."

He sighs again, even heavier this time.

"I'm never too sure of...what exactly you're aware of. Do you know we're in an event? Not to cast doubt on your intelligence, of course."

At that, the dragon's chest puffs out a little. Yes, he is a good listener, when he wants to be. Sometimes he can just fall asleep and Hiccup's none the wiser about his attention span. Other times, he gets a smack or a long string of complaining.

Such is the hardship of being a giant, winged cat.

Toothless does hesitate at the question. Truthfully, he's not really certain of anything around him, though he has a feeling it's to do with "magic." Whatever magic is. Castiel had talked about it, and a few others.

So, slowly, he nods. "Event" is a viking word for things are even weirder than usual in Wonderland, he's learned.

That's fine. Snakes pretty much never pay attention except for when they want to, which is very rare. It's fortunate that dragons are more like cats than like reptiles.

He nods in response. That seems like a pretty hesitant yes.

"Event usually means things have changed in Wonderland. Though I'm sure you've noticed that much." He squints at the dragon. "I suppose you won't have to gather some bloody oxen and put together a bloody wagon and try and cross the bloody Midwest. You get to sit this one out. Lucky."

Toothless' eyes widen as he looks to the oxen, and then back to Crowley. Cross the Midwest? What's the Midwest and why does everyone have to cross it? Are there fish in the Midwest? All of these, he feels, are very important questions, though he's not sure how exactly to posit them.

He settles for cocking his head to the side and rumbling in a confused manner.

What exactly is going on, here? This viking does seem to know.

He sighs when he sees the dragon cock his head in confusion.

"I know exactly how you feel."

He sighs again, very heavily.

On second thought, maybe he doesn't want to know, judging from those explosive sighs. The Nightfury looks at the man — he should have more armor, all of them should — and then takes a few steps closer to give his leg a gentle nudge.

It'll all work out in the end. Probably.

Crowley smiles a little and pats the dragon's head. It's weird how comfortable with this whole dragon business he's gotten.

"Thanks. That means a lot. I think."

Maybe the dragon is just testing his balance to see how easily he can eat Crowley later on, but oh well. Better at this point to die from dragon than from one of the many plagues no doubt roaming the Midwest.

Unfortunately for Crowley, death by dragon isn't happening any time soon. Not with this dragon, at least, who only harms vikings in self defense. Toothless closes his eyes for a moment, rumbling like a giant cat, enjoying the pats he receives.

They're all a little mixed up, right now.

Why not offer a bit of comfort, too.

Crowley pats the dragon's nose.

"You know, dragons are supposed to to be huge, menacing, fire-breathing monsters who hoard gold and kidnap princesses. How did you get to be such a kitten, anyway? I suppose it's not polite to stereotype."

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