Always look on the bright side of life

[directed]

Who: Rip Hunter and you?
Where: Second Floor, Kitchen, Elsewhere
When: During the event
Rating: PG-13 probably - talk of death, potential violence
Summary: Rip has recently regretted how little time he found for such things as swimming. Apparently Wonderland has decided to make up for that in spades.
The Story:

In the beginning -

Eight hours per a room. It's the one solid fact they seem to have to rely on, when so many others remain untested. With no way of knowing whether the oxygen levels would reset should a room be abandoned for long enough, Rip checks over the supplies he's saved up for those instances in which the closets fail to work. Unfortunately none of those oh-so-helpful voices suggested things like scuba gear or oxygen tanks, but Rip has food and clean water both.

He also has little doubt that other people might not have thought to create such caches for themselves. He winds up divvying up his own inventory in an attempt to buy time. He's a capable enough swimmer, and thankfully not so far from the kitchens just one floor bellow. There will come a point when he needs to rest, but until then Rip devotes what energy and effort he can to transporting supplies to the people he feels a level of responsibility for, to try and ensure this event doesn't claim any of them.

He can be found then making stops in the kitchen, or the tea rooms depending on how far he's pushed himself. He sticks largely to the lower floors for similar reasons, and won't be spotted above the fourth.



On the third day -

On the third day, there is nothing.



After the rapture -

Once the waters have receded, Rip throws himself into efforts with perhaps a greater ferocity than he had when the halls were flooded. His drive nearly manic, he has noticed something else about this event: the waters are not the only aspect of it. Though time moves forward it's also moved back, in a way Rip's been trained to recognize.

Time loops are a rare phenomenon indeed, but hardly unheard of.

The difficulty lies in any attempt he makes to express this to his comrades or the scientists he's met up with during his tenure in this world. His--accident has left him unable to form words from thought, to express what he sees and knows and deduces to those around him. Events are known to pass, but the very fact that they have been caught within repeating time since the start would seem to put that very notion into question. Who are they to assume things won't repeat, that time won't curve and wrap around, and drop them all back in the same flood that swallowed them up before?

That swallowed him up.

Who is he to think he can't die again?

He needs someone to know, to understand, to work with him to find a way to fix this. But in a land driven by magic rather than technology, that plays by its own chaotic rules instead of those based in reality? It's a much hard thing to accomplish than it should be.



Wild card! Let me know if you'd like something else

Comments

closed: Lisa Snart

[directed]

Good morning Lisa:

In light of the recent event, I am now on my way over to deliver some emergency supplies to you. As such, I'd be most grateful if you resisted any urge you might have to shoot or otherwise maim a random person barging into your room.

Regards,

Rip Hunter

[He sends the overly polite text to the woman across the hall from him before checking over the noted supplies a final time. Truly he misses the well-stocked cargo bays of the Waverider, but he does manage to at least fill up a satchel with bottled water and tinned goods, plus a torch that's thankfully waterproof. He only wears what he must for the trip: a grey t-shirt, dark trousers, and his gun, as always holstered and ready at his side.

No boots, no duster. He almost feels undressed.

Ah well. There's nothing more he can do but make the plunge. It takes a bit of effort to get the door open, although thankfully water doesn't come rushing in as he expects. More magic, maybe, but Rip won't take the time to study it. He could still somehow be letting out oxygen anyway, and he'll need to return to this room after he's seen Lisa.

With no further delay Rip throws himself into the water, only pausing long enough to reach back and shut his own door. The swim across the hall is thankfully short, and he reaches Lisa's room in short order. Hopefully the message eliminates his need to knock; letting himself in, Rip grips the door frame to pull himself out of the flood behind him, and in turn falls flat on his face once there is no longer anything to keep him upright.]

Bloody hell.

[prettyntoxic]

[Lisa usually left the door unlocked. She could take care of herself if someone unwanted barged in, but usually, it was left for Mick or her brother. So, when the Englishman messaged her, she didn't have to worry about unlocking it for him. Her worry was over something different.

The conversation with her brother was still painfully vivid in her mind. She wasn't sure how she felt about Rip Hunter or how she'd react to seeing him. He didn't know, of course, unless Lenny warned him.

When the door opened, she tensed, waiting for water to spill in. She hadn't opened it since she heard the news. However, there was no rushing of water. Just the spilling of the waterlogged Captain onto her floor. Ever so gracefully. It was rather disarming. She didn't quite smile, but she did bring a towel with her and offer him a hand to his feet.]

Just couldn't wait to get into my bedroom, could you, Rip? [The flirtatious comment was forced. As was the smirk that followed.]

[directed]

[Rip has no idea of what Leonard's told Lisa as of yet, although he does mean to speak to the man himself regarding the same issue. Arguably he's had the chance to uphold his end of the deal he made with Barry Allen ever since Lisa arrived. The spirit of it, however, seems to not so much apply when Leonard is there himself, and besides: Barry had been insistent on Leonard not knowing Rip had been tasked with ensuring he had a better legacy than "thief."

If Rip were to tell Lisa of Leonard's demise, he would want to know why.]

Given the circumstances, I could barely keep myself from it. [Since the hallway is filled with water and such. He looks up at the offered hand for a brief moment before taking it, using that leverage to pick himself up.

(And to pull some of the water from outside in with him; congratulations, Lisa. You now have a soaking wet Englishman in your chambers.)]

I appreciate the thought, but I doubt that'll do me much good. [The towel, he means. Rip doesn't plan to be there long, knowing each moment he spends in Lisa's room takes extra time from that precious eight hours. He'll just continue to drip on her floor.]

In case you weren't aware, along with all the water, our closets have stopped working.

[prettyntoxic]

I bet that's what you tell all the girls. [She replied dryly. Lis slung the towel over her shoulder and eyed him. He looked very much like a drown rat and he was very much dripping everywhere. Not that it could be helped, really.]

I noticed. [She set her jaw and told herself to play nice. Raised by Lenny, she was capable of remaining icily calm on the surface when her emotions were compromised, but she was also capable of small, venomous bursts. Less like the fiery rage of Mick Rory and more like the calm strike of a rattle snake.

Lisa passed him to give the door a push shut--the water was bothering her. What if whatever magic force holding it back failed?--and faced him again. Her blue eyes were hard and cold. Without the warning of a rattlesnake, she lashed out aiming a right hook to his jaw. If it landed or he caught it, it didn't matter, she didn't strike again, but the pain was noticeable in her eyes.]

You jerk! How can you look me in the eyes knowing you got him killed without saying anything to me?

[That... was probably the last thing Rip expected in this particular moment.]

[directed]

[Somehow Rip doubts pointing out that Lisa's room would be the first he's barged into in such a manner would do more to inspire her commentary than lessen it. He instead pulls off the bag, meaning to set it somewhere safe so Rip could go over just what he's rationed out, how long it should last, what she should be aware of to ensure she continues to live.

He's so focused on the effort that he doesn't quite realize the chill in the room--quite a mistake, given that she is indeed a Snart. Lisa moves to close the door, rather wise, and Rip turns to face her just in time for her fist to crash hard into his face, sending him stumbling back a step.

For the record? He has not missed people punching him.

He huffs out a sigh after her angry demand for answers, reaching up to gingerly touch the spot where no doubt there would be a bruise later.]

I suppose Leonard told you. Well. Now that comment about ducking makes much more sense.

[He's cut the inside of his cheek on his teeth; Rip can taste blood.]

I can do so because I am a Time Master, Miss Snart. [He meets her eyes without apology in his gaze; the choice to not tell her had not been wrong.] Knowing the tragedies that await people in their future is very often part of my job. I'm rather adept at keeping those secrets hidden.

[As they must be.

But that pain in her eyes--this isn't the first time he's received angry accusations due to the loss of a sibling. She hits rather like Sara does too.]

And beyond that, it wasn't my place to tell you.

just taking care of the body

[saved]

By the third day, Peter has lost count of how many bodies he has found. He was keeping track, and he doesn't even know why. It just seemed like the thing to do, but he lost count. When he stumbles on the body in the hallway, his heart feels heavy, sharp in the center of his chest. It looks like this person was struggling right to the end. They all do, fighting for that last breath their bodies beg them to take.

He closes his eyes, swallows, and then swims down the rest of the way, winding an arm around him and then tugging, tugging, tugging the body into an empty room. Maybe even fighting for someone else too, to give them a chance.

Peter hauls the man up through the doorway of the nearest air filled room, and then- then Peter collapses beside him for a moment. He pulls off his mask, and he wipes at his face. His eyes burn, and he shoves his fist into a wall, leaving a hole behind in his wake. He pushes himself up to his feet impossibly, moving to the blanket and covering the man up, closing his eyes.

He slides the mask back on, takes in a few more deep breaths of air. He lost the rebreather somewhere along the way. Gave it to someone who needed it.

He leaves.

Afterwards

[boilover]

"What?"

Was all Mick offered when Rip tried to talk to him, not really paying too much attention to him. He was too busy trying to banish his arch-enemy - water. Stupid, annoying water. He was in the damaged hallway, wringing out his jacket and trying to clear out some of the water from his room, the door open and everything inside suitably trashed and damaged. As expected. His gun was tossed on the bed, it was going to need looking at, the water got into it. Not good.

He looked up at Rip who had said something to him but he just genuinely had no idea what he was babbling about. "You got a problem or something, Cap?"

[directed]

Since his reawakening, those first horrid moments when he discovered himself on a foreign bed, covered by a sheet, Rip has been been driven by the need to act. In truth he's meant to do nothing more but shout out an obligatory question of status to Mick, taking advantage of the open door on his way by to more scientific minds, those that might understand and adopt the notion of time loops, that could potentially do something to fix it or at least find a way to see if they would suddenly be flooded again.

(If he would suddenly be dead again, wake up again, feel that same cold realization again.)

Yet the man's confusion puts a stop to Rip's harried footsteps, leaving him paused in view of the open door. He does indeed have a problem, countless problems, but this--this should not be one of them.

"You--no, I--ah." He frowns, trying to work out the words within his mind. It's the simplest of questions: he merely wanted to ensure that Mick had made it through the flooding without issue. Yet somewhere between thought and speech, signals are getting crossed.

"It's later. And you're here. You're wet."

[boilover]

Mick just stared back again because no, that didn't make any sense still. Why was Rip stating what was crystal clear? Mick looked around his room and his person, as if he could see a reason why Rip would think to tell him something so damn obvious. "You hit your head or something? Inhale a little too much hallway water?" He snorted in amusement and moved closer, dropping his wet and useless coat on the floor, there was a wet slap as it fell. "Of course I'm wet, everything is wet, it just flooded. Idiot."

He wouldn't be so quick to call someone an idiot in a situation like this where they could have really of hit their head or gotten some kind of brain injury but Rip had made a point to call Mick stupid and he loved having any excuse to throw the word back at him.

Was he a bitter, petty little man sometimes? Yes. Yes, he was.

"You done stating the obvious yet?" He raised an eyebrow at him. "Or are we both just gonna start doing that. Stating the obvious, I mean." Pausing, he added, quite maturely. "You're here. You're wet. And your moustache is kinda sissy."

[directed]

t first Mick’s stare is lost on Rip, who instead works on piecing together why his thoughts won’t come out as he wishes to express them. It’s not difficult; aphasias of all brands stand as common consequences of time jumps, and Mick himself reminds him (not that he needs reminding, not at all) that they are also the result of drowning. A lack of oxygen to the brain, and Rip’s eyes widen in horror at the terrible possibility.

He knows that deaths are undone. After five, there is a loss. But this—this had been his first time. His only demise, so why, how—

The sharp slap of Mick’s soaked-through jacket hitting the ground draws his attention back, his head snapping up so he’s once more looking at the man. The words he’s heard but having listened to come racing back in, burning themselves into his awareness.

Everything’s wet.

It just flooded.

Idiot.

The muscles of his body draw tight as Mick approaches, because isn’t that just rich? Of course Rip remembers the insults he’s hurled at Mick in the past, spoken in frustration and rage not unlike what he feels now. It may only be that conversation that keeps Rip in check, however, because Rip had laid out another difference between them.

He is not the kind to resort to something barbaric.

Restraint becomes a much harder thing, however, when one’s very ability to communicate has been stolen away. He scrubs a hand across his face (over the same moustache Mick so helpfully deems ‘sissy’), then attempts to speak again.

“It flooded. No one could breathe.” Not Rip nor the child, some unnamed youth whom Rip had given his life to hopefully save. “I was wet.”

[boilover]

"No shit. You inhaled a load of water too? It happens when it floods, genius."

Mick rolled his eyes and have a tilt of his head to Rip as if he was trying to comprehend what he was getting at. He didn't get why Rip was trying to tell him this shit so he had to just go ahead and assume he'd hit his head pretty hard. Heh. Rip hurt. Always a thought that made Mick smile a little - on minor injuries, of course, those were funnier than, like, death.

"Did no one ever tell you how water works?"

AFTER (and after her network post as well)

[quickgenius]

Jesse is frustrated, to say the least. And haunted. Unable to talk, unable to write so her ability to work on much of anything is painfully curtailed, and remembering far too keenly what it feels like to drown. Her attempt at trying to warn someone, anyone, EVERYone, about the time loops hadn’t gone well at all. Because she can’t speak.

She’s not paying much attention to where she’s going, she’s just... moving. Keeping moving. She’s not paying attention and she rounds a corner and bumps into someone. Blinking in surprise, Jesse instinctively murmurs an apology. Or tries to. “Scoreboard.” Then she makes a wordless sound of anger and tries again, brow furrowing as she focuses on trying to make sense. “Sorr- sorrow.” Her face twists in an expression of frustration and apology. She is so tired of this. And scared it’s not going to end, this time.

Re: AFTER (and after her network post as well)

[directed]

The truth is that Jesse need not feel so responsible for their collision. Rip’s own frustration has practically become palpable, his anger the only thing he seems able to clearly express. He’s rushing through the hall as quickly as she, meaning to go upstairs to Caitlin’s lab to see her; she’s a doctor, a medical doctor surrounded by what is likely the best technology this backwater magical hell has to offer. If there’s to be any relief from this—something which Rip cannot bring himself to hold much hope for—then it would be found there.

He stops, however, when a young girl runs bodily into him, instinctively reaching out to place hands lightly on her shoulders to ensure neither of them falls. He doesn’t have a name to match to her face, but the futility that crosses her expression, the anger in her eyes? That he knows all too well.

It’s why he doesn’t offer any attempt at words in return. There remain other ways to communicate, ones Rip remains more than happy to attempt over a futile spewing of nonsense. One hand rises to halt her before Rip silently shakes his head. This is not her fault, and he turns his palm towards himself, resting it against his chest.

Pardon him.]

[quickgenius]

She recognizes the way he lifts his hand, shakes his head, and the relief is so intense it hurts. As much as she hates that someone else went through what she did. He understands. Gets the inability to speak coherently in a way that people who aren’t going through it don’t. Can’t. It means he understands what she went through, too.

The memory of drowning isn’t a pleasant one.

She huffs a soft, tired laugh, offering him a small smile and shaking her head. There’s nothing to pardon. Then she’s gesturing to herself, and back to him. She’s not letting him take all the blame. She can’t. She ran into him just as much as he ran into her.

[directed]

If nothing else were to come from this random encounter, Rip can take away this: for a moment, this girl had been offered understanding. She’d gone from a peak of angry frustration to a singular sound of release, and even a smile that might be considered genuine. Given that each of them stands a prisoner of their own minds, with thoughts trapped behind seemingly impenetrable barriers, any such relief stands as a blessing.

As Rip knows rather well; he’s already lost himself to the curse of the rage, simmering steadily beneath the surface. It’s why Jesse might notice the bruising on his jaw and a cut lip, delivered at the hands of a rather violent man whom Rip had punched first.

She’s determined to take what she sees as her share of the blame, but in the end it’s not so important. They’ve bumped into each other, apologized with silent gestures, and now they can move on. He glances on the path ahead; they aren’t so far from Caitlin’s door, although there is no clear sign of whether she’s in or not. Rip can only hope so, and he steps back to clear the way for Jesse and continue on his own.

[quickgenius]

Not quite. At least not yet. Jesse notices the bruising on his jaw, the cut lip, and does what comes naturally. Offers to help. Or tries to, awkwardly, with the limited ability to communicate. She tilts her head towards him, before tapping once with a fingertip on her face where the bruising and cut is on his own. Then she’s moving her hand, extending it a little before pulling it, flat-palmed, towards her chest.

Let me help you. It’s as best as she can do, with words failing her. Then she holds her hand out, for him to take should he wish it, so she can take care of his injuries. So she can do something even a little bit useful during all of this.

afterwards

[projected]

[Eobard played it smart, when it came to the flood. He was on the top floor, in a mostly unoccupied corridor. It meant he could be comfortable with going from room to room through the flood, using his powers to phase through into the empty rooms without opening the door. Really the only victim was his Italian leather jacket he had to abandon because the water completely ruined it. These closets are handy enough to make new ones though.

And really, eight hours or so to stay in one place (he counted by his watch) was a greater liberty than he was afforded back in his world.

When it's all over, the manor begins to repair, Eobard makes his usual quiet rounds across the building. And inside the library is where he relaxes. Even if others come in, he expects people in this place are cultured enough to know to be silent in here. So he immerses himself in a book on particle physics, a favored subject.]

you show up to my post all uninvited and expect a hello?

[directed]

[Oh, wonderful. If there's anything that can make Rip's day just that much better, it's running into Eobard Thawne in the library. Well aware of his aphasia by this point--and the fact that there's nothing he can do about it until it passes with the true ending of the event--Rip only hesitates a moment before starting to walk by Eobard. Hopefully whatever he's got his nose in is enough to keep him distracted. The encounters he's already experienced (potentially more than once, thanks to the joy of time looping) have been more than enough for his tastes, thank you.]

hello :^)

[projected]

[Eobard is indeed engaged his book, enough that the world outside his immediate vision is swallowed into a white noise background. Yet even so, Eobard is always aware of his surroundings. Never so distracted that he doesn't observe changes in the forefront of his environment. Rip passing by, even for a brief second, catches his attention. Particle physics can wait.

He takes note of his place in the book, and then closes it, before turning to look at Rip from his comfortable seat.]

I suggest you be careful with some of the books. The ones more out in the front still have a dampness to them from the flood.

>:|

[directed]

[He pauses in his tracks at the drawl, taking advantage of the fact that his back is to Eobard to raise his eyes towards the ceiling and once more question the nature of his luck. In truth the best thing he could do to avoid people would be to stay in his room, but he thought it would be more maddening. Bad enough the thoughts are all trapped within his mind, locked behind bars comprised of his inability to string together more than simplistic observation.

Work would help him. Research, focus, doing--something.

Conversing with Eobard Thawne, however, does not qualify. While the man might mean to start a conversation, Rip surely doesn't. No acknowledgement would merely make the man press harder, and while there is no guarantee silent motions won't have the same effect? There remains a chance.

So he turns, just enough to meet the man's eye and nod. Yes, quite, he'll take note of the water damage. Will that be all?]

[projected]

[And with Rip's silence, his motion, Eobard makes his own silent motion. A turn of his head and a small squint of his eyes, brow gently furrowed.]

Still upset about before? [He interprets their previous conversation as the reason for Rip's silence. People can be so frustrating to deal with.] You really need to lighten up a little.

voice; after the hallways clear out

[catchacold]

[Simple, to the point, but he has just gone through a lot and he frankly can't be bothered to say more. He sounds exhausted, maybe even a bit pained, but at least he's alive.]

Status?

Re: voice; after the hallways clear out

[directed]

[Oh, the bitter irony. Rip’s voice doesn’t carry the level of fatigue to be sure. Death has shockingly done wonders for him; he has woken (almost) perfectly fine despite having been deceased for an unknowable amount of time. Certainly if he’d lived, Rip would be under similar strain.

But he hadn’t, and he isn’t.

What his response wouldn’t lack should he offer to give it verbally would be a certain level of venom. It’s hardly Leonard’s fault. He’s merely asking the question that Rip hasn’t since discovering his lingering injury. Yet that simple demand to check in digs its way under his skin; their roles have been reversed, by necessity perhaps, unintentionally to be sure.

Yet that doesn’t stop this new layer of anger from fueling the fire burning within him. No more so than his inability to even type out a simple response.

Leonard doesn’t get the brand of answer Rip intends. Instead his video cuts on, but at an odd angle; the phone is on the floor where it lands after the captain throws it across the room in his frustration. All Leonard would see would be the ceiling at first, but the sound of Rip’s angry pacing should come over just as clearly.]

[catchacold]

[That is actually a welcome distraction from his general situation. Leonard tilts his head to the side as he watches the screen, trying to figure out just exactly what he was looking at. Between that and the angry pacing, he can really just lean back and wait where this is going.]

Interesting angle. Have you ever considered a career in film?

[directed]

[The reply is what tips Rip off to the fact that his phone has been even less cooperative that he had hoped--and after he treats it with such care, too. The footsteps pause for a moment, then resume with new intent and direction: towards the phone, and a moment later Rip comes into view as he bends down to retrieve the device.

Forgive the shaky-cam, Mr. Snart.

But now that it is running, perhaps he can provide Leonard his answer without actually answering. He motions first towards the phone, then towards himself, as if to say that yes, he's there, he's fine, nothing more to see.

Certainly nothing to hear.]