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(no subject) [Oct. 11th, 2009|11:54 pm]
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The next man who enters the resort lobby is of moderate height and build. He is wearing a suit of flattering (yet subtle) cut and design, his hair is the indescribable shade between brown and blonde, and his eyes are hazel - or are they blue? In other words, he is completely inconspicuous and average-looking until if someone were to eventually notice him. After that, there would suddenly be something about him that they can't help but notice. It's something charismatic, dangerous, and intense. If they were religious, they might find themselves fingering their cross or whispering a prayer. He is, after all, a man of wealth and taste.

There is no surprise when he suddenly finds himself in a strange location. He has seen stranger, been to worse, and has been subjected to greater and more alarming whims than this. In fact, this could be His whim. If that were the case, the only thing for him to do would be to sit tight and wait. He's an expert at the waiting game. He picks up a picture frame with a generic photograph in it, vaguely aware of the other people in the room. They don't worry him too much - even with his diminished powers. After all, and this is the question of eternity, what does he have to lose?

He sets the picture frame back down again and schools his features into a more welcoming expression. Might as well greet the adoring (ha) public and waste some time.

Typist: Lucifer Morningstar AKA Satan AKA the Adversary AKA the Devil AKA whatever other demon's name he's stealing, from a billion different canons, in the flesh (as it were). Enjoy!
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(no subject) [Oct. 10th, 2009|09:23 pm]
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On his way out the door, Percy realizes he's forgotten his briefcase. He turns to re-enter the Burrow, but as he passes back through the doorway, he is met with a very surprising sight. Instead of the furniture and quaint atmosphere he was just beginning to be familiar with again, he finds himself in an elaborate lobby. It is completely unrecognizable, and there are quite a few people milling about.

Must have been a portkey, he thinks, resting his hand on the handle of his wand and looking at the people around him. He notices a variety of outfits, giving him the impression that many of these people are Muggles. He must use extreme caution, then.

Noticing some people looking his direction, he clears his throat and says, "Excuse me, but I seem to have been sent here by mistake. Could you tell me the name of this establishment?"

Typist: Percy Weasley, from the Harry Potter series!
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(no subject) [Oct. 10th, 2009|10:41 am]
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She steps out of the elevator and finds herself in a place that certainly isn't the Dollhouse. It's every bit as luxurious, and, she suspects, just as much in accordance with feng shui, but the decorative theme is all wrong. The people she sees wandering around, moreover, are clearly not actives.

Her only concession to the panic percolating through her coat of phlegmatic detachment is to glance into one of the many available mirrored surfaces. At the sight of her reflection, her outward calm becomes more natural; it's her own body, at least. She can stop with this fearing the worst nonsense and find out what has happened. She waits impassively to be approached by someone useful.

Everything about her appearance is exquisitely crafted and immoderately expensive, from the arrangement of her long brown hair to the lethal-looking heels of her patent leather pumps. She carries with her a sort of indefinable air of Britishness that makes her look entirely at home in the lobby, and she knows it.

Typist: Adelle DeWitt, from Dollhouse.
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(no subject) [Oct. 10th, 2009|12:05 pm]
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The grand front doors swing open quietly, just wide enough to let Touya Akira slip through. He’s a young man, Japanese, in clothes oddly both suited to the surroundings and not – the suit, tie and formal shoes are quite appropriate for the discrete upper-class air of the resort. The fact that his suit is lilac and his shirt mauve slightly spoils the effect.

He looks around, curious and unguarded, trying to take in the lobby. It’s not that dissimilar to the hotels he’s visited for tournaments and exhibitions, except that this place is more classically western than even the most modern places in Japan. And he’s fairly sure the hotel he was entering a second ago was hung with exhibition banners, not to mention the fact that Hikaru seems to have disappeared...

It takes him a moment to realise that there are others in the lobby, some of them looking at him. He bows the second he notices, with a quick “Pleasure to meet you,” and hopes that he isn’t blushing. He’s always had a bit of a curse with first impressions.

typist: Touya Akira (Touya = family name, but feel free to get it wrong!) from Hikaru no Go, anime/manga. NB: ‘go’ = the board game he gets paid to play. Think professional chess.
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(no subject) [Oct. 9th, 2009|09:45 pm]
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There was something incredibly disorienting about not appearing where he had intended. The last time Cupid had missed a jump, he'd been Bliss's age. Three years old. He was so far beyond that that it wasn't even thinkable, and yet--he'd missed his jump.

Cupid looks around the lobby he's landed in, wondering what some of the things around him were. Strife would know, with all his adventures into the hall of time. But Cupid isn't Strife, and he is in this new place, and he's going to have to figure out where he is, why he is there, and how he could get home.

Home. Well, maybe it's worth trying to zap himself back? Cupid closes his eyes to shut out any possible distractions, and focuses on Olympus. He pictures his mother's temple in particular, figuring that she'd probably enjoy the story. He conjures up every detail he can possibly think of--

--and nothing. He goes absolutely no where. "If this is one of Strife's sick practical jokes, He's going to die. Again."

Typist: Cupid, God of Love, from Hercules: The Legendary Journeys/Xena: Warrior Princess. Also, please forgive any tense flubs; i'm not used to writing in present tense, and i'm finding it a struggle to readjust to. Sorry!
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(no subject) [Oct. 8th, 2009|08:32 pm]
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One of the things Wilson has learned when it came to working at Princeton-Plainsboro is always keep your eyes open. But no amount of keeping his eyes open could have ever prepared Wilson for stumbling through what he thought was the door to his office. Instead of seeing the calming paintings on the wall, the couch in the corner, and the collection of stuffed animals from his various patients, he sees what appears to be a hotel lobby. A rather nice one - even nicer than the one he stayed in during one of his divorces.

"Huh," is all Wilson says and turns around to see if going back through the door would lead him back into the hallway of the hospital, but any evidence of the door has vanished in thin air.

Wilson's first thought is that House was playing an elaborate trick on him, but he's pretty sure that not even House has the ability to make doors disappear. Yet.

"Is anyone in here?" he calls, his voice echoing off the walls. Since this is a hotel lobby, there should be guests, right? Maybe even staff? So he starts to look around, wandering about the lobby area, keeping his eyes open (as always) for a wayward guest or a staff member that just might have a clue as to what is going on.

Typist: Dr. James Wilson from House, M.D.!
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(no subject) [Oct. 8th, 2009|11:09 pm]
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Stumbling backwards through a door, mumbling excuses and very much trying to get away from the very upset woman that he can't quite place, he turns around to make a run for it --

And stops dead in his tracks, swaying slightly on the spot. He was probably more than a little tipsy, but still quite sure he'd just walked out of a tavern, and out onto the street. Except he was no longer standing on a street not far from the docks.

He blinked, and started sauntering around the room, looking at everything, a bemused look on his face.

"Interesting," he muttered. "Very interesting."

Typist: The infamous Captain Jack Sparrow, from the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy! :D
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(no subject) [Oct. 8th, 2009|03:56 pm]
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Being dead, once one has gotten used to it, is far from the most exciting or enjoyable thing one might do. In fact, it may be the least exciting, enjoyable, or, truth be told, stimulating in almost any way. One makes do, of course, but it is a condition with few redeeming points. All the same, he experiences a moment of petulance as he finds himself suddenly and without warning not dead at all, but very much...

Very much standing in a beautiful lobby, well-supplied with precisely the kind of Muggle light fixture of which he has always been so fond but has never been able, through one mishap or another, to get ahold of. The petulance smooths away, and it occurs to him that he should have stopped to dwell on the fact that he is alive, and not only alive, it would seem, but presented with as good a stage as ever existed for excitement and stimulation of all kinds.

He doesn't have his wand, but that doesn't bother him unduly. Fixing his half-moon glasses higher on the bridge of his very crooked nose, all the better to twinkle piercingly but good-naturedly at passerby, Albus Dumbledore prepares to be entertained, distracted, confused, or, for a start, simply told where he is.

"A fine, well-kept establishment," he observes. "I would very much like to give my compliments to the proprietor."

Typist: Albus Dumbledore, whom you might recognize from J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter novels.
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(no subject) [Oct. 8th, 2009|07:09 am]
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The last thing Natalie expected to see, when she pushed open the door that had previously led to the living room, was, well, anything that wasn't that living room. An elegant, ritzy hotel lobby is pretty high on the list of "things that aren't the Goodman household's living room", and, consequently, Natalie stops dead in her tracks in the middle of the doorway.

"O...kay," she mutters, looking around and trying to take it all in - none of this, from the potted ferns in the corner to the carpet, which is the kind of pattern only found in hotel lobbies, belongs in her house. The house where she was, or thought she was, until a few moments ago.

"Um, hello? Is anyone there?" she calls out warily, taking a step or two inside the room. "God, am I crazy now, too?"

Typist: Natalie Goodman, from the musical Next To Normal.
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(no subject) [Oct. 7th, 2009|08:11 pm]
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Dean kicks the door open, ready to end the nest of vampires before they can blink. He compensates for the weighty machete in his right hand, which is why he stumbles and nearly falls on his face when he appears in the hotel lobby without his weapon. He jerks upright and regards the room with wide-eyes, but when he figures there's no immediate threat, his posture relaxes.

"What--" he begins, looking over his left shoulder, but the space behind him is empty. He turns in a complete circle, and tenses once again.

"Son of a bitch." He takes a breath, then charges forward. "Hello? Anyone?"

Typist: Dean Winchester, smart alec and emotional punching bag from Supernatural.
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