kore_logs | 'listen to the warning' the prophet he said

Who: Chuck Shurley and OPEN.
What: There's only one way forward, and this is it.
When: Day 121.
Where: The tunnels.
Notes: No, really, this is wide open. I made very little OOC plans so come at me.

Raphael had come by earlier and said he would actually bodily drag Chuck into the tunnels if he didn't go willingly. But it didn't seem like he had an option either way. Earthquakes kept shifting below his feet -- it seemed to be tearing the entire cape apart. He had no doubt that, if he stayed, he wouldn't be alive to see whatever happened to the little town where they were held captive.

Chuck spends most of the time trying to decide what to take with him. Specifically, his typewriter. Balthazar had gotten it for him, and he'd used it well. It seemed like a shame to leave it behind. But, on the other hand, it wasn't exactly lucrative to go about dragging a typewriter through a series of tunnels who knows how long. He reluctantly leaves it behind.

He enters the tunnels alone and is glad he did. The effect is so instantaneous and so sudden he nearly trips over himself. Because, while he might not use all the omniscient and omnipotent powers he has at his disposal, he's always aware that it's there, hiding underneath his fingertips. But now, in these tunnels, it's gone. Vanished. Disappeared. He's honestly nothing more than the human he pretends to be.

It's an uncomfortable reminder of the amount of power this place -- these scientists -- hold over him, and it's not one he appreciates. He's never felt truly powerless, literally and figuratively, before, and he does not approve of these feelings in himself whatsoever.

But there's no place to go but forward. And so forward into the tunnels he goes.

Threaded | Flat

At some point along the way, Meg has gotten separated from her fluffy little nerd angel and her two favourite Winchesters. No biggie. Sure, she's stuck down here with Crowley and a bunch of pissed angels, but from what she can gather they're just as powerless down here as she is - so unless they're all going to try poking each other with angel blades in the dark she's pretty sure angels and demons are the least of her worries and the tunnel collapsing and suffocating her currently hard working lungs is much more likely.

"I'm surprised your angelic bodyguards aren't keeping you on a tigher leash."

Raphael's been swinging close and wandering away from Chuck this entire trip. Some of it is purposeful - him all but crawling up Michael's back and shooting daggers at the back of Lucifer's head for being difficult, walking with Samandriel and keeping him close, falling back to cover the angel's backs or scouting a head for a path, or simply pausing to comfort one of the youngsters. Some of it isn't, his sense of direction is gone, he's sore and tired and hurting and needs to slow down, once he had to figure out how to pee and that cemented his "humans are weird and I hate this" attitude. And over the day, he's managed to gain a flashlight (thank you Brigid), give away his jacket (You're welcome blue-skinned woman) and use his tie as a sheath for his sword, scruff the knees of his pants and skin the palm of his hand and hurt his wrist (damned debris), gain a bottle of water (thank you Donna), turn his immaculately clean white shirt fairly dirty, and collected some other injuries.

By now, he's sore. Really sore - and limping actually - his left foot hurts, his knees ache, his back just feels stiff, there's a small goose egg on the right side of his head, his right hand and wrist hurt, his head his throbbing all over, and he keeps swallowing but it's not helping, and there's an uncomfortable burning feeling in his chest. But he falls back (more or less) in step with Chuck again.

"How are you holding up?"

Oh, Balthazar's not happy about the typewriter, either. It occurred to him on the way out, but he came to the same conclusion as Chuck. It might not be too heavy, but it's certainly too awkward a thing to haul through a cavern.

After a few hours in the tunnels, he's footsore and grouchy, but for some reason it hasn't actually occurred to him to eat or drink any of the provisions he's brought. Force of habit, perhaps, not needing nourishment? In any case, when he stumbles across Chuck at a junction in the tunnels, he's relieved, and quick to think of the meager snacks he's carrying. "Chuck! I was worried; I didn't know whether you'd left or not. Are you thirsty?"

The longer Dean spends down here, the more claustrophobic he feels, and the more he starts remembering digging himself out of his grave. That's really not a situation he feels like repeating, so he winds up falling into step with people, talking, trying to keep his mind from settling on any one image in particular. Even if they're talking about their inevitable doom, at least Dean's mind won't fill up with memories in the same way.

He thinks he spots Chuck, and he waits until he can verify -- slouchy, beardy, yup. It's Chuck. He joins him, giving him a smile in greeting.

"Always thought it'd be cool to be on The Mole. Not like this, though."

Michael may have been the one to force Lucifer into the tunnels, but the Devil is, if nothing else, exceptionally patient. It doesn't take more than a few hours for his elder brother's attention to falter, and with skill born of countless years of practice, Lucifer slips his figurative leash and heads off on his own.

He'll return, of course. Eventually.

For now, however, he's content to be away from his younger siblings' nervous glances (punctuated by Raphael's relentless glaring) and Michael's dogged focus. The tunnels have presented them with an entirely new problem - the loss of their powers and a sudden, jolting transition into humanity.

He feels blind and deaf and muted, irrevocably bound to an ill-fitting form. Nick is remarkably heavy without his Grace, and Lucifer dislikes it. Fumbling around in a darkness that's far too reminiscent of the Cage is doing him no favors, either.

It's not too much of a shock, then, when he eventually does run into something - or rather, someone. Turning a corner, Lucifer is just light on his feet enough to avoid bowling over the unkempt figure of what he's vaguely certain is a prophet.

Strange.

"Watch your step, prophet."

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near the end of the day?

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