>. Ringing. That's all she could hear. Painful, throbbing ringing. Going straight from the right of her head, streaming out to the left. It did hurt. A lot. But nothing compared to the emotional pain he had put her through.

"N-No! Don't you fucking touch me--," Binary pulled away the second Father Alistair had inched close - who was clearly worried about her incoherent babbling and frantic yelling. "I-I don't even know who you are anymore! S-So you better stay away!" In one hand, her gun. The other - evidence. It had all started out of paranoia. Dreams, in fact. Strange dreams that seemed all to real but had started the second she spent her first night in the church. A tree. A man of death. And those images in her head had urged her to go researching. But when the hacker tried to reassure herself about spending more time with the Father, she had found more than she had bargained for. And then it was all downhill from there. "E-Explain this!," Binary shouted, throwing the pile of papers at him. Photos upon photos of him - dating back years, centuries -- all right up to the camera being invented. "Y-You better start talking. Or I'm gonna shoot you. Do you understand, Alistair?"

Staring down the barrel of a gun was not expected for how tonight was going to go. Not when she was visibly wounded.

Down on the table in front of him, stained with droplets of blood--Bianca's blood, are a variety of old newspaper clippings from decades ago. Then various records of address. Various photos of the church at intervals spanning to the time that photography was first invented. And before that? Sketches. Documentation in writing, of all the signatures from different people with lives that once lived here in the church.

Except, all the signatures matched. All had the same handwriting, the same dot over the i's, the same amount of pressure with each stroke, and the spacing between the letters consistent. A variety of other giveaways were present.

Hands held high to his sides, Alistair watches her, giving a gesture of submission--a physical begging of mercy for no violence. No bullets. No more blood spilled, especially since hers was more than enough for Alistair to bear.

Anxiety sits like a frog in his throat. The man swallows.

His eyes dart from the papers, to the gun, then to Bianca's eyes.

He sees reluctance, and behind that reluctance is fear. It's like looking into a mirror.

Her fear is his own, ricocheting back into him at the mere concept of rejection harming him deeper than any bullet ever could. He lets the silence sit between them for a few seconds, his jaw tight. There's no sign of aggression, but a quiet resignation wraps around him like a blanket eventually.

Quietly, he speaks, voice just as gentle as it's been the entire time that they've known each other. Easy on the ears like velvet.

What in all the nine hells was she looking at?

In a feline mix of disbelief and fascination, Astaria stilled with those red lips parted just ajar. It didn’t take a genius to piece it together—curled ash-blond hair catching the light like tarnished silver, eyes glinting garnets, skin pale as candle wax. He looked almost exactly like her, if you stripped away the breasts and tailored it around a man’s frame.

And gods help her, he was a vampire too?! The silence where a heartbeat should have been betrayed his nature. But something about him was wrong—off-key, like a familiar song played half a step too slow.

“…Well, isn’t this a curious little nightmare.” She breathed, her tenor rolling low and amused, as though she were already bored of her own disbelief. “But then again, what isn’t? Now, I’d hate to ruin the theatrics, but why in the hells do you look so much like me?”

Astaria had no illusions about her appearance. She knew exactly how she looked—cameras these days were merciful enough to humour even vampire vanity. Crimsons studied him from head to toe, her smirk equal parts mocking and intrigued. “And honestly… what in the gods’ names are you wearing? You look like the past five centuries chewed you up and spat you out of a crypt. On a spaceship, no less.”

"When I was out last night, after I hit up the clubs, I miiiight have done some B&E's."

He's quick to follow it up.

"--Not here. Not uh, not in hell. Thought about it. Thought it'd be reEEUGHal--real funny if it caused you problems later on, but I had second thoughts."

Brandishing a heavy suitcase, Rick slams it down right on the nearest table with a heavy THUNK! Judging by the way that he rather ungracefully lifted it and how he's shifting a little uneasily from the weight of one foot to the other, if one guessed that he's still feeling a little bit of the effects of last night's hangover, it wouldn't be unreasonable.

He spins it around, undoing the latches with a familiar expertise and lifts the top, revealing a collection of red and turquoise gems. At the center of each of them, there's a pulsing glow that brightens and dims at the pace of a heartbeat.

"Then I remembered that there's a piece of shit in the Ziylon Galaxy over in dimension G-784 who still hasn't held up his end of a deal."

Eyes lock; though it's only for a moment, it's enough. No one can see him. No one's been able to see the man in months, disheveled black hair and tear streaked eyeliner forever staining his cheeks. He could almost pass as alive if not for the dark burgundy stain spread out across the front of his sweater. But, this man doesn't look right through him. He sees him.

“You too, huh?” The laugh she offers is hollow. She’s on her back, staring up at what is currently the sky and, in a few moment’s time may be the floor, or the wall, or a thousand miles away.  She hates this place.  And yet, somehow, death in it escapes her. It’s been– fuck, she doesn’t even know. But hunger doesn’t scrape at her ribs. Exhaustion does not pull at her eyelids, except for in the way that languishing boredom and resignation to an eternity here does.  Her head turns towards the hulking has-been magister, the twisted and angry thing that joins her here in undeath. No matter how many times they leave each other’s company, somehow… they wind up face-to-face.  She should have thrown Hawke at that fucking spider. Shoved his whole head in its mouth, planted her foot in his ass. How goddamn dare the Inquisitor leave her– to fix his mistakes! It was almost disappointing how easy it was to kill the fucking thing. Sometimes, she still gives the hulking corpse that does not decay another stab, when she’s particularly angry. “Your whole fuckin’ thing is how you were so strong, you broke in here once. Why can’t you break out? Weak.”

She looks pathetic.

Wardens were known for better. If that's even what she still considered herself at this point.

Maybe if she was any bit blessed, Corypheus thinks, she'd submit to the calling soon enough and death would take her. That is, if the passage of time even occurs in this place. The darkspawn is inclined to think otherwise.

Inara would feel a tap at the back of her head, caressing the very edges of her consciousness with his influence, and merely hovers that power over her like a weight he threatened to drop down on her at any moment.

His arms remain held behind his back, standing tall amid the space between them. The giant spider has yet to be anything else. It's revolting, with all of the gaping holes within it, looking nothing short of something infested and heavy laden with disease.

He didn't care for the ever changing environment. Whatever sense these spirits tried to make out of the world outside of the Fade, they were doing a terrible and shoddy job.

This was just surrealism hell.

"Patience is the key amongst all of this."

Keeping an easy distance from her, he remains unfazed. This place was maddening, but his mental fortitude remained strong.

Fucking Dwight. The fan favorite. The fearless leader. There's (mostly) unexplored territory in the overlap between the final girl of horror and the everyman protagonist of other genres. Dwight is generic enough- yet, steps up under pressure.

Danny would be lying if he claimed Dwight wasn't his favorite, too.

But, sometimes, he doesn't play along. Sometimes it feels like Danny is doing all the work in their relationship- like today. The chase had gone on an impressively long time; Dwight's reflexes were sharp. But, Danny's were sharper. The leader made the mistake of looking over his shoulder as he launched himself through an open window and colliding chest first into Danny's knife.

He was proud of that one. The speed, the stealth, the quick thinking was unmatched- and all it really got was Dwight flopping down on the ground like a dead fish. What a bullshit reaction. He could at least have the decency to beg for his life. He downs the others. Hooks them, easy. Comes back to his favorite now that hatch is an option. But, still… nothing.

So, he calls him out- and at first, it seems like Dwight isn't going to give him what he wants. He stammers, and he hesitates, and his pouty bottom lip quivers, and then, finally, he goes for the Oscar and lets Danny have it.

It takes everything he has not to start laughing; at least the mask hides his grin.

“You hate going against me?” He crouches in front of Dwight, brings the tip of his knife just under Dwight’s chin to keep his head tipped back and eye contact made.