What?

Apr. 22nd, 2015 08:26 am
therealpm: (Confused)
"Milifandom soars with Twitter backing for Labour leader Ed Miliband"

Alastair knows about this twitter thing, though I'm not convinced his smugness, if asked, would be anything other than intolerable. Maybe Fiona?
therealpm: (dazed)
*When Peter comes round, The Machine's display springs to life, helpfully informing him of the temperature, pressure, likelihood of rain (which Peter deems to be frankly ridiculous, under the circumstances) and phase of the moon.

It's nearly full.

By this time last month, Peter would be about to transform.  He reaches out to his wolf form, trying to draw up the now familiar claws.  Instead he gets... nothing.  Well, almost nothing.  His nails lengthen a little.

He frowns, curious and now somewhat more awake.  Something else doesn't seem quite right either.  After a brief investigation, it seems that he is not only on his side (a now unusual state of affairs), but he also lacks any sort of clothing.

Worrisome.*
therealpm: (Damn)
*Peter's head feels groggy.  He's been taking the new painkillers for three days now, and has spent much of his time in a supine haze, unable to feel any pain.  At first he was able to concentrate enough to hold conversations with The Machine when John was out of the room, but as time progressed he became steadily more detached- floating free in his own imagination.

Today, though, John is late with the painkillers and the opiate fog is beginning to wear off.  The pain in his veins and accompanying feeling of being nibbled from the inside out has died down since the beginning of treatment- Peter supposes that either he has become accustomed to it, or his wolf form has mostly died and there is little left for the mixture to attack.  What is new is a feeling of dampness under his shoulders, sacrum and heels, that sticks and stings when he tries to move.  He turns his head and sniffs.  The sheets smell appalling and he can just see a spreading sickly yellow stain out of the corner of his eye.  He gags, and tries to call for someone, but his mouth is dry.  Rattling the restraints does little beyond reminding him of the bruising on his wrists and ankles.  He tries to shift from the dampness slightly, and resigns himelf to waiting.*
therealpm: (Cake?)
*Peter gets up from the bed, feeling immensely groggy- for some reason his limbs feel stiff and achy. He blames the sudden change in the weather and drop in temperature last night.

The hallway and some of the furnishings look like they've been ransacked- Peter suspects burglars until he notices the muddy pawprints on the floor.*

Jack...

*He finds Jack cowering under a small coffee table, clearly terrified- ears back and shaking, so picks him up to cuddle and soothe him back to his normal bouncy self whilst surveying the damage.*

You're more trouble than you're worth, sometimes, hmm? What gave you such a fright?

*He strokes Jack behind the ears, thinking that at least George would enjoy it if they had to redecorate. Walking through to the hall, he sees that the front door is fine, but a brief trip through the kitchen to the back garden confirms that the back door is smashed in. Burglars, perhaps chased off by a very exuberant Jack, are now looking like the most plausible solution. Putting Jack down and absentmindedly filling the dog's food bowl, he wonders what to do. He ought to call the police, obviously, but Peter had rather been enjoying his time out of the headlines and is reluctant to stir anything up, especially with the Murdoch press so keen to prove their disregard for Leveson.

He gets out a metal bowl- one of a set of mixing bowls as it happens that he bought from John Lewis a while ago, and fills it with water from the tap. Scrying was never his strong point at school, but Vince had given him several helpful pointers back when their respective parties were on better terms. He could ask The Machine, but magical influence worked to a power law with distance, and Regent's park was just a tad too far out for The Machine's central sensors to scan effectively. Peter cursed not installing the remote ones sooner. There had just been so many other things to do...

Peter looks back into the bowl and tries to refocus his mind on scrying. He searches for the intruders responsible for the damage, but nothing comes up. He broadens his search to humans who entered the house last night and his mind aches with the strain of processing a query that large. He grits his teeth and waits- still nothing. Great. So either what entered his house last night wasn't human, or it was a wizard powerful enough to cloak themself from view, even several hours later.

The police probably wouldn't be of much use.

Rubbing his eyes, he dragged out a copy of yellow pages. One quick phone call later and he is assured that his door will be fixed that afternoon. In the meantime, Peter decides to busy himself with tidying up, though not before a cup of coffee. His blackberry beeps to indicate he'd missed a text from last night. It's only John worried about something or other. He sends off a terse response, not in the mood to deal with the Speaker's whims today. Sipping his coffee, he sets off to find a mop and begin the tedious process of cleaning things up.*
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