...And also these.

[thespaceopera]

[ Calibration Rooms ]
( for N-Z characters )

Before you post your topcomment, please:
1. Check the first letter of your character's name as its written in our tags. A-M names go to the other post, and N-Z names comment here.
2. Make a note in your topcomment if anything especially triggering or graphic might show up in the Calibration. If you're not sure if something's worth noting or not, we suggest listing it anyway, just to err on the side of caution.
3. Put your character's name (it can be shortened or different from the tag, this time) in the subject of your comment. This will help visitors find you easily, and help us update the list below.
4. Post your comment! It's fine if everyone's Calibrations end up looking and reading very different from one another. As long as you're having fun and following our guidelines, you're good to go. :)
5. If you have any questions or concerns during Calibrations, you are welcome to send them towards the mod team at any time, as always.

ROOMS BY CHARACTER

N - Q Nami Natasha Romanoff Nelkeila Tarid Nux Nyssa al Ghul Octavia Blake One Peggy Carter Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève

R - U R. Daneel Olivaw Rapunzel Remy LeBeau Riku Robin Redbreast Rogue Santanico Pandemonium Shawn Hunter Stefan (Alesci) Salvatore Steve "Orion" Rogers Steven Quartz Universe Souji Seta Stiles Stilinski Syeira Tadashi Hamada Tekhetsio

V - Z Vash the Stampede Vima Sunrider Vision (The) Wanda Maximoff Wrath Yamanaka Ino

Comments

Rogue

[touchofrogue]

The first thing a guest might notice is the smell of baking bread. Illusive and faint, just enough to stir appetite but faint enough so that you know it's no where near where you are, or if it is, it's behind one of the closed doors and not meant for you.

You are in a common living room. The colors are warm and earthy, mostly neutral browns and sandy, golden yellows with the occasional accent burst of dramatic warm color, such as the red storage shelf or the purple armchair. The floor is hard wood, gleaming cherry, and there are cozy throw blankets draped gracefully over the back of the couch and armchair. The room is highly organized, only a small stack of books by the couch seem out of place, but it has a very lived-in feel. The furniture is mostly modern and smooth, with the occasional nod to far older, traditional lines.

The ceiling lights are on, but dim. There are salt candles on the mantle reflecting dramatically in the shattered mirror hung above it. The uniquely designed coffee table actually houses a coal fireplace - the air has the faintest hint of a chill in it, enough that you may wish to step closer to the flame, make use of a throw blanket, get comfortable. A wind is blowing somewhere outside, and you can occasionally hear it whistling, hear the window rattling with the stronger gusts.

Closer to the window, you can look out on a magnolia tree, stirring in the breeze. If you stare at it long enough, you may catch all four seasons. And if you're there longer still, that breeze may begin to sound more and more like whispers, a low murmuring of voices than a breeze.

Guests are free to wander around at their own risk. Overall, it is a very tactile room, with different textures and textiles blending seamlessly together. The whole place seems to be begging for a touch. Go ahead. Explore.


[Standard warnings of war and pain and self-loathing. Let me know if you're not interested in any of those options, and I will make sure it doesn't happen. Am open to anyone just dropping on it!]

[steeledskin]

-- The odd sky-bound boat with all its eye-aching screens had been bad enough. Bad enough. And now, Sansa Stark found herself in strange places when she visited the darkness behind her eyes. Rooms that made no sense; places that presented no end. And for a while she stopped in this room...something spoke well to her from its corners. Perhaps it was the bite on the air or the whistling breeze through the window.

A tall young woman with long copper hair piled into braids eventually -- slowly -- chose to explore. It was the guitar that attracted her first, although she'd never know it by that name. Still, the woman was an accomplished harp-player in her own right, so when she believed no one was looking she strummed her fingertips against the strings.

She ached for music.

[touchofrogue]

[Odd in a room with so many items endued with potent memories, the guitar itself stands alone. Perhaps it is because music needs no embellishment. It is significant enough on its own.

Though if Sansa continues to play, she will find the room a little warmer after a time. Perhaps she might even sense a gaze upon her, if she plays for a long time and does not set the guitar down to wander further.]

[steeledskin]

[ each string is plucked in sequence -- because soon, in the absence of any scolding, she moves from mild strumming to treating the instrument like she might a proper harp. but (oddly) she doesn't try and take it down from the wall, as though that would be too much of a trespass.

but the strings don't cooperate with being plucked precisely like a harp, and the notes come out shaky. tinny. nevertheless, she muddles her way through a simple nursery song, humming as she goes.

she doesn't feel the gaze at all. ]

[redactions]

It's a home, a place to keep someone safe and warm. His feet are silent on the wooden floor: no shoes. The whisper of the wind is certainly voices, but saying nothing he can make out. His eyes flick over the room, and immediately fall on the knife wedged into the wood. It looks like an ordinary hunting knife, but just seems weird that it'd be stuck there.

'Hello?'

[touchofrogue]

[The fire is low on the coals in the odd little fireplace/coffee table.

There is no immediate answer to his call.

The knife does certainly appear to be wedged fairly deeply into the dark wood end table, and it's off center, as well, as if someone sitting in the armchair had simply driven it into the wood as they stood up.]

[redactions]

[ Maybe touching it will summon the owner. Jim's not in the habit of wandering around by himself, not when it's obvious Atroma has opened them up to each other. At the same time this is — valuable. ]

[ He pulls out the knife. ]

[cajunspice]

[His entrance to the room left Remy still, eyes smoothly moving over the area to take it in before he took his first step against the hard floor, his boots silent against it rather than the sound they should make against such a surface. A deep inhale to take in the lingering scent paused him once again, as well as a stillness to his form as if listening to hear for any signs of life.

Once sure he was alone he stepped carefully around the edges of the room, a hand out and fingers running over any surfaces they found. Remy lingered by the Hospitality Cupboard, not picking anything up but scanning the contents before continuing his route, fingertips trailing along the wall and doors, to the Storage Unit. He pushed at one of the panels, peering inside to see the contents and leaving it open as he kept going in his circuit. His fingers continued to draw the path he took, and as they came in contact with the hurricane lamp he stopped mid step, reaching out to try and pick it up and look it over.]

[touchofrogue]

[The Hospitality Cupboard does nothing except react just as cupboard should, and since Remy did not touch the objects inside the storage unit, there was no change until his fingers wrapped around the hurricane lamp.

Notably, he will not be able to move it from its position on the bookshelf, almost as if it's been integrated into the fabric of the room. However, that fact is not the strangest thing that happens.

The walls of the room become translucent, keeping the faint outline of their shape and substance. The land surrounding the rooms ripples, changes, and stretching before Remy through the barely-seen barrier of the walls is a dramatically wide open landscape set against a bright cerulean sky. The wind outside stirs the long grass, no longer whispering voices but wind in truth.

A sensation steals over Remy, one of perfectly composed control. Emotions are, not ignored, not denied, but set in their proper place as surely as the sea does not overwhelm the shore. Deep, deep beneath this sense of control is a certainty that runs through the spine, down the feet, deep into the ground and out into the very air and sky. It is a sense of connectedness, of oneness with the surrounding world. Steps and spine are filled with a sense of power and authority, as if all Remy had to do was speak a word and the very winds themselves would bow to his command and uplift him -- that sky is his, his to care for, his to command as his emotions are his to care for, to command.

Above all else, perhaps, is the sense of banked joy, connectedness, purpose.

The land longs for rain.

You are yourself, precisely connected to the sun, the grass, the wind, the water, the world herself - and you belong to the earth as much as it belongs to you. You belong. You are.

The land longs for rain, and there will be a storm tonight.]

[cajunspice]

[The instant resistance to his pull made Remy about to let go of the lamp, at least until the room changed around him.

Turning to gaze at the world changing around him, he raised a hand above his eyes, shielding at he looked up at the sky and felt.. it felt off. The lack of wind, the lack of heat from the sun, it was... it was perfect and he felt a pull to step out among the grass and move across the earth, yet those lack of sensations upon him kept him still. It felt like being homesick and seeing a picture of home, a want to be there but unable to reach out and take it.

Yet those emotions all subsided as quickly as the appeared, dominated by that unshakable control, an almost meditative stance that encircled his mind and sat lightly upon it. It was so opposite to what he felt, the energy, the flare of his powers, of his recent need for control, of dominance over them. This, this felt more hand in hand, no fighting but a unified purpose.

As his hand fell from the lamp and the world that he could had so easily stepped into and accepted faded, he let out a long breath and had to steady himself as he found himself back in the room. That... that was something, and Remy had to make himself take a step away from the lamp and keep moving, wanting to just reach out for it again.] Mon Dieu... [Another lingering look at that lamp before Remy pushed himself away from it, trying to push it from his mind, at least until after he had checked out the rest of the room.

Passing the checkerboard he moved one of black pieces forward, leaving it to explore the mantle, having missed the shadow of the crucifix for now. Instead he reached out a finger, strumming it down the strings of the guitar before looking at his own scattered reflection in the mirror.]

[digthefuzz]

[The room feels warm, cozy, familiar in some way. But Kurt doesn't have the slightest clue who it could belong to.

He wonders around, giving some curious glances. He was about to just throw himself on the couch when something caught his way. He wandered across the room towards the broken trophy beneath the glass. It just didn't feel right... So he went to try to remove the glass bell, to get a better look.]

[touchofrogue]

[When Kurt removes the glass, the temperature drops and the lights dim. The wind outside blows more harshly, rattling the window.

It almost appears as if the room is warning him not to touch the trophy. Will he listen?]

[digthefuzz]

[He does pause for a moment in hesitation. Those are some very startling signs. He's seen enough movies to know things are going wrong and it's connected to that trophy.

...But what if it's only because it's been shattered? Maybe he's the one who can piece it together and make it all better!

So he reaches over to touch it and pick it up...]

[complicatedliar]

Loki knows, from the moment he steps into the room. All he has to do is look at the couch, and he knows. It's startling enough that he actually reaches over to shoulder to feel at at his own back, but no. The wings are still gone.

Disorienting. But not frightening. Comforting, almost.

"Dearest, are you here?" he asks.

[touchofrogue]

[If she (and she was), she wasn't quite 'awake' yet. You've your liberty to explore on your own for the moment.]

[complicatedliar]

[He weighs the silence carefully.

On one hand, he's terribly curious. There is information to be had, most intimate.

On the other hand, if he's right and this is some sort of space belonging to Rogue, snooping would be a Very Bad Idea. So much of their relationship is based on a gossamer web of trust and he must weigh everything carefully against detrimental effects.

So he shall look, but not touch yet.

And then sit on the couch. He has very pleasant memories of that couch. He eyes the knife in the table suspiciously; it's not one of his.]

[tothefly]

Well. This is much more pleasant than some of the dream-rooms she's wandered through the last few nights. Nice and cozy, good smells, plenty of interesting things to look at...and since it seems to invite looking, settling in, that's what she does. First, to the window, to look outside. She presses one hand against the glass, listening to the wind, feeling the pane tremble...watching the seasons change. It's almost nostalgic. But then, autumn has always made her nostalgic.]

[touchofrogue]

[There is no immediate response to the pressure of Natasha's hand. The window itself is chilled, but no more so than any glass pane would be against the cool weather outside.

The longer she stands by the window, however, the less the wind will sound like wind. It is a whisper, or is that - whispers? It may be hard to tell. Just as it will be impossible to make out, exactly, what they are saying.]

[tothefly]

[Is that whispering? Voices, not the wind? Or maybe it is the wind, carrying the voices of people who are just out of sight, specifics lost to the ether. She strains her ears to hear, to catch just a word or two. A phrase. Anything at all. It seems like it should be important.]

[mylegacy]

It feels like home.

It feels like his home. Doesn't look like it, not at all, except for the overall color scheme; it's larger and grander and better-furnished, indicative of someone who's middle class, who can afford things for the people who live with them or for themselves, in the event that they live alone. The furniture is too modern, the technology is wrong.

But he smells bread baking like his sister used to make, and he feels the warmth of the room weighing down on him, and he's overwhelmed, suddenly, with memories that have nothing to do with the mind he's intruding on and everything to do with the life he left behind. It's all he can do to sink into the armchair and wrap a blanket around his shoulders and just be, for a little while, just exist in this space until it stops buzzing at his nerves and settles in him, a reminder of good things instead of guilt.

He has no idea how much time passes between settling and standing again, but eventually he does stand. There isn't any real choice about where to go; he's been staring blankly at the mirror over the mantle for what seems like a very long while, and while he's not quite stupid enough to touch the jagged edges of it, he does run his finger across the flat surface of a broken piece with curious trepidation.

\o/!!!

[touchofrogue]

Caesar is fortunate in his choice. The shards of the mirror are linked to Rogue's core memories, to the parts of her past that are so deeply ingrained in her that they

The part he touches is linked to her fears. The room around them fades, becomes translucent, lit by horrible, institutional fluorescent lights.

[You are in a containment cell. Next to you are two of the people closest to you in the world, and the person closest is strapped to a metal table in your full view. You can not get to him. There are men with guns watching you, scientists waiting in the wings. You wonder if you will be forced to watch them cut him open. You wonder when they will come for you.

You are terrified, and you are ashamed that you are so afraid. You always knew that it could end like this. You should be able to face it. But you heard what your captors said, how they speculated… and you are terrified. You tell yourself that maybe they will make a fatal mistake -- that they don’t know your powers, and maybe they will get close enough to you with bare skin and then, then you’ll have your moment. You'll do whatever you have to in order to get free, get everyone out.

You tell yourself that the others will come to get you, that they'll find - not just you, but all of you - and everyone will get out in time. You tell yourself that Logan will be able to overwhelm those guards, get to the lock and let you out, and that you’ll all escape together. You lie and you lie and you lie to yourself in hopes that you will be able to make it true.]

Unbeknownst to Caesar, when the memory ends, a missing piece to the jigsaw puzzle will appear on the table.


tiny clip of Area 51

[stickupherforehead]

[after making the rounds of the room a few times, Pearl finally decides to do something. It's not a bad place. Some of the comfort and feelings of home might be a bit over her head, but it's...nice, nonetheless.

Except after a while, she's going to try and move those books to someplace more fitting.]

[touchofrogue]

[Well, the books are the only thing noticably out of place in the room, besides the unfinished puzzle piece and the checker set resting on their various tables.

When Pearl touches the books, however, like spider's feet creeping up her back the cold feeling of - not just loneliness, but utter and overwhelming isolation steals over her. There is a hint of despair to the thought, as if nothing will ever change the simple fact that no one can touch you, no one. You must allow no one close to you, no one. For their own good. For yours.

It will never, ever change.]

Just FYI I'm considering this "revenge" for when she "drop in" on him in Luceti

[goldenglasses]

[Vash's stomach growls as he picks up the smell of bread. Boy, that smelled really good. Yet more importantly was where he was. This didn't look like any room he was use to. He rubs at his arms against the chill while exploring.

His eyes falls onto the unfinished puzzle and he can't stop himself from picking up a piece as he happened to spot where it fit into the puzzle.

Surely nothing will happen from putting a piece into a puzzle!]

fair enough!

[touchofrogue]

[The room around him fades and the air looses its chill, taking on the heavy warmth and humidity of the American South in late spring. You are sitting on a porch at twilight, the stretch of grass in your backyard reaching the length that lets you know that you're going to need to mow it soon. Soon, but not yet. On your lap is a black guitar.

You hold it a little awkwardly - it is still a little big for you, but you know you'll grow, know you'll get more comfortable with it the more you practice. You are plucking out cord progression, working your fingers in awkward configurations on its neck.

It hurts, but you think you hear something almost like music, and that spurs you to keep going. You stop after a little while, feeling something slick on the fingers of your right hand. Pulling it back, you gasp. You are bleeding. The wire of the strings has not cut you, but your skin was so soft that the simple pressure of the repeated motion on the narrow, hard strings has pulled blood out through your skin.

You smile at the blood, at the pain. Good. You do not want your hands to be soft. You wipe the blood off with a tissue and do a scale again, your black gloves resting to the side in your peripheral vision.]