It's Mailtime (Open)

[Ada Wong]

Ah, PM says, mostly to herself, while peering at the screen of Winchester’s Dataverse device. He appears to have been “trolling” a few select individuals until she asked about the nature of his occupation with the object, if any of the fleeting glimpses of text she notes are anything to go by. As for the device itself, it is an unusual little plasticky thing, and seems as if it should fumble through his fingers rather than remain a clunky and solid weight against his palm.

This news about the state of the mail service in the Omniverse is just as distressingly dire as she had feared it would be. Luckily, these devices that send incorporeal bits of information do not yet seem capable of transporting physical items, at least not through any means but intangible or holographic images. She will not, as Winchester so delicately put it, “be out of a job”.

There is a snug, warm feeling of belonging that settles behind her sternum, like a downy sparrow come home to roost, and her posture slackens somewhat in cool relief. With a fair amount of cheer crinkling through their telepathic connection, PM cups her palms together in her lap, the hard shell of her carapace reflecting the cell phone’s bluish light around her eyes.

The rag-wrapped mail lady is a little disappointed when Winchester stows the device away, for the Dataverse had sounded like such a grand and marvelous thing, but it does not show other than a slight slump of her shoulders and bow of her head towards her knobby knees. Perhaps she will investigate it later on, purely for the purpose of finding out what parcels need to be delivered next.

Well, that seems to be that. The two will have to do something else to occupy their time, then. Just as PM is about to suggest that they play a nice bout of rock-paper-scissors, however, there is a posh halloo from someplace to her right. With a swivel of her hooded head, PM turns to see a bipedal humanoid approaching across the sands with something feathery and dark perched upon their shoulder that is vaguely bird-shaped.

As the man— she assumes him to be such, anyhow,— brandishes his hand in the air in greeting, PM considers if this might not be something other than a simple gesture of acknowledgement between strangers, especially in a strange new universe such as this one. She hopes to avoid some sort of cultural confrontation if at all possible, and the brief, somewhat charming flash of this fellow’s teeth is not especially comforting.

Feeling rather unsure, the mail woman’s shiny black eyes turn to regard Dean Winchester, the authentic and heretofore truthful Prince of Rage who has been so knowledgeable thus far. While he does not blatantly reach for any of the weapons she knows he is in possession of, a frown creases his brow and cinches his lips downwards. His fingers twitch idly, like a slinky cat waiting to strike.

Apparently not, then. This fellow is just a loony wandering out in the sands and flagging them down for the hell of it. He probably isn’t even doing anything worthwhile, like delivering the mail. Why is she not surprised?

She again squints at the approaching individual, who has a rather self-assured grin tugging urgently at his lips. It’s like watching a two-year-old trying to toddle across a room, this guy’s smile is; either unpracticed or simply fallow and left to fade away in some dank corner for far too long. He is probably trying too hard to seem approachable, although PM appreciates the effort nonetheless.

Ah, but there is a most glorious Light about his person! It swirls around him with all the intensity of a golden-orange medallion, wisps of nimble Light flickering out like serpent’s tongues to taste the air for good fortune and knowledge. A Lord of Light stands before her, with naught but a funny stick to manipulate the world around him with.

The raven, she sees now, is crooked solemnly upon the dark-haired boy’s shoulder, although there is something very strange about it that she is trying her best to reconcile with the Skaian null that resonates throughout her very being. A faint green hum, serene and stinging with a keen electrical spark underneath the surface of a pool of consciousness, reverberates out from this feathery creature’s core, fading out into inky black shadow that tapers and furls curiously.

To the best of her knowledge, however, birds are not supposed to be capable of ascending to the god tiers. Clearly this is some sort of mistake or glitch in the system. The mere thought of it is almost enough to arouse suspicion within the carapacian’s mind, but she settles for being simply bemused. The mind only believes what it would like to accept as true, after all, and a Prince and a Lord are quite the deadly combination— not to mention the other Prince currently poised to strike at her side. She will surely be more comforted this way.

Hello, the carapacian greets the newcomers, sliding off of the Impala’s hood so that her feet spread slight contours into the warm sands beneath her. Are you looking to venture into Nippur, as well? I am afraid that there has been a disturbance and it will be rather difficult to gain entry, at the moment, but you are welcome to stand by and visit with us during your wait!

Bafflingly, Dean Winchester seems disgruntled by her choice to invite them to chat for a while. She looks at him inquiringly, a tad anxious about how this oftentimes hotheaded acquaintance of hers might react.