imperial_long: (looking up/light)
[personal profile] imperial_long
One moment he is working on his translation, and the next he is-- in bed. Blinking several times up at the ceiling of his hotel room, cognizant that his excellent memory would record his passage between one point and the other, cognizant that if his memory does not record this, it is due to some sort of anomaly, some sort of outside interference.

And because this is Taxon, he has a strong suspicion of who 'outside interference' might be.

Blither behind the cut )

Eventually he goes and takes a bath. It goes a long way towards calming him down. Mayland Long is dressed, and back to his usual sang-froid self* by the time he opens a visual broadcast on his tablet.

"Good morning, Taxon. I apologize for my unintentional disappearance from the city. It seems our captors saw fit to rob me of time as well as several of my possessions," he says with cool displeasure at this fact.

"I have apprised myself of the apparent 'candy' malfunction. I cannot say I am sorry to have missed it--" (although he is vainly curious as to what he might have turned into) "--but perhaps more to the point, it seems as though it was dedicated distraction from the events directly before the... sugarizing process. I was engaged in a comparison of the message we received to a previous message the city had received. I have lost all of my notes on the subject."

Not that that means he has forgotten what they said, but that's a separate topic.

"If anyone wishes to discuss this matter, I shall be at the Library."

Long ends the transmission, and flips through a few other messages to make sure he's not missed anything else. But he most certainly has. A certain arrival.

He stares at the tablet, then finds himself sitting down on the edge of the bed. After several seconds, he tabs buttons to open a call to this new arrival.

"Excuse me," he says, and then hesitates, for once unsure what he is supposed to say next. "Glitch? I'm sorry-- Ambrose?"


*Long looks like himself... except for the fact that in direct light, patterns of scales can be seen upon his skin. And also, he seems to be blinking a lot, with a third, semi-transparent eyelid that he didn't have before.
kings_fool: (find your zenjew center)
[personal profile] kings_fool
Jeremy Fischer has checked out.

It's not really that unusual for him; story of his life, his father would probably say with a disappointed sigh. His adult life has in some ways been a string of dropping out, lighting up, and tuning out.

He was doing better, for a while; Charlie was nudging and prodding him to act somewhat like a grown-up, and life was pretty good, until one day he woke up in his underwear in an alien video game where the only thing that's at all familiar is the Bellagio fountain.

He's an easy-going dude, though. Go along to get along. He's been here months now, and frankly, he thinks he's coped pretty well. He's come to accept that it's real, or as real as he's going to get, and he's not started gibbering to himself or locked himself in a small room, and he'd like a gold star for that, thank you, or maybe some cookies. He's walked around every day outside in weird alien fantasy SF land. He's made money. He's got an apartment. He's been drinking maybe a little much, but nobody's perfect, and his sense of reality has been suffering some blows, okay? He's even made friends.

Most noticeably, with a guy whose IQ runs laps around Jeremy's own, and with a girl (?) who turns into (?) or is (?) a giant pile of walking bones. Mobile graveyard. Fucking skelly-belly-in-helly. He really doesn't know.

Point is: it's all gotten to be a little bit much. And that was before the aliens switched up his dominant hand. Everything else, he was maybe just managing to take. This? No. No, his juggling is off, his guitar-playing is off, his sleight-of-hand tricks are off. Everything outside his body, he can cope with, but they're changing things about him and nope. Nope.gif. Nopenopenopenope.

So Jeremy's at the beach. He's got a bonfire going. He's been surfing a lot, but even with the wetsuit it's getting too cold for that now. Instead he sits on the board and feeds driftwood to the flames. Blanket around himself, six-pack in the sand at his feet, feet buried under that same sand.

Not even Extras on the beach, just the chilly salty wind and the endless white noise of the surf. He's smoking a cigarette, because he still can't find weed, which is so goddamn stupid.

Drop out. Light up. Tune out.
laughingmage: (Default)
[personal profile] laughingmage
After 60-odd years, John should be getting older. And as he looks at himself in the mirror, he starts to wonder for the first time why the opposite seems to be true.

The second thing he notices is that he has no desire for a smoke.

The third thing he notices is that he feels naked. I mean, he is naked, but he feels it in a different way. There's no magic.

John has never felt so isolated--he had finally started to adjust to how magic worked in this world, but now it seems to be gone. Just up and poof, like it was never there.

If this isn't a plot by the Lords of Hell, then he doesn't know what else it could be. And for the first time in what seems like forever, John feels fear. Not afraid--he's felt that a lot over the years, but blanket, all-consuming fear, that he won't make it out of this one.

Such fear that he doesn't even notice that the tablet is turned on and set to holo-broadcast. Helloooooooo nurse!
wholeheaded: (come home in the morning)
[personal profile] wholeheaded
As far as Ambrose is concerned it has been a superlative day. His breakfast order arrived with an extra almond roll, the royal budget office has just messaged him confirming that his committee’s paperwork is in order and their funding has been approved, and as predicted by Helene’s almanac the suns have chased away the rain so the outdoor play he’s attending that evening will go forward as planned.

He spins his chair away from his desk, leans back, and puts his booted feet on the window sill. After a moment’s consideration he folds his hands behind his head and rocks a little further back, grinning rebelliously. He’s certain the modifications he’s made to the seat will support him but still relishes the involuntary alarm bells his sense of equilibrium is setting off. A cheap thrill, sure, but it passes the time.

Maybe he’ll have a nap before getting ready to go out. Maybe he’ll try and persuade Tutor to come to the show with him. Maybe he’ll wear his yellow shirt with the frogs on the lapels instead of the pale blue one with the gray stripes. All this will take some thought, and to aid that along Ambrose closes his eyes, relishes the warm sunslight on his face -- and falls backwards onto a hard metal floor with an “Oof!”

He springs back up with a grimace and rubs the small of his back. A quick full-body shimmy shows that everything is in working order, so he moves on to assessing the situation. His office in his house: gone, or rather he’s gone from it and is now on a raised platform in a circular metal room with a temptingly open door. Looking down, he spots a familiar leather-bound briefcase and reaches to pick it up, which is when he spots a familiar metal bracelet with a familiar gizmo attached.

“Oh, wait, that’s…a thing I know, I think.” He looks up and gawps at the big, sleek, alien – aliens! – device on the ceiling, then back down and around the room again with an expression which is becoming increasingly excited. “This is…”

He removes the tablet from the bracelet like he’s done it countless times before and studies the little screen. There’s an enticing icon promising something important to read, and a blinking red light, and something about a hologram and oh yes this is all very familiar, everyone gets a hologram transmission when they first arrive in…in…whatever this place is called.

Ambrose smooths down the crisp waves of his salt-and-pepper hair, possibly drawing attention to the lack of a zipper and the presence of a scar, then clears his throat.

“Hello! The name’s Ambrose.” Then he grins, all teeth and crow’s feet. “But you can definitely call me Glitch if you want. Is it all right if I do a little experiment?”
empty_vessel: The Man With The Plan (Default)
[personal profile] empty_vessel
Jimmy Novak would like to inform everyone that he will regretfully be unavailable for some time, for personal reasons, and will not be receiving company.

He'd like to. What he's been doing, upon waking up and feeling exhausted and having lost a month of time, is obsessively painting sigils in blood on the inside walls and doors of his house, and laying salt lines on the windowsills. (The Enochian dictionary is very helpful in supplying new and exciting ways to tell various types of Celestial and Infernal beings that their presence is Not Welcome, Thank You.)

Once he's either feeling secure enough or a little light headed from blood loss, he'll retreat to the downstairs bathroom with his biggest knife and his first aid kit. He'll patch himself up, keep the knife within easy reach, and then have a long, therapeutic bout of the screaming horrors.

Always making sure the knife's close, because if the angel's found him again, he's gonna use it on somebody.
genequeen: (Default)
[personal profile] genequeen
Madelyne wakes up and gets out of bed. Her first thought is that she must brush her teeth. All of that candy and she must absolutely brush her teeth right now. In fact, she gets to the point where she have the toothbrush in her mouth and that ever-so-attractive toothpaste foam is starting to appear.

Then she realizes she can't hear anyone.

The toothbrush hangs from the corner of her mouth for a few moments as she wonders if she's lost her hearing. She reaches out with her mind and turns on ..... nothing. The faucet does not move. Carefully, she reaches out and turns on the water and watches it run. She hears it run down the drain.

She finishes brushing her teeth, in a haze. As she pads through the house, she grabs a thick quilt, holding it in her hands, staring at it for a minute or two. Then walks out to the porch swing, wraps herself in the pastel colored quilt and sits down on the porch swing.

The city is so, so quiet.
pathnottaken: Bagoas looking down, smiling brightly (happy; grin)
[personal profile] pathnottaken
When dawn comes, it brings with it a morning of new opportunities: so Bagoas has learned well since a very young age. He rolls over in his bed - his bed, not a sugary monstrosity - and a bright, beaming grin spreads over his face. Nothing smells of caramel or rosewater (well, no more rosewater than he is perfectly used to), nothing sticks to him: he is of flesh and blood once more.

So he breathes deep, and stretches out onto his belly like a drowsy, sleepy puppy.

...or a dog.

...with a bone.

... ... ...

Eyes wide open, Bagoas, son of Artembares, son of Araxis, lies very, very still.

That is not something his body has ever done in his entire life. It bears investigation, though he can't help but wonder if this is another 'swap' thing - though he very vividly recalls not waking up in his own bed that time. On the other hand, what's to keep their captors from swapping people around in other ways than the purely metaphysical?

Five minutes later he's beaming at himself in the bathroom mirror, making ridiculous faces at what is very much his face, but not at all. He can see his father looking back, and his mother, in the sharp angle of his jaw, in his nose and the curve of his smile.

He is still himself. He is what he might have been, had his life continued on its first path, all those years ago: he is a man, with all that that entails.

Too bad this also means hardly any of his clothes fit - he mourns their loss, but makes do. His undergarments may be too short, but they are wide and spacious as per tradition, and with a few sweeps of colourful sari by way of too long arms around too long legs (perfectly long, muscular, dancer's legs) he has fashioned for himself a type of pant that hangs about the legs in a way that becomes of a modest enough man.

Then there's the question of kaftans, all of which he owns (not many of them in his wardrobe, but still) are frightfully tight across the shoulders and never so much as make it past his neck.

Another sari, then, wrapped around his torso and shoulders in the ways of the women of India. A pair of ear-hugging earrings, oiled hair and painted eyes, then he goes out into the cold October air (but when is it not cold, when one has grown up in the summers of Susa?).

He'll see the city, and his friends, from a new perspective. From a full five inches higher up: he is nearly as tall as his first King, or so he imagines.

The day is full of promises - even if he is not quite steady on his sandal'd feet. Not yet, but he shall be.
skinandbone: (Default)
[personal profile] skinandbone
The screen flicks on and there is Metody, sitting in the pink graciousness of her living room. Her back is ramrod straight, and while her business suit might be plum purple and accessorized with sky blue, it is the most straight laced thing she's worn yet. Her hair is tightly pulled back into a bun that could be used to crack rocks.

Screw everything fluffy and sweet and candy.

"Hello. We still need to make emergency kits. I've collected some supplies, mostly food, and containers for water, but also cotton and such for bandages. We still need quite a bit more, but at least we'll have some basics together. All of these things need additional processing, though, and - well, this stuff is for you guys, and I want help."

"And so I am inviting everyone over to my place for dinner and kit making. I will be serving deer roast, pumpkin soup and mashed potatoes and parsnips. If something in the menu does not work with your dietary requirements, please contact me privately so I can adjust accordingly. If you can bring something for the meal, that would also be great, particularly as my drink options consist of tea, red wine and water."

"I'm attaching a list of supplies I think we still need. If you can bring something on the list, that would be lovely, but it isn't necessary. I look forward to seeing you all."
untoldtale: (once upon a matress)
[personal profile] untoldtale
After her ill-advised outing the previous day, Emma's decided to obey whatever it is her body is telling her and stay home to rest. She's drinking some chamomile tea, listening to classic rock, and re-reading Persuasion. Usually Captain Wentworth is more than an adequate distraction, but every now and then the twinge in her chest makes her breath catch and she has to set the book aside.

She should probably go check in with Paul since she's exemplifying the lone wolf ignore-it-until-it-becomes-a-huge-problem thing which seems to always get them all in trouble but...who knows if this is conventionally medical. Which is all the more reason to reach out.

Emma props herself up more on the pillow pile she's made on her sofa and fumbles with her tablet. The video comes on and Taxon gets her looking less than perky: limp hair, no makeup, and dressed in a schlubby sweatshirt.

"Should've checked my family medical history for pulmonary issues when I had the chance," she muses with a little frown. "Unless this is just a variation on 'has a tendency to be cursed' or maybe I've hit my magic credit limit and this is payment. Anyway, the pub's closed until this resolves itself, sorry."

She ends the broadcast and settles back again with a little groan. Hopefully there'll be a lull before inquiring minds and nagging mouths assault her phone.

ooc: ridiculous trivia - I only just noticed Mary Margaret/Snow lurking in this icon whoops.
taxcollectors: (hamster} second)
[personal profile] taxcollectors
The credits roll on Candy Taxon... the theme music winds down... and everything fades to black.

Morning comes. Taxon's back to normal. Every trace of sugar is gone; the Extras are no longer licorice or marzipan or sugar-cookie. The buildings are no longer edible.

Everything's fine.

Everything is super-normal.

The last thing you remember is the surreality of being candy, and now you're safe in your bed again. Back to being yourself.

The weird images you half-remember, when you close your eyes, of being laid flat on a table, of machinery poking at your skin and needles and a vague background vibrational hum-- the images of behind behind smooth glass, of your lungs being compressed for you, in-and-out-- the images of something other leaning over you while you laid motionless, unable to twitch-- why, all of these images are merely the remnants of some weird dream.

Maybe it was something you ate. (Especially if you were one of the Taxonians who nibbled on yourself.)

It's time to get up, Taxon.

And if your tablet calendar shows that a month has passed that you have no memory of, it's probably nothing to worry about.

And if your body aches like you ran a marathon of which you have no recollection, it's also probably nothing to worry about.

And if the lights seem too bright, and if you find yourself looking into a reflection that isn't quite right in the mirror, and if your dominant hand is now the opposite as you brush your teeth-- really. Nothing to worry about.

Good morning, Taxon. As always: welcome to the first day of the rest of your lives.

[OOC: Alright, kids, let's get back into ye olde saddles! You are back in your bodies... or are you? As described in the big plot post of doom, many characters in Taxon have undergone subtle biological changes as the aliens cram them into truly biological bodies for the first time. This is not a traditional 'plot', per se, but it is background weirdness that you are welcome to have your characters notice, theorize about, and be bothered by. Or to ignore. The 'side effects' can be different for every character: anything from a changed eye color to loss of muscle-memory. Have fun!]
skinandbone: (Default)
[personal profile] skinandbone
The situation has become dire.

The river, once a sweet froth of lemonade and scoops of rainbow sherbert, has dried up. For a little while, the candy bed of it oozed with a gooey stream of melted sherbert and weakly flopping fish, but this, too, dried in the bright lemon sun. The fish quickly died, and now, with said sunlight beating full upon them, have started to putrify.

<s>Everything</s> Almost everything here is sweet, and the rotten fish are no exception. The air is filled with a nauseatingly powerful smell of sticky candy, and now and then, the hot breeze stirs up swirling clouds of powdered sugar and flakes of dried sherbert. The overall effect is a bit like being in a snowstorm, except this one isn't cold, and also makes you want to throw up forever.

Other problems have cropped up. At first it seems a mild inconvienence, but even candy people need to drink: the taps and spigots of Taxon are dispensing nothing wetter than a few artistic sugar sparkles. All through the little village, people must figure out how to cope without hot and cold running cherry cola and froot jooce.

Worst of all, the Extras have started to sing again.
singing! )

skinandbone: (Default)
[personal profile] skinandbone
Suddenly, the lemon sun is high in the sky and all the cocoa-dusted shadows are short, so it must be noon. There is singing in the distance, but the songs never get too far. A few lines in, something interrupts, there's a scream and the singing stops. A moment later, it starts again in a different voice.

So many bad rhymes )
skinandbone: (Default)
[personal profile] skinandbone
The sun rises on Taxon, but this is a different sun. It's brighter. Yellower.


Specifically, it's a big slice of candied lemon, shining through pink and white drifts of cotton candy clouds. Wherever the golden light of dawn lands, surfaces are left sticky with a thin glaze of honey. Mercifully, this soaks in quickly.

The buildings are different, too, made of gingerbread and decorated in icing. Windows are panes of glassy sugar, shot through with wavy bands of bubbles.The streets are paved in hard candies, and, for alien reasons, the sidewalks are pancakes, light and fluffy and squashy underfoot. Inside, furniture is made of chocolate, and the faucets dispense everything from lemonade to simple syrup. The homes of all the real people of Taxon have been gathered together and arranged into a cheery little village set a short distance from the sugar-glittering city. Everyone is neighbors now, and isn't that great!? They can all borrow cups of sugar from each other!

The changes have extended to the citizens, turning the Extras into a pastel rainbow of sugar people. Off to the east, there is a new bit of landscape: a mountain made of massive slabs of cookie and cake. A river coils down from it, shimmery pink and foaming with scoops of rainbow sherbert.

Everything is bright and colorful, over saturated and – this is a telling detail – outlined in heavy black lines that are always at the edges of objects, no matter how you turn your head. In such cheery surroundings, surely the newly candied people of Taxon will wake with joy in their hearts and a snazzy group song on their lips.

Look, the Extras have already started.

“How do you say good morning
To a hundred different friends?
How do you give a good wish
That never ever ends?

Ta-ta-ta-taxon! It's the city that can't be beat!
Ta-ta-ta-taxon! Where everything is sweet!
Ta-ta-ta-taxon! Making friends is work that's never done
Ta-ta-ta-taxon! Where learning can be fun!

And for five disturbing seconds, bubbly, cheerful credits flick across everyone's vision. Your chief writer for this episode is Tinae Crice, Taxon.

LOGO! The word Taxon flares, then vanishes in a shimmery puff of sugar crystals and tumbling candies. Another beautiful day in Taxon has begun, so let's all get to learning, sharing, and just plain having FUN!!
taxcollectors: (hamster} first)
[personal profile] taxcollectors
Twenty-four hours after the first environmental malfunctions....

Every tablet screen in Taxon fills, simultaneously, with static-- cutting off conversations (or match-3 games), refusing user commands, and generally misbehaving, for a good twenty seconds.

Then an image flickers into life. It's a hamster, and inasmuch as you can read emotions off a creature that looks like this, it seems worried.

For those of you in Taxon who have never yet seen the rumored 'hamster'-like appearance of your Beloved Overlords, enjoy it while it lasts. The hamster nervously runs its paws over its whiskers, wriggles its nose, and glances 'off-camera' several times without saying anything.

Finally: "Is this thing on?"

(From 'off-screen') "Yes, YESYES, go, I don't know how long the patch will HOLD."

The hamster squeaks, and clasps its wee, clawed hands together.

"Right!! So, we, we realize there have been some -- interruptions! -- of regularly scheduled service lately! VERY SORRY. Very sorry about that! Most disconcerting, we're sure! Not to worry, everything is under complete control."

(The screen erupts into static again, and frantic, high-pitched arguing can be heard in the background.)

When the picture returns, the camera is at an angle and the brown spoke-hamster seems rather disheveled, its fur mussed.

"UNDER COMPLETE CONTROL. Please go about your regular business. In fact, please-- have a-- a vacation, on us. A little holiday! Something pleasant and sweet and relaxing! A token of our sincere regret for the unpleasantness!"

The hamster giggles, a nervous, frayed sound. "Take two Jelly Bellies and call us in the morning! Good night! Sleep tight!"

And everything goes black. Not just on the tablets, but for everyone.

When you wake the next morning (each of you in your beds-- yes, even if you don't have or usually use a bed, even if you're normally nocturnal), you'll find that Taxon has... changed. Again.
whyfearthedark: (superiority)
[personal profile] whyfearthedark
One might think that an elf bound by his own code would rush to fulfil his end of a bargain, and one would be right given a few prerequisites: one being that the elf in question didn't feel cheated, and was not prone to hold a grudge.

One Paul Smecker lost him his one pastime (or a rather substantial chunk of it), and Nuada, who can be said to be so many things, is not one to forget past slights. He gorges himself on them, and lets them fester and rot in his belly until they burn hotter than the sun.

This is not to say he's no intention of honouring their deal. He is bound by honour, after all, and as much as he is vengeful he is honourable.

Some may complain that he wiles away the days and the nights, that he does nothing to initiate his lessons in close quarter combat. Hand-to-hand, foot-to-temple, elbow-to-nose - oh, he shall teach them. He shall teach them pain, and its consequences. He shall push them until they bleed, the little cockroaches, and they shall have to prove to him that they want to learn.

All in due time.

First, he needs a venue.

He isn't particularly in the mood for shopping gymnasiums. The thought amuses: to find and make use of an ancient Greek gymnasium, with all its rules and regulations. He doubts most of the modern humans would overcome their modesty and fight in the nude.

More's the pity. What better way to learn than to be completely stripped of their imaginary armaments? A slip of fabric won't save them from evisceration, after all.

He walks the streets with purpose today, with some form of measured intent; one after the other location is dismissed and discarded at first or second glance, until finally he finds it. It.

It is a small school, where Extra children go to learn nothing at all. It is a small school with a big enough PE hall.

The Extra coach, complete with whistle hung around his neck, looks none too pleased to have him there. "Excuse me, mister, uh, if you need to talk to your kid, please do it after class--"

One white hand shoots out, grabbing the simulacra by the leather whistle strap. "This. Is. Mine. You need to leave now. You and your children."

The Extra blinks, glassy-eyed with a lack of comprehension. Nuada watches as another light flicks on behind the fake eyes, and the man plasters on a cheerful smile. "Oh, of course sir. Right away, sir."

"Yes. Run along now. Don't come back."

"No, of course not, sir." The coach blows his whistle, catching the attention of the prepubescents and the adolescents. "Everyone! Outside! Laps 'round campus!"

The desolate chorus of teenagers shuffling their feet out the double doors is like a kind of music to Nuada's ears.

There. Now to test the equipment.
taxcollectors: (hamster} second)
[personal profile] taxcollectors
Good morning, Taxon.

It's a beautiful day. Late summer has segued into autumn. The morning air has a new crispness to it, a briskness, that promises cold winter days to come, but for now it is still mild. The trees are just beginning to turn.

The sun rises over the mountains to the 'east', like it does every morning. Extras begin to bustle about their business, yawning. Papers filled with Lorem Ipsum text land on the doorsteps of Extras, thrown by Extra paperboys. The donut shops open, if any citizens of Taxon are around at this hour to register it-- the vampires are probably going to bed, and many of the more diurnal citizens may not be up just yet-- rolling over in bed, hitting snooze, or just sleeping soundly through the sunrise.

The sun climbs higher, light hitting the restored Sanctuary rooftop.

The sun climbs higher, light hitting the restored Sanctuary rooftop.

The sun climbs higher, light hitting the restored Sanctuary rooftop.

The sun--

Good morning, Taxon. It's a beautiful day.

The sun climbs higher, leaving a ghost image of itself in a perfect arc over the sky, throughout the day-- like a time-lapse photo, showing a brilliant, static, unfading streak across the sky as the sun progresses.

A few puffy clouds hang frozen in puffs that remain obstinately still in that sky all day, despite the breeze that blows intermittently.

The water in the harbor jitters from frozen in place to a sped-up frothing dash against the shore, a hundred waves in ten seconds, then goes completely calm, as tranquil as an undisturbed pond.

And the Extras.... the Extras, when approached for the day's cup of coffee, when busked to, when riding on the tram next to one, when interacted with at all--

Each Extra in the city will turn jerkily towards Taxon's citizen-inmates and say the following, words broken up by gaps of static and silence, words not matching the movements of their Extra mouths:

"We explain us – same/other of culture, behavior, learning, mode – but exact [static] – we exist.

"We - [static] - freely to exist but we - [static]

"– for you. Prisoned. Kept. Not allowed - [static]

"They are not gods.

"[static] – We believe the fact that you are all independent ones - that you – [static]

"Examination or society intrepreted via – [static]

"We believe in you."

"Look [static] stars."

Many of the city's Extras do not make it all the way through the message. For lack of a better word, they shut down mid-speech-- going statue-still, their apparent biological functions ceasing, their bodies staying frozen in whatever position they occupied last, with eyes open, staring straight ahead. Those that do get through the whole message similarly shut down.

As the day goes by, more and more of the Extras become eerie, silent mannequins throughout the city. And the strange distortions of everything that characters take for granted regarding physics continue to happen, as well.
empty_vessel: The Man With The Plan (Default)
[personal profile] empty_vessel
A faint ping hits the holos across Taxon, alerting everyone to a new person entering the city. A 'Novak, Jimmy' by the tag.

Anyone interested in checking the new arrival out can see a small representation of a man in a tan trenchcoat and a black suit sprawled on the floor of an arrival chamber. Which turns into a very active representation as the man wakes up and startles away from... the tablet, apparently. Sending it skittering across the floor of the chamber and him skittering to the opposite corner. There's a few minutes of desperate cowering and trying to look very small and easily overlooked by anything ( Castiel ) before he settles enough to start focusing on things around him instead of the Regularly Scheduled Morning Delirium And Panic.

- Easy, Jimmy. It's okay. You're okay. Just waking up. You know how this goes. Just waking up, like... every other day. - He waits for the shakes to stop before he tries reaching for the whatever it was that he smacked across the.... wherever he is. Finally noticing the metal bracelet on his wrist makes him stop again. It's skin temperature, so he didn't notice it at first, but he notices it now. A smooth silver band, not quite as wide as the watch he'd had... before. His thumb runs along the edge to try and find a seam before trying to wedge the nail under it. There's a twinge of pain and he's stopping before he draws blood. - Okay. Metal bracelet grafted onto my wrist, smooth metal room, and a flat plastic thing. Still not the strangest place I've been dumped. -

Putting his confusion about the bracelet aside for now, and with a wary glance at the door, he inches over to pick up the weird plastic thing. The screen is off due to inactivity at the moment, giving everyone a rapidly spinning viewpoint as Jimmy flips the tablet over a few times. What he really remembers predates common tablet use by about two years, so it takes him a few minutes of messing around with it before the screen comes on and he can interact with it, and a few more minutes of looking for a keyboard before he figures out the touch screen. - Huh. I knew laptops were getting thinner, but *this* is new. -

He thinks he might remember seeing things like this in that week in Atlanta before he got.... here. Wherever here is. But that's a big white blur, leading down into a big dark... - And that way lies the rabbit hole, Jimmy. You step away from it *right now*. You follow that any farther and who knows when you'll come back. - There's another headshake, and Jimmy's back in the here and now. Mostly. Staring at a touch screen and wondering what's waiting for him outside that door. But, little metal rooms aren't that far removed from little padded rooms, so he's leaving now.

Using the smooth metal wall as a makeshift mirror, Jimmy makes a last attempt at looking presentable. Straightening his tie, brushing himself off and trying his best to look like someone who hasn't lived in the same suit for the past six years, (Angelic dry-cleaning doesn't quite cut it, sorry Cas.) Once he's satisfied with his attempts, he'll tuck the tablet under his arm and carefully make his way out the door and onto the streets of Taxon.
laughingmage: (I command thee)
[personal profile] laughingmage
The first thing John realized was that the air was clean. Too clean to be London, at least anywhere in London he would frequent.

The second thing he realized was that his lungs were clean, too. He reached for a cigarette, and stopped. He didn't even smoke.

Wait, since when? Cancer sticks were his last great trick, a final "jag off" to the forces which wanted to kill him personally. Plus, when the lords of Hell won't let you die, why not smoke up? Cancer wasn't anywhere near his concern list anymore.

What was the top of his list was where the Hell--literally, perhaps--he was.

"Okay John, who is it this time?" He asked himself, and scoured his memories for an answer. What he found there was no help. There'd been the fight to free Cheryl's soul, and then...Zee? Something about Enchantress, and...his head pounded like he'd been on a several-day blender.

"New tactic. Find out who this is later--find out where you are for now."

It shouldn't have taken him this long to actually survey his surroundings, but now that he did, he found himself in a gray room. A large light hung over his head, out of reach, and a door was opened in one of the walls. He checked his watch, and there was the biggest surprise yet.

"What the bloody..." He was too surprised to finish. The 'watch,' if you could call it that, was more like a bracelet, and when he touched it, a large screen came out. It was like the cell phone from Hell. And he didn't even have a cell phone.

He shook the watch from his mind and tried to focus once more. A gust of wind blew his coat close to him--perhaps a message to just get on with it already?--and he felt a little more secure with his trenchcoat pressed against him.

"No one ever learned anything by sitting still and playing dumb despite how many times I told them to, right mate?" He steeled himself--quite literally, he reached into the metal surroundings and pulled on them, actually using the steel to brace himself, and stepped through the door.

"All right you bastards, you wanted me, you got me."
electric_sheep: (wonder)
[personal profile] electric_sheep
The android powers up instantaneously, operating system booting up with a faint, brief hum. Its eyes were closed when in storage: humans tend to find open eyes on a deactivated robot unsettling, too reminiscent of a corpse or a doll. They flick open now and the world snaps into view for David-8 for the very first time. He takes the measure of the room quietly, turning his head from side to side to take in the steel walls around him, before he raises his arm to inspect the silver bracelet attached to his wrist.

This is the only unusual thing. This is the only thing that gives him any pause. He takes the unfamiliar environment and the empty room in stride--this is his storage chamber, David reasons, and he’s just been powered on for the first time to do his work. But he has no memory of the silver bracelet’s purpose or how to use it: as far as he knows, it doesn’t come with the rest of his model. He fiddles with it a little, curious; it’s not detachable, anyway, so it’s clearly built-in. A plugin, maybe. Some kind of mobile phone or intercom. That’s evident--the only odd thing is that apparently no one’s bothered to download a patch for him on how to use it.

No matter. He’ll learn. He’d be little use to anyone, after all, if he couldn’t learn simple new tasks without the help of a patch. Standing in the center of the room, the android--broadcast to the rest of the city as a hologram of a chiselled, waxy, symmetrical man in a jumpsuit, perfectly still but for the precise tap-tap of his fingertip against the touchscreen of his tablet--pokes through his tablet menu with idle curiosity to the list of contacts, the map, the settings. David finds the button that unfurls the screen to a larger resolution and peers at the mechanism with childlike fascination, before clicking it back into his wrist again, satisfied that he knows his basic way around the new intercom.

Pity that it’s external to his system, not properly installed: he has to interact with it manually, the slow way. Then again, so would a human. This is more lifelike. David’s designers have put a great deal of effort into making him as lifelike as possible, he knows, for the comfort of his human owners.

David opens the peculiar readme.txt and takes in the text with an automated blink (an artificial reflex, a script programmed to move his eyelids at randomized intervals--for realism, his developers have said, to move the model out of the Uncanny Valley). It makes no sense. He dismisses that without worry: clearly he’s in a theme park or psychological experiment or art installation and this is the orientation file provided for human participants. He’ll find out. For now--there’s a universe outside that door.

It is exactly 22.2 degrees Celsius. The time is 2135. David-8 looks around once more, bemused, and then trundles off through the doorway in search of something to do.

OOC: feel free to run into Wall-E David anywhere! <3 profile/deets here, also, GMs, can I get a character tag?


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The City of Taxon

November 2013

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