taxonomites | oo1 ∞ your exodus laughing [holo]

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oo1 ∞ your exodus laughing [holo]

A woman appears in Taxon's arrival chamber.

This in and of itself is nothing out of the ordinary; that is, after all, the purpose of the room. The young woman in question has dark, curly hair, light eyes, and is wearing the slightly tattered remnants of a white silk cocktail dress, which has a smudge of what appears to be blood on one shoulder. She regards her surroundings with a look of resignation, and possibly vague, cynical amusement, stepping out of place to drift her hand all around the corners of the room, testing the walls, the ceiling, the steps, the platform itself, all the places where there should be a door. Something.

Nada. Fuck.

Well, she's grateful not to be locked back in FBI custody enduring all manner of accusations of terrorism (hardly), so she'll take it, but her nerves are rubbed-raw, brittle underneath her projection of sinuous, lazy calm. Her attitude is shit, kidnapping? Must be Tuesday, but that doesn't change the fact that she doesn't really appreciate what seems to be yet another abduction by forces unknown, who probably want her to do their bidding or break a law or something equally tedious. Zorya assumes it's not going to be anything so pedestrian as asking for a performance.

She turns back to the tablet, unaware that it is presently broadcasting her every move, and sighs at it, patiently exasperated, as though it is a misbehaving child. She flicks through the panels, head tilted to one side, and when she turns around, there appears to be a door already behind her, as though it had been there the entire time. "Now that's interesting," she comments in accented English, tapping her fingertips on the tablet, "and a little creepy."

From this angle, it becomes apparent that she has an interesting accessory: handcuffs, police-issue, encircling one wrist. Not the other, though; it seems she's managed to handle at least half of them.

"You look like you're something I'm not legally entitled to have," she informs the tablet in Hungarian, hoping that if Szebasztián is responsible for this, or at least listening in, this will provoke him, because she evidently plans to keep it. "I love that in a glorified cellphone, or whatever this is."

Zorya turns back to the strangely appearing exit, looking between it and the tablet contemplatively.

"Well. Now I know what to do."

...and that is head for the door, apparently. She sees no reason to waste any time.

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"Do you?" Hello, there's a Hermes peeping at her through the wondrous technology of the tablets. "If you don't, or if you're not sure, I can totally help you out. I'm a helper, a friend to those who wander."

Oh, a person. Zorya smiles, faintly, tossing her hair (all its insane curliness) and steps out into the Sanctuary proper.

"I was thinking I'd get started with the wandering. But if you've got a little help to give, I'm sure I won't turn it down, especially since I have absolutely no fucking idea where I am."

Her voice goes from airy, in as much as its tone can be, to ice-cold and razor-sharp for that italicized turn of phrase, and then reverts again. None of that sharpness is directed specifically at Hermes, and she curiously seems anything but suspicious of his motives, but how she seems and what she thinks are two very disparate things.

"You're in Taxon, it's relatively safe in the way that monsters are unlikely to appear and eat you, but it's not really 'normal either'. I can't really place it on a map in relation to anything else, because as far as I know, there isn't anything else. And I'm Hermes." With a sunny disposition and easy smile, Hermes doesn't seem the least be affected by her occasionally sharp tone.

"...well. Charmed to meet you, Hermes."

There's silence for a few seconds, as she drifts her fingers over the walls nearby, idle and interested.

"Is Taxon this whole building, or should I be thinking a little bigger?"

"Bigger. It's a city. Most of it is empty or filled with Extras; they're like people, but they 'turn off' when we're not around. You can take any empty place you find to live in and there's things called 'hatches' that'll make you whatever you want to eat or wear or read or anything smaller than a breadbox."

"Ohhh, now this is getting eerily similar to a video game. So what do we do here, Hermes? Besides have things handed to us." She's mildly entertained by that, but also- a touch put out, because she likes working for things. If they're free and so easily acquired, they're not of much value, but that just means she'll have a narrower pool to investigate when it comes to what the residents here find important.

The similarity to his own entrance - handcuffs - is most of what draws Ethan's attention, although pretty brunettes who look like they might be crazy as shit can usually do that without any help from steel accessories.

"Oh," he drawls, "and you got to keep yours."

Zorya tips her head to the side, eying the tablet screen with mild, incredulous amusement for a split-second. Then she just smiles.

"Did you want me to share?" It doesn't take much guessing to figure out what he means, and she lifts her hand to display the dangling cuffs. "Because I promise, I'm not really very attached to them besides in the immediate, annoyingly physical sense."

"I could be persuaded to help you with that," Ethan observes with studied nonchalance.

Oh, Ethan, you exude 'not to be trusted,' but at least Zorya finds this intensely familiar. She exhales and stretches her arms up above her head (tablet picture going temporarily a bit odd), with a languid little noise, as though this ain't no thing and she's very idly contemplating whether she really needs the help.

"Having thought about it," she says, drawing the tablet closer again, "I do have a knack for the persuasion. What's your currency, kind stranger? All I've got is my gratitude, but I am damn charming. More so in person, though."

Edited 2010-03-12 02:03 (UTC)

Trusting Ethan is sort of like base-jumping with no safeties - 'almost certainly a bad idea'. He's not uniformly unreliable, but that's almost worse than if he were.

Under the circumstances, though, with Taxon providing most everything he could want, including entertainment, and more time needed to deduce something truly awesome, he decides to be generous. "Let me keep the cuffs," he says, grinning.

"You are a prince," she laughs, deciding (it is a decision, where she's concerned, whether instinct is to be indulged or tossed aside) not to be afraid of this place. If there's something that's going to attack her, it'll come at her regardless of whether she cowers or panics, and it's not like she'll be able to handle much very efficiently with steel strapped to one wrist, anyway.

"Are you coming to me? I hope you've got your white horse at the ready."

Edited 2010-03-12 02:39 (UTC)

"The noble steed isn't speaking to me at the moment-" did he just call Giles a horse, maybe, "-so you'll have to wait while I take the train. Ethan Rayne, at your service."

"Oh, I like the sound of that, Mr. Rayne, I really do. I will be--" She exits the Sanctuary and looks around, eyebrows raised.

"Out front, apparently. Oh, and it's Zora--Zora Polunochnaya."

"I'm too hungover to try and pronounce your surname," he says, cheerfully. "Ten minutes. See you soon, Zora."

She's faintly amused by the directness there (hey, that beats trying and failing utterly), but says nothing, simply waving a hand at her tablet.

She'll wait.

"As do I. We are going to record your entrance and find a way to put it into that room for the next poor shit who gets nicked."

That is quite the visual the other end. Zorya just grins, though, a touch wild, meandering out of the Sanctuary. "Well," she says, thoughtfully, "I think these little things might do the trick in that regard, they look awfully interesting. Been here long, stranger?"

If she can handle the Arrival Room, she can withstand his classic good looks, he is sure.

"Not as long as some. You're in a city called Taxon, among a select population brought here to do fuck-all that we can tell for the benefit of some unknown but fairly all-powerful force. Happily, they are invested in keeping us all safe and relatively happy. Unhappily, we can't leave."

Zorya can appreciate difference in aesthetic! She decides that first things first, she needs a change of clothes, and she's been told those hatches can be useful.

"If that isn't evocative of livestock in a pen." Fat cattle, etc. "I'm sure there have been escape attempts."

"Was that Hungarian?" Dick inquires with polite interest. From the looks of it, he is inside, but what's visible of the room looks pretty bare. "It's a shame I can only converse with like, little kids. <That's mine. I'm hungry.> Oh, and <Where's the US embassy?>"

His accent isn't atrocious, but it's flat and American nonetheless.

Whoops. She wonders how much he understood.

"It was, indeed," she confirms, debating picking that as her origin (of lies) but deciding not to mention it anyway--it looks too fake to give information unasked-for, "anyway, if you can manage that and maybe a taxi, you don't need a whole lot else. Unless you get into trouble?"

Zorya leaves that as a question. Maybe he does! Maybe she just likes playfully implying things about strangers.

Practically nothing, and Dick is instantly distracted by the question anyway, though the matter lurks in the back of his mind — simply because there's not much to do in Taxon, when there aren't bombs going off.

He grins at her and shrugs with casualness that is a little bit exaggerated. "Maybe a little. Do you have any suggestions?"

Yes, Dick, engage in playful conversation instead of providing useful information. Then again, she seems confident enough, and he assumes she'll ask anything she wants to know.

She accomplishes switching the table screen's output to visual, which she approves of, she decides, more than projecting a hologram. He's very right about the questions, although apparently she's more interested in the banter presently, eying the screen with raised eyebrows.

"I might, but that could get me into trouble, and I'm sure I've already made one hell of a first impression." This seems to entertain her more than anything else, despite what she says. "Got a name, troublemaker?"

"No legal authorities here," he informs her, smiling wryly. Maybe it's not such a good idea to tell her that, seeing as she's correct about the first impression, but she'll find out sooner or later. "I'm Dick Grayson. Pleased to meet you."

It may or may not be contrived that she looks a touch taken aback and then momentarily concerned by the lack of authorities, but she does, for a split-second, before transitioning easily back to the conversation at hand.

"Zora Polunochnaya, and likewise! So I've gotten a little information about this place, but I am just not sure about the hows and the whys. I'm guessing nobody knows for sure?"

From a purely situational standpoint, Dick would guess the former, but there's no hint to be found on its own. He's not terribly concerned either way.

"Sounds about right. I do hear that the people responsible for this have talked to us before, but that they weren't awfully informative."

Tara's concerned by the tattered-ness and the blood, so she can't help asking "Are you alright?"

The question takes her aback for a moment - on the surface, anyway - and Zorya glances down at her dress, shrugging one shoulder.

"Mmm, this is not the best aesthetic I've ever had. I'm fine, but you're sweet to ask. This dress, however...probably ruined, isn't it?" She pairs that with a little blase smile, as if to say unfortunate, but what can you do? Alas, it's white, Roland Mouret, and cost thousands of dollars--not a recipe for longevity in a garment.

The hatches, of course, might be able to make her a new one, but Tara doesn't want to spring this information on her too quickly. "Maybe so; I'm sorry. But at least you're alright; the last guy who arrived was on fire. Well, a couple guys ago."

"I never wear the same cocktail dress twice, anyway," she declares, with a lazy little grin, "I'll get rid of this thing shortly. What happened to the on-fire guy?"

"I'm not sure. He seemed okay, once he wasn't on fire anymore."

She huffs out a breath that might have been a laugh.

"Lucky little bastard, then. All right, health having been thoroughly established--mind telling me a little about this place? You know," Zorya breezes in through the doorway of a building that seems to be unoccupied, "thing to do, people one absolutely must get to know."

"Um. T-there are a lot of people around, but the h-hatches provide everything, so you don't have to work or anything. You should be c-careful of some of the vampires though. Especially the one called Angelus."

"Angelus, huh. There's a rivetingly original choice of nom de guerre--but I suppose it's a quirk of the species." She doesn't sound especially frightened - like, at all, but Zorya is okay with vampires, really, as a whole. They're just prone to some interesting behaviors, and she has her own personal theories about them.

"Let me guess: mad, bad, and dangerous to know?"

Tara frowns a little; much as she'd never say anything, especially on so brief an acquaintance, she's not fond of being patronized. "More or less. Most of the other vampires, it seems, are able to live with humans to some degree, but he... at least for the moment, is a danger."

Zorya isn't patronizing Tara so much as the absent vampire in question, but she'll probably never do anything to correct the impression.

"Has he killed anybody? That seems like it ought to be rampant here."

"Why here especially?"

"No law, or so I'm told."

Endless places to hide bodies, too. Zorya is personally acquainted, in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with her time handling the supernatural and everything to with the nature of war, with how people will do an awful lot more evil when they think they can get away with it.

"The vampires in Sunnydale didn't tend to care about laws, even when they were there," she says, quietly. She's wary of Zorya's brusqueness, of her confidence, but Tara sometimes wonders if she's over-sensitive to other people's confidence.

So, gamely, she says, "But... I don't know if he's killed anyone here yet. My friends might know. I've only been here about a month myself. He tends to like... hurting people, though, more than just killing them."

Zorya's manic flares come in just that: bursts, waves, and on the tail end of three deaths by her own hand she's still riding the adrenaline a little bit, and even when she's not like this she has, to put it mildly, a flair for drama. She climbs a set of stairs, exploring methodically, sharp-eyed but always smiling, even it's only slightly.

"Some places, they have to plan it so they don't get the military's attention- or, you know, mobs with pitchforks," she shrugs, dismissive of the type, as if those mobs are also an everyday part of life, "but one's as good as the other, I suppose."

She pauses by a window.

"I appreciate the heads up. They've always got to be out and out sadists, don't they? Like some goddamn competition to see who can make more of a mess."

"We had a lot of that at home. Bad things trying to outdo each other, that is."

For good or ill, Zorya is reminding Tara a little of how Willow could get, when she was high on magic. On power. Even if she can't read Zorya's aura by tablet, she can certainly tell the woman is riding some sort of high, emotional or otherwise.

Oh, Hungarian is nice.

"Oh, you've got it already. Hello.

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