taxonomites | 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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"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.

oo1 ∞ your exodus laughing [holo]

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