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[Holo] Arrival Post

The last thing he clearly remembered was the gunfire, the sheer racket it was all making as they made a break for it. Tyler was just across from him, so close and the only one to back them up. Should have known the useless sod couldn’t make a shot if his life depended on it. That was if he even wanted to make the shot, anyway, he honestly has no idea what was going on. Sam had betrayed them, wonder that, just what he needed to deal with during a shootout. He was sure he’d been shot himself, he felt that flare of pain but he couldn’t feel it any more, he couldn’t hear his team, he was pretty sure he was blacking out. Well that was rubbish, what good would that do anyone?

Opening his eyes, it took him a few moments to full wake himself up. He never expected to see such a bizarre setting around him when he finally did, it was like one of those poncy sci-fis but without the rubbish tin foil and card board sets. Everything looked real, he was almost afraid to touch anything. Almost being the keyword here, he was happy enough to stomp around like a bull in a china shop, as always, trying to get a better look at the weird device on the ceiling before backing up as slow as he could. This made no sense and he honestly didn’t want to know. He just wanted out.

“Bollocks. I’m dead, aren’t I?” So much for dying in the boozer like he’d always dreamed. Ah well, win some, lose some. This was either a very vivid hallucination or he was dead, there was no way this was real. Perhaps he was just tripping the light fantastic? “What is-- Tyler?!"

When something weird was occurring, it was bound to have something to do his not-so-right in the head DI. This was the polite way of putting it, really. Sam Tyler was the master of weirdy things.

Checking his pockets, he couldn’t feel the outline of his gun anywhere. That was not good, none of this was-- and what the hell was on his wrist? It looked like some awful jewellery a prozzie got on the cheap to try and dress herself up a bit. Lovely. And it wouldn’t come off, of course, that was the crowning touch. “If this really is the afterlife… I hope you know I’m bloody disappointed! No pearly gates? Bloody great, that is.”

Looking across at the small device thingy on the side, Gene didn’t dare make a move closer. He’d never seen anything like that before. His first instinct was to attack but there was nothing to attack. So he was just going to stick to yelling like he always did. Just to regain some power here, if that was at all possible.

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This voice is American, measured and assured.

"Listen carefully, because I'm only going to say this once. There's a pedestal in the room with you. On that pedestal is a device. Picking it up will open the door."

"The what?"

Looking around, Gene frowned and tried to find the pedestal. What good would some device do? Really? He was more interested in the pedestal, he could try to smash the doors in with it.

If Gene's busy trying to bust down doors (best of luck), he likely doesn't catch the snick of Don's lighter. When the voice next speaks, though, it's around a cigarette and in tones that border on the incredulous.

"How much clearer could I have been?"

Gene never misses the sound of a lighter, its like beautiful music to him. Bollocks, now he was craving a fag and he had none on him, plenty of flasks though.

Still, he moves across and picks up the device with a small frown. What the bloody hell was it? "Could drop the accent, never could make sense of a bleedin' yank."

"Sorry, it's the only one I've got."

Your vicarious smoking experience continues, Gene, as Don takes a pull on his cigarette and sends a jet of smoke toward the ceiling.

"Right now that thing you're holding is"--a pause as he rummages for a word--"projecting an image of you to anyone in this city who cares to tune in."

Gene pulled a face and fiddled with the device, not impressed by it at all. What a mad little thing. What was he meant to do with it? And how did it work? This was too much like bad sci-fi to be real. Was this what it was like to be Sam Tyler? Weird-y hallucinations all the damn time?

"Well fan-bloody-tastic. How bout telling me what I do with it, you div?" Rolling his eyes, Gene gives it a good shake before randomly poking button. "And who are you anyway? Spaceman? King of Mars? The wizard?"

Woops! He accidentally selected maps, now he's just going to stare in confusion for a while.

Edited 2011-01-19 15:45 (UTC)

There's a sigh--soft and probably indistinguishable from the intermittent exhalations of smoke--as Don sets down his tablet and lets Gene conduct his blundering exploration of the device's functions.

"Walk through the door with it," he says, a minute or two later.

Frowning, Gene looked around, not sure if he wanted to do what some disembodied yank was telling him. Then again, he couldn't discount the American's judgement, they came up with the western genre.

"Alright, fine, but you ever gonna tell me where the ruddy hell you are?"

Rolling his eyes, he made his way along to the door and paused slightly before shoving his way out.

Don changes over to video; with unforgiving clarity the tablet captures the rumpled state of his shirt, his stubbled cheeks, the general air of dishevelment that attends him.

"This is a city. It's called Taxon. Right now you are at its heart."

He presents his right arm to the screen and, with a bit of a grimace, draws back his sleeve to reveal the bracelet.

"They don't come off."

Frowning at the sudden change, Gene tilted his head to the side before smirking slightly. He knew the bloke had been smoking. Well, at least he knew there were smokes on planet weirdy.

"So I get to be stuck here with this dreadful thing stuck to my wrist and I don't even get a ruddy explanation? Brilliant, just brilliant."

This was really starting to piss him off and he wasn't overly fond of this device thingy either.

"At least tell me there's a pub or a bar before I off myself."

"That's about the size of it," Don affirms, tugging the sleeve back into place. He pauses to attend to his cigarette. "There are many bars. I'll even give you directions."

Edited 2011-01-20 05:27 (UTC)

"Can you give them to me now or have I got to do some weird noncy little initiation into planet madness?"

It was always worth a check but he'd rather just go to the boozer, get rat-arse and work it all out from there. At this point, nothing was making any bloody sense.

"What," Don asks, blandly sardonic, "did you think this was?"

There are gaps--yawning gaps--in what he's told Gene, partly because there are some things you can't tell people. Nobody's going to believe they're in a prison until they've rattled the bars (and even then...). Other things--the map, the population of sleepwalkers, the hatches--he's left out because he can scarcely stand to consider them himself.

With this in mind, he offers, "I can tell you now or as you walk."

Oh goodie, he was officially into the space-mens club and he could walk around the city of madness by himself. This was going to be fun, they better at least have some coppers here or he was going to lose his head. He didn't even ask the rough amount of people who were here, he just decided to wing it and muddle through whatever information he could find.

"As I walk, don't know my way around yet, do I? Spent all my life in Manchester and this bloody well isn't it so I'm a bit lost."

"There's not much to it." In one sense (and from a New Yorker's perspective) that's true--commit the tram routes to memory and navigating Taxon isn't hard. In another sense, of course, there's more to the city than Don or anyone else knows or can know.

He plucks the cigarette from his mouth and reaches offscreen to stub it out, presumably in an ashtray.

"I'm gonna switch back to audio; if you want you can use the buttons to do the same. For now just head down the hallway."

It took some fiddling but eventually he found the button as he wandered along the hallway, keeping his eyes out for anything that stood out as more weird-y than... well, everything that happened.

"They still selling proper drinks, right? Not weird alien booze?"

"I'm not sure someone who drinks their beer at room temperature should be casting stones." The voice sounds amused.

Don has the map up--in one of those delicious little ironies life enjoys serving up, his wariness of the display has led to his becoming more adept with it than anything else the tablet has to offer--and is idly tracking the newest addition to the scattering of dots.

"From what I've seen the bars are well provisioned," he adds. "Though everything here tastes like the recipe went through a game of telephone."

Gene rolled his eyes and tried his best to bite his tongue. Bloody yanks, couldn't make sense of half of what they were saying but he wanted to find the boozer and if he pissed off this bloke, he'd be stuck with just his flasks. And they wouldn't last him forever.

"They serve any scotch? Don't care how long I'm here but if they have no scotch, I may as well off myself now."

"Well, we can't have that," Don says dryly. With labored patience--it's apparent by now that Mr. Gene Hunt takes his answers neat and to the point--he clarifies: "They serve scotch."

He eyes the map. "Okay. You're coming up on a big room. From there you'll have a view of the city."

A pause.

"Take your time."

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