taxonomites | [holo] oh how sweet to walk in this pilgrim way

[Mattie feels the ground give way under her feet, panic closing off her throat as she begins to fall, scrabbling uselessly at dirt and brush-]

The holo feed shows a small figure dressed in too-large, old-fashioned clothes appear in mid-air, then fall to the ground with a hard thump that knocks the wind out of her for a moment. She lies still, gaping up at what should be a blue sky or at least the darkness of earth over her head, and then hesitantly brushes the fingers of one hand against the unyielding surface of the floor.

“Mr. LaBoeuf?” Her voice is embarrassingly weak, and she takes a deep breath and tries again, more loudly. “Mr. LaBoeuf!”

There’s no answer, of course, and common sense tells Mattie that although she doesn’t rightly know where she is, it’s obvious where she is not, and she shouldn’t expect any response. That realization urges her to sit up, the hat falling off her head as she slowly pushes herself to her feet and looks uncertainly around.

“Hello? Can anyone hear me?” She approaches the nearest wall and runs her hand along it, then turns her head to take in the others, just as blank as this one. Raising her arm, she pounds her fist against it, voice taking on a more forceful (but also more desperate) tone. “Whoever’s out there, open up this minute! You have no right to hold me against my will, I’ve embarked on no wrong-doing.. I have a good lawyer, and I will write him and you will hear how the law looks on the incarceration of innocent children!”

When the wall doesn’t give way and door doesn’t appear, Mattie steps back with a sigh. “Papa, I believe I have found some trouble for myself.”

Threaded | Flat

Willful children who know their own mind and rail against their unlawful incarceration strike a particularly familiar note with Godric. You could say he has something of a soft spot.

"Calm yourself," he begins gently, judging by her dress and manner that she'll be unfamiliar with the technology she's about to face. "You're in no immediate danger."

When Mattie discovers the tablet, she'll see a pale boy who looks not much older than she, but a closer inspection often tends to throw that observation into doubt. He doesn't behave quite like a 16-year-old boy from any era.

Elisa sizes up the clothes and general dialog for a second and comes to the conclusion that this girl may be from quite some time back. Or possibly a historical recreationist. She gives that about a thirty-percent chance.

Either way, she probably should sit this arrival out. But the girl also doesn't look much younger than Angela or Elisa's sister or Maggie, and that's enough to open up her heart.

Still, she wishes her tablet would connect to arrivals on something other than a visual.

"I can hear you," she says. "And I can help you get out too."

"You'll break your hand before you dent that wall." The voice comes out soft but the astute listener will detect signs of strain, a certain underlying tautness. As for the accent, it's American, innocuous as a newscaster's.

Silence follows--Don leaves the tablet where it lies and gets to his feet. He forces himself to take a breath instead of going off in search of something to smash or a door to slam.

"Hello," he says, scooping up the tablet, speaking more authoritatively now. "My name is Don and I arrived here in the room you're standing in now. I can tell you the way out."

"That's a bad idea, miss. I would suggest refraining or yo--"

Or she'll hurt herself, but Stefan stops talking upon realizing just how that tumbled out of his mouth. His speech patterns were always much more formal and old fashioned in his head, but rarely, and only around those he was comfortable with, did they actually make it out of his mouth that way, let alone with the tinges of an accent from Old Virginia that he shed a long time ago. It's the way this girl spoke and the way she was dressed that pulled that out of him without his permission.

He tries talking again, seeing that she's stepped back. Good, good. No sense in her injuring herself so soon after arriving.

"Trouble," he trips over the word a bit, reigning in his voice and pressing on the tone to even it out. "Trouble's one word for it. I've got a few others, but they're not cleared for daytime television."

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