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taxonomites2011-04-28 11:13 pm
smecker.livejournal.com) wrote in taxonomites2011-04-28 11:13 pm
[Visual] [Location - The Birdhouse]
Paul Smecker maintains a list of scents he doesn't wish to smell ever again. Some of these have been on the list for years, their origins back in this or that case-- the odor of a bloated river-dumped body, dragged back to the surface swollen to twice its weight and size-- the particular scent of coffee regurgitated-- the aftershave a man named David used to wear.
Some, however, are new acquisitions: the buttery olfactory grease of carnival popcorn, after the whirligig of the circus and its mob (its mob of people who could not be here, except 'could not' is a meaningless phrase nowadays, and seeing Alan fucking Shore had been a suckerpunch he still doesn't want to think about, he's glad Alan's not stuck here but damnit, damnit, why bring him at all except just to fuck with him, fucking aliens--).
And the smell of birdshit.
Yeah, that one he's just plain goddamn sick of.
It feels like it's permeated not just his clothes but his skin too, and Paul decides to burn the clothes he was wearing for the cleaning, not like he can't get more after all. His skin he's stuck with, but Paul takes a shower and then a bath and then another shower and finally feels back to human again. If nothing else, the building is finally clean. He's been in there almost every day of the last month, blasting with the hose, scouring, scrubbing the ceilings free of nests and the walls and floor free of crap, Cain helping him (for which thank God, because otherwise he'd still be at it, he's sure). Hasn't exactly done wonders for his social life but it's been a simple task, a task where every day he can see his progress (even if it's just in terms of square feet scoured), and know he's gotten something done, and if it's pointless then it's fucking pointless but it's better than fucking around in a circle-jerk of aimless committees that doesn't even have a hierarchy, that isn't even as organized as the Bureau in all her redundant, backwards, incompetent, bureaucratic chaos is.
Or so Special Agent Paul Smecker muses.
But the building is clean, and Paul walks through it taking deep breaths because he can, the air no longer smells stale and thick with feathers and droppings. It smells of disinfectant, which overall Paul approves of, so that's okay. Up through the building, all three floors, to the rooftop, where the wind is. The city below looks much less chaotic than a few days ago. Back to normal. Or what passes for it.
Paul digs out his tablet, his cigarettes, one with each hand. He lights up before turning on the communications device, flips it to an open visual broadcast to the city.
"Hi. Paul Smecker here. We've probably got some new faces here since the last time I said a nice big group how-the-fuck-do-you-do, so: How the fuck do you do? Or, here's a better and more interesting question: what do you do, everybody?
"We're each here from god knows where, and in some cases when. It's entirely possible we're selected on pure caprice, but operating on that hypothesis doesn't give us anything helpful, so personally I'm choosing to invest in the alternate theory, which states that we were all snatched from our so-very-happy lives for a reason. Don't know what it is, but I personally would like to know more about who my fellow inmates in the inter-stellar zoo are. Some of you who are willing to answer will probably lie; I can't stop you, obviously.
"Part of why I'd like to know is that if we have a crisis again, like the zombies, that's a threat that affects all of us, whether or not we trust each other. And I'm pretty sure we all hate the hamsters. So we do have common enemies; what we don't have is anything like a coherent way to approach our common enemies. I'm not going to even try and talk about organizing against the hamsters right now; frankly I doubt the lot of us could cooperate enough to work our combined way out of a wet cardboard box.
"But zombies, and things like that: we can do simple shit, for fuck's sake. We can organize defensible points. Those of you who are superhuman, and obviously there are those of you who are, can make it clear if you're willing to pitch in to protect the less fucking gifted. As for the rest of us, being slower than speeding bullets doesn't mean we don't have skills: what I am trying to do right now is ascertain what those skills are, what people are good at. If you know first aid, if you know how to defend yourself, if you're good with electronics, good with barricading a building-- we can't organize if we don't know our resources.
"So, what the fuck, I'll go first:
"Paul Smecker, career FBI agent, to those of you from realities with no FBI it's law enforcement with an investigative mandate. My area of expertise was largely forensics-based, but I can handle a gun, I can do CPR and other basic first aid, I'm a good cook and I will kick your ass in any sort of classical music trivia contest you want to have.
"Next? Oh, and Buffy and DG? You two got time for a chat?"
Some, however, are new acquisitions: the buttery olfactory grease of carnival popcorn, after the whirligig of the circus and its mob (its mob of people who could not be here, except 'could not' is a meaningless phrase nowadays, and seeing Alan fucking Shore had been a suckerpunch he still doesn't want to think about, he's glad Alan's not stuck here but damnit, damnit, why bring him at all except just to fuck with him, fucking aliens--).
And the smell of birdshit.
Yeah, that one he's just plain goddamn sick of.
It feels like it's permeated not just his clothes but his skin too, and Paul decides to burn the clothes he was wearing for the cleaning, not like he can't get more after all. His skin he's stuck with, but Paul takes a shower and then a bath and then another shower and finally feels back to human again. If nothing else, the building is finally clean. He's been in there almost every day of the last month, blasting with the hose, scouring, scrubbing the ceilings free of nests and the walls and floor free of crap, Cain helping him (for which thank God, because otherwise he'd still be at it, he's sure). Hasn't exactly done wonders for his social life but it's been a simple task, a task where every day he can see his progress (even if it's just in terms of square feet scoured), and know he's gotten something done, and if it's pointless then it's fucking pointless but it's better than fucking around in a circle-jerk of aimless committees that doesn't even have a hierarchy, that isn't even as organized as the Bureau in all her redundant, backwards, incompetent, bureaucratic chaos is.
Or so Special Agent Paul Smecker muses.
But the building is clean, and Paul walks through it taking deep breaths because he can, the air no longer smells stale and thick with feathers and droppings. It smells of disinfectant, which overall Paul approves of, so that's okay. Up through the building, all three floors, to the rooftop, where the wind is. The city below looks much less chaotic than a few days ago. Back to normal. Or what passes for it.
Paul digs out his tablet, his cigarettes, one with each hand. He lights up before turning on the communications device, flips it to an open visual broadcast to the city.
"Hi. Paul Smecker here. We've probably got some new faces here since the last time I said a nice big group how-the-fuck-do-you-do, so: How the fuck do you do? Or, here's a better and more interesting question: what do you do, everybody?
"We're each here from god knows where, and in some cases when. It's entirely possible we're selected on pure caprice, but operating on that hypothesis doesn't give us anything helpful, so personally I'm choosing to invest in the alternate theory, which states that we were all snatched from our so-very-happy lives for a reason. Don't know what it is, but I personally would like to know more about who my fellow inmates in the inter-stellar zoo are. Some of you who are willing to answer will probably lie; I can't stop you, obviously.
"Part of why I'd like to know is that if we have a crisis again, like the zombies, that's a threat that affects all of us, whether or not we trust each other. And I'm pretty sure we all hate the hamsters. So we do have common enemies; what we don't have is anything like a coherent way to approach our common enemies. I'm not going to even try and talk about organizing against the hamsters right now; frankly I doubt the lot of us could cooperate enough to work our combined way out of a wet cardboard box.
"But zombies, and things like that: we can do simple shit, for fuck's sake. We can organize defensible points. Those of you who are superhuman, and obviously there are those of you who are, can make it clear if you're willing to pitch in to protect the less fucking gifted. As for the rest of us, being slower than speeding bullets doesn't mean we don't have skills: what I am trying to do right now is ascertain what those skills are, what people are good at. If you know first aid, if you know how to defend yourself, if you're good with electronics, good with barricading a building-- we can't organize if we don't know our resources.
"So, what the fuck, I'll go first:
"Paul Smecker, career FBI agent, to those of you from realities with no FBI it's law enforcement with an investigative mandate. My area of expertise was largely forensics-based, but I can handle a gun, I can do CPR and other basic first aid, I'm a good cook and I will kick your ass in any sort of classical music trivia contest you want to have.
"Next? Oh, and Buffy and DG? You two got time for a chat?"
[ visual ]
"I am one of those you would likely classify as superhuman. I have done my best, both during the zombie outbreak and in times past, to use my skills in the interest of protecting the people here. I will do so again in the future, if necessary."
[ visual --> locked]
Paul eventually clears his throat. "Godric. I appreciate your candor, such as it is."
A moment's hesitation, then he locks the transmission.
"....so... I realize I have no way of verifying this if you decide to lie to me, but I have to ask it for my own what-the-fuck-ever, clearing the air-- you're a vampire? Or something else?"
[ visual --> locked]
Godric may be many things, but he sees no point in withholding information about himself.
[ visual --> locked]
"...I continue to appreciate your candor," he says dryly. "I'm-- ...bear with me, you don't mind, I'm sort of dealing with a lot of preconceptions about... vampires... and I don't know how true they are, or how false, or whether I ought to be scared of you or what.
"And I'm guessing you'd say I shouldn't, that you're a helpful nice guy and all, but until a few months ago the only thing 'vampires' meant to me was some movie monster that drank human blood and it's a little fucking tricky to accept that that is real and not think I should barricade myself in a goddamn church."
(Ironic blasphemy unintended.)
[ visual --> locked]
"A church would not help you," he offers. "Your own home however, or the dwelling of any human, cannot be entered by a vampire without the express invitation of one who lives there. Moreover, that invitation can be rescinded." He hopes that's a comfort, that it helps put Paul at ease, the better to continue this conversation.
[ visual --> locked]
"I'd heard the invitation one. In connection with ... Angelus, is what Dawn was calling him. He's a 'different classification' from you, apparently, so this 'invitation' thing holds true for any vampire then?
"And churches are bullshit for you guys-- what about crosses, holy water, all that?"
Truth to tell he's a little relieved if they are bullshit. Paul has his own issues with God, and the concept of having to carry a fucking crucifix for self-defense is one he has some trouble with.
[ visual --> locked]
It's a sound, logical question, though Godric recognizes it may be far from comforting, especially if Paul is a religious man of any kind. No one wants to hear that the demon they face is older than their divine savior and not beholden to his rules. That said, the concept of using crosses as protection against vampires always annoyed Godric, especially in his younger years when he still held a bitter hatred of Rome.
Godric is much wiser and calmer now -- and he's long since separated the Christian philosophy from its Roman heritage -- but the idea still grates, just a little.
Re: [ visual --> locked]
He rubs at his face, his eyes, he feels so tired, like sand has gotten in there at some point...
"....you're really claiming to be over 2,000 years old. I'm sorry. That's going to take an assload of time for me to wrap my head around."
[ visual --> locked]
"You seem quite concerned by my kind. Is that due to Angel? Or rather, Angelus?" Not that it isn't reasonable for humans to be wary of vampires in general, but Paul's objection seems to stem from something specific.
[ visual --> locked]
He shakes himself; tells himself he doesn't want to be getting this confessional with the enemy. Or something that he instinctively wants to regard as the enemy, anyway.
A half-laugh at Godric's words, an incredulous look at the tablet.
"Well, knowing that sometimes here the, uh, the vampires randomly go 'evil'--" (Paul makes air-quotes) "--and basically become what was described to me as the most sociopathic of sadists, but with superpowers? I can say with some fucking sincerity that doesn't exactly make me feel fucking safe, yeah. So sure. Say it's Angelus.
"More generally, I'm living in a big goddamn zoo with entities who drink human blood and whom it wouldn't do me any good to shoot. I don't see why I shouldn't be concerned. No fucking offense meant."