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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 ]
The grin he turns on the tablet, even if he can't see the woman talking to him, is bitter as all hell.
"Pros. Right. We have different definitions of the word, I think-- I'm going to assume, from the fucking amazing levels of condescension in that statement, that you're one of those people who can break walls with a punch or whatthefuck ever.
"Here's a news flash for you, pro: Talent and professionalism are hardly fucking equivalent. Because if they were? Then when this city was being invaded by fucking zombies one of you goddamn pros would have had something like a fucking rescue system in place for us poor mere mortals who got pinned down by the living dead, and YOU DIDN'T. You had no safehouses. You had no organization. You didn't respond to a distress call when I was trapped.
"I have absolutely no faith in the ability of you 'special snowflakes' to protect the normals, because you already visibly failed once. I died, princess.
"So fuck off with your talk of being a pro until you understand what it actually means."
[ visual ]
[ there's a touch of defensiveness in her tone, because seriously? fucking cops, they think they know better than anybody.
...there is potential that faith just has issues with law enforcement-- being an ex-con and current fugitive back home may have something to do with that-- and paul is being reasonable (if crude) but emotional maturity and logic are not her strong points. ]
Considering you were slow enough to get your ass killed, I'm thinking you don't understand it either.
[ visual ]
"I was 'slow enough' to kill eight or nine of them, despite getting no assistance from the 'pros' on what we were facing or how to kill them-- I think I remember you, come to think of it, you had the ever-so-helpful advice of 'don't get bit.'
"If you want to consider yourself a protector? Act like it. If, on the other hand, you don't want the responsibility of 'babysitting' those for whom this is new and goddamn terrifying, then don't tell other people to rely on you to handle it. You don't have that right, anymore than I would have had the right to tell people they shouldn't learn how to defend themselves just because I'm FBI."
[ visual ]
[ beat. ]
And I never said I was anybody's protector. That's B's gig, not mine. I kick ass, she can handhold the fresh meat.
[ visual ]
"B's gig? Oh, so there's another of the special snowflakes who does apparently value protecting other people? Does she have a name besides 'B', because obviously this conversation is going nowhere fast."
[ visual ]
[ faith has this issue where she assumes everyone knows what she's talking about. especially when it comes to buffy. ]
[ visual ]
"I'll go give her a jingle. I'd say it's been a pleasure, but not so much."
[ visual ]
[ peace out, smecker. 8| ]