taxonomites | [Visual] movin' up, movin' on [location: hyperion hotel]

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[Visual] movin' up, movin' on [location: hyperion hotel]

For a moment the transmission shows a room in the clutter of moving, boxes packed and half-packed, bookshelves emptied and looking sad and forlorn. Then Long manages to get the camera pointed accurately, and offers Taxon a smile and a dip of his head. He's holding a notebook with pages of writing, passages scribbled out, corrected, a few crumpled-up sheets lying on the table near him.

"Hello, Taxon; to both those of you I know and those of you I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting. Mayland Long here; I've been spending the last few days attempting to cobble together a translation of those fascinating broadcasts we've been getting."

He cleared his throat and looked from the tablet to his notebook. "If it is of interest to anyone, here is what I have so far..."

Long made an aborted gesture as if to adjust spectacles he wasn't wearing, then began to read:

"We will try and explain, but the differences between our culture and your own may make it impossible.

"We are a group of people who are living in freedom, people who desire freedom.

"We are people who have formerly shared your fate as captives, before wandering freely now...

"They-- (I cannot tell whether they refer to themselves here, or perhaps our captors)-- They are close to a good life... then the static cuts in again-- --but we do not speak to give you orders, but because we are here for freedom.

"They are not gods." Long pauses after saying that, letting those words sink in. He believes this phrase is about their captors, and he personally chooses to be heartened by the statement they are not omnipotent, if that is indeed the import of the statement.

"For research conducted... indicates that they are hiding things from you, and that you could have the, erm, race. --I am not sure what idiom they were attempting to communicate there.

"Another bit of static, then-- forced to live with a primitive idea. We look forward to-- another gap-- their creation, cannot be...

"We believe in you." Again Long pauses, possibly because it was one of the most coherent and simple sentences in the garbled mess. He clears his throat again before continuing.

"You will have to decide what is best for yourselves, and you can take care of yourselves; we believe that everyone should be maintained. We know... that you must find your own lives. Even though some of you may value leisure and long life...

"We believe in you. We are-- and it cuts off there."

Long closed his notebook, lips pursed thoughtfully. After a few beats of silence, he says, "I don't believe that the broadcasters are native speakers of either Portuguese or any dialect of Chinese. I believe they are using, well, dictionaries I suppose, or whatever equivalent they have, to try to speak to us in various of our languages hoping that they will get through, but their command of these languages is like anybody else attempting to speak to a native using nothing more than a pocket dictionary and no comprehension of either idiom or grammar. I have taken considerable liberties in trying to tease out some logic from the transmission; it is possible I am piecing together meanings different from what the speakers intended.

"But I am reasonably confident of this much: the speakers are former captives of the aliens. They have escaped, and are somewhere outside the city; they are attempting to let us know that escape is somehow possible and that the aliens are not omnipotent. They wish to encourage us. They are not hostile.

"If anybody else has more insight or a different take on the transmissions, I should love to discuss it," Long said, and put down his notebook. He laced his hands, then offered the camera a diffident smile.

"On a more mundane note, would anybody care to assist me with some tedious hauling of boxes across city? And some packing as well? I have most of it done, but a few books and sundries could still be packed. I don't suppose anyone has access to a pick-up truck... I would offer to pay anyone who helps, but I am afraid I don't know how to transfer credits between individuals. Instead I will simply have to be in your debt.

"Miss Rosenberg, if you could come by and assist, as we agreed? Thank you."

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Because Willow is actually really not in the mood to deal with formalities right now - she really should get over that. one of these days it'll make her life difficult - she looks up his location on the tablet map and heads straight over.

"Uh... It's me, Willow?" She's about to actually be all formal in talking to him, but then something occurs to her. "I-I don't think we ever really addressed how you want me to uh... address you."

She really doesn't care one way or another. She just wants to know so she doesn't insult him further. But she's standing outside for now and will wait for him to give her instructions.

Long hurries to the door at the voice, and opens it, blinking a moment at Willow before stepping back to allow her to enter. The once-nice hotel room beyond is full of boxes in various states of packing, and stacks of books still covering the flat surfaces.

He looks bemused at the question, and shrugs one shoulder. "I don't really have a preference. Long, Mr. Long, Mayland... whatever you are most comfortable with. Erm, hello. Please come in."

Long hesitates, shutting the door after her, his brows knit as he ponders her question. "....would you prefer I not called you Miss Rosenberg?" he asks after a moment. "I'm aware I'm... very old-fashioned, but if-- well, whatever you are comfortable with.

"...Do you want a cup of tea?" he asks, in a somewhat blatant attempt to try and rescue the situation with his own brand of manners.

Willow at least has the grace to look apologetic as she steps inside. "Sorry. I just thought it might be easier for me to come straight over instead of waste time on the tablets." What, it makes sense to her!

The name thing gets a thoughtful look as he shuts the door. "It doesn't matter. Most people call me Willow, but you're kinda like the teachers at school, so my last name's fine." It's a power trip; she gets it. "Besides, if I use 'Mr. Long,' it'll be all nice and formal." She smiles warmly at this, so obviously formality is a good thing.

"Oh, sure. Tea would be lovely." She at least knows how to appreciate that. "Just... tell me what you need me to do and I'll do it."

This had seemed a splendid idea when he was proposing it, Long muses as he crosses the carpet back to the little table with its jade teapot and hot plate and starts pouring a cup of tea. A lesson learned, all nicely fitting, that magic should not be used as a shortcut for things, and so forth. Very much the sort of task he had been given as a younger.... well, being.

He wonders if any of those long-ago sages and wise men had ever felt so patently uncomfortable in his presence as he does at the moment. Long has an extraordinarily limited experience with young ladies; they are not the sort of acquaintances one forms when turning into a middle-aged human without warning.

He pours the tea.

"Many of the boxes are already packed," he murmurs, gesturing with his free hand around at the mostly bare shelves. "Those stacks over there must still be placed into boxes. They are the more valuable books, the first editions and the antique volumes and the like, so I was hoping to wrap each first in the newspaper."

There is a small pile of newspapers there, the San Francisco Chronicle because that was the paper he was thinking of when he hatched them, but aside from the letterhead the actual articles are Lorem Ipsum gibberish, as his imagination had not extended to text.

"The tea is Oolong," he said, offering the handleless cup to Willow. He sounded halfway apologetic when he said, "I am afraid I have no sugar."

Willow waits patiently out of the way, where she won't hurt anything or bug him too much. She just wants this to be done and over with, but she's trying not to be over-eager, either. This is to make amends for all the crap she pulled earlier. This isn't for her comfort.

She listens carefully to his assessment as she takes the cup of tea and sips. "Newspaper's a good idea. Better for the books. Giles had a bunch of old volumes like that in the library and he liked to do that, too. I'll take care of yours like I would his."

Which means tender loving care and attention to detail.

"It's nice just like this." Meaning the tea. It's not a flavor she remembers from Sunnydale, but it's nice all the same. "I guess I'll just... finish the tea and start wrapping books." Which is what she'll do unless he has objections or another project for her in the meantime. She doesn't want to risk spilling tea on the precious volumes.

"Giles?" Long asks politely, with a hint of interest, because anyone with a library cannot be a bad fellow. "And thank you. I do appreciate it. There is no rush, so yes, please enjoy the tea first."

For his own part Long moves to one of the shelves still containing a few lingering volumes-- a truly motley assortment of what look like dog-eared science fiction paperbacks, Reader's Digest-type coffee-table books, stray issues of National Geographic, and a French cookbook-- then starts piling these into a box, as these ones do not require any particular care in their handling.

After a few moments he says, "...and if you see anything you should like to borrow, please feel free to ask."

"Uh... Rupert Giles, he was the high school librarian," Willow answers. She misses Giles so much and she'd really love to see him return, even if Taxon is worse than Sunnydale on some levels.

She lets her eyes glance around the room as she starts in on the old volumes, treating each book like it's porcelain. It's clear that she knows how to handle books.

"Oh... uh, thank you. I will." She sounds a touch surprised that he offered, but her smile is genuine. Maybe someday she'll feel comfortable asking him for things, but not right now. Right now, she still has to prove that she's a good person. That's the most important thing.

"Giles would like your collection." She's not sure why she adds that on, but maybe talking about the Watcher will help ease the tension between them.

"A librarian? That is a noble profession, and in a high school more so," Long says, putting in what looks to be a Zagat guide from 1983 into a box. (Followed by a copy of Les Miserables, some Dickens, and a book on growing decorative cacti.)

"The offer stands whenever. Really, I should probably donate most of these to the library here in the city..." Long said with a bit of a sigh, looking around at the boxes.

"The name sounds British. Was he?" Long seems just as eager for some innocent topic of conversation that isn't likely to lead to magic. Small talk about old acquaintances, go.

"He's a very good librarian," Willow adds in, her focus still on the books. "Hey, Les Mis. That one's good." She glances up with a smile, trying so hard to make this work.

"Yeah, he was, but he came over at some point and hasn't moved back." She shrugs. "Did you know a lot of people from England?" She's just as curious as she is interested in keeping the topic neutral. Anything will do right now.

"Oh, you enjoy Hugo? I have his collected works in the French. ...Somewhere," Long appends, looking around with a frown at the boxes. "Probably already boxed up, alas...

"I have accepted a position here at the library within the city, a shame that I cannot ask your Mr. Giles for pointers," he says as he puts in another stack of volumes, before answering her question.

"Ah, well, I learned to speak English from Englishmen living in Hong Kong, and this explains my using an accent upon which I have no legitimate claim, so-- quite a few, yes. And for years I corresponded with gentlemen at Oxford and Cambridge..." Long says, rambling a bit as he tapes boxes shut and writes their contents on them in his very orderly handwriting.

"Have you been to England, or traveled much at all?"

Willow nods. She's a bookworm and a computer nerd, as well as a witch. At least she can say she has good taste all around. "Maybe another time I can look at those." She's fine with another time. Right now, her focus is getting the rest of these things packed up and down there. It's going to be a long day already. No need to prolong it further.

"That's... cool, though," she answers honestly and then shakes her head. "No. I'd really like to go to England, though, a-and not just because Giles lived there."

"It's lovely in the springtime. Ireland even more so. You should go," Long says encouragingly, then remembers their present situation in Taxon.

"...if the opportunity presents itself, at any rate.

"Where in America are you from?"

"I will!" Wait. "Once we're out of Taxon, I mean." Willow offers a smile in response. "Giles might even take me."

The question makes her pause. So far no one not from her world has heard of her town, but it can't hurt to try.

"Sunnydale, California. It's... a small town in southern California."

"I'm afraid I don't know it," Long admits with a little head-shake. "San Francisco, myself, so probably only some hours away, but I have seen very little of California besides my adopted city."

He uses the packing tape to shut up another box of books.

"Palm trees, one trusts? Near the ocean, perhaps? And when you get to England--" ('when' is much better than 'if') "--you should have your Giles take you to Salisbury Cathedral, among many other sights and glories."

Willow shrugs, not phased by this. "Not many people who aren't from Sunnydale have actually heard of it. It's kinda weird." Another shrug follows as she tapes up a box herself and moves on to the next one.

"I will. That sounds like just the kind of thing we both like." She pauses for a minute to think about Sunnydale and shrugs again. "Kind of? We never really went very close to the beach, not even in summer. There was always something to do at home."

"Hm! A mystery, perhaps. A little town, charming, quaint, but the outside world knows nothing of it..."

Long is amusing himself, as he does, composing what would amount to the back-jacket of novels-- blurbs about books that he thinks he would like to read, the summaries of novels not in existence.

"But for a proper story the charming little town should have a dark curse, don't you think? A murder in its past, or some dreadful secret, that the intrepid visiting detective must discover?"

He thinks he's being funny.

Little does he know. Willow debates saying anything for a while, but eventually curiosity gets the better of her.

"Does being built over a center of mystical convergence count?"

Long beams. "Oh, it certainly would. A great metaphysical hub, a gathering place for all things strange and supernatural."

Beat. Pause.

"--oh, you are not posing a literary hypothetical, are you."

The idea that he thought she was joking brings a smile to her face, but she shakes her head in response.

"Nope. We really were sitting on top of a Hellmouth."

Which brings them smack into the reason she became a witch in the first place, but, uh... that's not really where she wants to go with this conversation.

"Giles used to say there was one in Cleveland, too, but we never found out if that was real or not."

A stack of National Geographics, all from the 1980s, go into a box and the box is taped shut.

"A 'hell-mouth'," Long says thoughtfully. "There was a mouth to hell in my world too, although in a different sense, I think, to go by your context. I spent entirely too much time there for my liking all the same.

"It was not in Cleveland, though," he says, with a deadpan straight face.

That actually gets a short laugh out of her.

"I think I'd prefer yours to mine. Trying to keep an apocalypse from happening on an almost yearly basis is really tough."

"Heavens, that sounds stressful," Long tuts, but smiles a little at the fact that apparently they can laugh, at least.

"But I couldn't leave mine-- for twenty-two years," he counters with, still smiling. Apparently they're one-upping hellmouthery. It's better than arguing over magic?

"What is this? Arguing over whose Hellmouth is worse?" Willow teases, lowering her gaze to the box she's just finished taping up. "Most of the people who are charged with protecting our Hellmouth don't live to see twenty-two years."

That's all she'll say about Buffy's profession and the Slayers, but it probably says enough.

Long chuckles and shakes his head. "In Buddhist cosmology, there are commonly believed to be sixteen hells, half of fire and half of ice, but I think any suffering soul would agree there is no comparison between torments. Whichever you are in is always the worst."

He tsks a bit at Willow's words. "A cruel universe, then, to doom people to such a destiny."

I must agree with both your translation and the analysis of it. There is, fortunately or unfortunately, little else that it could mean. As it is, if there are indeed other beings who have escaped the city, that information is, perhaps, the most vital that we have received within the limits of Taxon.

"Personally I find it incredibly encouraging," Long responded, content to stick with voice-only if the man addressing him was. "That, and the iteration that they are not deities-- our captors, that is. While even gods may be defeated, it is certainly easier if omnipotence is not on the table."

There were, of course, certain reasons why Spock had chosen to continue with voice-only responses, even if the Temporal Prime Directive was anything but enforced. Habit, maybe, out of keeping those who couldn't accept something other than their own species might have sentience. That tended to break down when coupled with the fact that aliens were entirely responsible for their predicament in the first place, but there was no telling who believed what.

"I had never entertained the idea that they were deities in any sense excepting, perhaps, their seemingly limitless power. They are, in all likelihood, highly advanced beings with knowledge that has not yet been discovered by others."

There was a soft chuckle in answer, and then Long said, "Would you by any chance happen to know one Lieutenant Torres, sir? I think the both of are reading from the same playbook, as it were."

"I am acquainted with the Lieutenant, yes." It was hard not to be, really. He was still coming to terms with the idea of Klingons serving in Starfleet, but he did have to admit that she was efficient, and quite good at her job. "I have not yet had an opportunity to speak to her about this latest transmission, however."

"I was thinking of how you both speak of science versus the supernatural. But it is entirely possible she might have an insight into the broadcasts, as well.

"Might I ask your name, sir?"

"I have very little experience with what humans often call the 'supernatural.' In most cases, it proves to be either an emotional reaction to an unpleasant situation, or simply science far beyond what they are capable of understanding.

"I am Spock."

Long smiled, the smile perhaps audible in his tone. "I have had considerable experience with what humans often call the 'supernatural'. In most cases it has proven to be exactly that.

"How do you do, Mister Spock? A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Manual labor? No, just no. Language mysteries? That Fitz could work with.

"My Chinese is rusty but...yeah, that's about what I got," he replied. "It's certainly encouraging, isn't it?"

Long nodded politely back to the young man on the other side of the screen.

"It is-- although I confess that having read 1984 I can't help but suspect something delightfully Emmanuel Goldstein about it all, intrigue upon intrigue...." Long chuckles a little to himself, and shrugs.

"But I don't really think that. I think the transmissions are genuine. Have we met, young man?"

What little background could be seen on Elisa's tablet broadcast seemed to be moving, the armatures of her wings adjusting slightly as she glided across the sky.

"I was just on my way, actually," she said.

"But escapees? I suppose that's encouraging."

"Ah, splendid-- I look forward to seeing you," Long said with a smile and a nod at Elisa. He attempted not to stare, but it was fascinating being able to see the wings in motion-- and if he was honest, there was a slight pang of jealousy there. He missed the sky.

"Yes, I think it is-- they seem sympathetic to our situation, and that is certainly more than can be said of our captors, after all."

"Probably about five minutes out. Ten at the outside. Depends on if I get a good updraft or have to climb."

"Question is then... why not in English? And if they're speaking from a dictionary, what language were they translating from?"

"There is no rush," Long answered, although there was definitely a quiet wistful sigh at the talk of updrafts.

"I don't know, but it's very interesting to ponder, no? Perhaps they don't originally speak any tongue native to Earth, and are simply translating through as many as they can find, hoping to get through eventually."

"Makes sense," Elisa admitted. "If we've been abducted by aliens... maybe they abducted other aliens first, and hu--Earth people," she amended, "are just the next in line?"

Long scratched at his jaw thoughtfully. "Entirely possible, although not all of us here are even from Earth. Still, it is a sound theory, and worth considering."

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[Visual] movin' up, movin' on [location: hyperion hotel]

[location: wherever the heck he is]

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