taxonomites | now i rock a house party at the drop of a hat.

It's around five o'clock in the morning when the citizens of Taxon find themselves inexplicably transported into rooms within the Sanctuary. Doors are left open and beds unmade, food abandoned and lights left on, still shining brightly for those who were awake and are no longer present. The Extras don't seem to notice the captive population's sudden disappearance, continuing on with their business as usual.

For those relocated, though, it's an entirely different story.

They find themselves in rooms with white, alabaster walls that gives them an almost too-clean feeling, as if the entire place was sanitized prior to their arrival. The room assignments are seemingly random, people placed on floors with those they don't know and don't like, people they would rather not be within twenty feet of. It matters not, for what's done is done and cannot be undone. For those who happen to have pets, they'll find them waiting for their owners in the rooms as if nothing is out of the ordinary.

The only thing the captives have managed to bring with them is the clothes on their back and the tablets. On them, they find the following message:

SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE PLEASE ENJOY YOUR STAY WHILE WE ADDRESS CERTAIN TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES

Unfortunately for those who try to find a means of escape, they'll discover there is none. Leaving the Sanctuary will prove to be as difficult as leaving Taxon itself. However, if one heads down the right corridor and the right floor, they'll find something else entirely lurking in their midst...

( ooc | sorry for the delay in posting! your mods were otherwise occupied with things of the irl variety this morning. THIS BE A PARTY POST, Y'ALL. room assignments are here, and refer back to the sott post proper for any additional information. please contact us with any questions/concerns you may have in regards to this plot. ♥ )

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River does not care about pants, or the nebulous idea of concerned children who may care about Damon's lack of them.

She is awake, displaced, and on a mission.

"Shhhh," and that's River's head poking in the now-open door to Damon's room. "They're scared enough already."

With that mild scolding done, she's gone again. Buckets. She needs buckets.

There's a split second where Damon nearly just follows her out into the corridor buttnaked, but if anyone comes along that would... not look good. At all. So he snags the sheet and knots it around his hips and then follows.

"Who's scared, exactly?"

She's already well inside the kitchen stadium area, wearing what is possibly the least fashionable sleep outfit in the history of the world (http://www.polyvore.com/no_really_sanctuary_thing/set?id=32307445), and the sweater isn't even on anymore.

It's laying in a soggy heap in front of a large display case of lobsters.

"Them," she says, indicating the tank of swimmy crustaceans doomed to a short life in a boiling pot. A few of them have already managed to crawl over their cousins to sweet, dry freedom, and are wandering around exploring the floor.

River, Damon wonders about your sartorial choices. He really does.

"...The lobsters." Beat. "Why are there lobsters on the floor."

"Exodus," and it is probably one of the more succinct explanations she's ever given him for something.

Then she's by the tank and leaning over to peer inside at the captives, face right up against the plexiglass. "I need buckets."

"And you led our dinner out of Egypt because?" Visions of a drawn butter sauce are dancing in his head.

Sigh. "Or you could put them back and let me cook them."

"They're us," still up against the glass. Not that the aliens are going to eat them or anything, but the parallels of their situations are there.

On the other side of the tank, another lobster flops down to its potential liberation.

But then there's talk of cooking and River is shooting Damon the most displeased face she can manage. "You have bad habits."

"Really, they're not." They're dinner, in Damon's mind. Also, if you fall in he's not dragging you out, River.

He'll just be grinning now, all teeth. "I have delicious habits."

"Murderous," she corrects, turning back to the lobsters and sticking a hand in to let her fingers swirl reassuringly around their antenna. "Aren't equitable traits. You know better."

As a rule, crustaceans of this size and type don't think much. They have tiny brains and limited scope of the world around them, even when that world is a threatening kitchen.

So it's safe to say most of this is some serious issue projection from the tiny unfashionable girl with her hair trailing in the water. Coming up on the start of Year Three is bad enough, so if letting lobsters own her anxiety about being stuck inside a building with clean, clean walls helps it helps. The fact that she's laying it on ridiculously thick, though, escapes her completely.

"They can't go in the showers. It's unhygienic."

"They can be." He might not just be referring to lobsters, because Damon needs a keeper and maybe a muzzle.

He watches her hair get wet for about thirty seconds before rolling his eyes and crossing over the the tank and pulling the escaped strands out of the water and tucking them behind River's ears. This clearly isn't about the lobsters, and while someone like Stefan might want to talk about it, Damon just rolls his eyes.

"So find buckets." Pause. "Or put them in the pool." Trolling via River: fun.

No, there will be no talking about it on River's side either. The act of tucking her hair back like that, though, earns him a long and uncomfortable look. An examination for brotherly tendencies, similarities and differences.

Then she stands up, takes off her shorts, and hands them to him.

"You look like you're wearing a dress."

What ever would Mattie think if she saw him in such a state?

Once upon a time, Damon was more like Simon than anyone could have guessed. It's a habit he worked hard to bury under anger and bitterness, but the problem with letting Stefan back in is everything Damon used to be is pushing back in with him.

"I prefer toga."

He stares at the shorts for a moment before shrugging and slipping them on, then looking down at himself for a few long moments. "If modesty was the goal, I think naked was better."

A well-muscled man in a tiny's spandex shorts: Marvel's pornographic wet dream.

"Stay away from bright lights," is River's sage advice. They just bring attention to certain shadowy areas and places.

They may be serving as a marker. A sign to know what he isn't, what Damon can't be. Blue eyes and dark hair may not make him a brother, her brother, but they can be distracting nonetheless.

"Don't let them wander."

Yes, Damon, you get to wrangle the already free lobsters while River finds buckets.

"Or I could find actual pants." Damon arches an eyebrow at the command, looking down at the now free range crustaceans.

"Only if I get to keep one myself."

"They're transitive," re: the shorts as she bangs around in cabinets.

But, oh, she knows what he's after. The attachment hasn't superseded the knowledge that lobsters are food, that they have a place. (Like cattle and rabbits and fowl. And maybe they do, too. Hamsters eat their young; it's not too much of a stretch to assume giant hamsters would turn to the wanton carnivorous consumption of other species.)

"Two," is her first and final offer from halfway inside a metal-doored cabinet, with a single caveat: "make it dignified."

"I always hated math." He knows what you meant, River. He just is awful.

"I'll give them full honors before I dip them in butter."

now i rock a house party at the drop of a hat.

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[ location : floor fifteen ]

[ location : floor fifteen ]

[ location : floor fifteen ]

[ location : floor fifteen ]