taxonomites | 08 | [holo / location: sanctuary square] power to the people

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08 | [holo / location: sanctuary square] power to the people

Fitz had long kept a little black book, but once he began traveling with the Doctor he'd started using them for vastly different purposes. It had started with San Francisco and carried on to multitudes of other worlds: notes, observations, little details that could topple empires if he got them to the Doctor.

Since coming back to Taxon he'd kept track of names, of comings and going and glitches and the like. He kept an eye on the tablet and made notes, observing like Isherwood in Berlin: I am a camera with its shutter open, quite passive, recording, not thinking. It was all information for whenever the Doctor turned up, Fitz was just "our man in the field."

Lately, though, he'd been checking the map and the announcements against his book and crossing out an alarming number of names, jotting down date vanished with a sigh and a little toast of whatever he happened to be drinking. The population was dwindling, and each day that panicky end-of-the-world sense he'd cultivated in his travels across the universe rose in pitch.

He couldn't be idle any longer, it was time to try for a morale boost So he packed up his guitar and gear and headed for the square in the middle of the city, glad the snow of previous days had given way to...autumn. Bloody hell, with the crazy weather it was no wonder he'd taken a page from the Hitchemus playbook.

Once everything was set up he turned his tablet to holo and launched into the uneasy, plaitive opening chords of that Status Quo song, wishing not for the first time that the aliens would snatch up a drummer for once.

When I look up to the skies
I see your eyes a funny kind of yellow
I rush home to bed I soak my head
I see your face underneath my pillow
I wake next morning, tired, still yawning
See your face come peeping through my window

It was probably more appropriate for last month, and thank Christ the reflections had stopped teasing him, but it still worked. He could still almost hear the TARDIS materializing under the solo.

Windows echo your reflection
When I look in their direction now
When will this haunting stop?
Your face it just won't leave me alone

Pictures of matchstick men and you...
Alls I ever see is them and you

The song came to its forlorn, jangly conclusion and Fitz addressed the city.

"Good afternoon, Taxon!" he began, strumming a few idle notes as he spoke. "That one was for all of you who are missing someone. I know, and I'm sure you're all aware, that lots of people have been sent home lately. For many this is good, for others it's not, and for those of us still stuck here it's...well, we're still fucking stuck here. But we're stuck here together, so let's try and help each other out, yeah?

"Some people have been setting up a shelter for the next time our hosts let the wheels fall off this damn place, and I'm collecting donations at the Dodgy Jammer. Food, clothing, blankets, a replica of whatever weird thing from your world you can't live without, we're stocking it all. Help yourselves, help your neighbors, the tools are in your hands and all that."

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A shelter! That was a great idea. Liz had been a little worried about what people were going to do if something like that zombie attack she heard about were to happen again. Agent Smecker had suggested she take an escort with her, but she didn't think that would be enough against something like zombies. A shelter equipped with proper fortifications, stocked with supplies and ready to go... Thank God there were people around who were thinking ahead.

"Hi." Always polite to say hello before asking a question. "What district are you in?"

"Hallo," Fitz replied and doffed an imaginary hat. "I'm outside the Santucary in Central, and-- damn, I should have thought to have a box for donations."

[Party has no idea what's going on--but that doesn't stop him from immediately chiming in, singing the last few words.]

No idea there was another musician here. You're pretty good.

[ yes, accompaniment! it does not go unappreciated. ]

Yeah, there's a couple of us around I think. Still looking for a rhythm section, though.

It's nice to hear something familiar. I was in a band, where I was from. Used to singing, but I learned a thing or two from my bassist.

Yeah? That's fab. I play a little bass and piano, too. [ and the recorder but that's so much less cool. and while he's in rock god mode he opts to go with the stage name. ] I'm Fitz, Fitz Fortune.

[He smiles, and he tries not to sound too excited, but he can't help it.] I've never heard any of your stuff on the radio. Where I come from--music's been, uh, banned, sort of. I'm part of The Mad Gear and the Missile Kid, uh, I'm Party Poison.

[he's totally not trying to assert the fact that he's good, not at all, because he's definitely not giddy to meet another musician.]

Ah, well, you probably wouldn't've. I only got as far as playing clubs. [ in London. in the 1960s. also Fitz suddenly feels much less self-conscious about his own pseudonym. ] But banning music? Sorry, mate, sounds like you come from a bit of a hell hole. Thankfully they haven't tried anything like that here yet.

[ the "yet" is very important. ]

[Party is way too excited about this--over eager, perhaps. This is the first time something's gone right here.]

Trust me, California in 2019 is a giant pile of guano. You'd almost prefer to get dusted. Nothing but what you can find out in the Zones, or us. Depressing. [too depressing. Party changes the subject]

We should jam.

We should. [ Fitz knows from too depressing, he'd seen enough of the ass end of the universe to understand it, and so he doesn't press for now. ] Seems there's a few musical types around, and our hosts have given us radio, so I think any contributions will be welcome.

[there's a bit of happiness in Party's normally carefully controlled voice--excited, like a kid who just found two whole dollars in his jacket from the previous winter.]

Only radio I'll trust is my own, no offense. But if we can gather up all the music folks and make sure we've got the same tastes... Well, I'd say that'd be more than shiny. Art is the Weapon.

A shelter that was capable of protecting and providing for the citizens in case of an emergency was an excellent idea, especially given the unpredictability of the city.

"The institute I brought with me is stocked with useful items. Extensive first-aid kits, blankets and sleeping bags, fire-extinguishers, rations, several types of tools..." Brennan trailed off, shrugging. "And that's only a small fraction of everything available. As the research side of the institute is largely empty due to myself being the only employee here, it would be rational to donate these unused items to the shelter."

Sometimes it paid to bring with you a huge museum complex that had to be able to sustain hundreds of employees in case of possible lab lockdowns.

"...I know of an FBI agent who'd possibly propose marriage to you, love."

There is precisely no excuse whatsoever for the amount of meta in that statement.

"But thank you, anything you can spare would be appreciated."

"That would be most unnecessary. I'm quite happy to offer what assistance I can without anybody resorting to such extremities," Brennan replied factually, missing the joke entirely as she tended to do nine times out of ten.

"I can have the supplies delivered straight to the shelter, if you'd rather avoid cluttering your establishment."

Fitz snorted. No point in remarking on that, as he was thus far unsure about how Smecker himself would react to such an overture.

"That'd be brilliant, I think. Centralizing resources would be a good thing. I could meet you there, take an inventory?"

[After that, Stefen isn't sure he trusts his voice, let alone his appearance. And he was all about appearances. The songs here are so strange, but he does listen. And listen well. He knows how to--it's his job, after all.

Something makes him want to respond, but he fights to find the words to say it (a Bard of all things struggling with words), but he eventually manages something small and not entirely addressed to the song that he wants and doesn't want to talk about.]

That might be a good idea, a shelter like that.

Wish I could claim it for myself, I'm just here to help.

[ self deprecation! it is indeed a glorious thing. ]

I haven't heard about it before. [Granted he hadn't been here that long...] So I guess thank you for letting me know.

You're welcome. They've been setting up for a few months, stocking's sort of the last step. Anything we can make sure to include for you?

I do't think so. [He'd survived on less than nothing before...]

That song...

[A pause, and then he changes his mind about what he was going to say.]

I've never heard it before.

Probably before your time. [ Fitz is so very used to peole being from early twenty-first century Earth that he hears a young voice and just...assumes. The band's called The Status Quo, that was one of their earlier songs. Did you like it?

I don't know...I know most of the old songs, and that didn't sound anything like them. [But he should really get used to this whole...futuristic thing.]

I...don't actually know who they are, but I suppose I did like it. It's...strange, but in a good way.

"Thanks for the shout-out," Paul says once Fitz has said his piece, lighting a cigarette with one hand and holding his tablet with the other.

"You're likely better at phrasing the 'let's help each other out' crap than I am. Got any responses yet? ...also, you're not terrible on the guitar."

This is high praise from this guy.

"Ta," Fitz replied with a little salute. "Anything I can do to help, and...well, a showman ought to be good with PR, right?"

He snorted at the...compliment and fussed with the guitar's tuning knobs. "Glad to hear those lessons from Hendrix are paying off."

Okay so he sat a few rows back at a Hendrix show and paid very close attention. That totally counts.

Paul arches a brow. "You got lessons from Hendrix?" he asks, not bothering to hide his skepticism beneath politeness. "....why am I even asking, of course you did. Hey, are you human?"

This is now a question he feels he has to ask, in fucking Taxon. Jesus Christ.

"I mean, it's alright if you're not, I've just reached a point where I like knowing the species of who I'm talking to. Advance warning helps me do a lot less spit-taking when it comes out in casual conversation they're 2,000 years old, or were grown in a test tube, or something."

The lyrics were unfamiliar and the tune was new to her, but Drusilla caught hold of the threads of it and started to weave something that was hers. Flesh on the bones. She sang along with the last few lines, eyes half closed and nothing but the music surrounding her. Fitz's message was lost in the notes of his guitar.

Edited 2011-08-18 20:12 (UTC)

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08 | [holo / location: sanctuary square] power to the people

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