taxonomites | [Holo] [Arrival] this is the first day of the rest of your life

[Maybe 20 minutes after Johannes eventually leaves the arrival room]

Another new arrival, as shown by the holographic image being broadcast to the tablets of everyone in Taxon, as usual. However, this man is lying on the floor of the arrival room, tangled up in a blanket, curled half-around a body pillow. He is snoring. And maybe drooling a little.

After twenty seconds or so, the chill of the hard metal floor starts to penetrate the sleeping man's consciousness. He grimaces, shifts around as if trying to get comfortable, and then slowly cracks an eye open.

"Whussat?"

Eyes squeezed shut, unshaven face squinching into a grimace. Man, what the hell... 's cold, and hard, and this is not his bed, he's pretty sure he went to bed in his bed last night, and yeah, he was doing shots pretty heavily, but he's pretty sure he did not drink to the point of passing out on a sidewalk, or... He risks opening his eyes again.

Definitely not the Strip. Not anywhere he knows. Fuzzily, Jeremy Fischer sits up, blanket falling down around his waist, showing that he's not wearing a shirt. He is still clutching the body pillow to him like a protective talisman. The holo shows a man in his probable late thirties, extremely scruffy, with an enormous amount of untamed curly brown hair and a stocky body.

"Uh...." He looks around him at the steel walls, the weird thing overheard, the utter alienness of his current surroundings. He runs a hand over his face, through his shaggy curly hair, and scratches at his head.

"The fuck...?"

Then he starts laughing. "Okay. Nice. Good one, Charlie! Not sure how the hell you got me here without waking me up, but seriously, nice one. Lunch is on me. It might be our last, right?"

There's a few beats of silence. He shivers a little in the coldness of the room and pulls the blanket up over his shoulders, grin slowly fading.

"Charlie?"

***

Sometime later, Jeremy is outside. This is a problem, since he's wearing his underwear, socks, and a blanket wrapped around himself, and it's freaking cold.

"THIS IS BULLSHIT!" Jeremy hollers at anyone who might listen, trying to avoid the patches of snow on the sidewalk as he looks around the Bazaar for clothes.

Or shoes. Shoes at least would be a great fuckin' start.

eta to add in alternate run-in location of Jeremy at the Bazaar

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Jeremy jumps when the funky-ass bracelet starts talking at him, and looks down to see the tiny screen and the pale face addressing him.

"Holy shit, it's a fucking Jetsons watch," is his answer, accompanied by a lot of blinking of his (rather red) eyes down at the screen.

He's hungover, he's freezing, he's fuck-knows-where, and Billy Idol's talking to him on his watch.

"'Sup?" Jeremy says with a little jerk of his chin, his teeth chattering.

Edited 2013-02-19 05:51 (UTC)

"Not quite but it is better than a Jetsons watch or a Dick Tracy watch," Spike says. It sounds like he's entirely thrilled to have someone else to trade pop culture references with regularly.

"You should get some clothes, man. Or at least go inside."

It is an understatement to say his capacity to make pop culture jokes is not at its best right now. When he is warm and dressed he will pop culture riff with you all day long.

As it is, he just sort of grimace-smiles at Spike, helplessly, on the tablet.

"I was inside. There's these -- these really convincing zombie flash mob guys behind glass, which-- which I grant you, that's a bitching marketing idea and all, but under the circumstances I am not nearly drunk enough to deal with it, you know?"

"Yeah. Those models aren't too likely to do anything more than look too lifelike. Then again, they might. Find a nice place to get in and get warm. Or, y'know, there is still a mall where you can get some sodding clothes."

Spike = helpful.

For real.

About half of what the blond man is saying is making any kind of sense. Jeremy just gives him a look, brows raised incredulously.

"Dude," he says, spreading his arms wide (which also spreads the blanket wide, and results in several of the Taxon Extras giving him horrified looks and covering the eyes of their children), "I showed up here in my shorts. Unless Tommy Hilfiger will accept my beautiful farts as a form of payment, I'm kinda shit outta luck, don't you think?"

"Since you've been welcomed to this happy wonderland, you should at least have enough to get some pants. I'm not sure how much bloody more than that you happen to have than that. Probably enough for a pint or two," Spike doesn't seem to really /care/ mind you but, well, a little bit maybe.

Judging by the bemused-as-fuck look Jeremy shoots Spike over the tablet, he has no idea what the pale man is talking about. Spike is the first real person to talk to him, and nobody's mentioned credits yet as far as he knows at this point in time.

Jeremy rakes his fingers through his hair. "Dude," he says again, like a man trying to be patient. "Dude. I have on my BVDs, my socks, and I've got a blanket. What invisible cash are you thinking I have?"

"You see the thing you're talking to me on?" Spike's brows seem to be permanently arched - at least in this conversation. "You can pay people with it, or at least you should be able to do that. I'm assuming they're giving new people something to start with here."

Spike should not, ever, give people the new guy speech. He really sucks at it.

Jeremy's brows knit in total bemusement. His teeth start chattering again, the little bit of moving around he was doing in his vexation wearing off as far as warmth goes.

"Wristwatch. Okay. Okay. Who are you?"

"Oh yeah. M'name's Spike. Welcome to Taxon."

The blonde gives a brief shrug of his shoulders as if that isn't that important.

"'Kay. Hi Spike," Jeremy says, shivering in the blanket. "'m Jeremy. Inside has zombies. Outside has magic wrist cash. Anything else I should know?"

[Holo] [Arrival] this is the first day of the rest of your life

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