[location: central] let's do the time warp agaaain - backdated to before the system glitch :D

[whyfearthedark]

One might think that an elf bound by his own code would rush to fulfil his end of a bargain, and one would be right given a few prerequisites: one being that the elf in question didn't feel cheated, and was not prone to hold a grudge.

One Paul Smecker lost him his one pastime (or a rather substantial chunk of it), and Nuada, who can be said to be so many things, is not one to forget past slights. He gorges himself on them, and lets them fester and rot in his belly until they burn hotter than the sun.

This is not to say he's no intention of honouring their deal. He is bound by honour, after all, and as much as he is vengeful he is honourable.

Some may complain that he wiles away the days and the nights, that he does nothing to initiate his lessons in close quarter combat. Hand-to-hand, foot-to-temple, elbow-to-nose - oh, he shall teach them. He shall teach them pain, and its consequences. He shall push them until they bleed, the little cockroaches, and they shall have to prove to him that they want to learn.

All in due time.

First, he needs a venue.

He isn't particularly in the mood for shopping gymnasiums. The thought amuses: to find and make use of an ancient Greek gymnasium, with all its rules and regulations. He doubts most of the modern humans would overcome their modesty and fight in the nude.

More's the pity. What better way to learn than to be completely stripped of their imaginary armaments? A slip of fabric won't save them from evisceration, after all.

He walks the streets with purpose today, with some form of measured intent; one after the other location is dismissed and discarded at first or second glance, until finally he finds it. It.

It is a small school, where Extra children go to learn nothing at all. It is a small school with a big enough PE hall.

The Extra coach, complete with whistle hung around his neck, looks none too pleased to have him there. "Excuse me, mister, uh, if you need to talk to your kid, please do it after class--"

One white hand shoots out, grabbing the simulacra by the leather whistle strap. "This. Is. Mine. You need to leave now. You and your children."

The Extra blinks, glassy-eyed with a lack of comprehension. Nuada watches as another light flicks on behind the fake eyes, and the man plasters on a cheerful smile. "Oh, of course sir. Right away, sir."

"Yes. Run along now. Don't come back."

"No, of course not, sir." The coach blows his whistle, catching the attention of the prepubescents and the adolescents. "Everyone! Outside! Laps 'round campus!"

The desolate chorus of teenagers shuffling their feet out the double doors is like a kind of music to Nuada's ears.

There. Now to test the equipment.

Comments

this should go well!

[untoldtale]

Emma has been avoiding Nuada, let that be established fact. Of all the beings in Taxon, he seems to be the most obvious "do not engage"...person she can think of.

On the other hand? He knows things she need to understand about magic, and if he's supposed to be helping with hand-to-hand training then she's on board. She's a scrapper and brawler, had to learn dirty fighting to survive whatever her foster siblings or the school mean girls (and boys) could dish out.

So: the fairy tale princess has come to see the fairy prince. Her skin smells of almond, her hair of some combination of artificial fragrances, her entire being saturated by magic so powerful it is beyond her very human comprehension. Emma Swan is dressed in a sports bra, a sleeveless top, unremarkable knickers, and stretch pants. She knows not what she is, but she has her suspicions.

Meanwhile, here she is.

"I'm sorry," she begins. Not making a concession, just...being. "I'm sorry I left you."

[electric_sheep]

It is rarely a trouble to pick out the footsteps of the people of Taxon--as David's taken to placing them, in a class apart from his own and apart from all of the simple Extra AIs wandering around. The white noise of Taxon, meaningless chatter and the wind and the horns of distant cars all resolve themselves into a soothing, harmonic pattern. Extras come and go at perfectly randomized intervals; dogs bark, birds sing high and low at certain, blandly varied pitches. Taxon is a very harmonic place. This is a basic characteristic of a simulation. Everything is modulated. Everything is just imperfect enough.

One could almost say that it is, in fact, unheimlich.

So the people stand out when they move, and the purposeful stride of Nuada of Bethmoora certainly no exception. David looks over his shoulder when he hears him, before he comes into view; he has a hand laid curiously on the plastic padding of an exercise machine, a clumsy 21st-century contraption with (to him) squeaking and unreliable hinges. With little to do, David's now in the intermittent habit of wandering--wherever he goes that no one stops him, and no one ever seems to stop him. Today it's the gymnasium.

He still hasn't claimed a residence. He is not sure yet what he would do with a residence.

Nevertheless, he straightens up and turns and has his head bowed deferentially to Nuada in the next moment, every yellow hair on his head exactly in place.

He has never met this one before. There is a curious quality to his hair and skin--David is unsure of it.

"Hello, sir," he says, cool and monotone.