taxonomites | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

The situation has become dire.

The river, once a sweet froth of lemonade and scoops of rainbow sherbert, has dried up. For a little while, the candy bed of it oozed with a gooey stream of melted sherbert and weakly flopping fish, but this, too, dried in the bright lemon sun. The fish quickly died, and now, with said sunlight beating full upon them, have started to putrify.

<s>Everything</s> Almost everything here is sweet, and the rotten fish are no exception. The air is filled with a nauseatingly powerful smell of sticky candy, and now and then, the hot breeze stirs up swirling clouds of powdered sugar and flakes of dried sherbert. The overall effect is a bit like being in a snowstorm, except this one isn't cold, and also makes you want to throw up forever.

Other problems have cropped up. At first it seems a mild inconvienence, but even candy people need to drink: the taps and spigots of Taxon are dispensing nothing wetter than a few artistic sugar sparkles. All through the little village, people must figure out how to cope without hot and cold running cherry cola and froot jooce.

Worst of all, the Extras have started to sing again.

"I sing now of mountains
And fountains running down
Or I would, if I could,
And I'd smile if this weren't a frown

I sing now of flowers
With powers beyond bloom
Or I would, if I could
If not for sunless doom.

Instead I'll sing of dams
Damming up the river
And I'll wish we had some fish
that didn't make me shiver

The river!
Is dammed!
The fish!
Are dead!

I sing now of heroes
Who only want a drink
Something cold to sip and hold
And fish that didn't stink

I sing now of heroes
To travel up the height
To move the rocks and thus unblock
and set the river right

I sing now of heroes
crowned with a minty wreath
Those who give so others live
And so our fish can breathe

Climb up!
The mountain!
Unblock!
The fountain!

Climb up!
The!
Mountain!
Unblock!
The!
Fountain!"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"No."

Not even Johannes Gumball has any illusions that going on a one-candy-man strike against the very concept of Ta-ta-ta-taxon is going to make any difference to his fate or anyone else's, but at the moment he doesn't particularly give a tinker's gumdrop. He links his gummy arms around his gummy knees again on the marshmallow hillside upon which he's sitting and restates to his diminutive, spun-sugar companion: "No. I refuse. I am not going to dignify this with my participation."

He flops back despondently on the fluffy white hill, though, a gesture which should give some clue as to the state of his morale: "I'm saving up my sense of responsibility to my fellow man to save the world at some point when it's less," he says sourly (hahaha, 'sourly,' if only he knew) "-- .... diabetic."

"Yes."

Metody is looking just a touch greenish. She's had better d- oh, who's she kidding? This is honestly one of the very best days she's had in years, health wise. Notwithstanding the fish-induced nausea.

But still.

"Yes, because it's bad enough if I throw up while I'm normal, but I don't even want to think about what it'll be like right now. This smell is making me queasy, and you don't know how sad it makes me that this is the first thing I've been able to really smell in, like...years."

"And they keep singing. It's worth it just to make them stop."

"I may never enjoy anything sweet again," Selina says as she approaches the marshmallow hill. The lanky licorice whip person seems determined to make it... where ever it is that it needs to go. That said, this form is not all that great at walking, especially over rugged... sticky... squishy.... terrain.

"So we'll be trapped in a world of candy that smells a little bit better," says the ~~necro~~candymancer to Metody, throwing up his hands (and scattering sour sugar consequently). "The improvement sounds vast. Unless you mean to say you think the powers that be might free us from our tragic candy curse," he says this like there are air quotes around it, "if we cooperate. What's the alternative, then? Refuse and stay candy forever? I daresay if they put us here with the intent of making us into candy for the rest of our unnatural lives, they'll be doing that regardless. No."

He pillows his arms under his head on the pillowy hill and repeats: "No. If you'd like to embrace our new sugared existence and engage in some derring-do and edible heroics, by all means. I refuse. I'm going to go about my life pretending that nothing is different."

How exactly he means to do this, and what 'going about his life' means under these circumstances, he's not yet certain. But it's the thought that counts.

He glances up a little at Selina's approach. He vaguely recognizes the voice, but: female, American, fellow prisoner. Not someone he knows well. What's the use? They're candy. They're all candy. Why even bother with candy introductions? "Look, a hero approaches," he says, elbowing Metody. "At last, an answer to your prayers."

"We'll be trapped in a place that doesn't reek. I suppose they'll put us back to our normal forms when we wish. I don't see why we should just sit around and endure the unpleasant aspects we actually can change. And the smell certainly counts as unpleasant. I want it gone, because then maybe I'll feel better." She stands, smiling at the approaching Selina, and brushes off her cotton candy dress. Or tries to; the cobwebby strands cling to her mittenlike sugar hands, and stickily wrap around them. She shakes her head, frowning, then just gives up.

"Hello! Yes, its awful, I used to like sweets, but I don't think I do now. Can you taste the inside of your mouth? I can, and that makes no sense to me."

"I'm Metody and this is Johannes, and I can't tell who you are. Not at all." A deep breath, which she actually doesn't need to take. "Which is very disconcerting. Are you going up the mountain, too? The smell is really annoying."

"Selina. I"m Selina," she says with what would be a smile if she could smile in this form. It is a little strange. "Yeah, I can taste myself, which, I guess I normally can but not at all like this. I mean, I taste like licorice...."

The shudder is obvious through the long lines of her whips.

In the normal course of events, Robert Lutece is not a particularly motivated individual where anything resembling strenuous physical activity is concerned. However, in the normal course of events, Robert Lutece is also not candy, and it's already been heavily established that he is indeed currently candy, so what's normal is hardly relevant anymore. Moreover, being candy, and being possessed of the desire to somehow not be candy, are both pretty strong motivators. As a result, the normally-lethargic Robert Lutece is at this point being markedly intrepid in the face of possible eternal candying.

Having listened resentfully to the Extras little rhymes, he's decided he'd better play along a little if he wants to try and accelerate his recovery; evidently in this place, large-scale reality shifts are rather common, and only get worse if they're avoided. He would not like to see his life get any worse.

Instead, he's followed the dry riverbed and is currently plodding along in it, nudging dead fish out of his way with a walking (pixie) stick, trying to scale the mountain to the source of this apparent river dam.

"There exists a universe in which I'll be stuck this way forever," he tries to remind himself bracingly. "I don't intend for it to be this one. If that requires some legwork, so be it. Do remember, Robert, you've done worse."

The stench is wretched, which ought to be a scientific impossibility given his anatomy. But so is everything else about his current anatomy, so it doesn't bear thinking about right now.

From behind him--audible from a ways back--comes the sound of a Pez dispenser bouncing along up the riverbed at a diligent pace, in a serious of boings slowly getting louder. The noise is starting to grate on David's entirely figurative nerves, in truth. He's aware his footsteps are a little heavier--normally--were, were a little heavier than a human's, but this seems like the cruelest of mockery. He's long since given up on trying to ponder the particulars of the physics here, having settled upon "malfunction" a while ago and decided not to pursue troubleshooting beyond that.

He has a goal now.

The goal is "climb up the mountain, unblock the fountain," or more accurately "climb up! the mountain! unblock! the fountain!" The rest of the song was more or less lost on him, but the directive at the end was clear, at least. Having a directive is kind of a relief, if a very small one. What's going on? Climb up the mountain, unblock the fountain! Why is he a 'Pez dispenser?' Climb up the mountain, unblock the fountain! How is any of this even -- climb up the mountain and unblock the fountain, David.

So now he's on Step One.

"Excuse me--" He hesitates on 'sir' or 'ma'am' to the licorice person as he makes his way up at a quick bouncing pace. "Excuse me," he says, louder, as to avoid steamrolling (or steambouncing) over the--human?--as he goes.

Robert slows down marginally as he begins to notice the sound approaching from behind him. It sounds like one of Fink's carnival creations, the overwrought sound effects of a mechanized puppet show or something of the like. More unwelcome interventions from the beings that put him here, perhaps?

If so, he has to wonder why. Isn't he doing their bidding already? He's climbing their damned mountain to deal with their damned river problem for them. Surely they don't think he needs reminding of the task.

As the springing noise comes closer, Robert hears a voice along with it, and turns to see the source -- and blinks.

He stops in his tracks, pivoting on what passes for his licorice heel.

The creature -- the man, he guesses -- approaching him is little more than a disembodied head on a large stick, painted in garish toy colors. This horrific parody of a decapitation is enough to make his stomach rise up into his throat, and he presses the unwound strands of his licorice hand to his mouth in a show of shock. He takes a step back more out of horror than because he's heeding David's instruction.

"Good lord," Robert says without thinking, "What in Descartes' name have they done to you?"

Sir, probably. David swivels to face Robert and give him a useless once-over--he's either made of licorice or appears to David's perception like he's made of licorice, and looking at him isn't yielding any further clues to either. If this is a fault in perception, this is a shared fault in perception, anyway, and David's far from the only person to find it strange or perplexing.

There he goes with speculating again. Climb the mountain; unblock the fountain. He shouldn't let his mind wander. --in fact, his mind shouldn't be capable of wandering.

But Step One is simple and hopping up the side of a candy mountain occupies little of David's considerable processing power. Human company is good, he supposes. Even human company that's set on gawking at him in horror. Gives him something else to do.

"The same they've done to you, I presume," he answers: well, his voice still sounds the same, anyway. As pleasant and modulated as ever. "That is: I haven't the foggiest, I'm afraid. You needn't worry. I'm not in any pain."

He turns to look up the mountain, but as he does his--metaphorical, he presumes, though who knows right now--cogs are whirring. When he speaks again his British accent has altered just slightly to mirror the licorice man's faintly archaic one.

"Descartes' name," he echoes after a moment. "What an interesting point."

"Remind me--" huff, "when this is over," huff, "to either quit smoking," huff, "or spontaneously develop the ability to fly, because this--" (huff)

"--is bullshit."

Paul takes a moment to glower at Mister Fucking Boy Scout Cain, who is taking the climb/hike rather better than Paul is. Even if Wyatt's all... apple-y.

Edited 2013-09-24 09:27 (UTC)

~~Cane~~Cain arches his apple-wedge eyebrows sitting atop his hard toffee eyes and listens to Smecker's ~~Smoker's~~ nth complaint. He purses his apple lips and shrugs his apple core frame. His apple blossom hair rustles from his movements, which comes with the rhythmic clang of ~~tin~~ metal buckets (and rather less of the sloshing about of apples, and more clanging and rolling thereof).

"I'd offer to carry you, but then I think you'd yell at me, so I think I won't. For both our sake."

He pauses, peering up the slope. "Not to mention I'd get caramel all over you. Not all that fun in this context."

After a few lovely hours of meltdown and hiding in his downstairs bathroom following his talk with Jason, Jimmy figures he'll risk further damage to his hands and splash a little water on his face to help get himself settled. Maybe water. He has no idea what comes out of the faucets here now.

And the lack of anything other than a thin trickle of sparkles has him checking the water first, before he hears the Extras in their newest musical number. He really, really, really doesn't want to go back outside again, but duty calls. Or something like it. So he braces himself, and heads back outside. Down the lumpy powdered sugar path, past the easter grass lawn, and making his way towards the mountain he can see off in the distance. The Extras all singing at him is better than the hissing static of earlier, though.

He has to stop when he gets to the bottom of the mountain, though, and consider if this is really a good idea. Person made out of glass (or a reasonable facsimile thereof), and a place full of rocks. Surely this is a great idea.

Up the mountain! Up, up, up the mountain, following the dry bed of the lemonade river over jumbles of perilously sharp rock candy, over man-sized slabs of brownie, and even sometimes through cake so moist and fluffy it had to be wallowed through, not climbed. And the whole way up, the smell of sweetness - the cake, the brownie, puffs of frootjooce mix on the wafting breeze, and, most of all, the inescapable scent of the Swedish fish, which had begun to slump into rubbery red puddles fuzzed over with powdered sugar rot. The way was long and difficult, and, most of all, sticky.

But they persevered, and soon, the heroes all gathered together at the mouth of the cave. Inside...darkness.

And learning!

The first barrier was a tall cliff of rock crystal made slippery with lemonade residue. The candy-glass man tried to climb it first, but a nasty slip left him sprawling at the bottom, glass hands broken to razor shards. Them, the licorice-whip woman saved the day, uncoiling her long limbs and forming a living rope that hauled the group up, up, up the cliff.

Where they found that the path vanished - or did it? The river clearly had to come from somewhere, but all they could see was a pool, thick and opaque from the cocoa powder that had seeped out of the rocks. Swimming through it was impossible, as it fouled up the joints and thickly clung to the face.

Here, the apple man found his use, scooping up the chocolate lemonade and throwing it over the cliff, lowering the little pool. He scooped and scooped and scooped, until the level of the little pool was low enough that they could struggle though the hidden passageway that led from here to there.

Beyond it, they found a long and shallow lake left in the river bed, far too big to be scooped away, but thin enough that they could simply walk through it. Wearily, they began wading forward, and that's when the lemonade erupted into a thrashing, starving gummiwyrm. The battle was long and terrifying, full of scrambling candy people who quickly learned that their old methods of fighting were not so useful in a world made of candy.

By horrible luck, the gummiwrym cornered the candy glass man. It lunged at him, jaws open wide, and swallowed him in one single, horrific gulp!

Half a moment later, while it stalked the apple man around a chunk of brownie, the beast gave a baffled squeak, and the candy glass man staggered out of its side; squishy gummi is no match for razor sharp finger shards.

The group trudged onwards, squelching along the river bed, their way dimly lit by the watery cave light that revealed their next trial: ravenous cinnamon bats. The first few swooped at the group in mad hunger, and were dispatched with the aid of a few sugary rocks. The next bend in the cave brought them to a more delicate problem: Thousands - perhaps millions of them, clustered at the top of the cave, already woken by the sounds of the fight and liable to swoop down on the first bit of food they saw.

But here the candy cigarette man stepped to the fore. With just a little concentration, he puffed out a great cloud of powdered sugar that hid the little group as they crept through the great cavern and further up the dry river.

Soon they came to a spot where a hot spring poured out hot lemonade, steaming and sweet and perfect for opening the sinuses. And a horrific risk for melty candy people, as the licorice man discovered when he fell into the stuff and rose up sticky and slick - but not such an issue for a hopping man made of plastic, who easily gave a bouncing ride to his companions. Boing, boing, boing! Another impassable barrier passed! On they went down the corridor, and then up a steep rise of hard-cooked brownie.

Hard cooked brownie topped with brightly colored nonpareils. Tiny, beautiful, rainbow, spherical nonpareils that came loose with every attempted step, sending the unfortunate climber back down the slope.

So close! But when you can't climb it, ten feet might as well be ten miles.

But there was one member of the group who could conquer the little slope: The melty surfaced licorice man. The nonpareils stuck to his gooey surface, and he left a sticky, clingy trail wherever he touched. Up he went, and wherever he stepped, so did his companions. In no time at all, they were up at the top.

At last!

In front of them was a wide cavern. At the very center of it was a lacy fantasy of a sculpted sugar fountain, currently blocked by tumbled chunks of cookie and brownie. Their final barrier.

The chunks were heavy and the group was weary, but many hands makes the work go quickly - even if some of those hands tend to stick to the pieces, and others are too delicate for large bits. Lump by lump, chunk by chunk, the mess was cleared away. First the bear's little lair was revealed (and what a determined bear it must be, to live so deep in this complicated cave): a pile of sugary leaves, bits and scraps of food strewn about. Soon, they found the squashed garden, full of unlikely green plants and tighty furled buds, but no actual blossoms.

And then, finally, the fountain itself, a remarkably sturdy goblet made of glassy sugar. One last massive chunk of brownie was lodged into it, huge and heavy. One person wasn't enough to dislodge it, but all of them together, feet pressed hard on the cave floor, backs and hands against the brownie, all of them together pushing, straining, working, united - it trembled, first, then wiggled and wobbled, and then slowly, slowly rose. The whole group staggered, back and forth -

And the explosion of lemonade overwhelmed them, sweeping them out the cavern, though the cave, too fast to see or think. Here, the coils of the gummiwyrm - there, a swirling confusion of panicked cinnamon bats - a warm ripple of diluted hot lemonade - a waterfall, high and thundering - and then daylight.

Daylight...and victory!

Down in the town, there was a distant rumble. The ground shook and shook, and the river exploded down the bed, sweeping away the stickily melted fish. It overlapped its banks, washing though the streets and leaving behind the soggy heroes.

And deep in the cave, the squashed flowers lifted their buds, and unfurled into beautiful, golden blossoms. The beautiful blossoms of friendship.

All around the heroes, the Extras joined hands and started swinging.

"There's a flower that grows inside the cave
And that flower grows in every heart
And we named it friendship, because it's beautiful
The most beautiful kind of art!

Frieeeeendship! It's frieeeeeeeedship!
You can do what you need to do!
Frieeeeeendship! It's frieeeeeeendship!
Do you need help? I'll help yooooooou

There's a feeling that grows inside the cave
It's a feeling that grows in everyone
Of joy and triumph when you work together
And together get the work done!

Frieeeeendship! It's frieeeeeeeedship!
You can do what you need to do!
Frieeeeeendship! It's frieeeeeeendship!
Do you need help? I'll help yooooooou!"

As the last words fade, the credits start to flip past, speedy and in a cheerful font.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

(no subject)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

oh shit hey yeah it's a tag

no subject

no subject

no subject