taxonomites | Entries tagged with { faith lehane

Two years. Two goddamn years. Maybe one of the geeks could tell you exactly how long that is, how many days or seconds. All Faith knows is that it's a hell of a long time to be stuck in one place, and that even if Taxon's a nicer prison than she's used to it's still a prison. The bars are wider, there's more room to run, but she's caged all the same.

She's not big on melancholy or on metaphor, but the thought of cages sends her out on a run, feet pounding against the pavement like she can outrun the idea of being stuck here forever. Not like the real world's got much more to offer, but at least there she can get the fuck out if she really tries. Here, nothing's in her control and with Willow ratting out Angel's latest life choice, Faith feels more out of control than ever. Not like she's jealous-- not like that at least, not like she wants that herself-- but Jesus, it's Buffy.

Without really thinking about it, she ends up at the zoo; then it's nothing to hop the turnstiles, make a quick stop to hatch a bottle of jack and six pack of beer and park her ass in front of the tigers, stare at them through their bars.

She's down all but one of the six pack and half the bottle of jack when her tablet turns on, recording the vaguely unsteady way she swigs right from the bottle and then sets it down next to her, staring at the big cats intensely.

"You guys got it easy, you know that? I mean, sure, prison sucks and you can't run around and all that shit, but you know where the bars are. Not a bad freaking deal, I guess. Better to be out in-- wherever the hell you live, eating bunnies and whatever, but at least you got an idea, you know? Plus, you're all new. I got two years in this place coming up. Two freaking years, Jesus."

She raises the bottle again in a toast, drinking deep. "Mazel tov, I guess. Happy anniversary to me." Next to her the tablet continues recording, unnoticed.

( ooc | tablet stuff is all good, if you want to location it up that works too! just let me know first. )

a-pretty-fire.livejournal.com

While Drusilla slept on the silk sheets that Angel had promised her, the figure reflected in her window pane - a girl who was both like and unlike the vampire - said her prayers.

Her lips barely moved as she murmured her supplications up to heaven. They were secrets, her prayers. Secrets that weren't for the ears of anyone but the Lord. (It was strange, wasn't it? The girl gave her heart and her trust to the same deity who had, in another life, abandoned her to the clutches of the devil.) The rosary clutched in her pale hand was worn with use and with piety.

The Drusilla on the bed wore red. In the right light, it looked as if she was a corpse in a pool of fresh blood, stark against the snowy sheets.

The Drusilla in the glass wore a coarse nun's habit. In any light, she glowed with virtue.

It was the life that she could have lived. The person that she could have been. She rarely dreamed of such things - the pixies whispered of the future, not the futures that had never been able to come to pass - and, when the sudden sharpness of the reflection pierced her head, Drusilla woke with a start. For a moment, she gazed - wide eyed and unblinking - at the window.

"No."

She snatched up the lamp that stood on the table next to her new bed, throwing it without hesitation. The glass shattered and the girl disappeared before she'd had a chance to ask for forgiveness for the sins that her other self had committed.

"I'm not sorry," she snarled, addressing the broken window and the shadow that had stood there, "I'm not sorry."

faderbroderson

The tablet switched on when Godric flipped Faith over in bed, his bared fangs a marked contrast to the playful, lusty grin that displayed them. He laughed as Faith swore at him, grinning and laughing herself, all teeth and fire. She sought to overpower him, and after some struggling that could better be called mutual groping, he allowed it. She straddled his hips victoriously, rocking them together, Godric's hands moving to hold her waist. The bunched duvet and piles of furs concealed a lot from view, but Faith's breasts were proudly bared for the camera.

Someone might want to tell them this isn't a private event anymore, not that they'll be particularly bothered.

[OOC: Uh, porn warning goes here, obviously. THERE IS PORN IN HERE, OK. :>]

theextras.livejournal.com

Word has it, Taxon, that there's going to be a party. These rumors are not untrue, for one

slaying has arranged something of a get together for the Fourth of July. Unfortunately, the Extras have caught wind of this soirée and are already in the presence of crashing it, rocking those holey jeans and chilling with some Lynyrd Skynyrd and good ol' Hank Williams. This is their kind of party.

Don't let them have all the fun. The sun is getting low, so get on out here and get your party on before fireworks start lighting up the faux night sky.

undoing.livejournal.com

Angel's not very good at public relations. He hates dealing with public relations. This is why Cordelia always handled people, and why he had a department to handle that when he was running Wolfram & Hart. Something, however, needs to be said before things get out of line. And if he doesn't say it, who will?

Here goes nothing.

"If we wanted to eat you, we would've already," is probably not the best way to start this, but it's certainly one way to get everyone's attention. "Most of the vampires here in Taxon have been here for a long time, some of us pushing a year, others two. The only evidence you'll find against us can be placed during times when we were glitched. None of us can control that. If anyone's at fault for the things we've done while glitched, it's the hamsters. If we're to be held accountable for those actions, then by that logic, you should be, too, for the things you've done when glitched out of your mind and acting on impulses that you've otherwise got under control.

"I'm not saying that your fear isn't justified or that you don't have reason to be cautious. You do. We're predators, specifically designed to hunt you down. The point is that we don't. Letting paranoia and fear control you is only going to make things worse. We want to survive as much as you do; getting rid of our means of survival is not paying us the same respect we're paying you.

"Many of us have been around a long time. We haven't lived this long by being so stupid as to do what you expect of us. Most worlds have vampires that have gone unnoticed, because we don't get involved or cause trouble... with a few exceptions here and there." Like him, back in the day before that gypsy curse. "Leave us alone and we'll leave you alone. There's no reason to ruin how well we've been cohabitating in Taxon, just because we're all stuck in the same building. If anything, we should be working together to find a way out."

( ooc | i'm heading out the door to a concert, but wanted to get this up before i left. will hit tags when i get home later tonight. ♥ )

stacked

[ here's the thing about faith. slayers eat a lot in general, and between prison and growing up without much food faith is the worst of the lot. and while the junk food the hatches are sending out is great for most of the day, she starts needing something meatier. literally. usually she'd just hatch herself a burger, but anything not chips and crap seems to be off the menu.

the issue here: faith can't cook for shit. so when she turns on her tablet and glares into it-- only wearing a sports bra and sweats, natch-- half-annoyed and half-shamefaced, there's a vaguely recognizable lump of meat laying blackened on the counter next to her. ]

So, two things. First, anybody any good at throwing down? ...Or sparring, whatever. If we gotta be trapped, we can at least have some fun. And not to be a bitch or whatever, but if you took a couple self-defense classes at the Y you don't count.

[ ...right. "fun". with a sigh she dumps the lump of effective charcoal in the garbage. ]

Second, anybody any good at cooking? I can pay, seriously. I just need some freaking meat, screw all this pbj crap. [ usually people say 'please help me', faith darling. ] Anyway, yeah. That's all I got.

[ ooc | faith's in the ninth floor kitchen, being fail and cooking and half naked. as you do. location or tablets, or if you want to do a different location later in the day let me know and we'll hook it up! ]

eventextras.livejournal.com

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. ♥ )

eggplantgout.livejournal.com

When people leave here, where do they go?

Jason doesn't feel like getting too personal right now, a text is all anyone is going to get.

vampbogeyman.livejournal.com

Okay. So this didn’t make any sense.

Anita frowned to herself as she surveyed the room she’d found herself in. Definitely not where she’d gone to sleep, and if this was someone else’s idea of a good time, namely someone named Jean-Claude, she was definitely not amused. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen fit to interrupt her sleep with whatever nonsense, though in the past it had usually been dreams. He’d only ever moved her somewhere once before, and she had to give him a break on that. She kind of had been bleeding to death from the inside. … and he had saved her.

But this was totally different. This was a sterile-looking metal room that didn’t look like any place she’d ever seen in St. Louis before. That was saying something. She’d been just about everywhere off the beaten path in that city for some reason or another. Oh, the glamorous life of a vampire executioner.

“Alright, come on out. This isn’t funny,” she said aloud, feeling at her right hip for the Browning Hi-Power. Find yourself in an unfamiliar place? Get a weapon in hand. It really did wonders for one’s confidence. The gun was tucked into the waistband of her jeans at her left hip – had she slept with it there? That didn’t make sense, she usually put it in the holster hanging off her headboard – and reached across with her right hand to draw it. Better safe than sorry.

“… what the hell?” She had caught sight of the silver band that had been closed around her wrist, and, gingerly placing the Browning in her left hand after checking to make sure the safety was on, she lifted her wrist to examine the anomaly properly. Huh. Strange piece of jewelry – was it fused into her skin? She made a soft ‘tch’ sound as she turned her wrist over to get a better look. “Alright, now I’m really on edge. I want some answers. Who’s been screwing with me and how’d they keep me out while they did it?”

She snapped her head up to take another look around the room, searching for any other signs of life. There, in the center – a pedestal. Was that a cell phone perched on top of it? … someone had left their phone in here?

What the hell.

Current Mood: annoyed

herotypical

When Buffy Summers closes her eyes, she sees dust. Potential dust. Dust that could potentially end up being her little sister. The thing is...she knows she doesn't have to dust the girl. She knows she only has to lock her up. Get her into that tomb. Take care of things. But it doesn't stop the possibility from haunting her mind. And so the Slayer patrols half-choked up. Every muscle and fibre of her being tightened to a heightened level of agony. Agony is the best word she can come up with for this feeling. This tearing, ripping, emptying feeling where she's being asked to find her sister on the field.

Dust and the briefest flash of a delicate skeleton. It puts a shudder in her voice when she finally addresses the city at large. Too many failed patrols have brought her to this act of desperation. She doesn't want help with this, but she needs it.

"...Has anyone seen Dawn Summers? I've been trying to track -- " Buffy cuts off. She doesn't want to share her inner tragedy with anyone else, really. This is the sort of thing to cork and bottle and stew and gather around herself. Protective trauma. "I don't know the city very well yet. I need...I need help."

Her voice finally gains steadiness towards the final word. She continues her patrol -- aching.

prophecy-boy.livejournal.com

He was sure something with the ritual had gone wrong. Not that there was much that could go right, he corrected himself, the sick, heavy feeling that had settled in his stomach so many hours beforehand still refusing to let up. He blinked several times as his eyes adjusted to the change in lighting and scenery; he had gone from a dark warehouse with the windows boarded up and rusted meathooks hanging from the ceiling to… this. He couldn’t think of how to describe it. It was so different from anything he’d seen before, even since coming to Los Angeles – bright, metallic and utterly foreign.

“Cordy? Can you hear me?” He cringed as the sound of his voice echoed back. He hadn’t been expecting that.

Connor looked up, attempting to process his surroundings. What was that up there? He shook his head, causing his already mussed hair to fall in front of his eyes as he moved forward, almost tripping down the first step before taking the rest down to the floor without incident. He had to find some way out; things were happening back at that warehouse and Angel was due to arrive any minute, he would have to fight him to keep him from interfering – or keep him from getting hurt, he wasn’t sure which now. Maybe he was here because of the ritual, maybe Cordelia had sent him away... except that didn’t make sense. Not after everything she had done to make sure he stayed close.

It must have backfired somehow. … hmph. That was the price of relying so heavily on magic.

“I guess weirder things than this happened,” he muttered to himself, his eyes finally accustomed to the brightness. Another look around revealed there was no exit that he could see. There was, however, a pedestal a few steps ahead of him with some device on it. He frowned as he examined it as best he could from where he was standing.

Usually, it didn’t pay to touch something if you didn’t know what it was. Especially not if magic was involved. It wasn’t quite as foreign as the rest of the room, however, and he took a few steps closer to get a better look at it.

“… kind of looks like a video game,” he thought aloud. The more he talked aloud, the more that heavy feeling in his stomach abated. Maybe it was best not to think about what had happened at the – no. No way. He couldn’t just cut and run like that. “… nevermind. Can’t waste time here. I have to get back.”

It was a great plan, except for the part where there was no door. He scowled and cupped his hands against either side of his mouth to help his voice project, turning his face upwards as he shouted. “Can anyone hear me? Get me out of here!”

If nobody answered, that meant it was just time to start punching walls. He’d punched his way through the barrier of a hell dimension. He could definitely punch his way through a regular wall. … eventually.

smecker.livejournal.com

( Paul Smecker maintains a list of scents he doesn't wish to smell ever again... (all my usual teal deer) )

Paul digs out his tablet, his cigarettes, one with each hand. He lights up before turning on the communications device, flips it to an open visual broadcast to the city.

"Hi. Paul Smecker here. We've probably got some new faces here since the last time I said a nice big group how-the-fuck-do-you-do, so: How the fuck do you do? Or, here's a better and more interesting question: what do you do, everybody?

"We're each here from god knows where, and in some cases when. It's entirely possible we're selected on pure caprice, but operating on that hypothesis doesn't give us anything helpful, so personally I'm choosing to invest in the alternate theory, which states that we were all snatched from our so-very-happy lives for a reason. Don't know what it is, but I personally would like to know more about who my fellow inmates in the inter-stellar zoo are. Some of you who are willing to answer will probably lie; I can't stop you, obviously.

"Part of why I'd like to know is that if we have a crisis again, like the zombies, that's a threat that affects all of us, whether or not we trust each other. And I'm pretty sure we all hate the hamsters. So we do have common enemies; what we don't have is anything like a coherent way to approach our common enemies. I'm not going to even try and talk about organizing against the hamsters right now; frankly I doubt the lot of us could cooperate enough to work our combined way out of a wet cardboard box.

"But zombies, and things like that: we can do simple shit, for fuck's sake. We can organize defensible points. Those of you who are superhuman, and obviously there are those of you who are, can make it clear if you're willing to pitch in to protect the less fucking gifted. As for the rest of us, being slower than speeding bullets doesn't mean we don't have skills: what I am trying to do right now is ascertain what those skills are, what people are good at. If you know first aid, if you know how to defend yourself, if you're good with electronics, good with barricading a building-- we can't organize if we don't know our resources.

"So, what the fuck, I'll go first:

"Paul Smecker, career FBI agent, to those of you from realities with no FBI it's law enforcement with an investigative mandate. My area of expertise was largely forensics-based, but I can handle a gun, I can do CPR and other basic first aid, I'm a good cook and I will kick your ass in any sort of classical music trivia contest you want to have.

"Next? Oh, and Buffy and DG? You two got time for a chat?"

Current Mood: determined

deniedthesight.livejournal.com

Angela's tablet clicks on to show her hunched over an open textbook, pen in hand as she occasionally jots notes in a notebook that's been set open beside it. A Bible and several other books, all of which are on the occult, are spread out in front of her, and one of them is dangerously close to falling off the edge of her desk. There's a half-drunk cup of coffee beside her, and after a few minutes, she sits back and rubs at her eyes before grabbing the cup and taking a sip - and promptly spitting it back out.

She makes a face, then glances at a nearby clock, eyes going a bit wide when she sees how much time has passed. A hand comes up to rub at her neck as she tips her head back - and then she spots the tablet's light flickering and makes another face.

"Oh, for the love of -"

And then she reaches out and turns the transmission off.

slayersidekick

It's taken Willow a really, really long time to work up the courage to make this broadcast, and even when she convinces herself she can't wait any longer, she still has to have some measure of comfort. Colette, her calico kitten, is tucked in her lap, purring contentedly as Willow leans back against the back of the chair she's sitting in. She's in her bedroom, the one she shares with Tara, and she looks nervous as she flicks on the feed.

"Uh, hi, Taxon!" She's using a falsely bright tone at the moment, because it's easier than acknowledging the fear and worry she's trying to keep at bay. Come on, Willow. You can do this.

"I-I know most of you probably know me by now, but, uh, if you don't, my name's Willow and I've been here for a couple of months now."

Pause. Breathe. Stroke the cat for comfort.

"What I really wanted to talk about is... my glitch a couple of months ago. Back in February. I know it's been a really long time and words aren't gonna make up for everything, but... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt anyone."

Well, yes, actually she had, but that was her glitched self, so that doesn't count at all.

"I'm a witch and I have some really powerful magic. I just... I'm learning how to control it so that doesn't happen again. My magic's just a part of me and I-I'm... sorry any of that happened."

Before she can beat herself up any more, she switches the feed off and waits to see how the rest of Taxon responds to her apology. Castle Summers residents can find her in her room. She'll be happy for visitors.

Current Music: Reina - If I Close My Eyes | Powered by Last.fm

faderbroderson

Godric is making the bed. A silky sheet carefully tucked, a pillow fluffed, a blanket smoothed. His hands move at a human pace, his touch unhurried and almost reverent. It isn't his bed. The colors and ornaments lending personality to the room are not to his taste.

He moves on to the dresser and proceeds to fold away a small pile of clothes left on the surface. They are too large and too dark to be his clothes. The drawer closes with a thump, too loud in the empty room.

His hands linger, and he stands unnaturally still for a long moment before casting his gaze around the dim room, looking for loose ends. He finds only the recording tablet, and expresses no surprise. He lifts it and brings it with him as he leaves, flicking off the lights and shutting the door quietly.

"Eric Northman has gone home," he addresses Taxon. "Fangtasia has gone with him. If you were employed there, you may contact me for other options."

The broadcast ends.

bonescientist.livejournal.com

The feed flickers to life as Brennan turns on the record function, giving Taxon a quick glimpse of her office couch that has clearly been slept on if the blanket and pillow combination is anything to go by, as well as a dog on the floor that's chewing halfheartedly on a toy. Brennan leans back a little as she straightens the tablet and regards the screen, her expression carefully neutral.

"For those of you who were acquainted with her and may not yet be aware of it... Angela Montenegro was sent back home yesterday."

Brennan looks like she's about to add something to this, but decides against it. Instead she presses her lips together into a tight line as if to keep from saying anything further and lowers her gaze, reaching out for the device and fumbling with it for a second before tossing it back on the coffee table in front of her. Brennan's attempt was to turn it off, but she doesn't quite manage it in her distracted state. Instead, the tablet keeps on recording, albeit now only showing a steady view of the ceiling. The audio is still clear as day, however.

The silence is punctuated only by the dog gnawing on her precious toy until Brennan speaks up a moment later.

"Looks like it's just you and me now, Tuesday."

There are no tears in her tone, but the words come out very softly and are followed by a forlorn sigh.

werealegend.livejournal.com

Alright, enough of this Broodier Side of the Force crap. I'm bored.

[ to the trained, experienced ear, that's...not exactly angel speaking. he's grown tired of the faux soulboy routine. ]

It's a wonder none of you have keeled over from lack of excitement. Sure, there was the whole zombiepocalypse thing, but what did that really accomplish? Nothing but a few cases of trauma here and there. Don't get me wrong, I love a good few rounds of quality mind fuckery, but why lite the bonfire if you're just going to douse the flames and make the forest all shiny and new again?

Lay off good pellets for a while, fuzzy buddies. Might help you plan better next time.

( ooc | phase two of the angelus revival glitch: the reveal. planning post over yonder. )

werealegend.livejournal.com

When Angelus awoke that morning, he expected to find himself staring at leaky pipes and half-hidden support beams, stuck in that cage ironically constructed for his own containment by himself. Instead, he was trapped beneath nothing more than a soft sheet with the white of a clean ceiling staring back at him. It was a few minutes before everything came rushing back and the gap between River taking him down and him waking up in his lighter side's room was filled in.

He grinned-- and then he laughed. Dark and loud, like this twist of fate was the most hilarious thing he'd ever encountered in the centuries he'd existed. It was part amusement, part insanity, as no-one ever said Angelus, soul or no soul, was sound of mind. Souled, he was just a bit better at keeping that all reigned in. Unsouled, he didn't give a rat's ass about whether or not he was holding any of that in unless he was playing some sort of part to make the ending of one of his schemes all the more better.

Which gave him pause.

The last time he was out and about, he'd wasted no time in making his presence known. He'd delighted in the panic and chaos that had set in amongst the people from his world, thrilled when the terror bled into other groups. While the bulk of his interest laid with Buffy and her friends, he'd also enjoyed screwing with the other inhabitants. Humans were food, and contrary to what your mother told you, sometimes food is meant to be played with. No need to exclude the masses from their fair share of torment.

...which route would he choose this time?

Selecting his answer, Angelus rose from the bed and dressed in his soulboy best, digging the tablet out from the trunk in the closet where he kept it hidden during the night to prevent any unwanted accidental broadcasts.

Seems our alien captors could use a lesson or two in cross cultural sensitivity.

( ooc | angelus glitch is a go! the planning post is over yonder. location stuff is off-screen, unrecorded. text is displayed to the network. )

eggplantgout.livejournal.com

After February Jason needed several rounds of a good beer. Drinking on his own was fine, but not knowing where his own local bar was located, in his opinion, was just sad. It didn't take long for him to find what looked like a sports bar. Thankfully it looked much more like Merlotte's than Fangtasia.

When he sat down and ordered what was on draft the bartender slid across a full mug without asking for payment. Looking confused, Jason asked the extra how much his drink would cost him. After informing him that during the month of March, all alcohol was free in Taxon, the bartender left to bustle about his busy non-business.

Jason quickly pulled out his tablet, eager to be the bearer of good news. "Hey, I dunno who all is watchin' this but alcohol is free all month! I don't care what anyone else does, but I'm getting myself trashed right the fuck now. If you wanna make it a party and join in I am ok with that too."

gunsnotvoodoo.livejournal.com

[The feed flickers on to reveal Loki sitting on a randomly chosen curb, looking a little ratty but relaxed.]

Okay. I need cartoons, chewing gum, and a shower.

[He glances down at a suspiciously zombie-crud-like stain on his tee.]

Maybe not in that order.