taxonomites | Entries tagged with { illyria

One moment, he is awareness and wonder, seeing through eyes that have no form, no jelly or pupil, nothing but pure sight.

The next he is hitting hard flooring, feeling heavy appendages and twitching tendons and the pressure of air around him. His awareness is contracted, uncomfortably small and located and yet a gaping emptiness echoes through his chest where organs and the rest of his soul had sat.

He’s back in his hated body, the twisted, monstrous visage that had clawed its way from the underworld time and time again. He pushes himself upright, sheltering too sensitive eye sockets from the strange, brilliant light that floods them.

He twists, looking for a way out of the chamber he’s trapped in. The walls are white and arcane, nothing he has seen before. He throws his awareness open to throw off his mortal shell, to let the spirit world show him the way out.

The world doesn’t shift. The heavy flesh stubbornly clings to him.

Looking down, he sees his arm. No curling, writhing energy, no call of the Soul Reaver, just a strange, metal band in its place.

He screams. He has no words for what he feels, for the entrapment and the anguish, the loss and confusion. He just screams without sound, curled claws banging on the floor.

blue_bird

Fingers gently graze the rough surface of what appears to be--and actually is--an ancient stone sarcophagus. Her 'possession'. A symbol of her grand resurrection--and the only object worthy of containing her essence. It was meant as another cage, a futile attempt by her rivals to prevent her from overcoming death. But her cunning prevailed. They were sneaky. She was sneakier.

But its presence is not necessary, and so stems her frustrations. It does not aid in her endurance of this world, nor does it offer any kind of understanding. Each subject is awarded with some possession. As with much of this world, there does not appear to be any order in their selection.

No order. Even her own presence in this place. Her resurrection was predestined. She was brought forth from the Deeper Well by her own will. But here...why did the deities who governed place see fit to bring her here? Why Illyria, and the blonde halfbreed, witches and dragons and humans...what better role did they serve here than in their own worlds?

"I seek to understand our placement in this world," she says to the tablet. "Gods and humans, vampires and sorcerers, all creatures...they are already mingled in many worlds. Ants among giants. To browse dimensions and timelines only to recreate an already existing world... This is senseless. An experiment to provide amusement, perhaps."

But perhaps not. So, Illyria commands, "Tell me of your purpose in your world. Your role. Your conquests. Bore me not with meaningless detail."

skysung

Kitten had hesitated to visit the zoo. For anyone who can understand the speech of animals, zoos are exceedingly unhappy places unless they are constructed with the animals' natural habitats in mind. She is relatively pleasantly surprised by Taxon's zoo, but then, she supposes that the aliens are used to adding amenities to their prisons.

Then she reaches a section that makes her skin crawl in the same way Ozorne's menagerie had. Unicorns. Not killer unicorns, even, but their far from malicious cousins. Winged apes not in league to anyone and wishing to fly free.

Kitten screeches. She holds back just long enough to listen to the creatures for a moment, to get a clearer idea of whether they would be peaceful when released. As soon as she is satisfied they will be, Kitten takes action.

With a low croak, she shatters the locks on their cages, the entrances to their enclosures swinging open.

Unicorns and flying monkeys flee from their prisons-within-the-prison, free to at least travel the larger enclousure of the city itself. And then, to protect her new acquaintances, Kitten turns to the tablet.

She slowly types a message, switches to visual mode long enough to whistle for everyone's attention, then transmits what she has to say.

I am aware that many of you will be concerned at the appearance of winged monkeys in the skies of Taxon, considering recent events. Be advised that those currently flying throughout the city are not in service to anyone. They have no desire to harm humans, and should you attack them unprovoked, I will see it as an attack on an innocent and respond accordingly. It is bad enough that we are all trapped within the large prison of the city. I see no need to leave magical creatures imprisoned in an even smaller cage, not unless they are a threat to others present here. Neither the unicorns nor the winged apes released today should pose such a threat.

((OOC: Feel free to use this as a party style post! Tag each other, encounter the newly released creatures around the city, respond to Kitten's network post, have fun finding out that you can't get near the unicorns unless you're a virgin, etc.))

blue_bird

The air was ripe with the songs of fools. They spoke of this day as if it differed from the others, as if it were something to be celebrated. It was a curious human practice, their worship of certain days. They attached importance to them. It's an excuse for rampant materialism, and for families to pretend they don't hate each other, Wesley once explained, though he had been excessively emotional and intoxicated on his whiskey.

But this day seemed different. Curious, she stopped one human man who wore an unattractive hat with bells. A failed attempt to amuse. "You. Jester. Tell me why you humans worship this day."

"It's April Fools, blue chick! Hey, I think you got something in your hair..." Illyria stood still, unmoving, staring down at the peon. "Uh. April...Fools?" he finished, and began to look frightened. This pleased her.

"Be gone," she commanded, and he promptly left her. Useless. Eager to be rid of the vermin and their irritating frivolity, Illyria made her way through the plaza toward the exit. As she passed through an unmarked doorway, she was showered in filth. It came from the skies like torrents of rain, but it did not make her wet. It clung to her skin, her hair, her face, her armor, her feet and the ground below them. It sparkled.

She brought a hand up before her eyes to inspect it. Her skin--tinted blue--was violated by a multitude of colorful dust. She stared at it first with wonder, until her expression darkened.

"GLITTERBOMBED!" The jester roared, laughing when he should be choking and cowering. Angered by her humiliation and his affront, she grabbed him by the shirt and threw him up and away, not caring where he landed. His bells made pretty noises as he soared through the air. He did not break as he fell and scurried away, but Illyria did not bother wasting her strength on the weak. The colorful dust did not easy scrape off her skin, and clung to her armor like leeches. She could see it stuck in the strands of her hair.

"This place has soiled me," she stated, humiliated, amongst crowds of onlookers.

thepersianyouth

It may be true, that good memories fade but too quickly, leaving nothing but night terrors and wakeful discontent in their wake. It may also be true that Bagoas' mind sometimes dwells on the past, but despite the horrors unfolding his second week in this city, there is nothing to hold him back from once again attempting what he set out to do that fateful day.

He has had his rest and recuperation from his stint as scavenger, as seeming waif; his scrapes and bruises all faded, his belly full thanks to his generous hosts.

Come mid-morning, when the sun climbs ever higher, he sets out to see the city in its true state, devoid of angry shadows and malicious mirages of his past. Today, he looks to the future, hoping to connect with the inhabitants in whatever way they deem him worthy.

That idea, noble as it may well have been, becomes swiftly derailed once he comes upon a district full of shops. Clothiers, barbers, jewellers, all lining the street; and all around him, finely clothed men of import, their wives. He asks the proprietor of a teashop if she knows the way to the bazaar, but she only gives him an apologetic smile and sends him in another direction. 'Maybe the drugstore has some, sweetie.'

When he finally comes across something familiar, it is not in the shape of mounds of ground leaves and spices, but the glittering fancy of pretty baubles. Market stalls upon market stalls, and more polished stones and precious pearls than he's seen in a long time. Rings and bracelets, anklets and arm bands and necklaces and earrings, far as the eye can see; beyond it, clothes of all shapes and sizes; beyond that, the distinct scent of grilled meat.

It may be true also that he has no one to dance for; but that doesn't mean he shouldn't prepare for the day when he shall dance once more.

loves_bitch

It was good to feel clean again.

For a while there, he wasn't at all sure he was ever going to be able to scrub all of the gunk off of him. The demon itself had been dangerous and had bled out all over him but there'd also been some sort of goo that hardened into a sticky shell. It was a good thing that Spike didn't have to breathe because he'd been elbow deep in demon guts and his mouth had mostly been sealed shut more than once. Not that it had stopped him from throwing in a good comment or two as only appropriate in a good fight. Getting the gunk out from beneath his fingernails and out of his hair had been the hardest to manage. He wasn't about to be sealed over, candy-coated in lime green for weeks. Still, having run this, albeit fancy, hotel out of all of their hot water, he's happy with what he's managed to accomplish toward getting squeaky clean.

"It'll bloody well have to do, won't it?" Spike shakes his head, as he comments to the rubber ducky he'd brought into the bubble bath for the first portion of the scrub down. Wrapping the towel about himself, he is thankful for the fact that this place also has really posh accouterments - the big towel is fluffy and long. Reaching out to grab another one, he dries his hair with it briefly, before wrapping it around his head. "It isn't like I have anyone to impress other than m'self today and, well, I must say it was a fine night's work I did there, Mr. Quackers. Not that I didn't do a bad job of managing that. Saved the city from danger they didn't even know they were in, earned an excellent day’s wages and scored this fantastic hotel room."

Stepping out of the bathroom, Spike stops as he is quite distinctly no longer in that fancy hotel. He's in a place that looks more than a little like the Initiative’s vibe but at the same time it isn't. He's seen a lot of prisons of different kinds in his time but this is something else entirely. "What the bloody, buggering hell is this place? It certainly is not a posh hotel room." The fact that he's there in two towels and holding a rubber ducky doesn't seem to bother him at all. Looking up, he frowns and moves toward the cellphone looking thing and away from whatever that is over where he was standing. "Riiiight. Right. Another day in the unlife."

blue_bird

Illyria stood in the pouring rain. Her hair--dirty strands of blue and brown--stuck to her face and neck, like leeches. The weather was only real to her. Just another symptom. But the water poured, all the same. It fell in silver threads of silk against a black sky and gathered in muddy puddles on the street, a putrid mix of excrement and blood. It had not been her will to come here, just as it had not been her will to be drawn to Taxon. To be coerced from blissful sleep to a world she did not belong in--such was her miserable fate. She tired of it.

"Halfbreed." The word left her mouth in an angry snarl through bared teeth, and nearly became lost in the rain and long, despairing howl of the wind. "I have found your hell. It smells of death, and sour meat." Beneath her feet lay a body, bloodied and broken, of the man who had once been her guide. The tablet's eyes moved with her as she knelt down beside him, and it glimpsed Illyria in a way it never had. Her eyes were wide and still, her mouth pursed, but the movement of her hand was gentle. "I have no wish to be here any longer," she continued in a softer voice.

She looked up from the lifeless body of Wesley Windham Pryce, and all at once it seemed to vanish into the ground. Something lingered in her blue eyes. Illyria did not like this place. The death did not bother her--the crumbling statues, the sounds of violence and clashing of iron, the screams hidden in the wind. Such was the way of a carnival of horrors, meant to entertain all but its subjects. But she was hunted, here. Prey to those she once ruled, prey to those who were once below her. She lingered in no place for long.

They were fast.

ownlittleprison

The feed opens up with a close up of a very grim face belonging to a certain private eye vampire. Then he backs up to reveal...a shop full of stuff more closely associated with Taxon's own resident inventor-slash-scientist-slash-veteran. And said inventor scientist veteran Taxonian is right there, taking up half the frame. Mick'd appreciate no comments regarding possible blood relations.

"I'll make this brief," he tells the screen. "Glitch has told me things take a turn for the worse every now and then, David Lynch style, and it would seem we're in for another round. Scott Summers and Bagoas," he glances at Glitch for confirmation of the name, "have vanished from the city, despite both of them showing up on the map. If you can see this, Scott, Bagoas, please let us know you're okay.

"As for everyone else, if you see anything at all out of the ordinary,aAnything, please let us know." Turning to Glitch, gesturing at the screen. His turn to say his piece.

theextras

It was February, and as the aliens had learned it was a time for hearts, flowers, candy, and being open about one's feelings. True, it was supposed to be all romantic and mushy feelings, but where was the fun in that?

For a few days surrounding February fourteenth, the citizens may find themselves experiencing their emotions a bit more intensely than usual. And expressing these feelings may seem like the best possible idea. Good luck, Taxon.

[ OOC: log post thing for the heightened emotions system glitch running from now to the sixteenth! Feel free to make your own posts, but treat this as a catch-all. Have at! ]

blue_bird

The tablet flickers and the God-King appears on screen, her face frozen in an expression of deep thought. Around her is darkness, so much so that only the fitful lights of stars illuminate her face; the blue tints in the hollows of her cheeks and neck melt in with the blackness.

"I have not seen such a place before," she speaks to no one, though she knows the filthy bit of machine is listening, as it always listens. "I have walked worlds upon worlds and ruled them all, and saw the lights and moons of many." Her gaze is upwards and there is reverence within it, but her voice sharpens suddenly, as if there has been some great insult. "But this is a mere fabrication. An attempt to replicate what should be intangible and unknown."

And yet... its beauty remains, though it could not be captured fully. It is like a reflection--a mirror image of truth and yet not so.

"What is its purpose? To provide comfort for those who miss what they were? To inspire nostalgia?" She begins to pace, slowly, eyes tracing the various designs and patterns outlined in the fake night sky. "Or to torment? What role does such a place fulfill in this gilded cage?"

brokenoptimism

Is it routine to lose track of large pieces of time around here?

[Normally he would not venture to ask, but, well, he had noticed others refer vaguely to it, and losing chunks of time was always rather concerning. Someone may have been tampering with his mind. He knew all too well how possible that was.

It had been a week and he still could not remember anything from the few weeks prior to that. Nor could he find any locked memories within his own mind. Either there was another powerful telepath here, or he had 'skipped' some time.]

Current Mood: Concerned
Current Location: Westchester Mansion

imperial_long

There was a stack of red envelopes on the sidetable, and his calligrapy brushes and ink and a pile of hatched bills that meant nothing in Taxon.

Long sighed. He did not feel motivated. The new year.... meant little, in Taxon. He had observed the ritual last year, passed out the envelopes, well-wished and greeted.

Most of the people who had received his envelopes last year were no longer in the city at all.

( Mayland Long turned his gaze from the orderly stack to the window instead. )

He poured himself a cup of tea and returned to the armchair, crossing his legs into a half-lotus. The teacup was held in one hand, long fingers wrapped around the hot china; the other hand picked up the tablet.

"Good afternoon, Taxon. I find myself unmotivated to do money envelopes this year," Long said. "Please permit me to wish you all luck for the new year instead. For what little wishes mean, here. I wish to remind anyone who is new that I am at the library most days and can be found there if anyone needs assistance navigating the book collection."

He paused, then tapped a few buttons to open a locked conversation to Illyria's tablet.

"If you are listening.... madam..." (It did not seem the correct noun but he was unable to find a better one) "...I wish to discuss our altercation."

skysung

A small sky blue dragon whirls on the spot, eyes flicking to and fro as she comes to a stop none the wiser. She whistles a long accusation, punctuating it with a hiss. Kitten's meaning is pretty clear, even to those who aren't fortunate enough to understand the series of whistles, chirps, and croaks used by dragons before they develop mindspeech. Who brought me here? Where am I? Send me home!

Kitten sits back on her hind legs, clearly thinking. Is she in the Divine Realms somewhere? She closes her eyes in concentration as the tiniest wisps of smoke escape her nostrils. Failing to find herself back home, she admits it will not be so simple as a shift between the realms. The dragon's scales begin to redden as she whistles several times, each a different pitch, pausing between to wait for results. If she is locked in, that should be enough to handle any lock.

Results are not forthcoming, and Kitten croaks in frustration, approaching a wall and releasing a wave of magic at it in a long low hiss. Her scales are bright scarlet now, and when the hiss is as futile as anything else, Kitten backs up three steps and breathes out a stream of flame. The wall proves impervious to that too.

Unused to feeling so powerless, not in recent memory at least, Kitten begins to pace back and forth. Her body fades back to a rosy pink. Kitten chirps uncertainly as she comes to a halt, head turning on a long slender neck as she takes a less hurried second look at her surroundings. She hunkers down close to the floor, bracing herself for whatever comes next. No one captures a even a young dragon and holds her, not without using a drugged sleep or a frightening amount of power. It does not bode well that someone succeeded.

aintnoconvict

These days in Taxon were short, the sun rising a little before ten in the morning and setting shortly after one in the afternoon. It was also cold and snowy, and combining all of that together it could be difficult to find anything worth celebrating. Fortunately, there were some individuals intent on making making sure there was still warmth, that a few lights still glowed.

Over the past few days Glitch and Cain (with a little help from Fitz) had transformed a small warehouse in Shelley into a little haven of whimsy. Upon entering one was presented with a coat rack which sprouts a fresh hook for their belongings, and then beyond the curtain was a little piece of the Outer Zone. Overhead was a holographic projection of the Ozian night sky (an array of unfamiliar stars and three moons), a dance floor illuminated with shafts of colored light that seem to sparkle, a large table with assorted snacks and a self-serve bar with both alcoholic and booze-free drinks. There were folding chairs and small tables scattered about and party favors, noise makers, and festive hats were available for all who wanted them. Music for the evening would be techno-flavored jazz and the occasional intrusion of ~~Otherside~~ Earth dance music. Whatever's playing, it'll have fabulous rhythm.

For anyone who wanted to escape the noise, the warehouse's office had been converted into something of a lounge, decked out with a few pieces of furniture borrowed from the Northern Island.

It's Annual's End, time to celebrate the past and leap into the future.

[ OOC: Party post! Tag in, tag each other, meet new folks and mingle around. There's a planning post here which you're still welcome to hit up :D ]

the-bluethunder.livejournal.com

She has engaged in conversations with herself.

No...not herself. The Shell. Fred.

But the girl--a weakling, victim to her own existential limitation--is no longer. Illyria is, and thus, Winifred Burkle cannot be. And yet she, too, walks and talks here in this place, in dream and in waking life. Her world is gone, and yet she lingers, unwanted, burdensome, where she does not belong. An irony Illyria is not amused by.

Perhaps the onslaught of illusions--of fallacies seeking to poison and distract her from her reality--has caused this...fracture in her mind. Of what is, what is not, what cannot be and yet remains...it is all jumbled and distorted. Illyria feels the need to explore it, to seek answers in hope that it will cause it to cease. To do so, she morphs into the form of she who haunts her.

The girl who addresses Taxon through her tablet is not blue and cold, her gaze is not unfeeling but warm and concerned and frightened (and yet...there is something there, barely perceptible, underneath that gaze). Her hair is chestnut brown, falling in warm waves around her face and across her shoulders. Her voice is soft and sweet, with a faint twang of a Texan accent. Her smile is nervous and awkward, and she shyly waves at the camera after placing it on something high enough.

She steps back, ducks a little to make sure she's in frame and says, cheerily: "Hi there! Um, I don't mean to...beat a dead horse or anything...'cause...well, that would be entirely cruel and I don't even think there are horses here, at least none that I've seen, and..."

She stops, takes a breath, focuses. "...I've been in a whole lot of crazy places and I can prattle on about the complexities of inter-dimensional physics and all, but this ghost thing got me stumped. I'm can try to work out some patterns, maybe pinpoint where sightings occur or, you know, what kinda ghosts we're seein' or maybe what to expect? I...it's...it's just an idea, anyways. I don't know much about ghosts. But if anyone has any ideas?"

She shrugs, that shy, nervous smile wavering on her face.

[OOC: Just to make things clear, Illyria's morphed her form into Fred to better figure out what's going on and because all this past vs. present stuff is making her kinda crazy. Feel free to question her change of form (which she may choose to ignore or change back, depending), or just roll with it, or whatever!]

buffy-slayer.livejournal.com

It had driven her out of the house that morning.

There had been a whisper that drifted into her just-waking consciousness, a familiar voice that felt as comfortable as anything had ever been.

"Wake up, Buffy. You're going to be late..." There's a touch of a hand on her head, smoothing back hair, and Buffy leans into the contact, mostly still asleep.

"...Mom?" She opens sleep-blurred eyes to an empty room and only a faint lingering sense of something having just left the room.

It only takes her about ten minutes to hurriedly get dressed and flee the place, not even stopping to tell Willow where she was going. Not that she knew, really -- everything is still so new, and it doesn't take long for Buffy to be completely lost.

It's cold, and snowy, and Buffy is stopped and looking at what seems to be a reindeer sauntering past. It's already shaping up to be a weird and unsettling day.

Current Mood: distressed

the-bluethunder.livejournal.com

"You don't look...all together well."

That voice. It comes from nothing, from air, but it is unmistakable, like a memory

(Wesley)

being replayed before her eyes and ears.

But the room is silent and empty and impossibly small. Only she exists inside its borders. Nothing but falsities, tricks meant to distort her reality and dwell on what cannot be, nothing but--

"Phantoms," Illyria murmurs to the empty room. Disorienting, perhaps, for the human mind. An irritating invasion of unwanted memories, for her. "This place is always changing," she muses, hands caressing empty air, as if analyzing invisible imprints. "Its makeup altered beyond recognition." She stops then, brings her hand down, and turns away from the watching tablet, her voice low. "You are a symptom of an uncontrollable disease."

"Now, now. Manners."

A flash, then, of form. It was there, and then it wasn't. The intrusion fills her with uninvited uncertainty. The room is suddenly potent with the smell of alcohol; it makes her sick. She desires to leave . . .

. . . If only she were sure the ruse would not follow her.

hasaheart

( Cain, Dec 7 )His skin itches from the top of his head to the base of his neck, the back of his skull burns where he's rested his head on the pillow, his lips taste like blood. His hands feel only marginally better, the skin stretched too taut, and raising them to have a look only confirms it. Hands swollen and red, knuckles covered in cracks as thin as hairs.

Another moment's spent convincing himself he isn't dreaming, then he crawls out of bed to the muted sounds of his body protesting the decision to move at all. His feet are covered in sores and blisters.

Reaching for the tablet, he selects the visual mode, as there's no way in damnation he's going to type with his hands. "What in the forgotten halls of Emerald City happened to me?"

~*~

( Mick, Dec 7 )

It's 2:33 PM on Wednesday, when Mick's citywide text message goes out. It says, in no uncertain terms: Glitch is dead. Hedge maze. I'm sorry.

[placeholder post for anything you want to happen during the week following the end of the fairy tale event, especially dealing with the fallout of Glitch's death. Visits, tablet convos, bumping into each other in town, anything goes. If you're unsure where to start, ping me at sakuraofrureo on AIM and we can work something out. Or just tag in, and see what happens.

Anyone and everyone who expressed wanting more cr with either of my characters, go ahead and tag.]

imperial-long.livejournal.com

Once upon a time, in the kingdom of Taxonia, there lived a dragon.

The dragon dwelt in a cave in the side of a hill, in the heart of an enchanted wood. Not a nasty, dirty, wet cave, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare sandy cave with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a dragon-cave, and that means comfort.

Ahem. No, you have not heard this one before. Hush, child.

The cave was large, as it had to be, for the dragon was large. The cave was smooth, for the dragon's body had passed through the tunnels many a time. The cave was lit with one hundred lanterns of brass and of bronze and of green copper, and the light of the lanterns winked off piles of gold heaped like leaves in autumn. There were treasures of every sort to be found in the dragon's cave: coins and embroidered robes, jeweled sceptres and scrolls of exquisite calligraphy, lacquered lions and silk tapestries and a fan of peacock feathers that had once belonged to the Jade Emperor.

There was also a small table, and a low chair with a tasseled cushion of burgundy brocade, and on the table was a teapot of iron and two teacups of white and blue porcelain.

The dragon did not sit at the table, for he was far too large. Nor did he drink from the teacups, as they were far too small. He maintained them for guests, such as the odd princess he might escort from her home to his luxurious cavern. There was the occasional wandering hero as well, usually from the barbaric West.

Sometimes they could be reasoned with. And sometimes their armor made charming additions to the horde, provided it did not melt.

The dragon himself was in length ninety feet, and wingless. His color was black, save his head, which was framed in spikes like a lion's mane, in emerald and scarlet, in indigo and gold.

He was fond of warmth, and today was curled around his hilltop, basking in the winter sun. Where his body lay, the snow melted and steam arose, and the air for a mile around was filled with a scent as of woodsmoke.

Princesses and heroes... enquire within!

hasaheart

Once upon a time, there was a man, who was so pained by grief that one day he simply stopped feeling. Not the pain of his own, not that of others; there was nothing that could move him to the point of pangs or aches of any kind. What had once been the most expressive face and bright blue eyes, was no more. Lack luster orbs and too little skin stretched too tight over bone had taken their place.

Some said he was blessed for no matter what hurt or wound might befall him, he couldn't feel a thing. Others said the opposite: that he was cursed never to feel even a knife stabbed into his back. Some said he had once loved so deeply that his heart shattered. Unable to repair it, he could never love again.

For as long as he could remember, he had been a guardian of the woods, the Woodsman, and what ever name he once had, no one could remember. The loss of his name, like so many other things of his past, didn't pain him. It was just a name, after all, and he'd found himself neither lacking nor wanting. 'Woodsman' would do, for that was his nature. The forest was his dwelling and his workplace, and protecting it was his life. Though he had broken too many bones within its borders than he could recall, and though it had paid him in countless scars, all was well. He was alive to tend the woods.

((ooc: No hat for Cain! Rumplestiltsglitch stole it as per the backstory posted in

hamsterball. No one glitched knows that the hat belonged to Cain in real life, but if your character isn't glitched, well... Ask him about it, and you might just get an affirmative. Or not. <3))