taxonomites | Entries tagged with bagoas

As far as Ambrose is concerned it has been a superlative day. His breakfast order arrived with an extra almond roll, the royal budget office has just messaged him confirming that his committee’s paperwork is in order and their funding has been approved, and as predicted by Helene’s almanac the suns have chased away the rain so the outdoor play he’s attending that evening will go forward as planned.

He spins his chair away from his desk, leans back, and puts his booted feet on the window sill. After a moment’s consideration he folds his hands behind his head and rocks a little further back, grinning rebelliously. He’s certain the modifications he’s made to the seat will support him but still relishes the involuntary alarm bells his sense of equilibrium is setting off. A cheap thrill, sure, but it passes the time.

Maybe he’ll have a nap before getting ready to go out. Maybe he’ll try and persuade Tutor to come to the show with him. Maybe he’ll wear his yellow shirt with the frogs on the lapels instead of the pale blue one with the gray stripes. All this will take some thought, and to aid that along Ambrose closes his eyes, relishes the warm sunslight on his face -- and falls backwards onto a hard metal floor with an “Oof!”

He springs back up with a grimace and rubs the small of his back. A quick full-body shimmy shows that everything is in working order, so he moves on to assessing the situation. His office in his house: gone, or rather he’s gone from it and is now on a raised platform in a circular metal room with a temptingly open door. Looking down, he spots a familiar leather-bound briefcase and reaches to pick it up, which is when he spots a familiar metal bracelet with a familiar gizmo attached.

“Oh, wait, that’s…a thing I know, I think.” He looks up and gawps at the big, sleek, alien – aliens! – device on the ceiling, then back down and around the room again with an expression which is becoming increasingly excited. “This is…”

He removes the tablet from the bracelet like he’s done it countless times before and studies the little screen. There’s an enticing icon promising something important to read, and a blinking red light, and something about a hologram and oh yes this is all very familiar, everyone gets a hologram transmission when they first arrive in…in…whatever this place is called.

Ambrose smooths down the crisp waves of his salt-and-pepper hair, possibly drawing attention to the lack of a zipper and the presence of a scar, then clears his throat.

“Hello! The name’s Ambrose.” Then he grins, all teeth and crow’s feet. “But you can definitely call me Glitch if you want. Is it all right if I do a little experiment?”

pathnottaken

When dawn comes, it brings with it a morning of new opportunities: so Bagoas has learned well since a very young age. He rolls over in his bed - his bed, not a sugary monstrosity - and a bright, beaming grin spreads over his face. Nothing smells of caramel or rosewater (well, no more rosewater than he is perfectly used to), nothing sticks to him: he is of flesh and blood once more.

So he breathes deep, and stretches out onto his belly like a drowsy, sleepy puppy.

...or a dog.

...with a bone.

... ... ...

Eyes wide open, Bagoas, son of Artembares, son of Araxis, lies very, very still.

That is not something his body has ever done in his entire life. It bears investigation, though he can't help but wonder if this is another 'swap' thing - though he very vividly recalls not waking up in his own bed that time. On the other hand, what's to keep their captors from swapping people around in other ways than the purely metaphysical?

Five minutes later he's beaming at himself in the bathroom mirror, making ridiculous faces at what is very much his face, but not at all. He can see his father looking back, and his mother, in the sharp angle of his jaw, in his nose and the curve of his smile.

He is still himself. He is what he might have been, had his life continued on its first path, all those years ago: he is a man, with all that that entails.

Too bad this also means hardly any of his clothes fit - he mourns their loss, but makes do. His undergarments may be too short, but they are wide and spacious as per tradition, and with a few sweeps of colourful sari by way of too long arms around too long legs (perfectly long, muscular, dancer's legs) he has fashioned for himself a type of pant that hangs about the legs in a way that becomes of a modest enough man.

Then there's the question of kaftans, all of which he owns (not many of them in his wardrobe, but still) are frightfully tight across the shoulders and never so much as make it past his neck.

Another sari, then, wrapped around his torso and shoulders in the ways of the women of India. A pair of ear-hugging earrings, oiled hair and painted eyes, then he goes out into the cold October air (but when is it not cold, when one has grown up in the summers of Susa?).

He'll see the city, and his friends, from a new perspective. From a full five inches higher up: he is nearly as tall as his first King, or so he imagines.

The day is full of promises - even if he is not quite steady on his sandal'd feet. Not yet, but he shall be.

trojanhorst

Horst Cabal is wearing a new suit. His skin is rosy and vibrant, his hair's been recently trimmed, and Taxon's never seen him look quite so healthy and non-vampiric. If some of that's makeup, or careful lighting and a deceptive camera angle, well, hopefully the Taxonians watching his video feed aren't interested enough to notice. The message itself is short:

Good evening, fellow residents. I believe most of us know each other by now, but this is Horst Cabal. I know the past few weeks have been hard on us all -- physically, emotionally, psychologically, spiritually, socially, or in any other way which might matter to you -- and I understand from some of you that it can be difficult to bring ourselves to deal with things that have happened when we've already been through so much -- but please believe me that this is no way to live. Or to not-live, as your case may be. If you can in any way find it in your schedule to attend a gathering a few friends and I are hosting later this week at the Kelebek Hotel, we'd appreciate the opportunity to discuss what's happened recently with Mr. Blood and his demon in the city, and what things we can and should be doing to address situations like these. We promise to be brief, and not to waste your time, but nothing we discuss as a community is worthwhile unless everyone is on board, so please make every effort to attend. Precise time and date are enclosed in the attached note.

* * * *

The friends Horst Cabal has recruited to help him host this little gathering appear to be (and are) chosen for their social graces in this particular instance: the effortless Bagoas of Susa and the genial Metody Green, the two people in Taxon he best trusts to be on everyone else's good side, and to be able to stay there. They are non-threatening and likable in a way that a vampire cannot possibly manage, and he's counting on their combined neutral-to-positive social status to be able to offset his own position as a relative newcomer and a stranger. Things that might sound naive or pushy coming from Horst Cabal's mouth may sound more reasonable if Bagoas and Metody are espousing them.

Horst's own brother is not among the company of those invited to play host to this little soiree. While Horst certainly expects him to be present, a lifetime of having been Johannes's older brother has meant that Horst isn't nearly stupid enough to put Johannes in charge of anything that relies on his ability to seem likable. This is like putting a porcupine in charge of handing out balloons at the state fair: comically inadvisable, very loud, and quite likely to end with any number of tearful children.

The Kelebek is notoriously well-appointed and elegant, and it boasts the sorts of sumptuous lounges and ballrooms where a group like theirs can comfortably meet and talk in the illusion of a private setting. Horst and his companions have collaborated on an arrangment of chairs that encourage people to seat themselves rather than remaining standing, with the walls generally being lined with tables where food and drinks can be served (at Metody's suggestion). The feeling is of a formal meeting, rather than an informal community social.

This evening's hosts are there to greet people as they arrive, encourage them to help themselves to food, and to take seats, but true to their word, they don't intend to commence with business until everyone seems to have arrived.

In the meantime, Taxonians, there seem to be only as many chairs available as there are known residents of the city. Those who arrive first get their pick of the seats available, but everyone's going to have to sit next to at least one other person. Have at it.

* * * *

[[OOC: Welcome to the post-Etrigan meeting! I hope everyone can tag in with their characters. We'll get to the meeting discussion within the next 24 hours (RL time), but wanted to give people a chance to tag in with their characters' arrival/reactions to the message/etc. before then, as this also gives people a chance to opt out of the meeting if your character wouldn't choose to attend. IF YOUR CHARACTER IS NOT ATTENDING, PLEASE MAKE AN OOC POST ON THIS POST SO WE KNOW NOT TO HANDWAVE YOUR CHARACTER'S PRESENCE. Otherwise you are entirely welcome to assume your character is in attendance even if you should decide you don't have time to RP in this thread (though we hope you can!).

Horst, Metody, and Bagoas are all here already, so feel free to say hi to any of them if you wish, or you can handwave that and just direct your character to a seat.

BY THE WAY, THERE ARE THREE ROWS OF FIVE CHAIRS. You can feel free to decide where your character sits (though this won't impact the meeting in any way other than giving you the chance to decide who your character will sit next to/who they'll be able to lean over to talk to/etc. should they decide to get chatty). This is not required, but you can OOCLY indicate your character's seat by putting an O on the following chart where they're sitting, for example, front and center would be:

XXOXX
XXXXX
XXXXX

We hope to see you all here -- and remember, you can tag in any time you like! Although Horst/Bagoas/Metody certainly share the goal of trying to convince everyone to be more of a community, ultimately how this meeting turns out is not scripted at all, and whatever we end up with will be totally great.]]

trojanhorst

Of all the hours in the day, the ones Horst misses the most are in the early afternoon. Ever a social creature, in his youth, he'd usually bypassed most of the unpleasantly early morning hours by sleeping through them, unless he happened to be working a day job at the time and had to show up at an unfashionable seven or eight or nine o'clock to earn his daily bread. He'd liked to sleep in until lunchtime, given his druthers -- and once that was done, there was no better time than the sunny midafternoon to make social calls and go on all manner of adventures with one's friends.

Now, robbed of the better part of his social calendar, particularly on a long summer day like this, it's difficult for Horst to arrange to run into anyone without seeming overly inappropriate. The beginning of his day is rarely much earlier than 10:30, and that assumes he bestirs himself to shower and dress as soon as the sun's finished its nightly set. When it's important, though, you make concessions to inappropriateness in order to see someone, and you make sure you get up early. So tonight, Horst is up by nine-thirty and dressed by ten, wearing his sharpest clothes, looking healthy and smelling faintly of something like apricot or plum.

He slips out of the house while Johannes is busy with the dishes and won't notice, disabling his location on the Taxon map once he's out the door. Johannes is a magician of no small ability, and could certainly scry Horst's location if he wanted to, but Horst doubts he'll bother. He doesn't have enough blood to go scrying for things willy-nilly, does he? Besides, if he magically spied on Horst every time Horst went off to do something Johannes wasn't interested in, his brother would have no time left in the day to do anything he was interested in. It's fair to say they both enjoy a good amount of time apart.

Horst makes his way uptown at good speed, watching the other names on Taxon's map on his tablet, looking to see that one name in particular is still where it was when he left the house. It roughly is.

This part of town isn't one Horst has frequented much yet. He doesn't think any of Taxon's captives live on this street, though it's a nice enough area. Ivy grows up and down a few brick-lined causeways, and there's an open plaza just down the way where several late summer flowers all seem to be coming into bloom. That's where Horst heads, because he can hear the soft chiming of bells and see the silvery shimmer of jewelry-adorned movement, and that means he's come to the right place.

theextras

The snow has gone from a winter storm to something truly impressive. Ground-level doors are nearly buried in it; windows reveal walls of solid white pressing against the glass. Chimneys have iced over, and cars are buried in deep drifts.

The trams stopped running two days ago, with polite notes reading Temporarily Out of Service - We Apologize for Any Inconvenience affixed to the frozen doors.

Taxon is very quiet.

The Extras huddle indoors, and the streets are long white swathes of virgin snow. No car horns, no hum of traffic. The river is iced as well, and the edges of the shore boast chunks of white ice floating in the black water.

Near the Sanctuary, a water main has burst in the night, and the day's slight increase in temperature thawed it enough to erupt and flood a street. The buildings of that street are hung with sheets of icicles, gleaming like someone's idea of a Christmas decoration taken beyond all reason.

The wind blows from the north, and skirls the snow into further drifts and piles. If you listen-- if you listen very carefully-- you can hear the sound of voices on the wind, and howls that cut as keenly as the Arctic wind.

If you must go outside, Taxonians, breathe slowly and carefully-- for an incautious breath can freeze the very lining of your throat.

And at night...? Well, tonight the howls become more than distantly-imagined sounds: tonight, white shapes stalk Taxon's white streets-- wolves the size of ponies, whose eyes flicker with blue fire and who are hungry for warm meat.

aintnoconvict

"All right, I'll try and make this quick:"

Glitch? Getting to the point in a reasonable amount of time? Is it possible?

"For those who don't know me: my name's Glitch, I'm that guy who's been here since forever and kinda know the most about all the...stuff that goes on here. Sorta."

No, no it is not.

"Anyway, ah...I've been studying the lighthouse and found some peculiarities with the light-beam thingy which I wanna discuss with everyone. Or most of you, if you can make it. Plus there was that whole hanging out and having drinks thing which I mentioned before all the stuff north of the river happened-- hey we can talk about that too."

Yeah he is taking notes now, all frowny and confuzzled.

"Right! Unless you've got something drastic going on, let's meet at the Black Friar after sundown for the...sunlight-avoidant. First round of drinks is on me. See you later."

ooc: Gathering of the citizens! This is a mingle log so tag in, tag each other, frolic away. I will be adding a tag of Glitch discussing his Very Scientific Observations and there will e a Q&A to follow which I hope will e full of threadjacking. And here havesome pub details. Go go go!

thepersianyouth

If there was ever any one solitary thing that could get someone like Bagoas into a right bend, it would be his curiousity: not an innate quality, but one that was nurtured and groomed in his years at the Persian court. For nearly a month now, he has slipped by the bridge leading into the Northern district, casting furtive glances over yon river while his mind churned with all the fascinating particulars he had gleaned from those adventurous few broadcasts.

In the sky he's spotted a serpent, and childlike awe soon turned into an itch he couldn't scratch. He has been content in his daily comings and goings that he had forgotten the thrill of new vistas and cultures; from what he's heard, this northern district seems rife with all manner of things he never would've dreamed to see with his own eyes.

For nearly a month, he has persisted in his abstinence. He has looked his fill of the forest but not drawn near it. How could he, when Glitch's most trusted friend has stood guard for so long? His every step would be counted and frowned upon, and so, he has refrained.

Until today.

Today, there is the sound of drums and horns and strings and how could he possibly resist?

Choosing his moment with utmost care, he crouches, waits for it, and the very instant Cain's back is turned, he dashes forward and leaps from one end of the bridge to the other and doesn't stop running until he's reached the source* of this magnetic force-field. And then, there's simply one thing to do.

Dance, barefoot and coat open and billowing around him, one heavy winter boot in either hand.

* Minstrels inna village! A whole bunch of them! All done up in their snoods and tunics and rockin' their hurdy-gurdies :D

theextras

As the sun rises on the first day of Taxon's new year, only a measly four months from its fourth anniversary, the artificial sun in the artificial sky shines down on...a Taxon of a different stripe altogether.

Gone is the massive city that took forever and a day to traverse: gone is the mall with all its nifty things you never knew you wanted, gone are...well, in actual fact a lot of the old city is still here. It is just...taken down to size.

At the heart of the city lies Central still, with its Sanctuary standing as proud as ever (though it seems to have undergone a facelift to match the new lighthouse in Speares); the district itself framed by the rivers Miskatonic and Buenaventura, which neatly divide the city into three sections: the northern, eastern and southern districts.

Waking up, people may notice a software update notif flashing brightly on their tablet screens. In so many words, it is an introduction to a brand new feature called BankBuddy, through which non-natives can transfer credits to each other as necessary. An apologetic post scriptum adds that unfortunately the replicator hatches are a thing of the past, so to speak, and shall not be implemented forthwith.

As for all the rest, well, there's only one thing to do. Go out into the city and explore.

theextras

Morning comes to Taxon like every other morning, but, as is sometimes the case, the city is ever so slightly different. It is the first day of the weekend, a small but well needed break from the monotonous frustrations of school. Come Monday school begins anew - all the better to make the most of the weekend. Hang at the mall, get up to no good, stock up on energy for the coming week. You might just need it.

[OOC note: Consider this a log post for all your High School plot needs, in and outside of school - just label your tags accordingly.]

skinandbone

" - now, one thing to note is that the farther we get away from the source rock, the smaller the grains in our sediment. This is because it's a heck of a lot easier for water to carry teeny tiny specks than boulders. Just like it's easier for you to carry handouts instead of – instead of – of textbooks...”

Metody falters, looking around. This is not Geology 101.

It is nothing new for Metody to find himself some place unexpected, or to lose pieces of time. There is a reason he writes everything down. But what is unnerving is the quiet.

There are no fans. No hiss of ventilation, no hum of distant machines. No purr of far-off mechanisms cleaning the poisoned air, and to a man who has spent the past few years surrounded by constant noise, the silence is a roaring terror.

“Agh – oh, no. No, no, no, no - “

Metody flings the large backpack off of his back. He chokes a bit on the breathing equipment - part of it remains in the throat - but that doesn't slow his well practiced motions at all. Goggles next, then the little clip that closes his nostrils, then the flexible mask. The rest of it is rather like a skin diver’s suit, but easier to wiggle on.

He swings his pack onto his back again and spends a moment attaching the supplemental oxygen tubing. Once basic matters of survival are handled, he looks around again. His face is no longer visible, but his posture is clearly confused.

Metody walks to the table and picks up the tablet. This looks familiar, at least, sort of. He pokes aimlessly at it. Any viewers get the benefit of a long minute of his alien-looking goggled and masked face before he realizes it is possibly transmitting.

He glances down at the indicator on the arm of his suit, then reaches up and slowly pulls out the core of the breather, coughing again as he removes it from his throat. He takes a cautious breath, and is relieved when it doesn't burn.

"Hk- kah. Hello?"

He licks his lips uncertainly. Is this okay? Oh, golly, he hopes this isn't some kind of official channel.

“Ah – is anyone there? I'm very sorry, but I'm lost and – I think – I, um....” A worried fidget, then in a rush, “The air is off in my building, I can't hear it at all. I don't think it's been off for very long because my suit says it's still good. Except I – I lost some time, so I don't know if there's gases or – “ A shaky laugh. “ - I just got checked out last month, so – my skin and breathing are okay, I think, so maybe it didn't linger - ”

The screen wobbles as he shifts his grip on it, lifting his head to look around the room. Is that a door?

“ - I'm sorry.”

thepersianyouth

Morning comes; being himself again he makes plans, careful and neatly laid out; he makes an appointment at a nearby barbershop, and whiles away an hour prior with dressing and undressing until he feels a shade more like himself. He sends messages (text only, dictated to the tablet) to a select few people, then stumbles here and there, reacquainting himself with his own body. Averting his eyes from the mirror in his bathroom, he forces his hands not to reach up, and ignores the strange sensation of an uncovered back. He feels naked. Not even draping himself in his deep dark blue winter coat alleviates the feeling of being exposed. He gathers the sable fur trim close to his face, and sets out.

As is the nature of things, it is not until Bagoas sets foot at the barbershop of his choosing that nausea sets in. It matters little that he's asked his friends to be there if they can, during (Glitch and Azkadellia for support, and perhaps coffee at some café or other) or after (Buffy for shopping at the mall and/or the bazaar, Remus for tea afterwards and Josef after night falls): he still feels entirely out of his depth.

He remembers Alexander, after Hephaistion's death, looking like a restless spirit himself. His hair short and uneven, unkempt. A Macedonian custom, to cut the hair above shoulder level after a death: not Persian. To this day he associates short hair with grief and loss, and that is only the beginning of it. After Alexander's death, after being brought to Taxon, he chose to honour his King with a funeral rite of his people. It was his choice, he was in control.

~*~

He enters the barbershop with back straight and shoulders forced into relaxation (oxymoron as that may well be). He takes a seat, stoic and silent and positively determined to be grateful still: this is where he takes the reins back from Holmes and makes of this what he wants. His resolve crumbles within minutes. When the barber cheerfully digs his hands into what's left of his hair, Bagoas lifts his eyes, seeing himself in the mirror as if for the first time. Resolve crumbling to pieces, he finds himself dissolving into tears.

theextras

As dawn breaks on Thanksgiving morning, one or two things are different about the Taxon we all know and love.

Most notably, the streets are positively littered with, yes, you guessed it, turkeys.

Live. Turkeys.

Also notable is the fancy, ginormous T-Rex skeleton on display right outside the Sanctuary. Isn't that a nice thing to greet the newcomers with? It's got a plaque and everything!

Even more notable, because all good things come in threes, or so the aliens have newly discovered: just in time for Thanksgiving dinner, all the tablets in the city light up with a cheerful, hamster shaped hologram. The hamster wears Appropriate Festive Gear.

"Happy Thanksgiving, citizens! Aren't you glad to be alive this time of year? Isn't Thanksgiving a wonderful holiday? Yes it is! Say it with me!"

Crickets may chirp, insults may be thrown in its face, but the happy hamster goes on. "In honor of the bond forged between the Puritans and their new found friends, the Indians*, you will all find a dream catcher by your bedside tonight. And remember the old Indian proverb, Never speak of another before you have walked two hundred miles in her moccasins. Isn't that nice?"

Look at its beady, beaming eyes full of holiday cheer. "When you go to sleep tonight, hang the dream catcher above your head and think of all the things you are grateful for. What have you learned from your neighbour's moccasins? Do they pinch? Dream yourself-- back to yourself.

"Make it a good one! Be thankful!"

And that, as they say, is that. The hologram blinks out of existence. Somewhere out there, in the dark, lamp lit streets, an Extra chases down the last of the turkeys.

All is quiet. Shh. Shh. All is well.

For now.

* It must be noted that the aliens have a) a poor grasp of history, and b) no idea what political correctness is.

masterofmydestiny

When very nearly a fortnight has passed since Bagoas woke up in someone else's body, he finds himself increasingly restless. Tempers fly high, much higher than he's quite accustomed to, which in itself is quite unsettling. He spends his days keeping busy, if not with chores then exercise; forcing this body to do as he wills it, one small victory after the other. He stretches, he walks up and down the staircase (it gets easier every day, and every day he is a little less winded than previously), he dances.

Or rather, he attempts dance, as dissonant coordination makes for stumbling, awkward movement, and his centre of gravity seems misplaced, and more often than not he ends up smacking himself in the face.

It is degrading in a way he didn't think possible, but it does not deter him. He is a survivor first and a servant second (or third, or last: his inner grading fluctuates daily), he tells himself. He does not quit easily.

One cannot say as much about his penchant for boredom, which seems if possible emphasized: Sherlock's is a restless mind, whereas Bagoas is accustomed to a restless body. The one doesn't exclude or preclude the other, but combining his habits with Sherlock's brain is, apparently, not entirely a successful merge.

Finally he caves in, asking Smecker if he may borrow the things he sets in his ears to listen to music (and how do they work?, and I shall return them presently).

Not five minutes later, he is browsing the rough Taxonian equivalent to Spotify. Should anyone drop by the Birdhouse, for reasons entirely their own, they might find him with eyes closed and frown etched into his forehead, arms moving about as he attempts to get a feel for the music.

A bit later, after returning the earphones to their rightful owner with expressed gratitude, he returns to his tablet, having decided to address the other captives.

"This is Bagoas speaking. I can't be the only one ready to crawl out of my skin," he says, earnest and wide-eyed as perhaps Sherlock has never been. He wears a dark blue boat neck t-shirt with long sleeves, plain trousers (though they remain off camera) in some sort of soft, heavy fabric, and his hair tied away from his face by way of a scarf.

"It's terribly frustrating, being cooped up here. I used to walk for miles every single day... I'm finding this forced immobility most disagreeable, but--" he swallows, a line of tension to his jaw: there and gone in a flash. "I'm not venturing outside. But...

"I haven't spoken to so many of you in such a long time. How is everyone? Are you unharmed still? Are you going mad with boredom like I am?"

And then, as he awaits replies, he dictates a locked message to a certain Mister Holmes: I would see you at your earliest convenience, preferably in person. There is something I need to discuss with you.

infinitelystranger

The visual from Sherlock's tablet flicks on while he's talking to it, which gives the fleeting and erroneous impression that he's broadcasting by design. This is not true. By all appearances, Sherlock -- or Bagoas, as he looks and sounds right now -- is recording an impromptu nature documentary. That is to say, he's taking shaky and wildly variant video footage of a stegosaur from a tree while talking to himself for his own notes. Note-taking by vlog is more efficient than typing when he's trying to use his tablet as a video camera, after all. And it's working, for the most part. He just hasn't noticed that the video is not just going to his own records.

"Those plates are unfriendly," he says to himself in Bagoas's voice as the stegosaurus lets out a suspicious bellow at his presence. "It really is like they're lodged straight into its flesh. How odd. I wonder if that's the true animal or a construction from Hollywood. For all we know we've been putting the skeleton together wrong all this time -- wait, are those spots? Why has it got spots? What would it need spots for? Is it hoping to camouflage itself from something at its size? -- no, wrong, wrong, that's the old fallacy that evolution has to follow pragmatism. Some ancestor could've needed spots at some earlier point in its evolutionary history. That's obvious. Ugh. I feel menopausal."

He lets out a noise of frustration and sets down the tablet again in the nook of branch and tree trunk next to him, which incidentally affords all of Taxon a view of what he's doing. Specifically, he's sitting in a tree. He's sitting rather wisely far up in one of Taxon's new trees, though still under the canopy as to avoid the pterosaurs, and he has his legs crossed in what look like a new pair of blue denim jeans and a jacket he's decided Bagoas apparently needed. More conspicuously, he's got short hair. Bagoas most certainly didn't have short hair. Sherlock-Bagoas does now. Sherlock's new hair's been shorn unceremoniously close to his head, with much less care than his own actual haircut: it's fairly obvious that he went at it, albeit carefully, with a pair of scissors.

"This is ridiculous," he complains to himself, bonking his head back against the trunk. "My first and only chance to take samples of long-extinct megafauna for veracity and I'm a teenager with a hormonal dysfunction. It's impossible to climb in this body. I've got to see what their DNA looks like."

Sherlock frowns at the screen, evidently noticing something. "Is this thing even on?"

theextras

By the evening of the 31st, the fog is so dense you can barely make out your own hand should you stick it in front of you. Take one step away from your friend and it's as though they were never there to begin with.

And it doesn't stop there. Just like before, the fog does strange things to those who get lost. There are voices in there, familiar ones calling out for anyone out there, and should you go investigate, you might find yourself all the long way across town. The lights on the trams flicker and spark, the street lights seem dimmer than usual, and does nothing to help guide your way.

Unlike the tesla coil display, so proudly operated by one of the Extras, and at one point even hooked up to a computer. Not only does it shoot lightning bolts, it plays music!

But the fog is not to be trusted. It moves down the streets, makes seeming feeble attempts of climbing the buildings, and it isn't long before it covers Central square and the carnival.

The music stops, something fizzes and sparks, the Extra falls back and for one, heartstopping moment the tesla lightning goes amok. The air hisses with electricity, filling the tent with the smell of ozone and copper-- in the background someone calls out "It's gonna blow!"

Panic erupts.

And in that panic, in that rain of proverbial fire and mayhem, the lightning bolts shatter the House of Mirrors and the merry-go-round and the dinosaur eggs exhibition.

Everything is in shambles, the Extras climbing over each other to get away, and in the darkness, something - or a variety of somethings - slithers away into the fog.

***

A misty dawn breaks over a very different Taxon. The streets are shaded with impossibly tall trees, the buildings covered in creeping vines, squares are replaced with swamps and meadows, and new rivers have sprung up.

And echoing through the air are strange new sounds: hoots, trills, shrieks, growls, and the occasional roar. The ground shakes under heavy footsteps, and distinctly reptilian forms can be glimpsed lurking behind buildings or rushing through the undergrowth or gliding high above the canopy.

Of course a few of the citizens have some more immediate concerns than the change in scenery. Namely why they are somewhere not in their own bed and, more urgently, why they are suddenly in possession of a body not their own.

Chaos, confusion, misunderstandings, and shopping sprees (yes the stores are still hilariously open for business) are bound to ensue so long as no one gets stomped on or eaten in the process. Good luck, citizens!

theextras

On the evening of the twenty-second day of the tenth month, the chilly weather takes on a slightly different shroud: veiling itself in brighter starlight and clearer air and a crisp, pitch black cloak of darkness...lit up by streetlamps and bright, autumnal window displays, and carved vegetables as far as the eye can see.

It's not just Jack what makes a lantern this time of year, but courgettes and bird cages (birds not included) and jars and actual wrought iron lanterns. Candle light permeating the very air of the city, casting a warm glow on anyone who happens to draw close enough.

Here and there Extra parents tug their Extra children along in a hurried quest to find the perfect outfit or costume for this or that party, spooky or sweet or just plain excellent.

What's more is the long winding carnival snaking its way along the many winding streets of Taxon, hundreds of Extras all dressed up in outfits that some may find more disturbing than others: zombies, ghouls, old crones and Killer Klowns and white-masked beings, moaning and wheezing and giggling their way towards Central Square - but who knows where they're headed next.

Fun fair's in town, kids.

aintnoconvict

At roughly quarter to nine in the morning, Taxon is greeted with a video broadcast of a holo broadcast.

"Hello?"

One can tell it's not a proper arrival because instead of the usual stark arrival room, there's a tiny Glitch hovering over a nightstand. Beyond, there is a patchwork quilt covering a shifting, grumbling lump.

"DG...Cain?" From under the covers, Glitch's head emerges and he peers blearily at his tiny duplicate. "Raw?"

"Cute," he mumbles, the props his chin up to watch the show.

"Cain's going to be mad," the hologram remarks fussily. Glitch snorts. "But...no, it's not my fault this time. I was following him! I was following him! I was follow-"

"All right, enough of that." Glitch pokes his tablet so the holo replay of his arrival vanishes, then scowls when he notices that it's still broadcasting. "Guess that's the aliens' way of wishing me a happy anniversary. Morning, all."

Then he turns the tablet off and flops back with a sigh.

Three annuals. Thirty-six months. One hundred fifty-six weeks. Something like a thousand ninety-five days and he's still not sure how he survived the first dozen of them. Illyria'd basically pointed him at the door and he'd been on his own until DG's arrival. Adaptation. Coping. Moving on. Waiting and surviving, that was 90% of this place.

Today, though, he'll keep busy and distribute a few gifts. The first pumpkin from the garden for Cain with a short length of distinctive gold braiding tied around the stem. One of DG's sketchbooks for Azkadellia, a more intimate glimpse of the younger princess' life here. He's ready to let go, and he hopes it will give Az some comfort. The first volume of his organized notes on Taxon for Mayland, a drink or two with Paul after lunch, dropping a scarf off for Madelyne (the days are getting chillier and he frets), and then...then he'll take Bagoas out for dinner. Because why not.

He sends a voice message to his friend to make arrangements (Italian, Glitch decides, will be nice), gets ready for the day, loads a basket with goodies, and sets off on his bicycle to make the rounds.

ooc: THREE YEARS what even. He'll be stopping by to see everyone mentioned above (and all of that's hadnwavey if you like), but anyone not mentioned is totally welcome to bump into him too. OPEN POST IS OPEN.

loveawkward

Entrances had been made. The people of Taxon, some of them at least, had arrived. As the sun was setting and casting the room into shadows, the lights began to come up. Twinkling white lights on the balcony around the pool, mood lighting throughout the room to separate the loft into differing areas for different events. Light music played throughout the main room, though at poolside was a section set aside for dancing as well.

Pausing to overlook the affair, for a moment, Josef felt like he was still back home.

Well, minus the bevy of beautiful women offering up a vein at the snap of his fingers. He was still getting used to that loss, which hurt more keenly than most.

((ooc: Come one, come all. Feel free to set up your own posts or use the starter areas. Josef's place is a massive loft, with three separate rooms including a bedroom with an oversized freezer in it. There is also a rooftop pool area with a wide wall overlooking part of the city.))

loveawkward

The packages were delivered by extra courier. One to Buffy. One to Maddy. Then one to Jason Blood.

Each were delivered in the middle of the afternoon, just before Josef made his broadcast.

Elegantly dressed, he stood out on the wide balcony deck of his building, overlooking the central area of Taxon City.

"Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen. Some of you I know, and I'm aware others are new to the city and I've yet to make your acquaintance. Welcome, hello, all of that. Now, for the reason for my broadcast.

"A bit ago I discussed a party with some I know here. It's time for that party. It's to be held this weekend, to celebrate the date that I believe is sometime around the kick off for fall. A perfect time for a last days of summer celebration that isn't a pool party, despite what we may call it. None of us are ready for water like that, I don't think.

"Some of you have received packages. The hatch is a mercurial thing. If they don't work for you, please let me know. I won't be offended.

"All are welcome and things shall kick off in the afternoon, just for cocktails and then dinner will be served buffet style. Music and dancing. Things like that. I hope to see you all there."

The transmission ended with a last item delivered.

The card was hand delivered to Bagoas, written in his own language. With the practice, Josef was getting better at things.

Darling Bagoas,

You are cordially invited to an evening party at my residence for the City of Taxon. It is a semiformal event so that you may know what to wear, and I would be grateful for your appearance. I hope to see you soon.

With much affection,

Josef

aintnoconvict

Out of everyone Glitch should be most wary of just plonking his tablet down during this musical...thing. Knowing better doesn't stop him from depositing it on the many-buttoned control panel beside the brain tank.

He'll just be a few moments, just studying, just being there and barely tapping the glass because he doesn't want to leave smudges but he needs to be just that much closer. Touch the glass which touches the fluid which touches the half-brain and--

A guitar riff plays as he circles the tank, the tablet recording away as he stops to face it, profile toward the camera when he begins singing.

"We passed upon the stair, we spoke of was and when.
Although I wasn't there, he said I was his friend.
Which came as some surprise, I spoke into his eyes
I thought you died alone, a long long time ago..."

( Oh no, not me. )

The guitar riff continues, a winding, mournful repetition like a half-formed thought and Glitch heaves a sigh, eyes closed as he sings the chorus one final time-- and looked up to see the tablet's light. His expression is blank as he stares at it, and remains so when he steps closer and picks the tablet up.

Then his lip curls into a snarl. "Serves me right," he mutters. "Okay, fine, behold my brain a-and all that. You can ask questions but I I can't guarantee satisfactory answers."