taxonomites | Entries tagged with madelyne pryor

After 60-odd years, John should be getting older. And as he looks at himself in the mirror, he starts to wonder for the first time why the opposite seems to be true.

The second thing he notices is that he has no desire for a smoke.

The third thing he notices is that he feels naked. I mean, he is naked, but he feels it in a different way. There's no magic.

John has never felt so isolated--he had finally started to adjust to how magic worked in this world, but now it seems to be gone. Just up and poof, like it was never there.

If this isn't a plot by the Lords of Hell, then he doesn't know what else it could be. And for the first time in what seems like forever, John feels fear. Not afraid--he's felt that a lot over the years, but blanket, all-consuming fear, that he won't make it out of this one.

Such fear that he doesn't even notice that the tablet is turned on and set to holo-broadcast. Helloooooooo nurse!

wholeheaded

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?”

genequeen

Madelyne wakes up and gets out of bed. Her first thought is that she must brush her teeth. All of that candy and she must absolutely brush her teeth right now. In fact, she gets to the point where she have the toothbrush in her mouth and that ever-so-attractive toothpaste foam is starting to appear.

Then she realizes she can't hear anyone.

The toothbrush hangs from the corner of her mouth for a few moments as she wonders if she's lost her hearing. She reaches out with her mind and turns on ..... nothing. The faucet does not move. Carefully, she reaches out and turns on the water and watches it run. She hears it run down the drain.

She finishes brushing her teeth, in a haze. As she pads through the house, she grabs a thick quilt, holding it in her hands, staring at it for a minute or two. Then walks out to the porch swing, wraps herself in the pastel colored quilt and sits down on the porch swing.

The city is so, so quiet.

skinandbone

The sun rises on Taxon, but this is a different sun. It's brighter. Yellower.

Lemony-er.

Specifically, it's a big slice of candied lemon, shining through pink and white drifts of cotton candy clouds. Wherever the golden light of dawn lands, surfaces are left sticky with a thin glaze of honey. Mercifully, this soaks in quickly.

The buildings are different, too, made of gingerbread and decorated in icing. Windows are panes of glassy sugar, shot through with wavy bands of bubbles.The streets are paved in hard candies, and, for alien reasons, the sidewalks are pancakes, light and fluffy and squashy underfoot. Inside, furniture is made of chocolate, and the faucets dispense everything from lemonade to simple syrup. The homes of all the real people of Taxon have been gathered together and arranged into a cheery little village set a short distance from the sugar-glittering city. Everyone is neighbors now, and isn't that great!? They can all borrow cups of sugar from each other!

The changes have extended to the citizens, turning the Extras into a pastel rainbow of sugar people. Off to the east, there is a new bit of landscape: a mountain made of massive slabs of cookie and cake. A river coils down from it, shimmery pink and foaming with scoops of rainbow sherbert.

Everything is bright and colorful, over saturated and – this is a telling detail – outlined in heavy black lines that are always at the edges of objects, no matter how you turn your head. In such cheery surroundings, surely the newly candied people of Taxon will wake with joy in their hearts and a snazzy group song on their lips.

Look, the Extras have already started.

“How do you say good morning
To a hundred different friends?
How do you give a good wish
That never ever ends?

Ta-ta-ta-taxon! It's the city that can't be beat!
Ta-ta-ta-taxon! Where everything is sweet!
Ta-ta-ta-taxon! Making friends is work that's never done
Ta-ta-ta-taxon! Where learning can be fun!

And for five disturbing seconds, bubbly, cheerful credits flick across everyone's vision. Your chief writer for this episode is Tinae Crice, Taxon.

LOGO! The word Taxon flares, then vanishes in a shimmery puff of sugar crystals and tumbling candies. Another beautiful day in Taxon has begun, so let's all get to learning, sharing, and just plain having FUN!!

smecker

( Medical-Survey )

electric_sheep

The android powers up instantaneously, operating system booting up with a faint, brief hum. Its eyes were closed when in storage: humans tend to find open eyes on a deactivated robot unsettling, too reminiscent of a corpse or a doll. They flick open now and the world snaps into view for David-8 for the very first time. He takes the measure of the room quietly, turning his head from side to side to take in the steel walls around him, before he raises his arm to inspect the silver bracelet attached to his wrist.

This is the only unusual thing. This is the only thing that gives him any pause. He takes the unfamiliar environment and the empty room in stride--this is his storage chamber, David reasons, and he’s just been powered on for the first time to do his work. But he has no memory of the silver bracelet’s purpose or how to use it: as far as he knows, it doesn’t come with the rest of his model. He fiddles with it a little, curious; it’s not detachable, anyway, so it’s clearly built-in. A plugin, maybe. Some kind of mobile phone or intercom. That’s evident--the only odd thing is that apparently no one’s bothered to download a patch for him on how to use it.

No matter. He’ll learn. He’d be little use to anyone, after all, if he couldn’t learn simple new tasks without the help of a patch. Standing in the center of the room, the android--broadcast to the rest of the city as a hologram of a chiselled, waxy, symmetrical man in a jumpsuit, perfectly still but for the precise tap-tap of his fingertip against the touchscreen of his tablet--pokes through his tablet menu with idle curiosity to the list of contacts, the map, the settings. David finds the button that unfurls the screen to a larger resolution and peers at the mechanism with childlike fascination, before clicking it back into his wrist again, satisfied that he knows his basic way around the new intercom.

Pity that it’s external to his system, not properly installed: he has to interact with it manually, the slow way. Then again, so would a human. This is more lifelike. David’s designers have put a great deal of effort into making him as lifelike as possible, he knows, for the comfort of his human owners.

David opens the peculiar readme.txt and takes in the text with an automated blink (an artificial reflex, a script programmed to move his eyelids at randomized intervals--for realism, his developers have said, to move the model out of the Uncanny Valley). It makes no sense. He dismisses that without worry: clearly he’s in a theme park or psychological experiment or art installation and this is the orientation file provided for human participants. He’ll find out. For now--there’s a universe outside that door.

It is exactly 22.2 degrees Celsius. The time is 2135. David-8 looks around once more, bemused, and then trundles off through the doorway in search of something to do.

OOC: feel free to run into ~~Wall-E~~ David anywhere! <3 profile/deets here, also, GMs, can I get a character tag?

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.]]

hasaheart

In the movies, or in Other-Side movies that is, the best friend always seems to know if or when something is wrong. Wyatt and Glitch have been friends for years, the best of friends and more: brothers (in-arms and otherwise), partners-in-crime, confidantes, fellow Ozites swimming in a sea of faceless drones and Other-Siders. They were bound to the same fate by oath and duty and magic, and even after their quest was ended their friendship lived on. It wasn't easy. It wasn't perfect - but what would life or friendship be if not for the bumps in the road.

In Taxon, in what poses as real life to those trapped, Wyatt goes about his day like any other day in blissful ignorance of his friend going into the wind.

It isn't until the next morning, when as part of hardly-ever-failing routine Wyatt checks through the list of names on his tablet...and finds one missing.

He stares for a moment; the cogs of his brain halt and squeak and attempt a reversal. No, that can't be, can't have read that right--

By his third painstaking scrutiny of the list of names and residences and shops, Wyatt can't breathe. His kitchen goes from a bright safe haven to a black hole and the walls are closing in and he. Can't. Breathe.

~*~

The face that appears on the tablet is white as a sheet and drawn with tension. Look any closer and you might see that jaw snap clean off his face. It's a moment before he speaks, because like so many times before he doesn't know where to start. He's been over all the rational explanations. He's even gone to Langwe and Gale's. He went to Glitch's shotgun house.

Now he's back, and there's no escaping the fact his world is crumbling. The walls are coming down and his back isn't strong enough to push back.

His lips fold inward. He swallows. "Glitch is gone. I don't know what else to say. I don't know."

aintnoconvict

The law of conservation of matter had never really applied in Taxon. One moment a thing is not, and then it is. Likewise things which are suddenly and completely cease.

In this moment Glitch is in the driveway of his little yellow house. He is attaching a winch to the front of the wagon (it will come in handy, he's sure of it), and for reasons known only to him the radio is playing KC and the Sunshine Band until with a fizz of static it isn't. Glitch looks over with a frown--

And then he isn't. Likewise the wagon and the tools aren't, and a frail old coat hung up in his wardrobe isn't. Several blocks away the workshop formerly known as Langwe and Gale's Mechanical suddenly is boarded up, and a notice declaring the building condemned is affixed to the front door.

A few dots on the map vanish in the blink of an eye, and that's that.

personaldemon

There is work to be done.

There always is, especially after Etrigan gets out.

He's spent time cataloging the damage done inside his house, and outside; internal wards have been fixed in slow, painstaking fashion. The fence is going to require a little more work.

These are the easy fixes: the damage to property, to stone and metal, wood and paper.

The other fixes-- the intangible ones, the ones of trust and consequence-- are harder, and despite many years' experience with them, he has never gotten very good at them.

Jason Blood crouches in his front yard, thinking hard about nothing but what he is doing as he scratches lines in the sod with a knife, as he dots markings in chalk along the brick pillars that support the wrought-iron fence.

[ooc] for Johannes, but open to anyone who wants to walk by and see Jason there and scold/chastise/talk/whatever! [/ooc]

threelivesdown

Selina has been attempting to rest with the injury to her leg but she's really not good at waiting. She's not the best at patient - at least not in situations like this. She's been spending time with Isis, making sure that the little cat knows how much she is cared for, how much she appreciates her companionship.

"So, I'm heading down to the bar. If anyone wants to meet my limping self there, feel free. I, for one, need a drink. I think we all need a drink. Maybe more than one." She's accessing the tablet to make sure everyone knows what she thinks. Perhaps they'll take it as a hint. It must surely be better than the random pictures of her that it sends out of seemingly no possible conscious thought. It has yet to be scandalous but it seems, perhaps, a matter of time.

Not that it seems likely that she'd care if it were.

It will take her awhile to get there and she's bringing Isis with her but once she gets to the Dodgy Jammer, she's going to be having something to drink. Whiskey sounds like a good choice.

personaldemon

In a scene vaguely reminiscent of ~~King Kong~~ Emperor Ape, there's a figure clinging to the side of the top of the Sanctuary, tonight. Gouges in the white marble-like substance show where it has clawed its way up to the top, and now studies the greenhouse structure atop the Sanctuary through slitted red eyes.

Fire creates smoke, and more tellingly, light: bright light, a splendid beacon atop this pretty little tower to draw Heroes and Doers-of-Good. It rather ruins his stealth. Those who have taken exception to his jests will come forth, raging? Bitter? Crying tears of anger?

Only if he's lucky, he supposes.

Etrigan shrugs, opens his jaws, and breathes a gout of infernal fire upon the buildings at the top of the Sanctuary. Glass erupts in bursting shards, and the wooden frames of the greenhouse, as well as some of the plants within, begin to blaze.

The demon perches like a gargoyle on the white stone and waits, watching the streets and the sky. Surely someone in the city has enough of a self-righteous streak to come and play.

Because fun as this playing about with fears and whispers has been, he's very, very bored... and idle hands are indeed the devil's workshop.

smecker

The tablet gives an image of... Paul Smecker, looking slightly disheveled, and Glitch looking seriously disheveled, as well as bleeding from scratches on his face. Both of them are rather damp although Glitch is fairly water-logged.

"--just fucking hold still and let me check you for--"

"--this is more important--"

"Alright, you talk, I check for concussions, genius--"

Glitch clears his throat and addresses the city via Paul's tablet. "We have a situation. There's... some sort of monster, I suppose, running loose-- ugly yellow-- ow! careful-- ugly yellow thing with... horns, fangs, claws--"

Glitch breaks off into a fit of coughing. He's cradling one hand with the other. Behind him, his shop can be seen-- with black smoke pouring from the roof. Paul grabs the tablet back while pushing a water bottle at Glitch.

"Yeah, I guess whatever the fuck did that to his shop is loose and screwing around. He-- what?"

(Glitch and Paul both talk for the next ten seconds, making what either of them is saying indistinguishable. Finally Paul looks back to the tablet.)

"--okaaaay, I guess it, he, was wearing a prisoner bracelet and he, uh, speaks in rhyme. The fuck, Glitch?"

"I'm not making that up! Here, give it back!"

Paul sighs, and hands the tablet over again.

[ooc: OKAY so as usual I fail at my own deadlines, but, WARNING IS NOW UP. Feel free to react. Keri, if you want to add more stuff from Glitch other than what we discussed, go for it like a boss. <3 Big Fighty Post coming soon.]

personaldemon

Morning dawns bright and sunny over Taxon. The spring weather is holding, the blue sky is filled with puffy clouds, and oh yeah, there's graffiti over much of the Sanctuary.

It's 'art', if you can call stick figures and vulgar caricatures in spray paint 'art'.

( Demonic doodles. Uh. Warnings for extremely juvenile but pornographic sexual content, and some violence. )

genequeen

"All right. What the fuck is going on around here?"

Madelyne is angry and there are pools of tears gathering at the corners of her eyes but it doesn't appear as though she's given into them. She's wearing a leather jacket that is too large for her, having it zipped up, even though she's still inside her house.

"There are cl ... duplicates of people wandering about and someone is taunting me with details from home... from my past." She pulls in a long breath through her nose, trying not to sniffle, "Why would the Hamsters be doing this? It isn't ... usually... like this, is it..."

Yeah. Someone is grasping at straws a little bit right now but she doesn't want to be the target of the newest round of hijinks.

personaldemon

The devil is exploring Taxon.

He has Sherlock Holmes's tablet in hand, and a freshly slaughtered Extra in his belly (along with his own tablet); a song in his heart and a smile on his lips.

The very first order of business had been the werewolf. The witch was already gone, and Etrigan found that a damnable shame indeed-- so much he would have said to her, so many whispers to share...!-- but either way, Jason's safeguards were the first targets.

The map made it easy to find one man in the forest. Etrigan had circled to downwind, prowled through the trees until he came upon Remus Lupin at his cozy little shack.

Moon's son, sleep; close your eyes.
Dreams are deep, and Lethe is wide.
Grief will keep. The sun will rise
On what I reap, with you inside...

He'd placed Lupin's (so soundly sleeping) body inside his humble home-- not out of any gentleness, but because he was less likely to be seen, and less likely to come to harm, in this way. Killing the pup would only bring him back.

Hiding Lupin's location on the tablet was as easy as hiding his own had been. What charming, charming toys their captors left them with!

And now, well... now it's time to have fun.

[OOC: Remus's sleep written with Jemi's permission-- let me know if anything here doesn't work for you, Jemi! <3

If you want your char and Etrigan to have some sort of encounter (any sort of encounter!), just tag in with where your char is and what is going on with them, and we will get some SHENANIGANS GOING. These threads can be assumed to happen over a several day period. Etrigan will be trollin' before getting into outright fighting, most likely!

theextras

It's hard to believe that only a few weeks ago the city was deep in bone-chilling snow. The city is in the grips of a pleasant spring: warm days, cool nights, crisp winds and all the flowers blooming. The trees boast tender green leaves and the sky is bright blue with puffy, fast-moving clouds.

Since the collapse of the ~~Matterhorn~~ Ice Queen's Lair, the northern section of the city has been shrouded in the same gray, impenetrable fog that had originally obscured the zone.

Today it is blown away by the stiff spring wind. The land to the north of the bridge is hills rising to mountains, forested, filled with clear lakes and rushing streams.

Near the bridge, there is a cabin that serves as a trading post, and is the only immediately visible structure or sign of human habitation.

The leather-faced Extra inside the crammed store is happy to sell you gold-panning equipment, backpacks, tents, fishing or trapping gear... he might even, maybe, have a huntin' rifle available. If you ask nice.

He also warns of bear in the high country, of caves he calls 'Indian burial grounds!' with spooky paintings on the walls, and says that sure enough, there's one of them wendy-gos around somewhere, yessir. You know. One of them Bigfoot things. Still, it's the best time of year to see the high country, wildflowers bloomin' an' all.

Y'all be careful goin' in now.

taxonmods

When the crystal is broken and the witch's power defeated, the city seems for a moment to hold its breath. Then, somewhere, the first icicle snaps from its overhang, quivers in the air, then lands with a soft plop in the snowbank beneath it.

Followed by the entire accumulated snow on the roof that held it, in one giant FWUMP of powder that buries the witch's body completely.

After that, the sun begins to peek through the gray clouds, and everywhere the snow glitters and glistens, more and more wetly.

Within the space of a few hours, the snow has melted to nothing but patches on porches, a melting as unnatural as the original snowfall itself. The meltwater can be heard everywhere; dripping from eaves, turning the ground into mud, flowing through the city's sewers. Taxon children run outside after days of forced habitation, to enjoy the last bits of snow before it's gone.

The wind that blows through the city and spurs the tattered clouds to break further comes from the west, not the north, and smells of springtime and the sea.

theextras

The snow has stopped falling.

The air is bitterly cold, still as a grave. If you listen very quietly you can hear the accumulated snow settling, settling, a little denser, a little thicker.

The silence is pierced at noon by a ragged scream.

One of the Extras comes floundering through the deep snow down one of the central streets of Taxon, leaving a bright scarlet trail behind him. One bloody hand points back towards the ominous mountain.

"She's coming!" the man yells hoarsely, and collapses onto the virgin snow.

[OOC: Subthreads in the comments! Throw your characters wherever, whenever. A chaotic final huzzah to the Taxsicle plot, because organization somehow still eludes me.]

smecker

Home-sweet-home currently has several extra guests, everyone who's sheltered here from the brutal winter outside. It's not exactly balmy inside the Birdhouse-- even with the insulation and the heaters, the internal temperature is hovering in the high fifties, because the open spaces inside are just too large-- but that's miles better than the temperature out of doors.

"Note to self," Paul mutters to his tablet, using its recording function, "work on subdividing the second floor into individually insulated storage rooms, convertible to dorms in emergency."

He's on his way down from said second-floor to the ground floor, where the kitchen facilities are. They haven't tried the ground floor door in a couple of days now, the weight of endless snow holding it solidly shut, so the main entrance/exit is currently the rooftop egress, which is being kept clear by rigorous shoveling on the hour.

The generators are doing their job though. Paul adds another note to his tablet: send Glitch a thank-you card-- and beelines for the stove, where he's got a big-ass pot of soup simmering. It's not going to win any Gastronomie awards (oh does Paul ever hate cooking with canned goods), but it's hot, and it's nourishing and fatty and perfect winter food.

"Anyone hungry?" Paul asks of whoever is in the room at large.