Entries tagged with metody green

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01 + [holo] I'll ride home laughing, look at me now

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?”

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glittering dot, singing bangle, sparkling nose ring [location: all over!] backdated to Oct 10th

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.

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(no subject)

The screen flicks on and there is Metody, sitting in the pink graciousness of her living room. Her back is ramrod straight, and while her business suit might be plum purple and accessorized with sky blue, it is the most straight laced thing she's worn yet. Her hair is tightly pulled back into a bun that could be used to crack rocks.

Screw everything fluffy and sweet and candy.

"Hello. We still need to make emergency kits. I've collected some supplies, mostly food, and containers for water, but also cotton and such for bandages. We still need quite a bit more, but at least we'll have some basics together. All of these things need additional processing, though, and - well, this stuff is for you guys, and I want help."

"And so I am inviting everyone over to my place for dinner and kit making. I will be serving deer roast, pumpkin soup and mashed potatoes and parsnips. If something in the menu does not work with your dietary requirements, please contact me privately so I can adjust accordingly. If you can bring something for the meal, that would also be great, particularly as my drink options consist of tea, red wine and water."

"I'm attaching a list of supplies I think we still need. If you can bring something on the list, that would be lovely, but it isn't necessary. I look forward to seeing you all."

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[visual] a wish your heart makes

After her ill-advised outing the previous day, Emma's decided to obey whatever it is her body is telling her and stay home to rest. She's drinking some chamomile tea, listening to classic rock, and re-reading Persuasion. Usually Captain Wentworth is more than an adequate distraction, but every now and then the twinge in her chest makes her breath catch and she has to set the book aside.

She should probably go check in with Paul since she's exemplifying the lone wolf ignore-it-until-it-becomes-a-huge-problem thing which seems to always get them all in trouble but...who knows if this is conventionally medical. Which is all the more reason to reach out.

Emma props herself up more on the pillow pile she's made on her sofa and fumbles with her tablet. The video comes on and Taxon gets her looking less than perky: limp hair, no makeup, and dressed in a schlubby sweatshirt.

"Should've checked my family medical history for pulmonary issues when I had the chance," she muses with a little frown. "Unless this is just a variation on 'has a tendency to be cursed' or maybe I've hit my magic credit limit and this is payment. Anyway, the pub's closed until this resolves itself, sorry."

She ends the broadcast and settles back again with a little groan. Hopefully there'll be a lull before inquiring minds and nagging mouths assault her phone.

ooc: ridiculous trivia - I only just noticed Mary Margaret/Snow lurking in this icon whoops.

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Ta-ta-ta-taxon! Where everything is sweet!

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!!

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[Holo] [Arrival] Is there anybody out there?

A faint ping hits the holos across Taxon, alerting everyone to a new person entering the city. A 'Novak, Jimmy' by the tag.

Anyone interested in checking the new arrival out can see a small representation of a man in a tan trenchcoat and a black suit sprawled on the floor of an arrival chamber. Which turns into a very active representation as the man wakes up and startles away from... the tablet, apparently. Sending it skittering across the floor of the chamber and him skittering to the opposite corner. There's a few minutes of desperate cowering and trying to look very small and easily overlooked by anything ( Castiel ) before he settles enough to start focusing on things around him instead of the Regularly Scheduled Morning Delirium And Panic.

- Easy, Jimmy. It's okay. You're okay. Just waking up. You know how this goes. Just waking up, like... every other day. - He waits for the shakes to stop before he tries reaching for the whatever it was that he smacked across the.... wherever he is. Finally noticing the metal bracelet on his wrist makes him stop again. It's skin temperature, so he didn't notice it at first, but he notices it now. A smooth silver band, not quite as wide as the watch he'd had... before. His thumb runs along the edge to try and find a seam before trying to wedge the nail under it. There's a twinge of pain and he's stopping before he draws blood. - Okay. Metal bracelet grafted onto my wrist, smooth metal room, and a flat plastic thing. Still not the strangest place I've been dumped. -

Putting his confusion about the bracelet aside for now, and with a wary glance at the door, he inches over to pick up the weird plastic thing. The screen is off due to inactivity at the moment, giving everyone a rapidly spinning viewpoint as Jimmy flips the tablet over a few times. What he really remembers predates common tablet use by about two years, so it takes him a few minutes of messing around with it before the screen comes on and he can interact with it, and a few more minutes of looking for a keyboard before he figures out the touch screen. - Huh. I knew laptops were getting thinner, but *this* is new. -

He thinks he might remember seeing things like this in that week in Atlanta before he got.... here. Wherever here is. But that's a big white blur, leading down into a big dark... - And that way lies the rabbit hole, Jimmy. You step away from it *right now*. You follow that any farther and who knows when you'll come back. - There's another headshake, and Jimmy's back in the here and now. Mostly. Staring at a touch screen and wondering what's waiting for him outside that door. But, little metal rooms aren't that far removed from little padded rooms, so he's leaving now.

Using the smooth metal wall as a makeshift mirror, Jimmy makes a last attempt at looking presentable. Straightening his tie, brushing himself off and trying his best to look like someone who hasn't lived in the same suit for the past six years, (Angelic dry-cleaning doesn't quite cut it, sorry Cas.) Once he's satisfied with his attempts, he'll tuck the tablet under his arm and carefully make his way out the door and onto the streets of Taxon.

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Welcome Home?

The first thing John realized was that the air was clean. Too clean to be London, at least anywhere in London he would frequent.

The second thing he realized was that his lungs were clean, too. He reached for a cigarette, and stopped. He didn't even smoke.

Wait, since when? Cancer sticks were his last great trick, a final "jag off" to the forces which wanted to kill him personally. Plus, when the lords of Hell won't let you die, why not smoke up? Cancer wasn't anywhere near his concern list anymore.

What was the top of his list was where the Hell--literally, perhaps--he was.

"Okay John, who is it this time?" He asked himself, and scoured his memories for an answer. What he found there was no help. There'd been the fight to free Cheryl's soul, and then...Zee? Something about Enchantress, and...his head pounded like he'd been on a several-day blender.

"New tactic. Find out who this is later--find out where you are for now."

It shouldn't have taken him this long to actually survey his surroundings, but now that he did, he found himself in a gray room. A large light hung over his head, out of reach, and a door was opened in one of the walls. He checked his watch, and there was the biggest surprise yet.

"What the bloody..." He was too surprised to finish. The 'watch,' if you could call it that, was more like a bracelet, and when he touched it, a large screen came out. It was like the cell phone from Hell. And he didn't even have a cell phone.

He shook the watch from his mind and tried to focus once more. A gust of wind blew his coat close to him--perhaps a message to just get on with it already?--and he felt a little more secure with his trenchcoat pressed against him.

"No one ever learned anything by sitting still and playing dumb despite how many times I told them to, right mate?" He steeled himself--quite literally, he reached into the metal surroundings and pulled on them, actually using the steel to brace himself, and stepped through the door.

"All right you bastards, you wanted me, you got me."

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[location: Sanctuary] take your protein pills and put your helmet on

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?

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[visual: all > location: Kelebek Hotel] Town Hall

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.]]

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[location: Metody's house | closed]

Horst hasn't been to Metody Green's new house much. He's walked past it a few times, smiling at the cheery, bright pink-ness of it, but that's often been in the middle of the night, when he expects people like Metody to be fast asleep, and his own house has one too many Johanneses in it for Horst's liking. It's amazing the gift solitary people have for driving other people away in droves.

Even so, he notices a new addition that draws him up short, etched into the fabric of the ground: this house has been warded.

Horst knows the ward, too; it's one of the same ones that's on his house, laid there by his intrepid and infinitely paranoid brother. This one is a blood ward against the unholy. Horst is still slightly bitter about it, in fact.

Unfortunately, Horst is also considerably hampered in his plan to knock on Metody's door because of this ward. Instead, and feeling his dignity abandon him by the second, he settles for standing on her sidewalk after dark, hands cupped around his mouth, and shouting at the front of her house.

"Miss Green! Miss Green!"

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04 [location: boardwalk by the beach; later: the dodgy jammer]

Make a hat, and get it to work...then I go home. At the time it had seemed crazy...mostly because it was explained to her at gunpoint. But if this works she's going to track Jefferson down, thank him, apologize for clocking him, and then maybe ask if he's ever heard of a place called Taxon.

The hat Emma's made isn't exactly stylish, sort of a misshapen bucket hat, but it fits on her head and as she'd sewn she'd thought of her family and Storybrooke's occasionally-blowing-up streets and the quaint waterfront. It's this last that inspires where she'll make her first attempt, and so she heads for the seaside.

It's a festive place with a boardwalk, midway games, souvenir shops and bars, umbrellas and lounge chairs. The lighthouse looms, the sun shines, the waves lap the beach, the Extras are all a bit more orange with their fake tans, and Emma marches across the planks. She's an incongruous figure, dressed in the outfit she arrived in, her (father's) sword slung across her back, gun at her hip, and a poorly-made bucket hat on her head.

She finds a quiet spot to crouch down and sets the hat top down on the boards. An Extra immediately drops a couple arcade tokens into it. Emma grits her teeth, pockets the tokens, and tries to remember what Regina had done. She take s a deep breath, grips the brim, and with a flick of her wrist tries to set the hat spinning.

Nothing happens. Nothing happens the next time either, or all the other attempts she makes through the day. Not on the boardwalk, not at the balloon pop, not in the arcade, not by the water gun game, not on the Ferris wheel. By mid afternoon she's got nothing to show for her troubles but a little sunburn, a grumpy mood, and a giant pink and orange rabbit plushie.

Disheartened, Emma makes her way to the Dodgy Jammer to open the pub for the night. She turns on the lights, puts the handles on the taps, takes the chairs from the tables, and turns the sign on the door from closed to open. On a whim she puts the rabbit on the stage and plops the hat on its head.

"It's a Mad March Hare Hatter," she remarks to herself and heads back to the bar, giving the back of Glitch's old chair a touch as she passes.

ooc: wow this was ramble-tacular. bother her anywhere through the day or evening!

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No More Songs [visual |backdated to the morning after Glitch's post]

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."

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10 - Spare a little something for a man in need...? [Visual]

Spike appears on everyone's tablets. He's not wearing the jacket, since he's still trying to figure out how to fix it from the demon fight. It feels a little strange to be without it but he's still a fashionable man. The true difference, though, is that he looks almost a little bashful, perhaps nervous. It doesn't help that his movements aren't entirely correct and that he still seems injured.

"So, this most recent crisis has made me realize that I should probably ask for some help. While I've been here, I've been hunting deer in the forest for food," Spike pauses and glances down toward his feet for a few moments, "I'm not healing as I'm used to and I think it's the thin blood. I know that there's some official something or other but I haven't been paying it much mind."

He clears his throat and looks more directly at the tablet, pulling himself together, "So if anyone feels like donating once in awhile, I'd appreciate it." Uncertain how to go any further, he waves his hand vaguely in the air and turns off his the transmission.

Or at least he thinks he does. The tablet keeps broadcasting him for a little while longer, apparently making his way, hobbling, through Sanctuary.

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(no subject)

'Kind' isn't the same as 'wise', and Metody is extraordinarily conscious of this as she hesitantly approaches Nuada's airy home, aided by the wonders of her comm.

Somehow, she expected him to live in a towering castle on a grand estate, like a combination of Art Nouveau and Versailles. The warehouse comes as a surprise, but this is where his location beacon thing says he is.

She lingers at the end of the street, her desire to do the right thing warring with her instinct of self preservation, then sighs and trudges forward. She's already made up the care basket, and finding an organic market for the fruits and vegetables had cost her a f- a dang fortune. Obtaining the meat had been easier, but it was no less expensive, in the long run. It would be stupid to do all the work and then turn back now.

Metody lifts her hand, and gently taps at his front door. If there are gods here (but there aren't, because she'd sense them) and if they listened to her prayers this morning (of course they didn't), he will be soundly asleep and she can just leave the basket on the doorstep, and trust to the blue ice to keep the neatly wrapped packages of meat cold.

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[location: Central]

First A. Then D, E, and G, in perfect fifths. Sooner or later, life does have to go on.

Sherlock Holmes raises the pitch pipe to his lips and blows D, E, and G, shrill and pronounced in the summer air. He prefers to tune those in relation to one another and to A, generally, not by the pipe, but it never hurts to check his strings against them.

He fusses minutely with the fine tuners, leaned against the wall. His case is at his feet. Though he expects only Extras' custom today, the look of the thing matters. To him, at least. Unlike most of the matters he deals in, there are no absolute truths in violin tuning: only the perfect fifth, one in relation to another. One may vary the tuning as much as one pleases, as long as one varies them all. Sometimes he experiments with a particular scordatura for a time; generally he tunes just a fraction brighter than G-D-A-E, though, for clarity of sound and because he doesn't expect company in harmony.

The truth is, as much as he likes to play his violin, he would rather be doing it somewhere else right now. Squirreled away indoors in the heart of one of these abandoned buildings, maybe, where he can practice in peace and pretend the city is empty until he gets tired or slinks off to Jeremy's for food, either/or. Saying hello to the other prisoners in Taxon is not his idea of fun just today.

But he generates all of his income busking. Besides, on some level he supposes he owes it to the others to make himself available, for questions or tirades or whatever else they see fit. So Sherlock keeps his odd hours, ignores his tablet (with exceptions), and keeps more than ever to himself: except on his usual odd-numbered afternoons and even-numbered evenings, where he sets up somewhere on the Taxon streets and plays his violin, to raucous and randomly-generated Extra applause.

[ooc: corresponding to dien's everybody come yell at jason post, here's my everybody come yell at sherlock post! fire away!]

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[location] Jason's house

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]

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[Video] [Location: Birdhouse]

Paul's cleaned up the infirmary from wounded elf-boy. He's been to the plaza to see the damage, and he has, via a few questions, gotten a general idea of what the hell went down. Very general, but it's enough to give him a good old-fashioned Earth-style migraine.

He's had his eight cigarette of the morning by the time he decides to broadcast. It's not an impulse decision, despite the fact that many of Paul's decisions may seem such.

Visual floods. Paul's in the infirmary, which he has restored to order; and he looks very chipper.

"So, Taxon! In wake of the recent nasssstiness, it occurs to me I may have never properly introduced myself and my Chateau du Merde D'oiseau."

He waves a hand around. "This is our infirmary. We spent time here patching up Blondie when he got his arm ripped off the other day. It is a happy place full of morphine and other such goodies. It is the closest thing we in the city have to a functioning hospital, and you should know it's here. I am, arguably, your chief surgeon. Consign your souls to whatever you worship, regarding that.

"My home also has weapons, foodstuffs, and other emergency supplies. In case of crisis, it is rendezvous point numero uno. I apologize for the fact that this does not seem to have been information disseminated at large-- it's been a couple... months?" (more than that, Paul) "--since our last big Briefing meeting."

Deep breath. Paul considers his 9th cigarette, but he doesn't let himself smoke in the infirmary.

"With all of that said, does anyone here want to discuss the utter bug-nut clusterfuck of the last few days? Because God knows I really don't like trying to stabilize amputees if it can be fucking avoided, and it seems there is some bullshit that needs discussing in this city."

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(no subject)

The sun is ambling towards the horizon when there is a polite knock at the Cabal's door. And standing outside is a Metody, small, tired, eyes red-rimmed with the day's crying, and carrying an ominous stack of books and notepads.

At least the suit is packed away in her massive backpack? In it's place, she's wearing some horrific pink fantasy of business casual, because Metody has apparently decided to become survivalist barbie.

Her hair's in a no nonesense bun. Run, Johannes.

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[Location] [Big Brawly Doom] ~nighttime~

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.

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[Visual] [To everyone]

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.]