taxonomites | Entries tagged with selina kyle

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.

taxcollectors

The credits roll on Candy Taxon... the theme music winds down... and everything fades to black.

Morning comes. Taxon's back to normal. Every trace of sugar is gone; the Extras are no longer licorice or marzipan or sugar-cookie. The buildings are no longer edible.

Everything's fine.

Everything is super-normal.

The last thing you remember is the surreality of being candy, and now you're safe in your bed again. Back to being yourself.

The weird images you half-remember, when you close your eyes, of being laid flat on a table, of machinery poking at your skin and needles and a vague background vibrational hum-- the images of behind behind smooth glass, of your lungs being compressed for you, in-and-out-- the images of something other leaning over you while you laid motionless, unable to twitch-- why, all of these images are merely the remnants of some weird dream.

Maybe it was something you ate. (Especially if you were one of the Taxonians who nibbled on yourself.)

It's time to get up, Taxon.

And if your tablet calendar shows that a month has passed that you have no memory of, it's probably nothing to worry about.

And if your body aches like you ran a marathon of which you have no recollection, it's also probably nothing to worry about.

And if the lights seem too bright, and if you find yourself looking into a reflection that isn't quite right in the mirror, and if your dominant hand is now the opposite as you brush your teeth-- really. Nothing to worry about.

Good morning, Taxon. As always: welcome to the first day of the rest of your lives.

[OOC: Alright, kids, let's get back into ye olde saddles! You are back in your bodies... or are you? As described in the big plot post of doom, many characters in Taxon have undergone subtle biological changes as the aliens cram them into truly biological bodies for the first time. This is not a traditional 'plot', per se, but it is background weirdness that you are welcome to have your characters notice, theorize about, and be bothered by. Or to ignore. The 'side effects' can be different for every character: anything from a changed eye color to loss of muscle-memory. Have fun!]

skinandbone

The situation has become dire.

The river, once a sweet froth of lemonade and scoops of rainbow sherbert, has dried up. For a little while, the candy bed of it oozed with a gooey stream of melted sherbert and weakly flopping fish, but this, too, dried in the bright lemon sun. The fish quickly died, and now, with said sunlight beating full upon them, have started to putrify.

<s>Everything</s> Almost everything here is sweet, and the rotten fish are no exception. The air is filled with a nauseatingly powerful smell of sticky candy, and now and then, the hot breeze stirs up swirling clouds of powdered sugar and flakes of dried sherbert. The overall effect is a bit like being in a snowstorm, except this one isn't cold, and also makes you want to throw up forever.

Other problems have cropped up. At first it seems a mild inconvienence, but even candy people need to drink: the taps and spigots of Taxon are dispensing nothing wetter than a few artistic sugar sparkles. All through the little village, people must figure out how to cope without hot and cold running cherry cola and froot jooce.

Worst of all, the Extras have started to sing again.
( singing! )

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!!

laughingmage

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."

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.]]

infinitelystranger

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!]

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. )

threelivesdown

After rescuing her tablet from being a cat toy again, Selina appears to anyone who is paying attention. She looks a little like she's just rolled out of bed, her hair is spiking up in a number of different angles. "Hey, so now that we've survived the attack of the evil ice bitch, wasn't there talk of a party or something? I could really use a party."

Isis leaps up onto her shoulder and peers down at the tablet from there, not content to let the thing go.

bub_snikt

To some, a familiar voice and memorable face - albeit one they haven't even thought about for quite some time - crackles into view on their screens.

"What the flamin' hell is goin' on in?! Where the hell did all this snow come from? And where the hell are all the damn hatch-maker things?"

His face looks strained, as if he's recently awakened from a long, heavy sleep that was somehow not all that restful.

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!

imperial_long

Normally Long is fairly good about locking those posts which he wishes to remain private. 'Normally', however, he doesn't wake up curled into a ball beneath some trees, on ground that definitely not a soft mattress, with a light snow falling, without a stitch of clothing on his person, and experiencing the massive vertigo-like disorientation that comes from having one's sensory experiences once again jammed down into a body that exists on a 1:20 scale to what he should have.

He is therefore a little muzzy when he sits up, takes stock of himself, realizes he is once again sans raiment, checks blearily to ensure there are neither zombies nor motorcycles in the vicinity, processes that he is cold, and after one whole minute of looking on his own opens an unlocked voice message to Sherlock Holmes. Probably he was putting so much energy into making sure he had it on voice and not on visual that the locking bit slipped by him.

"Mr. Holmes," he says, rich voice muddled and fuzzy as it almost never is, "exactly where did you leave my clothes?"

Have fun with possible misconceptions, Taxon.

(eta) As a point of interest, while Long is still technically on the north side of the bridge, a good deal of the faux-medieval landscape seems to have cleared out. Anyone visiting Adventure Zone will note that the terrain remains the same, but the castles, villages, and dungeons are gone. However.... one solitary mountain remains, a peak that superficially resembles the Matterhorn. The mountainside is white with snow, and more snow is gently drifting down on the hills and forests of the district.

personaldemon

[Locked to Selina/Horst] (two different texts, but identical wording in both save for the name)

Miss Kyle, (Mister Brauer,)

I apologize for my actions of the other day. I was under some duress, but this does not excuse my exorcising my difficulties upon your person.

In the future I shall be sure to leave instead.

-Jason Blood

********

He felt better.

This likely had something to do with what he'd been up to in the last several days in the pseudo-medieval landscape. He had found a sword, and an open hole in the earth in the side of a hill, with steps leading down into the dark.

( blah blah shlocky horror extra-killing behind the cut )

imperial_long

Good afternoon, Taxon: there is an enormous black dragon flying in lazy circles above the city.

Specifically, above the Northern District, that nebulous area currently masquerading as Fantasyland. After all, what's a good castle adventure without a dragon? Even if the dragon is distinctly Eastern in flavor rather than Western.

On the map, the dragon displays as Oolong. In the air, Oolong loops like a black ribbon, drifting down from the sky in long, rippling undulations as he scans the woods below for interesting things.

'Interesting things' qualify as sheep. Or deer. Or, perhaps, even a goblin here or there.

Either way, he's visible from anywhere in Adventure Zone... and for that matter, probably visible from parts of the regular city too.

[OOC: Oolong in da house! Long is currently a 90-foot-long Chinese imperial dragon. He still has his tablet on him. Feel free to approach him in any way from terror to glee.]

personaldemon

Taxon was a terrible place to be stuck with a demon in one's head.

( cut for length, over-the-top broody darkness horror shlock )

*****

And what, my dear, do you think you'll find
Here in this trope of swords and shields?
The answer's simple, although you're blind:
Say the words. Surrender. Yield.

Jason kept his eyes on the books he'd found. It was a wizard's tower, as stereotypical as Etrigan had said: something out of a paperback fantasy novel, utter rubbish, but the books were truly magical however covered in overdone runes and drawings of pentagrams they were. One was actually oozing blood. He supposed he could give it to the damned vampires if nothing in it turned out to be useful.

He flipped through pages, eyes scanning the writings quickly, hunting for anything worth carrying back with him. Most of them were in Latin. And most of them were rubbish. A love spell. Something to ward off bad dreams-- he might have bothered with that one, if not for the fact that he had a broad collection of such spells and they had never once worked on himself. Something claiming to be the famed formula for lead to gold, yes, yes, very good, he'd bloody well owned the Philosopher's Stone for a while--

Teeth bared in an unconscious snarl, Jason chucked the worthless book out the tower's slit window, hard as he could. It vanished from sight, presumably landing somewhere far below, on the grass that surrounded the tower. He turned his glare upon the remaining books, and the candle that burned sullenly atop a skull.

Light them on fire. They'd burn so well. Burn this trash, this useless tripe, this fucking farce of pointless paper, and 'wisdom' and 'knowledge' that didn't fucking help him--

Scorch! Smolder! Singe! Sear!
Bake! Broil! Blaze! Burn!
Immolate all that's here
Then let ME have my turn!

"Shut up," Jason snarled, slamming his fist against the table.

Calm, he needed calm, he needed air-- he wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve, pressed his cheek against the cool, rough stone of the tower wall, and tried to recite meditative mantras to himself.

threelivesdown

"So, ladies and gentlemen, of Taxon. I'm about to go into the crazy castle land and do some exploring. If anyone wants to come with me, you can meet me on the edge to the northern area. I'm planning on doing some exploring of the area, in general. I'd like to find a way into the castle at the very least but it seems that there are a number of different things that could be done."

That's code, of course, for Selina wants to go loot the castle but, well, that may or may not be obvious. She's planning on completely taking what it is she can take from it.

infinitelystranger

My flat was on a tram line before. -SH

Late at night, not long after 3AM or so, everyone in Taxon receives a text message notification. It seems someone's come out of his pause-glitch-induced reverie. But it's not his sense of time he's worried about or the foggy memories of disturbing, frog-on-the-dissection-table dreams, apparently: at least, not right now and not that he feels like broadcasting to Taxon. No. What Sherlock Holmes is spamming the rest of Taxon with right now is:

It was at the juncture of two tram lines, as a matter of fact. -SH

It's moved. -SH

Not showing any signs of letting up.

I'm not anywhere near any tram lines. -SH

I would never have chosen this flat. -SH

This is ridiculous. -SH

Consider this a letter of complaint. -SH

Nope.

A STRONGLY WORDED letter. -SH

Do the tablets have a block setting?