taxonomites | Entries tagged with wyatt cain

Suddenly, the lemon sun is high in the sky and all the cocoa-dusted shadows are short, so it must be noon. There is singing in the distance, but the songs never get too far. A few lines in, something interrupts, there's a scream and the singing stops. A moment later, it starts again in a different voice.

( So many bad rhymes )

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!!

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."

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. )

theextras

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

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

Taxon is very quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

theextras

It's the second day of the heavier snow. Taxon citizens are still moving about their business-- trudging through the deepening snow-- and Taxonian children are out on the white streets, school canceled for the day. Many of Taxon's broader streets have been turned into impromptu sledding areas, or battlegrounds for snowball wars.

At least at first. As the day carries on-- and the snow continues to fall, soft and silent, even the most exuberant of children begin to drift inside for hot cocoa and the chance to warm up.

The late afternoon sky is gray with clouds that promise no respite anytime soon. Sunlight seems a vague memory, and the white flakes continue to drift down... and down... and down.

hasaheart

As per usual every morning with his first cup of coffee, Cain checks his tablet and the list of names cataloguing all the residents/fellow prisoners of Taxon, old and new and present. He doesn't get past the letter A. His mug, his tablet fall from limp hands; the hot coffee spilling over his legs doesn't register until much later.

Once his hands stop shaking, he sends a text message to Glitch. Az is gone. She's gone.

Another few minutes later, he writes another message, hesitating for a moment before sending it. What does it matter? Who cares? Was she ever here to begin with? What's to say she was? When he's gone and Glitch is gone (like DG), and everyone who ever knew her is gone, who will have a clue she was ever here?

He swallows through a painful lump in his throat, and clicks the 'send' icon on the tablet screen.

For those of you who knew her, Azkadellia has gone home. For those of you who didn't, she was just like the rest of us. She had a past, and was making the most of her present, to the best of her abilities. She was family. She'll be missed.

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!

trojanhorst

Horst Cabal (or, according to the listed name on the Taxon map that people can actually see, Horst Brauer) has had an eventful first day in Taxon. He's gotten a shiny new bracelet, sat down for tea and chitchat and househunting with a supernatural librarian, walked around a city of the future, and picked out a temporary home for himself. That last was more than a little harrowing, in his opinion -- he arrived at his new residence just near the airstrip, placed his hand on the lock, and was promptly greeted by a man and a woman and their large dog. The man welcomed him in and wished him good evening while the woman snapped the leash on the dog. They already had their coats on. "Good evening," Horst remembers saying to them, "I'm Horst Brauer. What's your name?" The man and the woman had given him bland looks and introduced themselves and their dog like a pre-scripted theatre routine. Then they'd wished him luck, and the Winslows had gone down the walkway, through the wrought iron front gate with their dog tugging them away on the sidewalk, and they very politely allowed Horst Cabal to steal their home without so much as a backward glance.

Two o'clock in the morning is awfully late to be out walking your dog, Horst remembers thinking.

He can't shake that last image of the Winslows -- the man with a smoking pipe in his mouth, the woman with a smart little veiled cap tilted jauntily on her head. Shiny white shoes and a pointelle apron. The dog's ears waving back and forth.

He'd changed the sheets on their bed before sleeping in it, even though Long had led him to believe that Extras didn't always lead full enough lives to actually use all of the things they appeared to own. It just seemed more respectful.

Then he'd wandered for a few hours, meeting a strange, otherworldy man hammering some kind of sword. That had been a long day.

Today, his second day, he can only hope will be a bit quieter. There's less he needs to do, for the time being, but he still needs to make an effort to fit in for the moment, until he eventually finds a way to escape. That in mind, he's taken back out into the city to learn a little bit more about life in Taxon.

For the past three hours, Horst has been riding the tram line back and forth. For the most part, he alternates between flipping through the pages of a large stack of magazines with studious concentration, or poking warily at the screen of his tablet as though it's a sleeping viper he expects might wake and jump out at him at any moment, or standing at one of the tram windows, staring out at the passing cityscape in obvious fascination and wonder. Occasionally, the train comes to the end of the line in one direction or the other, and Horst looks up from one of these activities for a moment, delighted that the tram ingeniously starts moving itself again in the opposite direction, without having to rotate on a turntable or hitch its cars to a new locomotive at all -- so clever! -- but then he returns to whatever he was doing the minute before with a self-amused shake of his head.

The tram makes all its regular stops quite faithfully, but Horst never makes any attempt to disembark. At this rate, it looks like he might, in fact, just as soon ride the tram for another few hours.

hasaheart

There's a man standing guard by the bridge at the very edge of Central, right by the Miskatonic river and the bridge leading across into the raucous, suspiciously active land beyond.

That man is Wyatt Cain, former Chief of Security to one of the most important men in his homeland, former cop in Central City, once a husband, now a widower, still a father. He isn't standing here because he wants to, or even because he cares all that much about what lies beyond this bridge.

A cold wind blows from the west, and he ducks his head away. These long winter months never agree with him, but still he is here, with his revolver in its hip holster, with his shotgun hanging from his shoulder, and a newly sharpened axe bobbing against his clavicle for every step he takes. To and fro, there and back again, suspicious blue eyes glancing across the water at the slightest sign of potential danger.

He isn't here for the credit, or even the gratitude, should he be able to keep something untoward from making it across.

He's here because he needs to be. He's here just in case he has to be.

Most of all, he's standing vigilant because it's one thing to choose adventure (or be rescued right into it, like he was some two years ago); it's another thing entirely to be ambushed by it. Those who choose to stay in their chosen residences, in their own beds, will sleep soundly tonight - and every night to come - knowing there's someone fairly well suited to the task out there.

Keeping an eye out.

skinandbone

Metody has reached a breaking point.

This delusion is not fading. If anything, it is becoming stronger and more elaborate. There are more people now, not just the disturbingly hordes of empty people that Metody can write off as the repetition of a hallucinating mind, but real people. They have histories and motivations and they interact in strange ways, and they are so intricately real that he cannot explain them as echoes in his mind.

And there is detail. Every rock, every tree, every dried autumn leaf he can find - they're all different. Even things that are manufactured to be similar, like bricks, even those have tiny variations. A flick of lighter brick here, a different pattern of sooty inclusions, a little scrawl of dirt there - all different. And it all leads him to conclusions that make him feel overwhelmed and reckless, and massively self destructive. In another person, this might translate to wandering through traffic or climbing on ledges, but Metody has a more indirect form of risky behavior:

Somewhere in the city, there is a quiet flurry of clicks. Something scrapes at the mouth of a storm drain, and then a waving spine extends to quiver on the air. A moment later, the creature pours out after, tapping along on a multitude of skittering rib-legs, bold and open in the sunlight.

There are other creatures, elsewhere. In the library, a delicate mouse-thing darts along the tops of the shelves, peeking down at people with a multitude of eyes it doesn't have. In the forest, octopus-like things made of ringed pelvises and far too many spines writhe over rocks and trees. And in the sewers, the heavy dog-like skulls splash down the tunnels, lurching on their too-many legs. All of them spread out, dragging or darting, ranging through Taxon in a dizzied search for the repeated patterns or hidden symbols that would prove it's all just a crazy dream.

aintnoconvict

"Hey everyone, Glitch here." Yeah starting out like that has gone beyond self-parody but if it ain't broke he's not gonna try and fix it.

If anything of late has been (for lack of a better word) broken, it's been himself. The winter, particularly January and February, particularly when it's as bitter cold and snowy as it's been, saps his energy, curiosity, and drive. In their place are ennui, sulking, and hopeless dread since this time of year typically brings out the worst in the aliens. To avoid inflicting his moodiness on the population he's mostly avoided his tablet and only kept company with his nearest and dearest, but he knows himself enough to realize the need to break out of his self-imposed isolation.

Plus he'd very nearly spilled his coffee when he'd checked tablet this morning and seen a few names he hadn't realized he'd been missing. Later he'll probably go punch an Extra, if only to keep up with his traditional reaction to these kinds of shenanigans.

"I see a few of you have been returned and...I'm glad." He smiles sheepishly at his selfishness, but it's nice, really, to be that much less alone here. "Az, if you're up for it, we should have tea. Everyone else: I'm kinda thinking we need a gathering that includes alcohol and music. And comfy couches. I'll see about getting that together this week cuz...well, why not?"

Legit question, really.

"And, uh, with Mick gone-- " A pause because that one stings a bit. "--we're out a doctor again and need to figure out what resources we have. I know some folks know first aid but if anyone gets really hurt..."

That can dangle as a thing he doesn't want to think about too hard.

untoldtale

"What is that?" Emma whispers, staring at the purple smoke speeding through town from the forest.

Beside her is Henry, the boy who moments before had been dead (a thought which fills her with emotions she can't name or tolerate), the boy with all the answers. He's staring along with her and shakes his head. "Something bad."

Before she can ask what that means the smoke fills the window and her vision, and when she blinks it, Henry, and in fact the entire hospital are gone. Instead there's a circular metal room, some steps leading down to an opening doorway, a big machine thing, and a pedestal with a familiar sword and scabbard leaning against it.

"What. The. Hell." She reaches for the gun holstered under her jacket, remembers that a) the clip is empty and b) how useless it was last time she employed it, and strides over to pick up the sword instead. This doesn't look like any fairy tale she's heard of, but the past few days have taught her to prepare for anything. Awkwardly she pulls the scabbard's strap over her shoulder, trying not to think too much about her three awkward dates with Ken the LARPer from South Bend.

Though maybe she should have paid more attention to all his talk about the best way to kill an orc.

"All right, Regina, whatever you've done, whatever you've got planned--" She steps out of the doorway, then whirls back around as it seals itself up again. What now? Guards? Wolves? The flying salamanders of Zo?

"Who's there?" she calls and starts down the hall, reaching back to (again, awkwardly) draw the sword. She adjusts her grip until it feels right. "I swear to God if you've done anything to my son I'll shove this thing straight up your ass!"

Later she'll regret how cliche that is but now's not the time for creativity.

~*~

Sometime after getting the low-down...

theextras

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

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

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

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

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

theextras

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

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

theextras

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

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

Live. Turkeys.

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

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

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

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

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

"Make it a good one! Be thankful!"

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

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

For now.

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

no_rose_tint

When the supplies run out, Scott's faced with the obvious dilemma that he needs to move.

He's done okay on his own. Logan helped set up the fortifications before the chaos of the body swap, and they've served him well.

But it's time to get moving.

He digs out his weaponry. He tucked it away after the mirror city debacle, just in case. And just in case has just arrived.

With his tablet on his wrist to give him audio instructions as he asks for them, Scott ventures into the streets, hand on the wall of the building and kopesh in hand, ready to deal with anything that thinks it can try and take of piece of him.

Being blind has never stopped Scott Summers. And it certainly isn't going to now.

genequeen

It took some time to get out of Jason's house.

And once she was out of his house, she didn't go back to her house. It felt too strange to go back to the house she's been living in with Scott, so she ended up at the airplane hangar. It wouldn't be the first time she's gone out to the hangar and stayed out there for a significant portion of time.

Except when she wakes up this morning, she's not alone in the hangar.

Peeking out of the airplane window, she sees a dinosaur. Carefully, she reaches down and turns on the tablet. Carefully, she looks down at the tablet before trying to send the images outside of the plane to everyone else in Taxon.

"Help. Please."

There might be more than one out there.

"I'll stay right here."