[Location] Metior Tram Line

[smecker]

He can't sleep, and normally Paul would put on some music and read, or clean, or work on something in the birdhouse that needs doing. But at the moment all his projects are halfway to completion waiting weigh-ins from others, and the place is spotless, and he doesn't care to read for pleasure in Taxon.

And he doesn't have his music.

Comments

[colacherri]

Cherri smells like Taxon-brand fast food and liquor and cheap perfume (that certainly isn't his own) and that's quite alright by him. In fact, he almost welcomes familiar scents that aren't dust and Power Pup and week-old sweat. He's in a 90's style ski jacket, something with atrocious neon colours that make it easy to spot him a mile away, and for some reason he's twisted garbage ties into his hair. He's got an Extra under one arm, though, who's lipstick is on his cheek as he holds a super-sized drink in the other. He's not going to sleep with the girl, of course--she's not News, for one, and for another she's kinda ugly, but it's nice to snuggle up to something warm as he's waiting for the tram

[smecker]

Paul's still running on adrenaline, on a horror that is entirely foreign to his (mostly) rational, (mostly) scientific brain. Been in Taxon for a year, yes, and there's been zombies and vampires and all that shit but that all... belongs to Taxon, it has nothing to do with life, with the real world, with who he is.

Frank's a different fucking story. Ghost story. Fuck. Fucking fuck and suddenly there's someone way too close to him, in his space, Paul registers bright colors and a lipglossed smile that seems to have a lot of teeth right now.

Reaction kicks in before brain: Paul lifts a hand to the center of the skinny chest before him and just shoves, distance, put some distance the fuck there.

"Back off."

[colacherri]

"Getcher own sandwhich." Cheri's shoved, and it's not like he isn't used to it--hell, he was expecting it. He catches himself easily, nimbly, looking more and more like a cat as he straightens himself up, brushing invisible dust off of a horrid ski jacket. His drink has spilled, and that's what triggers a dramatic change in facial expression--mouth open, eyes wide, horrified like Paul had just murdered a friend. A close relative.

"I was thirsty," he's whining, or at least was, because in a brief second his face shifts back to something resembling Cherri's idea of neutrality--there's a lazy smirk on his face and his eyes are taking everything in.

"So? So? Gonna share with the class which ghost of christmas whatsit you saw? Ooooorrrr are you gonna turn heel in your fabulous wedged shoes?" A pause.

"..wow, those really are nifty."

[smecker]

Paul takes in the whole figure before him now, not just impressions and colors, but the whole guy from the hair to the dated jacket to... the hair again, okay, Jesus Christ, what is Taxon now, San Fran?

Paul's still breathing hard but there's no weapon that he can see, and the tram is pulling away. It's bullshit, it was nonsense, he was seeing things, that's all. Deeeeep breath. Goddammit, he's a professional.

"Who the hell are you? --and you can't have my fucking shoes."