"And I realized I did want a drink, after all." (circuit_four) wrote in fluorocrash,
"And I realized I did want a drink, after all."

  • Music:

Turn 2: Studio 54-40 Or Fight!

The battle is on, and DJ Profett is up against the wall. The Medusa's once-tame vinejacks are slotted firmly up in the Profett's bank of ports, reducing the sounddroid's voice to a silent thrum along xis circuits. Sticky, cash-green tendrils fondle covetously at the tiny metal rims, randomly blocking channels as it scrabbles for a direct input into its protege's mind. <<easier the first way take what we can get just need that pretty face commodify commodify>>

On the outside, the battle isn't going any better. The anathema can't silence Profett's style, but it can bite it like an expert. It's like it's got some kind of eldritch trend-whore judo, never resisting the jackalraptor's beats when cribbing them will do. Anything Profett does, just ends up belching out of sickly speakerbark, harsher, darker, baser, swaggering and thuggish.

[Meliph, Profett:]
The one-doe band has fallen beneath the Medusa's notice, her career safely critiqued out of existence. But it never counted on her comeback as a duo. With a fresh, clean soundsource, Profett can switch tracks and lose the Medusa's beat. A crackling white-metal speedriff is all it takes to turn the tide; the resulting feedback frightens off half the crowd and deep-fries several of the Medusa's tendrils, eliciting a howl of indignation that makes the local geometry wince in sympathy. There's a familiar flutter of jamming souls, and suddenly it's a supergroup: Meliph and Profett's plasmate Nix provide the samples, Profett and the doe's hidden Maestro do post-production.

But as far as the Medusa and its new fans are concerned, it's all for nothing. By the time its challengers have found their harmony, it's already lured another club zombie out of the crowd. She's a sneering, dreadlocked vulpine, toasting to sinister green-eyed dub on the platform where Profett used to spin. She basks in the attention it brings, letting the Medusa snake up inside her, riling up the crowd with shaken fists. Meliph and Profett's awesome Wall of Thrash is enough to shelter a small niche of refugees, but they can't match the Medusa's Cog budget for sheer volume.

[Cerulean, Khroma:]
As the brutal ego-rave swallows the otter up, his message goes in deep, flashing hypnotically right in the heart of the mob. Wakefulness spreads quickly through the crowd. The saboteur himself stands there slack-jawed at the new pop-star's commercial rap, seriously pondering if he should buy the new cellular mojo she's pimping for the audience. For a moment, it looks like his fading assertion of autonomy will be what saves the crowd... and indeed, it swells the ranks of the independents behind Profett and Meliph's sound wall. There's another mob forming, this one of liberated ravers who seem to have tackled Khroma to the ground and buried him in a pile of grateful hugs -- a group that, thanks to a sudden hindbrain twitch courtesy of Meredith, includes her host. >> NEVER say I've never done anything for you.

But within heartbeats, the Medusa's cubenet is blasting the very same images from Cerulean's montage. <<A STAR AMONG STARS. SHE IS COOL. THINK FOR YOURSELF. THIS IS WHAT'S COOL.>> The slogans throb seductively underneath the image of the anathema's new protege, as she harangues the crowd to get up and find something to define itself against. How about... the pretentious fucks gathered around the doe and the jackalraptor?

[Falin Chen:]
Or, better yet, how about that poor lovestruck ox wading through the crowd? His peaceful intentions are no obstacle. The image is all that matters, and the moment his sword his is drawn, the semblance of an angry, conveniently stodgy-looking oppressor is . "Ha-ha! Do it for the underground, resist the clown who keeps you down!" croons the Medusa's idol, eyes glowing demonic green, tongue and tail turned into clusters of sinuous tendrils. "Think for your damn selves!" The crowd all turns inwards towards the ox, eyes full of the same Molten filth, tongues cloven into obscene waggling things, and bops forward to assimilate the obvious threat to their individuality.

Amid the possessed and transformed, the chameleon lurches in party-drunk step towards the prescribed threat. His innate powers have completely betrayed him, blending him right into the mass of seething, beat-driven bodies, gibbering inane lyrics in planty tongues. Deep below the threshold of his understand, a pair of voices bargain back and forth:

We appreciate your creative aspirations, you know, but you're trifling in matters beyond your rights.

All right, all right, baby, calm down. We can cut a deal, can't we?

Yes. That sounds reasonable. We are prepared to bargain for the release of our agent.

Favor to be named later?


We can accept this.


Sense, purpose, and independent form return instantly to the lizard, along with a sinking feeling that his harsh existence has just gotten harsher.

Meanwhile, curiously unmoved by the either faction's drivel, the Lost Girl scrounges the battlefield. There are a few useful bits: a compact mirror full of green eonite dust (not your color, dear); a forlorn little fire sylph bottled in a butane lighter, weeping for her owner; and a little blue business card layed flat on a tabletop. It says, in large block lettering, "Duck, please."

The next moment, a beam of pink light crosses the place which may or may not still be occupied by Kessie's head. The zap is heralded by a thump, precisely reminiscent of four boot heels of fantastic craftsmanship, plus one large and confused dog, hitting a very large plastic disk. "Scatter, please," growls one of the slim and pretty fennecs, running a fantastic glove through xir fantastic champagne-colored hair. "Constabulary business," calls the other through a smirk. Nobody seems to be paying them much attention.

Neither sandfox looks the faintest bit alarmed by the grotesque scene. Neither does the green-striped coyotegirl, whom the fennecs are holding on a tight leash. Indeed, she just scratches blankly at her tattered clothing, barks something just short of words, and lopes lazily through the crowds. Whenever anybody is about to get in the way, the trio simply disappears and reappears someplace closer to their destination. Every so often, the coyote howls and scratches at someone in the crowd. One of the fennecs promptly points cocked finger and thumb at the one chosen, mutters a few words of arrest, and pronounces the word "Pow."

The beam of pink light leaves only a faint halo where, in order, Boko, Cerulean, Khroma, Falin Chen, Green (who had lapsed back into being comfortably imaginary until the coyote sniffed her out), Meliph, and Profett had stood. Once that's accomplished, the fennecs erect another pink lightpole and ride it under they're out of sight, tugging the coyote ragamuffin along with a yelp. They do precisely nothing about the Medusa.

The seven, maybe eight of you, wake up in a forest clearing full of eye-searing psychedelic colors. There's no sky overhead, just the shimmering silver upper-pool of the station cylinder. You are surrounded by plants and animals and things halfway in-between, whose outrageous forms have obviously never seen the threat of natural selection. Some of them bear an astonishing resemblance to a healthy version of the Medusa, stripped of all its electronics.
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Kessie regards the card with vague puzzlement, and is on the verge of tossing it aside when she feels the hairs on the back of her neck start to stand on end. She glances around warily, only to be half blinded by the blaze of pink light.

She's never exactly been one to follow instructions.

The card rests in the electric-blue clover by her twitching fingers. Her ears twitch as she comes to, taking in the soft twittering and rustling of the forest. Without lifting her head, she glances around, ready to give someone a good hard shot with a hoof if need be. If nothing else, it would calm her nerves.
(OOC: Oops, wasn't logged in. Also: best turn title ever.)

Kessie regards the card with vague puzzlement, and is on the verge of tossing it aside when she feels the hairs on the back of her neck start to stand on end. She glances around warily, only to be half blinded by the blaze of pink light.

She's never exactly been one to follow instructions.

The card rests in the electric-blue clover by her twitching fingers. Her ears twitch as she comes to, taking in the soft twittering and rustling of the forest. Without lifting her head, she glances around, ready to give someone a good hard shot with a hoof if need be. If nothing else, it would calm her nerves.
Khroma falls easily under the pile of cuddly ravers, soft body not much up to the challenge od staying upright under such a nice onslaught, even if he'd wanted to. He's rather lost to the late developments in the area, at this point, basking in the attention, and quite content to figure he'd at least done something to improve things, spontaneous cuddle-puddles on the dance floor are always a good sign.

By the time the canid squad shows up, he's well into the cuddling, passing out and recieving various items of sparkle and glow, completely oblivious to the search, until one snuggle-partner, Cerulean, dissapears.. but there's only time for a moment of confusion there, as he soon follows, fading in bright pink light and popping in right next to the otter, elsewhere.

There's plenty more to be confused by, at this point, not quite the end to the party he'd hoped. He takes a moment to just look around the place, snuggling in with the otter, happy that the odd circumstances have provided that, at least. But really, where's the music?
The blue otter blinks, eyes suddenly full of the particular tiredness usually associated with a long sleep. His head aches, particularly susceptible to migraines due to the added burden on his synapses of the additional parasite meme. Sure, she's a bitch sometimes...but he has the impression she just did him a favor. If he could remember what it was, he might even consider thanking Meredith.

It probably has something to do with the cushy padding of blue fur he's laying on. He opens his eyes some more and finds that he's lounging cuddled up next to a big canine plush, whose blue color compliments the otter's own rather well. The last thing he remembers clearly is setting loose the counter-meme and then getting lost in the crowd...and something about rock music. There is, of course, a great deal less music here.

Some pink flora catches his eye. Oh! Pink light. There was something about pink light. The otter takes in his surroundings, muttering more to himself for a moment, trying to sort out his memories. "No...wasn't the same intensity as a Valis beam...but it interrupted the fight. Weren't we winning? Damn Deus Ex Machina..."

He sits up carefully, trying to wake up further. Cocking his head to one side and listening, the music persists in its absence. Ceru glances over to the blue dog, smiling. "Uhhh, hi? Sorry, I seem to have landed on you. Any idea where we are?"
Khroma shifts a bit, to stay cuddled to Cerulean as the otter moves. "Mmm, hiya!" he says, voice youthful and a touch dreamy. "Hee, I don't mind, and you landed on me back at the dance too, and I didn't mind then either." The rounded muzzle grins broadly, showing no teeth, but a day-glow orange tongue lolls out the side, a bit. He looks around a bit more, at the question, pausing to take in his surrounding with a bit more thought.

"Mm, nope," is about all he can manage to say about the surroundings, though. "I think we WERE winning, though.." he observes, sounding wistfully disappointed.
It's just as well. Falin Chen had no idea what he was going to do when he got to the anathema, let alone how to deal with the culture zombies swarming him. He's less disoriented by the change in location than you might think: to him, one absurd place is much the same as another.

He sits up, shaking his head to clear it, and looks around. His allies from the dance are here, and no one else as far as he can see.

"Winning? No, I don't think so. Not against that. I think we were lucky to be taken away while we are still ourselves." He brushes himself off, making sure that Toad King of Lilies is safely stowed. Taking a box from his belt, he unfolds it once, twice, three times with the practiced ease of ritual. "Well, someone wants to talk to us. At least we can have can a civilized moment while we wait." Sitting crosslegged in front of the open box, he takes out a set of shallow bowls and a kettle, and as he begins to pour he asks, "What do you take in your tea?"
"Winning? No, I don't think so. Not against that. I think we were lucky to be taken away while we are still ourselves..."

Mumbling beneath the voice of the Ox is that of the Static Minstrel. It is an awkward, triangular sound, with a characteristic tinny bite. It remains below the threshold of Annoying half because xe's speaking to ximself and half because xis circuitry is sore. "Ourselves-- Still... my--" the speakerbox jackal's slurred words fall short as xe grasps for the right way to assemble the idea-fragments. Not that xe even knows what idea that is, anyway.

A gentle hum is emanating from somewhere within the creature, growing louder as xe laboriously props ximself up to survey the area. After straightening the large, round glasses that adorn xis sharkish pink muzzle and staring for a moment, it starts to set in that each port on xis body is mildly throbbing... And then it comes back to xim. Little bubbles of memory begin to burble forth from the back of xis mind, and with them, tiny thrums of sound relevant to each one murmur at a barely audible level through xis speakers. Crowd howlings, shrieks of ecstasy and upset, heavy throngs of Metal and Rock, burning white noise, and someone quietly crooning "...with us, immediately, for further..." "...don't bother with the..." "and... (beat) ...pow."

Xe's lost in xis effervescent little world, piecing together what had happened. It was clear that there had been a System Reboot, something Bad had happened, and that Xe and the strange acquaintances nearby to xim were involved, and... "Oh... oh, fuck me." With a shudder and a lurch xe thrusts ximself upward and blurts in a strange three-voices-at-once bark, "That was ME." ...Damn it, that was the wrong thing to say.

xe thumps down to xis knees with a crackle and a hiss, cupping xis achey skull with gloved paws. xis long ribbed desert-ears flatten backward, and after a moment, xe moves closer and reclines with slight hesitation across from Falin Chen. Speaking again to no one in particular, xe utters in xis standard one-layer buzzvoice, "That... wasn't me, I mean. I am still me, yeah? I don't even... huh," xe trails off again, attention caught by the tea-box. xe looks up meekly through cokebottle spectacles. "Please?"
You've got me to thank for saving you, you owe me for saving you and you'll be punished later, probably in the process of repaying it, so there's no use worrying about that right at the moment.

Since when had thinking for himself been the cool thing anyway, he'd grumbled to himself as he'd rubbed and shaken his head as he'd gotten back from his fall shortly after his senses had returned to him.

I heard that. You know I'd have heard that even if you hadn't said it. Now pay attention!

His left and right eye take in that two groups have formed, one comprised of a blue otter and indigo robo-dog, the other comprised of an ox and the pink jackal whose way with sound had caught his attention earlier on. The only lone party seems to be a doe, but she'd seemed a bit unapproachable even for his remarkable adaptative capabilities to have been enough for her. She'd be someone he'd have to work up his way to seeing through better - and someone to watch out for, perhaps.

The otter and dog had seemed to have developed a closer connection in a shorter amount of time than the ox and jackal had. Therefore the attention of the two former would have been trickier to divert from each other to him than the attention of the latter two who'd still been at the same level of introductory stage of social interaction with each other than he could have approached them at.

"I take my tea green, sir, with my most humble thanks. And, who else might you be other than your own self, if I may be so bold as to ask...?"
Meliph just holds a fermata. At some point, someone is bound to explain what the brown note is going on.