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eight_livesleft September 8 2013, 16:39:57 UTC
Here 's someone who can handle all the drama without batting an eyebrow. Carol, however, has momentarily lost track of her daughter, and is therefore much more focused on that than on the man, whom she doesn't realize is brand new.

And so... Here comes a woman, with very short hair that could pass for military, wearing however civilian beige cargo pants and an orange tank top, cropped with a loose open shirt. She's pretty but in the way of women who don't think they are, and is all au naturel.

"I'm sorry, officer, did you see a little girl about this tall? Blond hair, blue eyes, very shy?"

She's not overly worried: her daughter has a few friends now, and she was just supposed to meet her with one of them. They're probably just late, or maybe Carol's in advance. Always hard to tell the correct time, at the Mansion.

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snarky_canuck September 8 2013, 23:30:05 UTC
If there's anyone who can deal with Rodney's squawking and take it in stride, it's probably Carol (she could probably teach Zelenka a few tricks for dealing with Rodney). "Officer-- what? Do I look like I'm directing traffic? I'm trying to figure out where the heck *I* am," the newcomer retorts, his voice getting higher-pitched with frustration, which makes him sound a bit like an angry-perplexed teenaged kid. "Just *what* is this place?!"

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eight_livesleft September 9 2013, 03:49:36 UTC
Well, that's something. Carol raises an eyebrow, the situation's clear, and she shakes her head.

"... I see. You should probably sit down, and I will try to explain. Or you can keep flailing, and someone else will deal with you."

Her tone is very Motherly.

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snarky_canuck September 9 2013, 04:41:06 UTC
"Flailing? This isn't flailing: this getting misdirected to God knows where when I was in the middle of some important work and being completely lost," the new guy yaps back.

He'll pause, let out a harassed sigh, then close the cover-flap on the tablet case, then draws in a breath or two. "Deep breaths. Deep breaths. All right, where was I? Oh yeah, where am I?"

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eight_livesleft September 9 2013, 06:17:36 UTC
Carol, to put it simply, waits for the show to be over.

"You are at the Mansion. It's not on Earth, wherever it is. And before you start panicking, don't blame me, I'm in the same position as you are."

After that, she waits, expecting another fit of unpleasant motor-mouthing.

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snarky_canuck September 10 2013, 05:45:49 UTC
And he does put on a show when he's supposedly calming down... Also, the typist is now ROFLing at the "unpleasant motor-mouthing"! Best descriptor of his speechifying.

"Okay, in that case, let's start with a few basics: Whose Mansion is it and, if this isn't Earth, what planet is this?" he asks, getting right to the point for a change.

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eight_livesleft September 11 2013, 02:12:19 UTC
"No-one's, and nobody knows," Carol replies, simply. "Consider this a bit of a deserted island colonized by the stranded."

He's definitely not from home. He can't be.

He wouldn't survive a day facing the walkers, if he's that emotional.

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snarky_canuck September 16 2013, 04:09:57 UTC
And now the typist and several of McKay's headmates would love to see a zombie outbreak at the Mansion, just to see how Dr. Motormouth would handle it. He might surprise us. Or not. Hmmmm....*

"Great. That means, what exactly, there's no way back out of here?" he asks. "Because I kind of had some important work to do back where I *was*" The transporter malfunction seems much worse than he thought.

*Halloween crack plot in a state of becoming??

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eight_livesleft September 16 2013, 16:15:27 UTC
It would all depend on whether he'd make it through the first attack, we suppose. It's really a matter of adaptation.

"I'm sure you did," Carol replies patiently. "I'd like to help you if I can, but you gotta give me a chance here. I'm Carol Peletier, by the way, from Atlanta, GA."

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snarky_canuck September 23 2013, 22:20:53 UTC
He'll manage to stop motor-mouthing, a baffled look of concern crossing his face. "Am I ...talking too much?" he asks. "I'll pipe down. I get loud when I get nervous."

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eight_livesleft September 23 2013, 23:38:26 UTC
"You are," Carol replies. "But I understand. Now."

And this is her Mom tone.

"Sit down, please."

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snarky_canuck September 27 2013, 03:55:26 UTC
"Oh, sure... right..." he'll sputter, looking around for a chair, almost sheepishly now, and pulling it up, he'll sit down on it, a bit uncomfortably.

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eight_livesleft September 27 2013, 04:18:09 UTC
Carol looks appropriately satisfied, and sits too, so she can level with him.

"This is a place called the Mansion," she informs him. "It's... nowhere known, in fact. I don't even think it's on Earth."

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snarky_canuck September 28 2013, 03:07:45 UTC
He'll raise his eyebrows, partly alarmed, partly intrigued. "Not Earth? What is it, another planet? A parallel Earth?" he asks, curiosity starting to win over his alarm.

This could be interesting, but he's still getting the hang of it.

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eight_livesleft September 28 2013, 18:28:17 UTC
"Probably not," Carol replies. "And I'm not really the person best qualified to make that assessment. Here's what I can tell you about this place, whatever it is: here you will find creatures you weren't aware existed, or that you might have thought were fictional. You might meet people here that were dead to you at home. You might even witness unexplainable events, I'm told."

She looks at him, and decides to ask.

"I'm sorry, where did you say you were from?"

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snarky_canuck October 1 2013, 22:27:34 UTC
His thoughts will start racing as she describes all this: he's no stranger to meeting real world versions of mythic creatures (eg. the Wraith). Fictional beings? well, there was that strange world-building game that he and Sheppard found out to be more real than they thought. And unexplainable events usually have some explanation if you dig deep enough.

Maybe this is some Ancient outpost that was forgotten or just not recorded for whatever reason. Hm...

"Oh, me, right," he says, snapping back out of his head. "I'm Dr. Rodney McKay," he says, offering a hand to shake.

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