[holo] taxon wars episode one: a new nerd
[ holo ]
Scotland. They were fleeing to Scotland for their lives.
And Andrew was dreaming of hot pockets. Or rather, he was dreaming of a lack of hot pockets. Specifically, the empty box with a sticker attached, stating that this box should not be empty because the remaining hot pocket was Andrew's and Andrew's alone. He had gone out and bought that box for himself, he had laid his claim, and he was understandably upset to find someone had pilfered that pocket. He was not sure who to blame, only that the pilfered pocket had not been taken by Tucker - why, Dream Andrew could not say, because Dream Andrew wasn't sure if Tucker was downstairs with the Hellhounds or in jail, or college, or that nice institution he'd visited once - and that he himself had not eaten it.
Dream Andrew was also certain that it was not any of Italy Squad - because they knew better than to eat the food he picked for himself. The last time one of them had taken one of his snacks, they'd been left to cook for themselves and had quickly found that burnt chocolate chip pancakes were not all that appetizing for breakfast, and equally as disgusting for supper and late night snacks. He also knew that something important had just happened, and thus Italy Squad did not have the time to steal hot pockets. By that logic, the rational part of his mind argued that perhaps he didn't have the time to worry about this, but Dream Andrew dismissed this with a frown and turned to the next suspect..
It was not Faith who had taken it. He wished he had a good reason to give for this, but the only thing he could think of was that Faith was too far away. She would have taken it if she was there, he wagered, because she had already done so once before. The note then had even covered the entire box, and he had taken the time to print it much more clearly than he had on this one.
The final suspect was Warren. Why, Andrew couldn't say. He hadn't thought much about Warren since Sunnydale's collapse... but he supposed that if Warren had lobotomized Willow, like the rumors said, then it was entirely possible that he would steal a hot pocket without a second thought.
Warren always had been the evil one.
The culprit sitting on the couch of the - lair? Yes, that was indeed the lair. He took a moment to admire the building, absently wondering if any demons had decided to make the real one a home, before turning his attention to the person on the couch. It was dark, he only had a flashlight to guide him. The couch was not the couch of the lair, but was instead the stylish piece that the Summers' house had sported up until it had collapsed into the gaping maw of Hell.
Andrew, the figure said - he could see the hot pocket in their grasp. He could also see the blood dripping down the figure's hands, even in the dark. Hey, shine that over here, would you?
That voice was so familiar. But he hesitated, because something bad had happened and he knew better than to trust the tone of that voice.
Again, the figure spoke - the demand was louder, in a tone Andrew knew far too well... and, slowly, the blonde lifted the light to shine on them. A lipless grin slowly formed over exposed teeth and-
"Woah!"
Bolting upright in a move that would make Batman himself proud (or, well, ashamed), the Watcher jumped upright, swaying uncertainly on his feet just as surely as he was wavering between the realm between aware and unaware, sleep and consciousness, Fantasia and real- oh, nevermind, he was more than awake now. He scrubbed a hand hard over his face, not exactly cursing but mumbling a few choice phrases. "That was Hellraiser all over again," he groaned, immediately attempting to rid himself of the vision of Skinless Warren kissing Claire Higgins. "Ew, ew - I bet even Stephen King never had a dream like..." Still reeling, it took a moment for him to realize that no hands had pulled him back down to the safety of his seat - more than that, the floor wasn't rocking with the steady rhythm of the truck and he wasn't at immediate risk of falling to what would probably be an untimely death. Slowly sliding his fingers apart, Andrew gave himself several moments just to gape at the sudden shift in scenery. To go from the back of a truck, puttering slowly through the Italian countryside to a high tech facility is a pretty big leap, after all.
This was arguably out of a fanboy's fantasies. Undoubtedly alien technology, spread from wall to wall. Andrew couldn't help but step off the platform, turning in a wide circle even as he walked down the stairs, simply marveling at the wonder of alien technology - or, suddenly, he rationalized, perhaps the Initiative's. Nervously, he licked his lips, hands folding together, knuckles cracking as he worried them... Oh, oh god, what was that? He poked and prodded the immovable metal suddenly clapsed around his wrist, a frightened squeak escaping him. This couldn't be happening - this was a bad, bad dream. He was going to wake up. Any minute now.
"Ow!" Or, not. He rubbed the pinched area, turning again in a nervous circle. Not a dream... Not a dream... where did the girls go?
"Hey! Can anybody hear me?!" A pause. He listened to the sound echo back, shaking his head. "I come - uh, arrive in peace? Unless you're the, um, Initiative, then you'd better let me go or you aren't going to know what hit you! I've got powerful friends and - and I'm not afraid to... Oh! Phone!"
Ignoring the previous train of thought and threats, Andrew immediately pounced at the item, skidding into the table as the worn bottoms of his sneakers failed to catch a grip. Ungracefully, he thudded to the floor - rubbing his tailbone.
"Inner ear infection," the excuse came, though no one was around to hear it. Slowly picking himself up, he shook his head. "I'll just call someone to--," and he suddenly silenced, his gaze now drawn to the item propped up against the wall. The drawings were crude, by no means masterful or skilled in any way - the words hastily scribbled across the shiny white surface in markers of varying colors. Andrew recognized it in a heartbeat - but he was certain it had been lost when Sunnydale had gone totally No Mans Land.
A beat of silence. He considers this a moment, brows knitting together, mouth slowly going from an 'o' to a solid line. Then, balling his hands into fists, he allowed his outrage to be heard.
"I knew they would steal secrets that way!"
It was easier to focus on that than the possibility of entrapment and alien experimentation.
Scotland. They were fleeing to Scotland for their lives.
And Andrew was dreaming of hot pockets. Or rather, he was dreaming of a lack of hot pockets. Specifically, the empty box with a sticker attached, stating that this box should not be empty because the remaining hot pocket was Andrew's and Andrew's alone. He had gone out and bought that box for himself, he had laid his claim, and he was understandably upset to find someone had pilfered that pocket. He was not sure who to blame, only that the pilfered pocket had not been taken by Tucker - why, Dream Andrew could not say, because Dream Andrew wasn't sure if Tucker was downstairs with the Hellhounds or in jail, or college, or that nice institution he'd visited once - and that he himself had not eaten it.
Dream Andrew was also certain that it was not any of Italy Squad - because they knew better than to eat the food he picked for himself. The last time one of them had taken one of his snacks, they'd been left to cook for themselves and had quickly found that burnt chocolate chip pancakes were not all that appetizing for breakfast, and equally as disgusting for supper and late night snacks. He also knew that something important had just happened, and thus Italy Squad did not have the time to steal hot pockets. By that logic, the rational part of his mind argued that perhaps he didn't have the time to worry about this, but Dream Andrew dismissed this with a frown and turned to the next suspect..
It was not Faith who had taken it. He wished he had a good reason to give for this, but the only thing he could think of was that Faith was too far away. She would have taken it if she was there, he wagered, because she had already done so once before. The note then had even covered the entire box, and he had taken the time to print it much more clearly than he had on this one.
The final suspect was Warren. Why, Andrew couldn't say. He hadn't thought much about Warren since Sunnydale's collapse... but he supposed that if Warren had lobotomized Willow, like the rumors said, then it was entirely possible that he would steal a hot pocket without a second thought.
Warren always had been the evil one.
The culprit sitting on the couch of the - lair? Yes, that was indeed the lair. He took a moment to admire the building, absently wondering if any demons had decided to make the real one a home, before turning his attention to the person on the couch. It was dark, he only had a flashlight to guide him. The couch was not the couch of the lair, but was instead the stylish piece that the Summers' house had sported up until it had collapsed into the gaping maw of Hell.
Andrew, the figure said - he could see the hot pocket in their grasp. He could also see the blood dripping down the figure's hands, even in the dark. Hey, shine that over here, would you?
That voice was so familiar. But he hesitated, because something bad had happened and he knew better than to trust the tone of that voice.
Again, the figure spoke - the demand was louder, in a tone Andrew knew far too well... and, slowly, the blonde lifted the light to shine on them. A lipless grin slowly formed over exposed teeth and-
"Woah!"
Bolting upright in a move that would make Batman himself proud (or, well, ashamed), the Watcher jumped upright, swaying uncertainly on his feet just as surely as he was wavering between the realm between aware and unaware, sleep and consciousness, Fantasia and real- oh, nevermind, he was more than awake now. He scrubbed a hand hard over his face, not exactly cursing but mumbling a few choice phrases. "That was Hellraiser all over again," he groaned, immediately attempting to rid himself of the vision of Skinless Warren kissing Claire Higgins. "Ew, ew - I bet even Stephen King never had a dream like..." Still reeling, it took a moment for him to realize that no hands had pulled him back down to the safety of his seat - more than that, the floor wasn't rocking with the steady rhythm of the truck and he wasn't at immediate risk of falling to what would probably be an untimely death. Slowly sliding his fingers apart, Andrew gave himself several moments just to gape at the sudden shift in scenery. To go from the back of a truck, puttering slowly through the Italian countryside to a high tech facility is a pretty big leap, after all.
This was arguably out of a fanboy's fantasies. Undoubtedly alien technology, spread from wall to wall. Andrew couldn't help but step off the platform, turning in a wide circle even as he walked down the stairs, simply marveling at the wonder of alien technology - or, suddenly, he rationalized, perhaps the Initiative's. Nervously, he licked his lips, hands folding together, knuckles cracking as he worried them... Oh, oh god, what was that? He poked and prodded the immovable metal suddenly clapsed around his wrist, a frightened squeak escaping him. This couldn't be happening - this was a bad, bad dream. He was going to wake up. Any minute now.
"Ow!" Or, not. He rubbed the pinched area, turning again in a nervous circle. Not a dream... Not a dream... where did the girls go?
"Hey! Can anybody hear me?!" A pause. He listened to the sound echo back, shaking his head. "I come - uh, arrive in peace? Unless you're the, um, Initiative, then you'd better let me go or you aren't going to know what hit you! I've got powerful friends and - and I'm not afraid to... Oh! Phone!"
Ignoring the previous train of thought and threats, Andrew immediately pounced at the item, skidding into the table as the worn bottoms of his sneakers failed to catch a grip. Ungracefully, he thudded to the floor - rubbing his tailbone.
"Inner ear infection," the excuse came, though no one was around to hear it. Slowly picking himself up, he shook his head. "I'll just call someone to--," and he suddenly silenced, his gaze now drawn to the item propped up against the wall. The drawings were crude, by no means masterful or skilled in any way - the words hastily scribbled across the shiny white surface in markers of varying colors. Andrew recognized it in a heartbeat - but he was certain it had been lost when Sunnydale had gone totally No Mans Land.
A beat of silence. He considers this a moment, brows knitting together, mouth slowly going from an 'o' to a solid line. Then, balling his hands into fists, he allowed his outrage to be heard.
"I knew they would steal secrets that way!"
It was easier to focus on that than the possibility of entrapment and alien experimentation.