[Visual] [Location - The Birdhouse]
Paul Smecker maintains a list of scents he doesn't wish to smell ever again. Some of these have been on the list for years, their origins back in this or that case-- the odor of a bloated river-dumped body, dragged back to the surface swollen to twice its weight and size-- the particular scent of coffee regurgitated-- the aftershave a man named David used to wear.
Some, however, are new acquisitions: the buttery olfactory grease of carnival popcorn, after the whirligig of the circus and its mob (its mob of people who could not be here, except 'could not' is a meaningless phrase nowadays, and seeing Alan fucking Shore had been a suckerpunch he still doesn't want to think about, he's glad Alan's not stuck here but damnit, damnit, why bring him at all except just to fuck with him, fucking aliens--).
And the smell of birdshit.
Yeah, that one he's just plain goddamn sick of.
It feels like it's permeated not just his clothes but his skin too, and Paul decides to burn the clothes he was wearing for the cleaning, not like he can't get more after all. His skin he's stuck with, but Paul takes a shower and then a bath and then another shower and finally feels back to human again. If nothing else, the building is finally clean. He's been in there almost every day of the last month, blasting with the hose, scouring, scrubbing the ceilings free of nests and the walls and floor free of crap, Cain helping him (for which thank God, because otherwise he'd still be at it, he's sure). Hasn't exactly done wonders for his social life but it's been a simple task, a task where every day he can see his progress (even if it's just in terms of square feet scoured), and know he's gotten something done, and if it's pointless then it's fucking pointless but it's better than fucking around in a circle-jerk of aimless committees that doesn't even have a hierarchy, that isn't even as organized as the Bureau in all her redundant, backwards, incompetent, bureaucratic chaos is.
Or so Special Agent Paul Smecker muses.
But the building is clean, and Paul walks through it taking deep breaths because he can, the air no longer smells stale and thick with feathers and droppings. It smells of disinfectant, which overall Paul approves of, so that's okay. Up through the building, all three floors, to the rooftop, where the wind is. The city below looks much less chaotic than a few days ago. Back to normal. Or what passes for it.
Paul digs out his tablet, his cigarettes, one with each hand. He lights up before turning on the communications device, flips it to an open visual broadcast to the city.
"Hi. Paul Smecker here. We've probably got some new faces here since the last time I said a nice big group how-the-fuck-do-you-do, so: How the fuck do you do? Or, here's a better and more interesting question: what do you do, everybody?
"We're each here from god knows where, and in some cases when. It's entirely possible we're selected on pure caprice, but operating on that hypothesis doesn't give us anything helpful, so personally I'm choosing to invest in the alternate theory, which states that we were all snatched from our so-very-happy lives for a reason. Don't know what it is, but I personally would like to know more about who my fellow inmates in the inter-stellar zoo are. Some of you who are willing to answer will probably lie; I can't stop you, obviously.
"Part of why I'd like to know is that if we have a crisis again, like the zombies, that's a threat that affects all of us, whether or not we trust each other. And I'm pretty sure we all hate the hamsters. So we do have common enemies; what we don't have is anything like a coherent way to approach our common enemies. I'm not going to even try and talk about organizing against the hamsters right now; frankly I doubt the lot of us could cooperate enough to work our combined way out of a wet cardboard box.
"But zombies, and things like that: we can do simple shit, for fuck's sake. We can organize defensible points. Those of you who are superhuman, and obviously there are those of you who are, can make it clear if you're willing to pitch in to protect the less fucking gifted. As for the rest of us, being slower than speeding bullets doesn't mean we don't have skills: what I am trying to do right now is ascertain what those skills are, what people are good at. If you know first aid, if you know how to defend yourself, if you're good with electronics, good with barricading a building-- we can't organize if we don't know our resources.
"So, what the fuck, I'll go first:
"Paul Smecker, career FBI agent, to those of you from realities with no FBI it's law enforcement with an investigative mandate. My area of expertise was largely forensics-based, but I can handle a gun, I can do CPR and other basic first aid, I'm a good cook and I will kick your ass in any sort of classical music trivia contest you want to have.
"Next? Oh, and Buffy and DG? You two got time for a chat?"
Some, however, are new acquisitions: the buttery olfactory grease of carnival popcorn, after the whirligig of the circus and its mob (its mob of people who could not be here, except 'could not' is a meaningless phrase nowadays, and seeing Alan fucking Shore had been a suckerpunch he still doesn't want to think about, he's glad Alan's not stuck here but damnit, damnit, why bring him at all except just to fuck with him, fucking aliens--).
And the smell of birdshit.
Yeah, that one he's just plain goddamn sick of.
It feels like it's permeated not just his clothes but his skin too, and Paul decides to burn the clothes he was wearing for the cleaning, not like he can't get more after all. His skin he's stuck with, but Paul takes a shower and then a bath and then another shower and finally feels back to human again. If nothing else, the building is finally clean. He's been in there almost every day of the last month, blasting with the hose, scouring, scrubbing the ceilings free of nests and the walls and floor free of crap, Cain helping him (for which thank God, because otherwise he'd still be at it, he's sure). Hasn't exactly done wonders for his social life but it's been a simple task, a task where every day he can see his progress (even if it's just in terms of square feet scoured), and know he's gotten something done, and if it's pointless then it's fucking pointless but it's better than fucking around in a circle-jerk of aimless committees that doesn't even have a hierarchy, that isn't even as organized as the Bureau in all her redundant, backwards, incompetent, bureaucratic chaos is.
Or so Special Agent Paul Smecker muses.
But the building is clean, and Paul walks through it taking deep breaths because he can, the air no longer smells stale and thick with feathers and droppings. It smells of disinfectant, which overall Paul approves of, so that's okay. Up through the building, all three floors, to the rooftop, where the wind is. The city below looks much less chaotic than a few days ago. Back to normal. Or what passes for it.
Paul digs out his tablet, his cigarettes, one with each hand. He lights up before turning on the communications device, flips it to an open visual broadcast to the city.
"Hi. Paul Smecker here. We've probably got some new faces here since the last time I said a nice big group how-the-fuck-do-you-do, so: How the fuck do you do? Or, here's a better and more interesting question: what do you do, everybody?
"We're each here from god knows where, and in some cases when. It's entirely possible we're selected on pure caprice, but operating on that hypothesis doesn't give us anything helpful, so personally I'm choosing to invest in the alternate theory, which states that we were all snatched from our so-very-happy lives for a reason. Don't know what it is, but I personally would like to know more about who my fellow inmates in the inter-stellar zoo are. Some of you who are willing to answer will probably lie; I can't stop you, obviously.
"Part of why I'd like to know is that if we have a crisis again, like the zombies, that's a threat that affects all of us, whether or not we trust each other. And I'm pretty sure we all hate the hamsters. So we do have common enemies; what we don't have is anything like a coherent way to approach our common enemies. I'm not going to even try and talk about organizing against the hamsters right now; frankly I doubt the lot of us could cooperate enough to work our combined way out of a wet cardboard box.
"But zombies, and things like that: we can do simple shit, for fuck's sake. We can organize defensible points. Those of you who are superhuman, and obviously there are those of you who are, can make it clear if you're willing to pitch in to protect the less fucking gifted. As for the rest of us, being slower than speeding bullets doesn't mean we don't have skills: what I am trying to do right now is ascertain what those skills are, what people are good at. If you know first aid, if you know how to defend yourself, if you're good with electronics, good with barricading a building-- we can't organize if we don't know our resources.
"So, what the fuck, I'll go first:
"Paul Smecker, career FBI agent, to those of you from realities with no FBI it's law enforcement with an investigative mandate. My area of expertise was largely forensics-based, but I can handle a gun, I can do CPR and other basic first aid, I'm a good cook and I will kick your ass in any sort of classical music trivia contest you want to have.
"Next? Oh, and Buffy and DG? You two got time for a chat?"