[Accidental Visual--> Intentional Visual; Location: Birdhouse]
The visual feed from the tablet clicks on to show the interior of a large building that is vaguely reminiscent of a warehouse or some other sort of industrial building-- cinderblock walls, cement floors, support pillars and nothing in the way of furniture yet-- except for a slightly incongruously brand-spanking-new hatch set into one wall.
Paul Smecker is in front of it, crossing his arms and glowering at it as if it personally offends him. He kicks at it, not that this does any good of course.
"You fuckers," he growls, presumably unaware the tablet is recording this descent into satisfying profanity. "I specifically chose this ass-fucking building because it didn't have all your goddamn bells and whistles. You're doing this to spite me, you alien cocksuckers."
Another futile kick at the hatch, then Paul grits his teeth. He is not liking the apparent remodeling the aliens have done to his birdhouse during the Sanctuary glitch-- there's plumbing now on every floor, there's a hatch on every floor, and while, yes, this makes some things easier, it pisses him off. Can't fucking squat without this goddamn city doing something.
"Fine," Paul says, half-spitting the word, then decides he may as well hatch a cigarette to test the functionality (and because he needs one). He places his hand on the hatch's glass plate, and in so doing, catches sight of his credit balance.
It's a lot more than it should be, than what he is used to anyway.
The visual feed transmits a good two minutes of Paul just storming around the empty space, kicking at pillars, and swearing up a filthy storm. Not all of it transmits, but choice phrases occasionally are picked up by the tablet.
"--godDAMNED interfering prick monkey-shit-encrusted oversized lab-rat fucks--
"--refuse to fucking play by your bullshit Stockholm-Syndrome, Truman-Show, twisted little limp-dick game rules, you superior, ignorant--"
He stalks off to a far wall and the tablet loses anything else he might say. Some minutes later Paul has apparently composed himself; he comes back over to the tablet, picks it up-- and curses again to realize it's been on for God knows how long.
"Fuck. Alright. Alright. Fine, you alien pricks." Deep breath.
"Hi, Taxon, and apologies if anyone just got an earful. Venting. Paul Smecker here; welcome to my pleasure palace." He gestures with one hand at the room beyond. "As you can see, it is somewhat lacking in amenities.
"To those of you who weren't here yet for that whole zombie thing: zombies happened here, once. A few months ago. Very horror-movie-esque, undead shambling things coming for your brains. All the Extras-- all of them-- got infected, and a few of us, including yours truly, got killed.
"We didn't have any sort of organized safehouse then, which fact struck me at the time as criminally irresponsible on our part, at least until all I was thinking about was eating other people's brains. If something like that happens again, I want to be as prepared as the city will let us be.
"So I'm outfitting this place, a building here in Central. I know there's a hell of a lot of you who are geniuses-beyond-the-ken-of-man: you want something to do? I've got a laundry list of things that need building here-- oxygen scrubbers, water filters, a field hospital... among other things.
"I also would like it if you Season-of-the-Witch types would put your occult-minded little heads together and tell me if I can't get up protective... spell-things... on this place. Somehow.
"Logistics-wise, I want to have a decent stockpile here of food and water and other needed supplies-- and there's limits to how many cans of Spaghetti-Os I want to hatch on my own. So if anybody wants to lend me a hand with figuring out about how many people we'd need to have emergency food for, and maybe some of the other organizational aspects of something like this.... let me know.
"Many hands make light work, as my gunnery range instructor once said. Of course, he was talking about 'make light work of perforating a human being with bullets', but the principle still applies.
"Ask me questions, I have answers. Maybe. Paul Smecker out."
[OOC Plotting post can be found here]
Paul Smecker is in front of it, crossing his arms and glowering at it as if it personally offends him. He kicks at it, not that this does any good of course.
"You fuckers," he growls, presumably unaware the tablet is recording this descent into satisfying profanity. "I specifically chose this ass-fucking building because it didn't have all your goddamn bells and whistles. You're doing this to spite me, you alien cocksuckers."
Another futile kick at the hatch, then Paul grits his teeth. He is not liking the apparent remodeling the aliens have done to his birdhouse during the Sanctuary glitch-- there's plumbing now on every floor, there's a hatch on every floor, and while, yes, this makes some things easier, it pisses him off. Can't fucking squat without this goddamn city doing something.
"Fine," Paul says, half-spitting the word, then decides he may as well hatch a cigarette to test the functionality (and because he needs one). He places his hand on the hatch's glass plate, and in so doing, catches sight of his credit balance.
It's a lot more than it should be, than what he is used to anyway.
The visual feed transmits a good two minutes of Paul just storming around the empty space, kicking at pillars, and swearing up a filthy storm. Not all of it transmits, but choice phrases occasionally are picked up by the tablet.
"--godDAMNED interfering prick monkey-shit-encrusted oversized lab-rat fucks--
"--refuse to fucking play by your bullshit Stockholm-Syndrome, Truman-Show, twisted little limp-dick game rules, you superior, ignorant--"
He stalks off to a far wall and the tablet loses anything else he might say. Some minutes later Paul has apparently composed himself; he comes back over to the tablet, picks it up-- and curses again to realize it's been on for God knows how long.
"Fuck. Alright. Alright. Fine, you alien pricks." Deep breath.
"Hi, Taxon, and apologies if anyone just got an earful. Venting. Paul Smecker here; welcome to my pleasure palace." He gestures with one hand at the room beyond. "As you can see, it is somewhat lacking in amenities.
"To those of you who weren't here yet for that whole zombie thing: zombies happened here, once. A few months ago. Very horror-movie-esque, undead shambling things coming for your brains. All the Extras-- all of them-- got infected, and a few of us, including yours truly, got killed.
"We didn't have any sort of organized safehouse then, which fact struck me at the time as criminally irresponsible on our part, at least until all I was thinking about was eating other people's brains. If something like that happens again, I want to be as prepared as the city will let us be.
"So I'm outfitting this place, a building here in Central. I know there's a hell of a lot of you who are geniuses-beyond-the-ken-of-man: you want something to do? I've got a laundry list of things that need building here-- oxygen scrubbers, water filters, a field hospital... among other things.
"I also would like it if you Season-of-the-Witch types would put your occult-minded little heads together and tell me if I can't get up protective... spell-things... on this place. Somehow.
"Logistics-wise, I want to have a decent stockpile here of food and water and other needed supplies-- and there's limits to how many cans of Spaghetti-Os I want to hatch on my own. So if anybody wants to lend me a hand with figuring out about how many people we'd need to have emergency food for, and maybe some of the other organizational aspects of something like this.... let me know.
"Many hands make light work, as my gunnery range instructor once said. Of course, he was talking about 'make light work of perforating a human being with bullets', but the principle still applies.
"Ask me questions, I have answers. Maybe. Paul Smecker out."
[OOC Plotting post can be found here]