[Location] Metior Tram Line

[smecker]

He can't sleep, and normally Paul would put on some music and read, or clean, or work on something in the birdhouse that needs doing. But at the moment all his projects are halfway to completion waiting weigh-ins from others, and the place is spotless, and he doesn't care to read for pleasure in Taxon.

And he doesn't have his music.

Comments

[colacherri]

Cherri smells like Taxon-brand fast food and liquor and cheap perfume (that certainly isn't his own) and that's quite alright by him. In fact, he almost welcomes familiar scents that aren't dust and Power Pup and week-old sweat. He's in a 90's style ski jacket, something with atrocious neon colours that make it easy to spot him a mile away, and for some reason he's twisted garbage ties into his hair. He's got an Extra under one arm, though, who's lipstick is on his cheek as he holds a super-sized drink in the other. He's not going to sleep with the girl, of course--she's not News, for one, and for another she's kinda ugly, but it's nice to snuggle up to something warm as he's waiting for the tram.

Where he's going he has no idea, either, but that's the great thing about Taxon. It's a playground--and apparently he's the only one that sees that. The guy that comes stumbling out of the tram next to him is white as a sheet, eyes darting around. Panicked. Looking like he's seen a ghost, even, and at that Cherri visibly lights up.

He shoves the Extra girl away and takes a large gulp of his pop, stopping just short of Paul's nose, a small grin forming on his face as he's yet to understand (or care) about the whole personal space thing.

"Someone's seen something that goes bump in the night, haven't they~?"

[smecker]

Paul's still running on adrenaline, on a horror that is entirely foreign to his (mostly) rational, (mostly) scientific brain. Been in Taxon for a year, yes, and there's been zombies and vampires and all that shit but that all... belongs to Taxon, it has nothing to do with life, with the real world, with who he is.

Frank's a different fucking story. Ghost story. Fuck. Fucking fuck and suddenly there's someone way too close to him, in his space, Paul registers bright colors and a lipglossed smile that seems to have a lot of teeth right now.

Reaction kicks in before brain: Paul lifts a hand to the center of the skinny chest before him and just shoves, distance, put some distance the fuck there.

"Back off."

[colacherri]

"Getcher own sandwhich." Cheri's shoved, and it's not like he isn't used to it--hell, he was expecting it. He catches himself easily, nimbly, looking more and more like a cat as he straightens himself up, brushing invisible dust off of a horrid ski jacket. His drink has spilled, and that's what triggers a dramatic change in facial expression--mouth open, eyes wide, horrified like Paul had just murdered a friend. A close relative.

"I was thirsty," he's whining, or at least was, because in a brief second his face shifts back to something resembling Cherri's idea of neutrality--there's a lazy smirk on his face and his eyes are taking everything in.

"So? So? Gonna share with the class which ghost of christmas whatsit you saw? Ooooorrrr are you gonna turn heel in your fabulous wedged shoes?" A pause.

"..wow, those really are nifty."

[smecker]

Paul takes in the whole figure before him now, not just impressions and colors, but the whole guy from the hair to the dated jacket to... the hair again, okay, Jesus Christ, what is Taxon now, San Fran?

Paul's still breathing hard but there's no weapon that he can see, and the tram is pulling away. It's bullshit, it was nonsense, he was seeing things, that's all. Deeeeep breath. Goddammit, he's a professional.

"Who the hell are you? --and you can't have my fucking shoes."

[colacherri]

"PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER, MAN!" Cherri's sudden, spasdic shout is accompanied by wide-eyed terror and something resembling the Muppet dance--long limbs flailing, a scream of panic before he instantly shuts back down and reverts to the slightly swaying grinning state.

"You look like you'd seen a--oh waaaaaaaait~" The grin is more of a smirk this time, slightly sinister, but it's gone in a few seconds because Cherri's distracted by the other's shoes.

"...I really like them." His voice is softer now. "Maaaaan. I'm sorry. We got off on the wrong start. Foot. Footstart. I'm Agent Cherri Cola and even though you spilled my drink, I'm gonna forgive you because you have snazzy shoes, Mr. Snazzy Dresser."

[smecker]

Paul Smecker is not a stranger to crazy. Blame working in the division of the FBI that used to be called Behavioral Science (it's since been renamed to something even more euphemistic). The crazy den. Batshit basement.

Some other day he thinks he'd be doing a liiiittle better with this guy. Some day he hadn't just seen the ghost of his fucking dead partner hanging around, Christ.

He takes another deep breath. He'd backed up instinctively when the guy hollered and he's pretty near the edge of the tram platform now. Bad place to be. Paul takes a few steps back in, not directly towards Hairspray but away from the edge as well.

"Yeah. Yeah. Hi. Sorry.... about your drink, ace. Shoes are still off-limits. Name's Paul."

[colacherri]

"Paul. Paulbearer. Paul.. huh. Well that's a pretty boring name for someone dressed like you." He's crouching, now, seemingly pleased with something. Paul had just passed a test Cherri wasn't even aware he was administering--but that was the beauty about things like that.

He picks up the straw from the strewn drink and then pokes dejectedly at the spilled pop before jabbing it in the other man's general direction.

"Everybody's been seeing the spooks. No one's gotten ghosted, but yet, boo~ everyone dusted is running around like it's Disneyland. So the big money question, Mr. Shoes--the big answer everyone wants to know is who you saw?" He pauses, sharp face turning a sharp angle.

"Does Taxon have a Disneyland?"

[smecker]

"I was named after a Biblical asshole," Paul says off-hand, keeping a wary eye on the guy crouched on the ground.

In the midst of the rambling are some useful details. Everyone's been seeing the spooks, apparently. Well fuck. It does at least rule out that he's just seeing shit, but he is not sure whether that makes it worse or better.

"Someone dead, naturally. You don't know who the fuck he was so what's it matter?"

Since getting to Taxon Paul has gotten out of the habit of carrying a gun. Truth to tell he never really enjoyed having one on him-- found it necessary, yes, found it prudent, yes-- not the same thing as liking it-- but in Taxon he's gotten lazy. The threats, when they come, aren't usually ones his goddamn gun can do anything about anyway.

"No. No Disneyland. It's a roach motel, or didn't you know?"

[colacherri]

"Doesn't mean I don't wanna know. C'mon. C'mon, Paul. Paul the Biblical asshole. We can hug it out." He's still crouched on the floor, but there's amusement in his eyes. "Just you and me. Real feelings. Total Dr. Phil moment." The comment's switched as Cherri's completely lost interested--seemingly, anyway--and is drawing stick figures on the ground.

"I been to roach motels. Your face is a roach motel." The last sentence is said a bit immaturely before he sits down instead of crouches, pointing with the straw again.

"All those hard lines for a hard life. Like an ant farm. It's ok, I'm an ant farm, too." He gestures vaguely to his own face, not quite as hard but certainly haggard, and grins.

"The question is if you're King of the Hill, Mr. Paul the Biblical Asshole."

[smecker]

"I don't hug, Ace. Or cuddle."

Paul watches the finger warily, the whole movement of the guy warily. Guy's... hypermanic to say the least, and Paul's familiar enough with psychiatric profiles to know you don't ever write that off as completely harmless, even if it seems it on the surface.

A corner of his mouth twists with morbid amusement at what the kid's saying.

"I'm not king of anything, least of all this anthill. None of us are. And thanks for the offer but I'll keep my ghosts personal as long as Taxon lets me do that."