The smell, the random toilets stuck in the sand, somebody apparently stuck inside...for a minute it's just like being back in New York. Especially the smell. Dairine doesn't see how it can even be attached to anything, but those things seem to take the stink with them anyway.
"There's a life form," Spot begins, in the middle of a conversation about paradox and the polyverse and the Bermuda triangle, but really, Dairine's already kind of figured that out.
"On it," she says, setting the computer down on the sand and yanking the mop out of the handle. (Slicing it with the lightsaber would be cooler, but also probably overkill.) She yanks the door open. "You okay?"
"Bless you," he breathed, climbing out and into the fresh air, his hands dropping to her shoulders -- a hot red head, which was totally a bonus -- and gently shaking her, just to fully express the depth of feeling behind his gratitude.
"I could've died." And okay, maybe that was kind of dramatic, but he felt totally justified. He'd just spent a whole day trapped inside a chemical shit-trap. If that wasn't a near death experience, nothing really was.
"A day, I think. I could see the sun go down through the crack between the doors," he said, managing to pull himself together enough to let go of her. To be honest, his reputation was the furthest thing from his mind, right then. If he came off looking like a douche, he'd have to deal with it later.
After a moment, he asked, "So, are we on a beach, or am I delirious from the fumes?"
It's been a very long time since Sarah's seen something this odd on the beach, but it looks like it lacks any kind of danger. From the sound of the voice inside, it actually seems like someone is in trouble. She's been fighting so long with a sickness she can't see and against an enemy who isn't present that the idea of helping someone -- anyone -- gives her a kind of desperate thrill.
The feel of sand underneath her boots as she runs is familiar and her beating heart rushes through her ears, wrenching the mop out of the door and tossing it aside before yanking open the door.
"Hey, it's okay, you're safe," she promises, looking him over for any outward damage. "Are you wounded?"
Her fingers were quick in trying to search him for bullet-holes, stab-wounds, or anything that was going to end his life. When it came down to it, wounded pride really didn't make anyone cease to breathe. "English sub?" she echoed with confusion. "What? No, I'm a waitress."
Tabula Rasa thrived on the unexpected: space stations falling from the sky, bouts of enforced silence straight out of an episode of Buffy, body swaps and sex changes... It was, Jamie often thought, among the only similarities to the world he left behind, though most of the tricks it pulled still lacked the sheer hysteria of anything that might've happened back home. This, though -- a porta-potty barred shut with a mop, stuck in the middle of the beach -- was definitely something new, even by the standards of the island.
Richards barked and darted forward, drawn in by the uniquely putrid smell of toilet, forcing Jamie to follow after the terrier, though the plea for help would've gotten his attention regardless. Pulling the mop free from the handle, he threw it to the ground, then opened the door. He was greeted with the sight of a guy whose hairstyle immediately called to mind Guido.
"My God..." Jamie said, nose crinkling from the smell even as he extended a hand to help the kid out. "How long have you been stuck in
Hand closing around the guy's wrist, Puck hauled himself out into the fresh air with a deep gasp, a gagging shudder ripping through him as the last of that putrid shit smell was washed away by sweet, salt air.
"I don't know. A day? I think it's been day," he panted, turning toward the guy with the face tattoo, "Dude, you have no idea. You totally just saved my life."
Richards barked in excitement, but Jamie nudged the dog away from their feet to give the kid room to breathe; he can't imagine being stuck in a porta-potty for a day would be a particularly pleasant experience, and he had several lifetimes worth of awful experiences to which he could compare.
"Totally," Jamie said dryly, looking for any sign of injury, though his search came up clean. He walked along this stretch of beach a few times a week, and hadn't ever noticed the toilet, which suggested to him this was either this kid's 'gift' from home or the guy was a recent arrival. "We should get you some water and a change of clothes. You, uh, might wanna to jump into the ocean to get rid of the stench, though. Just a suggestion."
That was an awesome idea. He didn't need a whole lot of convincing, so he was already stripping out of his hoodie, already walking toward the water, when he froze, turning slowly to look back at the guy.
While Cissie had seen a number of strange things both before she got to the island and after, running into a tipped-over Porta-Potty definitely up there on the weirdness chart. And because that couldn't be strange enough, there was someone trapped inside.
She held her breath as she tugged the mop out and tossed it aside so she could open the door. "Hey! You okay? Or, I guess, as okay as you can be, considering?"
The smell was no less the worse for him stumbling out, but Cissie did her best not to make a face. Being trapped in a Porta-Potty was surely bad enough, without adding the whole appearing on a hot desert island thing.
"You're not," she said, bracing herself for the inevitable yet totally understandable freakout. "I really wish I could tell you it's all a dream but you're really here on a desert island."
"What the hell, how is that even possible?" he asked, looking more confused than anything else, at least for the moment. People didn't just magically appear on desert islands, even after spending a day trapped inside a Rent-a-loo.
The number of times Priestly's had to duck inside the treeline to take a whiz, he definitely would've noticed if there'd been a port-a-potty on the beach before. Though from the noises coming from inside it, he might want to stick to the treeline; it's a carnivorous john or something.
It's not till he comes around the other side of the thing that he sees the door's been jammed shut by some absolute dick. Unless there's a serial killer trapped inside for some very good reason, but he thinks he'll take his chances.
He yanks the mop out and yanks open the door almost as quickly.
"Whoa," he says, covering his nose with the back of one hand, "that is rank."
Puck emerged coughing and sputtering, stumbling onto his knees in the sand, a shuddering gag ripping through him, and maybe he was playing it up, but he was totally justified in making a big deal out of it.
"Tell me about it," he panted, squinting up at the guy, then frowning when he realized he totally would've remembered seeing a guy who looked like that around school. "Who the hell are you?"
"Priestly," he says, and takes a step back. That is foul. "Dude, seriously, you might want to take a quick dip in the ocean or something. It'll be easier to cope with this whole deal when you don't reek."
He points at the ocean, only a dozen steps away or so. Nice and convenient.
It was a good idea, and already, Puck was clambering to his feet and stepping out of his shoes, his hoodie stripped off and thrown carelessly onto the sand along his way toward the water.
"You know, dude, I'd figure this was a dream, only, if it was, you'd probably have bigger jugs."
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"There's a life form," Spot begins, in the middle of a conversation about paradox and the polyverse and the Bermuda triangle, but really, Dairine's already kind of figured that out.
"On it," she says, setting the computer down on the sand and yanking the mop out of the handle. (Slicing it with the lightsaber would be cooler, but also probably overkill.) She yanks the door open. "You okay?"
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"I could've died." And okay, maybe that was kind of dramatic, but he felt totally justified. He'd just spent a whole day trapped inside a chemical shit-trap. If that wasn't a near death experience, nothing really was.
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Of course, so could emerging to find you're stuck on a magic island, so what the hell's she supposed to say now?
"You're welcome," for a start. That smell is lingering. "How long were you in there?"
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After a moment, he asked, "So, are we on a beach, or am I delirious from the fumes?"
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The feel of sand underneath her boots as she runs is familiar and her beating heart rushes through her ears, wrenching the mop out of the door and tossing it aside before yanking open the door.
"Hey, it's okay, you're safe," she promises, looking him over for any outward damage. "Are you wounded?"
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Because seriously. This was a whole new low.
Squinting against the glare, he focused on her, eyes flickering openly from her face to her feet.
Not bad.
"You're not the English sub, are you? 'Cause I totally meant to go to that class."
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"This isn't Bring Your Mom to School Day, is it? I thought they stopped doing that crap in third grade."
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Tabula Rasa thrived on the unexpected: space stations falling from the sky, bouts of enforced silence straight out of an episode of Buffy, body swaps and sex changes... It was, Jamie often thought, among the only similarities to the world he left behind, though most of the tricks it pulled still lacked the sheer hysteria of anything that might've happened back home. This, though -- a porta-potty barred shut with a mop, stuck in the middle of the beach -- was definitely something new, even by the standards of the island.
Richards barked and darted forward, drawn in by the uniquely putrid smell of toilet, forcing Jamie to follow after the terrier, though the plea for help would've gotten his attention regardless. Pulling the mop free from the handle, he threw it to the ground, then opened the door. He was greeted with the sight of a guy whose hairstyle immediately called to mind Guido.
"My God..." Jamie said, nose crinkling from the smell even as he extended a hand to help the kid out. "How long have you been stuck in
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"I don't know. A day? I think it's been day," he panted, turning toward the guy with the face tattoo, "Dude, you have no idea. You totally just saved my life."
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"Totally," Jamie said dryly, looking for any sign of injury, though his search came up clean. He walked along this stretch of beach a few times a week, and hadn't ever noticed the toilet, which suggested to him this was either this kid's 'gift' from home or the guy was a recent arrival. "We should get you some water and a change of clothes. You, uh, might wanna to jump into the ocean to get rid of the stench, though. Just a suggestion."
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"Uh, dude, why is there an ocean here?"
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She held her breath as she tugged the mop out and tossed it aside so she could open the door. "Hey! You okay? Or, I guess, as okay as you can be, considering?"
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"Uh... I think I might be hallucinating."
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"You're not," she said, bracing herself for the inevitable yet totally understandable freakout. "I really wish I could tell you it's all a dream but you're really here on a desert island."
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"I was in Ohio."
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It's not till he comes around the other side of the thing that he sees the door's been jammed shut by some absolute dick. Unless there's a serial killer trapped inside for some very good reason, but he thinks he'll take his chances.
He yanks the mop out and yanks open the door almost as quickly.
"Whoa," he says, covering his nose with the back of one hand, "that is rank."
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"Tell me about it," he panted, squinting up at the guy, then frowning when he realized he totally would've remembered seeing a guy who looked like that around school. "Who the hell are you?"
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He points at the ocean, only a dozen steps away or so. Nice and convenient.
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"You know, dude, I'd figure this was a dream, only, if it was, you'd probably have bigger jugs."
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