There is a whole world out there to spread holiday joy to. A world of flying cars, and massive towering skyscrapers, of quiet, cold deserts, of snow-covered cities. Everyone in it is either holed up in their homes, hooked into the Links, the network run by Macrohard, abstaining from human contact, or they're poor and destitute, in the streets, and
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It is the eight and last day of Hanukkah, and there are many places where menorahs adorn a bar-covered window, the last candles being lit a half hour after night fall.
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Many of the houses where the chanukkiyot have been lit now have little gifts stacked nearby, scattered with handfuls of gelt (and with the occasional real coin amongst the chocolate - bite carefully!), the occasional dreidel - and a few plates of latkes here and there.
Mmm, latkes.
((OOC: ...Dammit. Now I'm craving latkes!))
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"Alright, people, get out now or I'm comin' in ta eat yer brains!"
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Like most of the world, though, there's slim pickins for the feasts and gifts. It is not a good time for this planet, for everyone, and people go hungry. Many take solace in the fact that they can at least share with one another the spirit of their faith.
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Finally, after greeting the people he met with his best attempt at pronouncing the traditional 'Blessed Eid' greeting, Billy reaches the Sisters.
"Peace be upon you," he greets solemnly, testing the waters for interaction in this culture. "I apologize for the delay. We were preparing some gifts for the people that will help them through the year. Your work so far has been excellent," he offers, appreciative of the feast that the gathered people are enjoying.
"Can I assist you in any way before I begin my own work? I'd like to conduct some simple repairs at a nearby school."
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He looked over the city as they drove in, shaking his head. This ain't roight, he said, voice disbelieving. Bloody 'ell, I know it's Christmas, but I ain't ever seen it this quiet. Nobody's bloody well outside! And that was just unheard of. There were always people on the streets. It was LONDON!
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"They must all be inside with those virtual reality things." He frowns thoughtfully. "Ye would think, though, not everyone can afford them." There's got to be some people around who can't. It's just a matter of finding them.
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What I wouldn' give fer Cerebro roight now, he mutters, mostly to himself as he guides the car in to land. Not a perfect landing by any means. He's not a pilot, after all.
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Years of traveling with the Doctor have instilled a certain wariness when it comes to landings, and it's pretty much second nature to him to reach out to brace himself as they touch down. But he's pleased enough - sure it wasn't a perfect landing, but he didn't end up upside down and in a pile of people. That's pretty good, in his book. Och, that wasn't bad at all!, he thinks. I wonder what a Cerebro is?
"What's a Cerebro?" he asks, out loud.
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No, there were no reindeer to pull this sled. But there was a bag of presents and there was a Santa Claus.
Daimon tugged at his collar. The costume was uncomfortably snug.
And you didn't want to get him started on what he thought of the fake beard.
"Ho, ho, ho." He said dryly. "Merry Christmas."
Christmas had been infinitely more enjoyable when he was a young boy.
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"A scab? Being inside this Weaver thing is not enough?" She snarled to herself as she eyeballed the city below. Her temper didn't improve as she watched Scout. "And how are we to land when this has no feet?"
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"Hold on, I got this," he almost sounded unsure of himself. He slowed down the car, hovering over a building, then finally downshifting into park (in mid-air, no less). The car thumped onto the top of an apartment building. Scout folded his arms, looking pretty pleased with himself.
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