ArchivedLogs:Emissary
| Emissary | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
|
2015-12-16 "We are people." |
| Location
<NYC> {Funhaus} - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side | |
The house might have started out looking capacious and respectable, but it has since moved through various incarnations, always colorful, but never colorful the same way for longer than a few days. There is little in the way of what most people would call furniture: a sectional couch buried in fluffy cushions, three bean bags of varying sizes, a scattering of bookshelves, what looks like a human-scale cat tree in one corner, and a low, square table surrounded by zafus. The floor plan is largely open, criss-crossed by rope bridges linking small elevated platforms to the landing of the second storey, beyond which lie the bedrooms. The kitchen is separated from the living room only by a long counter, lined with stools. Even the appliances are decked out in unexpected hues, edged with designs that change on a daily basis. A row of tins and jars runs the length of the breakfast counter, none of which match and all of which bear brightly colored text describing their contents: teas, coffees, mates, and various herbal blends. It's late afternoon, not quite suppertime, though the light has already faded from the sky. New York has settled more or less back into its wonted hustle and bustle. A zombie moves with a steady purpose through the rush-hour press on the street, its movements far more dexterous than the shamble usually associated with its kind, though the glassy look in its eyes is hard to mistake. Reasonably well-preserved, the corpse belonged to an athletic young woman whose light brown skin has gone ashen in death. No one seems to notice tell-tale signs, however; no one seems to notice it at all. It walks onto the grounds of the Commons and right up to Funhaus's front step unharassed, and, lifting one slightly shrivelled hand, knocks three times. Inside, Funhaus is a kaleidoscope of bright, hypnotic colors. Fractal pinwheels cover the walls and strangely compelling Escher-eque tessellations fill up the background. Tag is flopped face-down on a beanbag that looks for all the world like some kind of gaudy gumdrop, his own clothing almost plain by comparison: a tie-dye hoodie and a black three-tiered skirt over mismatched socks, one a blue sky dotted with clouds, the other a deep seascape lit with weird bioluminescent fish. He struggles to his feet at the sound of the knock and throws open the door without looking first. For a split second, he stares at the zombie on his front stoop. And then he yelps, his voice cracking, as he slams the door shut again and flees toward the kitchen. "{Zombie!}" he whispers urgently in Mandarin. "{There's a zombie out front!}" Tian-shin tends to a sizzling wok in the kitchen, wearing a black apron with a ridiculously cheerful purple cartoon kirin upon the chest to cover her sensible pink blouse and gray slacks. She has her hair tied up in a neat bun, her sword slung across her back, and her phone on the counter blaring "Flawless" as loud as its surprisingly serviceable speakers can manage. At Tag's exclamation, she calmly turns off the stove and the music. "{Just one?}" she asks, drawing her sword as she makes for the front door and throws it open once again. The zombie has not moved from where Tag left it, though it has lifted its hand to knock again when Tian-shin pulls the door open. Its fist stays suspended, cocked back and not in the least threatening. The frozen posture might be comical, in isolation, but the way the zombie stares at Tian-shin's sword bespeaks abject terror even without the expected facial expression. Recovering its senses, the zombie signs in quick, jerky movements: 'Do not kill me. I not eat you.' It pauses, and resumes more slowly and clearly: 'We need your help. Please.' Tag follows his sister back out across the living room, his clothing and entire person growing paler with each step. By the time the door opens again, his hair is solid white, his hoodie a swirl of pastels, and his skirt light gray. He has picked up one of his knives, but not drawn it, hugging the intricately decorated sheath to his chest as he peers wide-eyed past Tian-shin. "{That's...did you understand that? All I got was 'I eat you', 'help', and 'please.' It's like that Jonathan Coulton song people keep trying to get the city council to ban...'}" << That's a stereotype. >> The voice that sounds in Tag and Tian-shin's minds is a grating one, harsh and groaning. Rattling. Echoing with the sound of many rasping cries calling out together. << We don't care about brains. >> Tian-shin's sword remains poised for a moment, frozen in place. Her mouth drops open as she watches the zombie's hands move. For a moment she can only shake her head, eyes wide. When Tag renders the word "help" into speech, she finally masters herself enough to take a step back and lower her sword. Waving the zombie inside, she closes the door behind it, but also takes great care to keep herself between it and her brother. 'Help, how?' she signs, awkwardly, with one hand as she begins to sheath her sword. The voice in her mind, however, snaps her to full alertness again, and she drops right back into a fighting stance. The zombie stops just inside the door and goes no further. Though vacant, its eyes scan the room, lingers on some of the designs on the wall but not others. When Tian-shin looks belligerant again, it stares at the sword and repeats, 'Do not kill me.' Then adds, more slowlly, 'Not want to die. You help law. Protect us.' It finally tears its gaze from the weapon and looks Tian-shin directly in the eyes. 'Please.' "Hive?" Tag blurts, his fear receding while his confusion grows. "{That's a dirty lie, you are /so/ into brains.}" The brief, nervous amusement fades, as much because he's concentrating on trying to parse the zombie's signing as anything else. "{Um...I think they're trying to /hire/ you, Tian-tian.}" There's an edge of surreal disconnect to the thoughts behind these words, but Tag seems not all that uncomfortable with the sense of unreality. "{Maybe you should put away the sword.}" << We do not, >> Hive clarifies, very /stiffly/ for all his voice is still groaning hungry and rasping in the others' minds, << /eat/. /Brains/. >> After a pause: << Minds are another thing. >> As his words rattle through they come with a whisper of fear, briefly reflected to the others and then fading away. << The sword is -- not polite. >> << I'm really not all that concerned about /which/ parts they eat. >> But Tian-shin does finally strighten up again. She's confident she can dispose of a single zombie unarmed, but it still takes a concerted will for her to release the hilt of the sword. 'Sorry,' she signs, 'I no sign good. You want help. Law. Meaning, you go...' She vacillates, incredulous, finally spelling C-O-U-R-T and then adding a question mark wiggle. The zombie gives one firm nod. 'We go court.' It, at least, knows how to sign that word. 'Tell them we not eat people. We are people,' it explains patiently. 'We need lawyer. You are lawyer. Please help.' Tag edges out from behind Tian-shin and perches himself on the lowest shelf of the cat tree (currently fuschia striped with purple) near the front door. "{You do have some expertise in...establishing legal personhood,}" he ventures hesitantly. Tian-shin doesn't answer at once, not even with Tag's prompting. She covers her mouth with one hand, closes her eyes. << I could file for a preliminary injuction or a restraining order now and...that is going to fly like a lead balloon, but there's a chance. If I frame it just right. >> Finally, she opens her eyes again and gives the barest, slightest nod. 'I try,' she signs. 'Court maybe not listen. But I try.' | |
