Entry tags:

Intro Post

Welcome to Carlyle...

Waking Up

It's happening again. All around town. Maybe it's in the cereal aisle of the general store while no mothers with squalling children are traversing it. Maybe it's in the middle of the town's lonely graveyard, full of hundred-year-old graves in the middle of the night. Maybe in the local city hall restroom, eyes opening to a gaze-full of toilet paper, or in the town's settler museum full of wagon wheels and old farming paraphernalia.

There are still a few government workers milling around since the first influx. People in bland suits of various shades of grays and browns, nothing particularly impressive, but if they approach someone who doesn't seem to belong they'll bring them through the intake process. Though there's a chance that, instead, they'll meet a kindly marshall. Average middle-class white guy, a tall Midwesterner with some scruff and a formal uniform and a stocky build. He will discretely move them through if it's needed, make sure they have an ID and paperwork and phone and some concealing clothes if they have the body type that works for it. If they look special or like someone the government might want, he'll try to keep things on the down-low for them.

Better than to lose people again.

Getting Familiarized

When investigating the town, they'll find it with trace damage from the night before. Someone is replacing a door that has ax-marks in it. Another is rebuilding a fence, a crashed car ready to be towed away. And yet another person is filing an insurance claim with his agent, his shed completely burned down and the air closeby filled with the scent of settled smoke.

Most of the residents of Carlyle are friendly. If you stop and ask for directions, they'll give them. It's also a time of year in which there are lots of outsiders, on top of current events. Unfortunately, if anyone's dressed in an entirely unfamiliar way, someone might over-react. They may excitedly run to get one of the agents, or they might scream about it happening again, or they might be absolutely delighted and want pictures so they can go viral on FaceBook.

There's a cafe in town where there's are a slew of reporters, talking about post-Vesanalia clean-up and the lost arrivals. At first, someone who wanders in might be mistaken for another reporter, there to order coffee or jam microphones at the management outside. But someone might be smart. A towns-person might notice something off, a familiarity in their gaze, or might hear them say something suspicious. The next thing they know, those reporters are turning their microphones towards the newcomer.

Settling In

Someone might need somewhere to sleep. Well, there's a nice little hotel where it's free. There's probably government surveillance if you care about that sort of thing. Otherwise, your rest will go undisturbed and have the average conveniences of a mediocre bed, a Febreeze smelling duvet, a somewhat new TV, and bathroom with a tile pattern installed in the 80s. One could try a barn, but there's a chance they'll be run out by an angry man in honest to god overalls and an unironic cowboy hat with a pitchfork. They could also try to sleep in a vehicle. Let's just hope the owner doesn't come checking before morning.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"No, but we got a ton of metas and supers where I'm from. Apparently here it's just a uh... comic book thing. So I can't really tell if this is nerd kink or the real deal."

He makes a so-so motion with his gloved hand after the shake. At least he's honest. Kind of. In that way thieves are honest to be dishonest.

"I'm from Central City. Ever heard of it? Because apparently it's not a thing here."

Scott glanced down at his suit for a second, trying to imagine anyone who might get turned on by dressing as him, then moved on with his life.

"Sorry, no. There probably is one, but not that I've heard of."

"Central City is pretty big. We're talking huge population big. So that's the thing. We're either in a different universe or a different timeline... Don't worry about it. It happens time to time. There's a whole bucketload of different Earths and usually some fixit comes along."

Just right now Mick has no idea what that fixit is, and he's not in a rush to be the one to figure it out, because his partner is alive here. The good version of his partner is alive here. And he's not in a rush to fix that.

"Have a look around but beware, I got approached by a religious honky while I was fresh off the boat spouting how we'd been sent by God. Small town America gets wild."

"Is this something that happens to you a lot?" At this point Scott was getting used to waking up in strange places, but Rory sounded like he had the drill all figured out. Like this was just an ordinary Tuesday to him. He still didn't know if he could trust the guy, but that was comforting, at least.

"Besides religious nutjobs, anything else I should look out for while I'm here?" He presumably wouldn't have any reason to lie about the cops in town, Scott would trust him on that much.

Indeed, Mick has enough of a history with it that it's practically more of an inconvenience than a life altering, unfathomable difficulty. "Uh..." He drawls thoughtfully. "It's fuckin' crawling with pigs. Most of them with suits. But I'm betting there's a few plain clothes ones."

Most men in these leather uniforms have been biased towards cops. So Mick is pretty sure this guy would be, too. But you know what? He's never made a secret of his dislike and he's not about to start now.

"You want something normal or you wanna go walking around in that get-up?" Mick gestures up and down. He was on his way to get a donut, but what, why not snag clothes for someone else.

"Feds, great. That'll make everything easier." He had no idea if his criminal record had followed him to this universe/timeline/whatever, but even without it, being questioned would probably lead to his suit getting confiscated and he was not going through that.

What was this guy, the all-purpose welome wagon? He wasn't carrying anything extra, so Scott deduced his meaning pretty quickly and shook his head. He wasn't sending anyone else in to do his stealing for him. "I can get something if there's a store. Thanks, though."

Sometimes it behooves one to help someone out. Mick's been a time custodian long enough that he knows high tech wondering off in places it shouldn't could be a problem, and honestly that looks like some high tech.

"Yeah. General store that way." Mick points down main street. There's a sign. It says general store.

He won't even advise him on the cash thing. But for now, Mick goes to attend to getting a donut.

"Thanks, man." Scott gave Mick a thumbs-up and awkwardly climbed back down into the ravine to get off the road, trying to ensure as few witnesses as possible. "Sorry, this is gonna look weird." Then he sent the carpenter ant circling around and shrank.

Shortly after that he walked out of the general store with the brisk confidence of a practiced shoplifter, suit miniaturized and tucked into the pocket of his new jeans. Step one, looking like he belonged, was taken care of.

He probably should have thought ahead to step two.

"...Oh, there's another one." Is what Mick says to himself. Well, he guesses that explains the... ant? Maybe.

Ah, well. It's cold as fuck out, but Mick buys a scone, a breakfast biscuit, and an apple turnover to take outside with him to drink with a cup of coffee rather than sitting somewhere respectable and warm. He wants to keep an eye on what's going on for the moment, watching where the feds seem to frequent most.

He's stuffing his face when the guy walks out nonchalantly, with no angry woman pursuing him out. Can't imagine that he bought those.

Mick's mid-mouthful when Scott's within earshot again. "That was quick."

It had been as simple as getting inside when a customer left and landing in the fitting room. From there Scott had torn tags off clothes that would fit him and walked out, feeling a little bad about ripping the store off. He'd have to make that up someday, if he got the chance.

"Were you waiting for me?" Maybe the welcome wagon guess was conservative and Rory was going to walk him home instead. Or just tail him. Scott tried to square up and look intimidating, completely failed.

Then quite simply, with a level of furrow to his brow that bordered between comical and flat out bulldog, he points to the cafe.

"You went the same direction as coffee and scones."

And he drowns out the latest bite with a heavy drink of what is definitely too hot liquid, but he's handling it as if it's lukewarm.

"Relax, Queenie. I'm not here to take your ant away or anything. I'm waiting for someone. Smooth talking guy with silver buzzed hair in a parka."

"Oh." He softened, what little fight had been there draining out. Instead of getting tailed he'd just accidentally crashed Rory's brunch. "Uh, sorry. I'll get out of your way, then."

He turned toward the center of town, such as it was, and paused. "The rest of the people who showed up, what're they doing now?"

"You're not the only twerp I've met who can adjust his size. He tries to front up too. To your credit, you're better at it than the one I know."

Mick finishes his first treat and wipes his leather gloves on his jeans, before starting to move on to the next one. It's hard to tell his shape under there, he could have some girth because those clothes are pretty loose. But the truth is, all that sugar is just going to be a fuel for a wall of muscle.

"Some of them went to this free motel. Owner lets noobs stay there for free." Some of them being the operative word.

"Can't speak for the rest." Sometimes a man makes bold choices when he doesn't want to leave a paper trail.

"Who else do you know who can do that?" He was by far the least impressive person who had ever put on one of Hank Pym's suits, so that lukewarm compliment was surprisingly uplifting. "Do you do something? I mean obviously you do things but like --" he illustrated "super things" with a vague yet peppy gesture. Mick definitely looked tough enough for it.

"What happens at the free motel?" There had to be a catch there if the police presence was strong, and in that case the leaving-no-trail option didn't sound too bad.

"Guy named Ray Palmer. He's a real boy scout." Literally. When they tried to mock him by calling him a boy scout, he had actually corrected them and informed them he'd been an eagle scout. "Invented the shrinking suit. Didn't know anyone else had picked up the tech." Or that it could be developed convergently. Sort of. (Hank Pym had made his years before).

"I have a gun that makes fire and I punch people." Which is what he surmises what he does down to. But he does look like maybe he could have more to him than just neanderthal tactics. Maybe.

"The motel is under surveillance, I can tell you that. Don't know by who, but I know if you go in there, declare yourself new, ask about a room, everyone's going to know you're an outsider. Luckily it seems to be the time of year that everyone's recovering from being... some sort of maniac." Mick finishes up the last of his snacks and shakes his head. Now that? That baffles him.

"I don't know him." Which seemed like a mistake, since Hank always knew exactly who had shrinking tech and who didn't, but like Rory had said, different universe/dimension/whatever. At least a boy scout probably wouldn't sell it off to someone hostile. "It wasn't picking up the tech, it was --" a long story. "You know what, it doesn't matter."

Well, that was simple enough. "Yeah, I can see how that would work." Even if Mick did just useneanderthal tactics, that sounded pretty effective.

"And they're okay with that?" Most of the people brought in must not have anything to hide, if that was the case. Which meant the motel might be safe, but Scott had spent enough time being surveilled. "Didn't you say it was a party?"

It's at least enough of a curiosity that Mick mulls it over. "Where did it come from, then?" He asks outright. Because, hell. Who knows how these timelines line up.

"And that was a figure of speech. Apparently, they got a day where they just let everyone go insane." He does wobbly mystery fingers at the word. "Legal to break shit and over-react. They even have insurance for it. That's the big difference here I've noticed. But there's no happy cheat sheet timeline I can take a look at."

But then the idea seems to strike him, and he goes to find some steps to sit on, half-finished coffee planted beside him.

"Wikipedia. Right." The thought spoken out loud. Like a true hard researcher dedicated to his sources.

"Someone not named Ray Palmer invented it. After he retired he passed the suit on to me. Well, I stole it. But he let me keep it." He wasn't about to drop the name Pym after all the fallout from his "mission" in Germany, even if that was in another universe.

"So it's a holiday for riots?" Scott was not the most respectful of laws, or of leaving other people's property alone, and that still sounded weird. "Has anyone said why? Because that sounds like a really stupid idea."

Wikipedia, on the other hand, was the wisest thing Scott had heard all day.

"Nope. But then again, nobody really explains Christmas. They just come up to you on Halloween with their candycanes ready way too damn early. If you didn't know, you'd be confused as hell."

Especially working out when Santa gave birth to Jesus and if the reindeer were in the manger. Christmas is confusing. He takes a few moments to read, working his jaw thoughtfully.

"Says here people can't control themselves. Well... a few people can't control themselves. So they just started forgiving shit and protecting themselves."

"What's it called?" It sounded like the worst execution of Mardi Gras imaginable. Scott was going to have to research this on his own. He wasn't sure he doubted it, though, because it was such a bizarre thing to lie about. "It's over for the year, right?"

"Yeah. Just yesterday, in fact."

It's not like he has a lot of personal info on the thing, so he hands his own to Scott. The background is a dragon and fire, predictably. All the apps standard fare, save for GrubHub and Angry Birds.

"Vesanalia."

He took the phone and read through the article, frowning more and more deeply as he went and looking up in shock when he got to the "history" section. "They've been doing this for centuries? And people die? This is the worst holiday I've ever heard of!"

"I haven't seen any bodybags here. Maybe the lady that god her door axed down was ready for the person that decided to go here's Johnny! on her. My guess after a few centuries you start learning to deal with it. Get desensitized."

Mick mulls that over. "Aztecs had some wild ones. But yeah. It doesn't sound like the best time."

"Doesn't mean there weren't any. It happens everywhere, people have to have died. How can you get desensitized to that?"

Sure, maybe horrible stuff happened everywhere, but this was just... Scott didn't have words for it. "Well I don't know anything about the Aztecs! And I don't think I want to!"

"I went to Juvie as a kid and was fighting off other kids twice my size. Met my partner protecting him from teens out to shank him. Does a hell of a lot to desensitize you. Now, think of that. Every person here has been living with the idea of going crazy and being attacked since they were a kid.

"They didn't learn to die scared. They learned to live around it, do what it takes to survive and keep living." Living in this case being able to wake up every day knowing that once a year your mom might go crazy and try to kill you.

He points to some insurance adjustor examing a car as a tow-truck is lining it up. Some mess further down the street that happened very recently. Seems like the clean-up crews were ready to go. "Or they learn how to cash in."

Welcome to Carlyle...

Waking Up

Getting Familiarized

Settling In

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