Happy Valentine's Day!

[piper90npcs]

Who: Rig workers and New Hires
What: Valentine's Day Events
Where: The Rig
When: Valentine's Day
Warnings/Notes: Violence likely.

A. Cupids aren't as cherubic as they appeared in Renaissance-era artworks. The little bastards float with the bodies of babies, but the huge, flatly reflective grey eyes of a cave-dwelling monster and the teeth of a viperfish when they open their mouths to deliver a hideous, staccato cackle. They flit around in the air in clumsy bursts with all of the grace of a concussed mosquito, only remaining upright half the time, but twice as hard to catch. That doesn't change the pinpoint accuracy of their aim, however, as they open fire with arrows of pyrite.

That's another difference in the myths. They don't target people and make them fall in love. They target lovers, or people with crushes, shoot to wound, and feed. Dozens of them careen drunkenly through the halls of the Rig, searching for people who are a little too obvious about their unspoken desire for affection. When caught, they squall like babies, then try to take a chunk out of their captor with their vicious mouths, opening far wider than a normal baby should be able to manage. Fortunately, they don't seem to be more durable than most babies, though their appearance and cries are enough to put off many Rig workers from a solution more permanent than trapping them in a closet or under a crate.

---

B. "It will be darling," Sharon says, smiling. "Do it." Despite the honeyed words of previous arguments, this time it's backed by steel. She smiles and casually knocks a cherub out of the air with a blast of rock salt, followed by a few vicious, but loving ('It's all about love,' she says. 'Jesus wants it that way.') strokes with the butt of her shotgun. "It's for morale, dear. Management thinks that it will help you all bond and realize that things aren't so bad here. You know, get you involved in some normal activities." She pauses, then whacks the little beast one more time. "...It twitched. Now, shoo. This box has all of the lace and paper you'll need. Even some gluesticks. But, please, be a dear and don't let Mac have too much paste. You know how he gets, bless his heart."

Yes, that's the official stance of Jorgmund. Mac can have a little glue, as a treat. On holidays. And, as promised, everything is there. Glue, pens, sparkly glitter, safety scissors, paper, and a load of candy message hearts, 'for inspiration'. There are even a few examples, addressed to Sam, to show the 'less fortunate' New Hires how to do it.

Of course, given that they're supposed to be doing it in between their regular chores and clearing out cherub corpses, Jorgmund doesn't exactly have high hopes. But an attempt is being made.

---

C. It was wheeled out from the darkest depths of collections. Large. Looming. Non-functional. It was only with much cajoling that they could even get Brainiac 5 to touch the thing, for reasons that become clear as soon as the computer boots up. It proudly proclaims itself to be property of Brainiac 5 and the Legion of Super Heroes, but not one that anyone here has ever been a member of.

They'd probably remember a computer dedicated to kissing, after all.

Yes, one of the public events planned for this year's Valentine's is finding the Perfect Smooching Partner, and Brainiac 5's Love Machine (Demands for rebranding were curtly refused) will help the world find their match... within the Rig, of course. When two people kiss, it tracks technique, passion, and the lighting of the brain's pleasure centers to rate their kiss on a scale of 1-100. Once everyone in a group has kissed at least one other partner, it collates the data collected and rearranges their images onscreen to show their true best match.

Security's already gotten involved and the only reason that the entire event hasn't been shut down is because there's money being passed around on who starts the next fight. Things have already gotten violent more than once and a Security officer's already been sent to Medical for a busted nose.

The New Hires aren't being forced to participate, but there's definitely a few very interested workers lined up, popping some breath mints, and straightening their shirts.

---

D. The banner reads "Speed Work-Appropriate Platonic Friendship/Networking" because, after all, relationships are forbidden by Jorgmund. Nevermind that half the crew is hooking up with each other, workers are expected to be married to the company, and the company is a jealous mistress. That doesn't stop some enterprising individuals from trying to make the most of the situation, as Mr. Sagittarius would undoubtedly cheerfully inform you if he could read these words. But since he can't, you don't have to imagine his smug little grin. Bonus.

Several tables have been laid out in rows, with lonely men and women seated at each one. These include several New Hires. The other side of the table seats include other workers, including several other New Hires, who get up and leave every eight minutes (Or ten posts), moving one seat down. The idea is that they'll take this time to bond with one another, find commonalities, and strike up a lifelong friendship. They've been offered a list of starter questions as possible starters, filled with corporate-approved humor that wouldn't make it into Reader's Digest.

One thing's clear, though. The people that haven't been forced into this, at least the Rig worker side anyway, are honestly extremely lonely people who are desperate for any connection that doesn't come from a plastic smile. After all, there's only about a thousand people on the Rig at any given time and many of them are stuck in jobs deep in the bowels of the machine that offer little chance for socialization. Even the workers that were married, grandfathered in before the harsher fraternization codes were put in place, rarely see their spouses or children aboard due to conflicting schedules.

Every now and then there's a gunshot from the background as someone takes another potshot at a cupid.

Comments

Re: A (cw: violence)

[credit_not_blame]

Stacia swishes her tail and attempts to bring her lips down over her teeth so she looks less threatening. It only sort of works, her teeth are very long in this shape. She shrugs her enormous shoulders and gestures at the poor cringing custodian in explanation for the doilies, since her mouth and larynx are poorly shaped for English.

She knows she looks scary, usually that's the point. But this shape is better for this kind of pest control, even if it does get a little cramped.

[takenalive]

Alloran's not entirely immune from old prey ancestor instincts, which see the teeth and claws in close proximity and smell alien blood and want him to do something about the whole situation. But he's spent so many years in close proximity to alien predators and unable to do anything about it, it's really just a needling background impression that he should do... something. Put his ears back, maybe, but as he does it it doesn't really seem sufficient.

<I see,> he says, though he obviously doesn't understand the connection between the decorations and the unfortunate custodian, who has literally started crossing herself with a shaking hand as she shrinks back against the wall. The bagged cherub tries to take a bite out of her leg. Its teeth tangle in the mesh.

Alloran can't sigh, he's not built like that, but there is that sort of impression as he delicately inserts his body between the staffer who'd wanted his help with cherub-catching and the werewolf. <If you're moving on, I'll come with you.>

[credit_not_blame]

She's doing her best not to set off any prey animal instincts, but there's no hiding that she's an apex predator in this shape. Stacia huffs and politely ignores the poor woman crossing herself -- that's vampires, lady -- but wags her tail when Alloran offers to accompany her. Hunting is always more fun with someone else. For good measure, she gives him a double thumbs up, then wonders if he's familiar with that gesture. Has anyone taught Alloran about a thumbs up? Maybe the crew should establish some communicative hand gestures.

She starts off down the hall again, inhaling deeply to try and catch the scent of cherub.

[takenalive]

No one has taught Alloran tail-wagging or the thumbs-up, though he's seen both and has a vague idea that the thumb gesture is affirmative. He knows what it means when humans move their heads side to side, is this some other indication of that? But Stacia surely still can recognizably shake her head... After a moment, he lopes after her, hooves as audible as high heels on the tile.

<I'm proceeding on the assumption that that was a yes. You can accelerate if it wasn't,> he declares as soon as he remembers that, right, that's an option. It does seem like a better idea to be behind her than before her.

Idly and not for the first time he wonders what would happen if he acquired her, if this would be a good morph. He's not really thinking about doing it, of course, he hasn't taken in any new DNA in months and months. It's a remnant of all that time with Esplin in control, touching every large dangerous-seeming creature he came across in case it was useful.

[credit_not_blame]

She's certainly not displaying any behaviors that a wolf steered by the mind of a hostile human might, which Alloran is certainly more familiar with than wagging. Stacia makes a creaky sort of noise and carefully does not accelerate. Yeah, she definitely needs to declare some official Hand Gesture Meanings.

She can't answer any unasked questions of course, so she can't ask in return if it's possible for him to acquire a creature that's less DNA than inborn magic. So instead she pauses at the intersection of two hallways, snuffling high and low for that strange scent or for the smell of blood as the cherubs hunt.

[takenalive]

The Animorph Cassie's battle morph seemed innocuous enough when its teeth weren't bared, and was much smaller. Stacia as a wolflike creature radiates some mixed signals as far at that goes.

There's some cackling and clumsy, labored flapping, and an impact and some very babylike fussing as one of the cherubs fails to steer properly and slams into a wall. They are about, all right.

As if to himself, Alloran says, <I'd prefer it wasn't widely known how easily I can kill humans. I would like to be underestimated. But that means I can't go cutting anything in half without pause.> There is the sense, again, of a sigh. <So that really means morphing, and since I'd prefer they don't know my repertoire either, that means the tiger or the bear. This will take a few minutes. You may go on ahead if you like.>

Bumps form on his arms and the underside of his head and extend into yellow-stained teeth. This is clearly going to get ugly.

[credit_not_blame]

Stacia nods and gives Alloran another thumbs up when he says that he'd prefer to keep his ability to kill humans on the down low. Considering that tail of his, she's not surprised that it would be easy, but she's also more used to analyzing potential threats than the average Jorg staffer. She prowls ahead a little ways towards the sounds of gibbering, then pauses and looks back at the squelching noises coming from Alloran.

Oh. Ohh. That's...that's a biological trainwreck you can't take your eyes off of.

[takenalive]

It's horrible! In some ways it's reminiscent of the Babadon'ts, but it's not always as liquid, and it's easier to see since it's not all opaque and black. There's also some crunching that sounds a whole lot like bones breaking and grating against each other as his body reconfigures in a way that looks like it should be agonizing. Still, he radiates amusement at Stacia's attention.

Near the end of it he is a metallic blue-and-tan tiger with Alloran's light back mane, heavy belly mane, and sparse stripes. The most attractive part of the whole process is when the stripes split and multiply, going dark and spreading rapidly across his pelt as its consistency changes and it flushes orange and blanches white. And then there's a tiger there, one that's deeply unhappy about a bigger predator so close by.

Ears flat, teeth bared, the tiger tenses, crouching low and lashing its tail as it backs away, then startling as it hits a wall before Alloran can assert control. He's morphed tiger on his own before, and bear, for the photoshoot. He stands straighter, and somehow endeavors to look smug.

<Perhaps I should have warned you. There are certain people who can make that process attractive, but I'm not among them.>

[credit_not_blame]

It's very different from what Stacia's used to. Garou and other Fera shift on a slider from human to their war form to animal and back the other way with a couple stops in between. It's smooth and natural and meant-to-be: all five shapes are their own.

This is...well, it looks like something out of horror-science fiction. Alloran crunches and schlorps, it seems like it ought to be agonizing. This isn't something that is part of what Alloran's species is; this is something that has been done to him.

It looks Wyrmish as fuck, and Stacia has to pin her instincts down by the throat to silence their screaming that she should kill it immediately. It's only when she's faced with a Perfectly Normal (Smug) Tiger that she finally relaxes, as strange as that is.

She huffs and rolls her eyes dramatically at Alloran's modesty, inhaling deeply of tiger smell with no hint of anything wrong. Then she gestures grandly in the direction of the gibbering, with a flourish that says shall we?

[takenalive]

Morphing has casually eradicated Alloran's historical scents that indicated where he'd been and who and what he'd touched or stood near, though the invisible trail of his passage to this point is still present. This tiger body is new-created. It has not marked, or eaten, or drank, or gone to any exertion; it has not swum, it has not touched trees or grass, it has not groomed, it has not metabolized, it has not lain on the ground. It smells like tiger, healthy and not particularly young, but it's also ahistorical, blank in a way no tiger is. Something with only a reasonably good sense of smell wouldn't be able to pick up on that.

<Very well.> He overrules the tiger's instincts with regards to big tooth thing and human-stinking enclosed space to pace onwards, getting acclimated to the way this body moves, the mild stiffness in one of the legs.

There's some kind of baby fight going on as two cherubs squabble clumsily, trying to wrestle with each other while also being too uncoordinated to be good at it. The other cherubs have Opinions about this.

[credit_not_blame]

In this shape, Stacia has more than a reasonably good sense of smell. But having seen the process that brought the tiger into being, it's more interesting than it is perturbing. She proceeds down the corridor, toward the sounds of gibbering and screeching. When she and Alloran come across the little baby brawl, she swishes her tail and flexes her claws.

Tigers are solitary ambush predators, if she recalls correctly. She's half-tempted to retrace her steps to a stair well to bypass the fight so that she can drive them into Alloran's claws. The two of them together are somewhat large to hunt side-by-side in these corridors.