ph_logs | February Event - Garden of Woe [Merrymeet]

February Event - Garden of Woe [Merrymeet]

**Plain text version here.

GARDEN OF WOE

To Meet is Merry...

It’s a beautiful day. Normally Merrymeet is held a tad later in the month, but thanks to some predictions from Phil, the festival planning committee managed to snag a date right in the middle of a patch of lovely warm days. A false spring --- there would be another snow by the following week. But it’s the first hint of a true spring waiting in the wings. The sun is shining, the grass on the festival green is slowly waking up, snowdrop flowers wobble in the breeze, and the weather is approaching something akin to balmy. It's as if Celestine herself carried in her opposite-most sister on a warm breeze, just for today.

Partygoers trickle in from all sides, gathering at the Festival Green. Each and every soul is dressed in their spring finest. And when Juniper Sweetwater once again ascends the steps to the gazebo, the crowd falls silent. The procession is about to begin.

Dress to Impress

Generally speaking, the dress code for Merrymeet is garden party formalwear. Appropriate outfits can fall anywhere in the Classic or Lavish categories. Characters here less than 2 months are able to get free rentals if they’d like, but can buy their outfit if they wish. Everyone else is asked to please purchase their outfit (from 300-500B, depending upon complexity).

Short on Brass? Drop by Gourd en Glace before the event and grab yourself a sundae and bring it up to Venka Meridell, the proprietor who also happens to be the local tailor’s daughter. She’ll slip you a coupon for a half-price Merrymeet outfit if you’re willing to taste test one of her unorthodox new ice cream flavors. Her mother, Saraya, will begrudgingly accept these coupons. [Mod Note: Please only take this option if you have 500B or less in your ledger, we are trying to get some of these rich-ass characters to spend their damn money!]

Once you’re all dressed to the nines, please feel free to use the code below to show off your drip in the Fashion Show thread!

Crowning of the Flower Queen

Once Mayor Poe gives the signal, a band begins to play, signalling the entrance of the Floral Court. A hush falls over the crowd as they watch the nominees enter, one at a time and escorted by their chosen companion. Many beloved community figured were nominated this time, and competition was stiff--- the crowd is eager to see who is named their Flower Queen.

Then, the procession begins in earnest as each member of the Floral Court (Valdis, Ylva, Margaret, Lyubov, CT, Alice, Fever, Magne, Olivia, Anya, and Helena) is escorted through the festival green and up to the gazebo. Standing at the top of the short flight of gazebo stairs is Juniper Sweetwater, a poised and delicate Wood Elf with pale brown hair. Gracing each pair with a greeting of “hail and merry meet”, she places a small ring of flowers upon the brow of each member of the court, and hands each one a matching boutonniere or corsage to bestow upon her plus-one. Juniper lets each pair file into the gazebo to take their seats.

Then some of the other leading ladies arrive and do much the same--- first, Drelasa, who won third place, and then Elsie and Sally, who tied for second. Behind them is Sally’s toddler Gwen, who is “escorted” (carried) by her older brother Yellow, both of whom are invited to join as special guests. Juniper takes a moment to bestow each of the women with a slightly larger crown, and a bouquet decorated with a ribbon indicating their place and a brass or silver charm as a token of their achievement.

Finally, the last to enter is the Flower Queen herself. The music swells as this year’s Queen, Dahlia Leeds, is escorted by her Courtier, Radar O’Reilly. A murmur sweeps over the onlooking crowd of surprise and excitement as Dahlia proceeds through the parted crowd. Once one of the most beloved people in town, Dahlia has barely been seen outside her home since her fall from grace at her birthday gala. And when she has, she’s looked sallow and miserable, a husk of herself. And yet here, today, she looks utterly radiant--- aside from the fact that she is very obviously weeping, utterly overcome with emotion at the fact that so many of her neighbors and friends still accept her. Tears of surprise, joy, relief, and gratitude pour down her face in thick streams that she cannot contain as she makes her way down the aisle with Radar, both of them dressed ornately in delicate blue.

The pair are showered with flower petals as they follow the winding trail, applauded quietly by festival goers before they reach Juniper. Fluidly, she swaps places with Dahlia so that the new Flower Queen is the one stood at the top of the stairs and the prior is on the ground.

“Hail and merry meet.” Juniper curtsies. “Today, just as I was two years ago, you have been chosen by the people of our town to be the Flower Queen. It is my honor to present you with gifts befitting a queen.”

Another townsperson passes her a basket, which Juniper presents to Dahlia. It contains a number of spring-themed treats--- honey harvested from last spring’s flowers, a bottle of specially crafted sweet festival wine to be consumed on the summer solstice, a candle embedded with dried flowers, a blend of lavender and bergamot tea, a charming floral soap, and a necklace with a pressed forget-me-not inside a clear pendant. There is also a medal hanging around the wine bottle shaped like an orchid bloom, engraved on the back with text. “Flower Queen 16:55 - Pumpkin Hollow - Dahlia Anastasia Leeds”. Juniper then passes the somewhat heavy basket off to Radar to carry--- after all, it’s the Courtier’s job to attend to the Queen!

Then, Juniper pins a boutonniere to Radar’s lapel, and beneath it, a medal of his own. “Floral Courtier - 16:55 - Radar O’Reilly”.

“With this sprig of Serannai’s glory, I bestow upon you the honored duty of Courtier to the Flower Queen. Assist her as she needs and ensure that she spends this day as free and joyful as a spring breeze.”

Lastly, Juniper turns back to Dahlia and takes up a crown of flowers, larger and more elaborate than the others, holding it aloft for a moment before resting it upon Dahlia’ss head.

“With this crown, I pass my title on to you. May it bring you felicity and fortune, so that you may share it with the earth as you put seed to soil.”

Before letting them go, Juniper leans in, beaming and grasping Dahlia’s hand tightly with the warmth of someone who has known her their whole life, and whispers, “Congratulations!” Then, she takes a step back, hurrying delightedly off into the crowd, leaving Dahlia to stand and look over the crowd of her friends, her neighbors, her loved ones, so many of whom have still chosen to embrace her. For a moment, all she can do is stand in awe.

Applause rings out over the crowd, music swells once more, and Merrymeet officially begins. Congratulations to Dahlia, and all the members of the Floral Court!

Eat, Drink, Be Merry!

It doesn’t take long for lunch to be brought out, courtesy of some helpful volunteers and the Oak & Iron’s diligent cooking staff. Salads full of spring greens, fresh bread with herbs baked in, puff pastries with fresh cheese and asparagus, egg tarts, chicken sandwiches, and crispy little hashbrowns formed into cups to look like bird nests, each with a devilled egg sitting inside. There are also dozens of little desserts made with flowers and spring berries, like cakes and custards, and even heart-shaped macarons.

And while there is wine being passed around the table, there is also tea. But this isn’t just any tea, and these aren’t just any tea pots. The pots are clear glass, surrounded by ornate silver fixtures, so that you can see the color of the tea and the leaves steeping within. Some are regular tea leaves rolling around in ball strainers while others are blooming floral teas perched in the center of the pots. And best of all, these teapots are enchanted courtesy of Dr. West, looking like chubby little tea puppies walking around on four short metal legs. They meander around between dishes on the tables, bumbling up to partygoers to offer their contents and tipping forward with surprising grace to pour tea into cups. They are helpfully labeled with tags tied to their handles, explaining what they contain.

While a few contain typical tea blends, others are marked as containing enchanted teas, provided by Aeryn Sallek. The enchanted blends are as follows:

Party Enhancer - An energizing and sweet lemon hibiscus tea that makes the drinker able to dance longer, sing louder, eat more, and worry less. Turn down your inhibition and turn up the fun! This is a great tea for people who want a little party boost without getting drunk.

Liquid Courage - Feeling too shy to dance? Nervous about asking that beautiful person to spend the day with you? Want to go for that first kiss but struggling to work up the nerve? This smooth lavender black tea will help!

Romance Reagent - For those looking to be a little more flirty or emotionally open, this rose milk tea has a higher concentration of the “emotional acuity” potion to help you be open with your true feelings and get your cuddle on. And this denser dose of potion will even have the added effect of making you a little more suave, as well.

Sultry Spice - For those looking to find someone nice and invite them somewhere more private. This warming apple spice tea literally just has a mild aphrodisiac in it.

Enjoy any of these with your meal to turn up the mood! While these teas are clearly labeled, it's up to you whether or not you actually read them. Accidents can happen!

Eating isn’t all there is to do, of course. The other primary activity is dancing!

Local musicians will be playing throughout the day for group and couple’s dances, including a local partner dance called the Sunrise Waltz and a classic maypole dance. Feel free to dance the afternoon away with partners, friends, new acquaintances, and more!

There’s also areas to catch your breath and chat with friends, a chocolate dipping station, flower sprouts in tiny pots as party favors, flower garland braiding areas, and plenty of wine! Additionally, there are a few flower-filled tents on the festival green with private seating areas for couples to catch a few moments alone. You’re not supposed to, but if you’re quiet and don’t mind a bit of risk, it wouldn’t be hard to sneak a little naughty fun into your day in these little tents.

And of course, there is the planting ceremony later in the day, so feel free to join Dahlia and Juniper at the edge of the green for this short tradition! With an apron thrown over her dress and a short spade, Dahlia takes a moment out of the festivities to plant a tulip bulb in a half-empty row near the gazebo, right next to the one Mary Dahl planted the year prior, and Juniper herself the year before that.

...But Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow

Ballad of the Damned

Would any event on a cursed island truly be complete without some sort of unscrupulous paranormal activity? Truly, nothing is sacred (except maybe the Dance of Celestine, once), as yet another of Dahlia’s infernal relatives arrives bearing “gifts” to put a damper on her special day.

As night begins to fall, the afternoon band is finally given time to rest and retire to the party themselves, intended to be replaced by a Council-approved evening band. However, said musical group is waylaid on their way to the stage, and replaced with an act far stranger.

On the left part of the stage, a man with pipes embedded in his chest begins to sing a low note, accompanied by a deep, rich harmony as though his chest were a pipe organ. Perhaps it is. On the right side, an older man who almost looks human, save for the exposed “ribcage” full of harpstrings. And at the front, a pale woman dressed all in white with a veil covering all but her mouth, who sings like an angel over the music of her companions. The man in charge and his large sitar are conspicuously absent.

When Sonata begins to sing, two things begin to happen. The first is that black, thorny vines emerge from the slumbering ground, encasing the performers in thick foliage with gaps only big enough for the sound of their music to escape, and thorns big enough to ward off any interruptions. The second is that anyone who can hear the music will find that the sound floods their mind with memories of grief, pain, loss, and loneliness. So intense are these memories and emotions that even the most strong-willed can barely keep from weeping, with only a few exceptions.

Those with protection from demons will find their suffering great, but not debilitating, and Father Mulcahy’s boon from Mortanne and personal experience combined are enough to offset the more soul-crushing effects of the somber music. However, these things alone will not be enough. With the infernal band protected, the Domain of Sorrow’s Song will continue leeching anguish from the party-goers for their master for as long as they can. The only way to combat them is to cut off their source of power through self-imposed joy--- a challenging task, given the situation.

Luckily, a friend from outside the barrier interested in helping his daughter has sent some friends to help you get started.

March of the Bizzyboys

Five Drainfolk in red uniforms find themselves in a forest. Little teal-furred monkey-folk with long hair and longer tails stand amid pink trees and a gaggle of little fuschia butterflies. Their names are Vibiano, Grujaja, Bananathaniel, Alexei, and Patty--- mysteries, until recently, revealed a few letters at a time. The wind sings like bamboo wind chimes through the pastel branches.

The butterflies swarm together, forming the shape of a person, and from the flock emerges a strange man. With chitinous hands and a face covered in dark pink wings, he steps free of the fluttering mass and onto a stump, wearing long fur robes, and he smiles a toothy smile.

“Hello there, Bizzyboys! I am King Olwylder, Archfae of the Court of Red Butterflies,” he says with a sweeping bow. Then, he leaps down from his makeshift stage, his own enormous wings splayed out behind him. He lands crouching, diminishing his impressive height to get onto their level. “I have a very important favor to ask you.”

“You see, some old friends of yours, as well as my beloved daughter Elsie, have been caught up in a bit of trouble. I need you to go to a little town called Pumpkin Hollow for the evening and help them out. Afterwards, you can stay there a while, or not, if you prefer. But during the flower festival they have going on, I need you five little darlings to do me a very, very important favor, and do what you do best. I need you to solve a mystery. Can you help me?”

Once all five Bizzyboys have agreed, Olwylder shakes each of their fuzzy hands and thanks them profusely, covering their red uniforms in pink flowers before sending them on their very merry way. They ride to Pumpkin Hollow on the back of a black horse, driven by a man with no head, and fan out in search of their old bosses as well as Olwylder’s daughter.

The five original Bizzyboys, played as guest NPCs, arrive at Merrymeet just before the band begins to play, and are immune to all of its effects due to the blessing of King Olwylder and sheer adorable whimsy. Threading with one of them can help you acquire the self-made fun you need to break the spell yourself, which you can then spread to others! These delightful shenanigans have been graciously provided by five helpful players, so please thank Liz, Sid, Mira, Maniette, and Kai for their assistance in making the magic happen! Once the event ends, it will be up to each player whether their Bizzyboy remains in PH or heads back home.

| CONTENT WARNINGS: altered states of consciousness, mildly dubious consent, grief, depression, mood control |

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"NnnNNNnngeeaaeeegh," says Purple, about to be bodily crawled upon by what looks to them like the very apologetic bastard child of a snare flea and a bunker spider with pinkeye, and caught without their emotional support shovel to boot. They drop the chair, but not quickly enough to keep Spider-Dad from grabbing their arm, which they flail around wildly. Their non-spidered arm reaches automatically into their jacket pocket. "Nope nope nope nope nope, get off me!"

Their hand closes on the hilt of their knife, but they stop themselves, memories flashing through their mind of wailing blood-splattered Maneater larvae and little orphans sitting down and refusing to move, and instead peel the jacket off and fling it onto the ground. Scaling scenic Mt. Purple will be a true test of Tarantulas' reflexes and dexterity! Not so much Dawn's, since she's still clinging to their helmet with determination and the sticky hands that no toddler would go long without.

"Stop moving!" Tarantulas takes notice of Purple long enough to snap, shrinking his body down further to the size of a kitten, so he can nimbly leap from the jacket to Purple's waist before they've even finished taking it off. Dawn, meanwhile, grows fretful at what seems as an unseemly delay in her reunion with her beloved father, begins to admonish her erstwhile savior with scolding squeals and smacks around their helmet area. The two spiders cling to Purple's body, unwilling to be shaking off when they're so close to finding each other again.

"You're the one who jumped on me!" He's shrunk down to a non-terrifying size but that also makes it harder to catch him, and that's before his kid starts making a ruckus. The shrieking and slapping and metallic pinging noises of a frustrated toddler attached to their helmet strain their focus enough that it slows them down, even as they stretch their arm joints beyond the human range of motion to grab at Tarantulas crawling up their back.

"Why are you like this?!" It's more a cry of aggravation than an actual question.

"You're the one holding my kid!" Tarantulas points out, very reasonably too he must say. He dodges the arms, scuttling up Purple's back until he finally makes it to Dawn, who immediately squeals and scoops him into her arms. "Oof, that's a little too tight, darling -- there we are. It's okay, calm down, calm down..."

Once Dawn's been soothed Tarantulas sniffs quietly, rubbing at his eyes with his pedipalps before addressing Purple again, "I suppose I owe you an apology for startling you," he says grudgingly. "And a thank you for bringing Dawn back. What's going on?"

Well, fuck, he's got them there. What are they going to say, no I'm not? That'd work about as well as telling the crowd of people around the vent you popped out of that you were just checking on the air conditioning. And trying to think of a good comeback distracted them from squirming around, so he's got one over on them there, too. But really, what were they trying to achieve? Keeping a parent apart from his child, just because he's got bad manners and skittering legs? (What the fuck did they just think? Not wanting to let talking bugs crawl on them makes them the asshole? They have got to get out of here. The atmosphere's really getting to them.)

While Purple's preoccupied with their thoughts, standing there awkwardly with one index finger halfway raised, the spider-people are having a family bonding moment atop their head and shoulders. It actually is kind of touching.

"Thanks," they respond, also a little grudgingly. They point at the thick lumps of thorny vines taking up most of the bandstand. "Party crashers came to ruin everything. I don't know anything about magic, no one can get through the plants, I don't see how we're supposed to stop them."

"Ugh, demons." Admittedly Tarantula's eyes are so weak in this form that he can't actually see the stage from here, but deducing that "malicious party-crashers + magical barriers = yet another demonic invasion" is not exactly rocket science. (And yes, he would know.) "We really should have seen that coming...they did something like this last year too." He pats Dawn with a couple spindly legs before announcing, "Well, I'm not sticking around to expose my daughter to yet more of this nonsense. We're going home."

A moment later, he adds, "You can come with us, if you'd like. My shop is very secure."

You know what else is very secure? The top of Purple's head. It'd be nice if he didn't have to climb down just yet.

Edited 2025-03-10 01:27 (UTC)

"That's the best idea I've ever heard," they respond. You can leave! Demons at the party, incredibly depressing music, cops if you're quick. Real winners quit. (Like they could ever call themselves a winner- okay, there they go again. Ugh.)

"Is there much of a pattern to it? So I can figure out which parties to skip? The winter ones were fine." Maybe they're doing it to bully Dahlia, since first it was her birthday party and now she's the Flower Queen.

Purple squats down to pick up their now slightly dirty jacket, expecting Tarantulas to hop off their head while it's closer to the ground. Which he doesn't. Fine, they've got bigger problems than a spider smaller than the average Tulip Snake and every bit as clingy sitting on their hat. He can stay there for now. (How is he even doing that? He barely weighs anything in that shape!)

"So I'm supposed to take you there?" they say, skeptically, just to confirm that they've been volunteered to be the getaway vehicle; they're more resigned than offended, and already moving toward the boundary of the park. The sooner they get out of demon range the better.

"Not that I've been able to detect so far. Perhaps they're targeting Dahlia?" he suggests, unknowingly echoing Purple's own chair of reasoning. "But it also seems as though they prefer to space out their attacks so we lower our guard. Makes us more entertaining prey, no doubt."

Indeed, Dawn and Tara both have no trouble riding out the changes in Purple's posture and altitude, Dawn even giggling quietly as they stand up again. "If you wouldn't mind," Tarantulas says placidly. "Dawn seems quite fond of you -- and you do have longer legs than her, you know."

Tarantulas could give himself even longer legs than that, but why should he? He and Dawn are both perfectly comfortable where they are.

Purple nods, adding some light turbulence to the ride. "So if it's been a suspiciously long time, or it seems like Dahlia would have too much fun if they didn't."

This has to be the only time that anybody's been glad the local impostor already knows where they live, they think, but have enough sense not to say out loud. They're trying to keep a low profile in this town. Ominous, vaguely threatening comments won't help them with that.

"I'm not gonna make your kid carry you home." They sound a bit scornful of the idea. "Are you stuck like that, or do you just not want to get up?"

Let's see, they're facing south, and Tarantulas' shop – the one with the spider-themed name and the purple sign – is on the west side of town. It's not far. They've taken longer walks to get to work in the morning. The demon music's fading into the distance already.

"Obviously I'd be the one carrying her," Tarantulas argues, a little stung by the implied slight to his parenting. "I can change size whenever I like. It's just that we're both so wonderfully secure up here. Surely you won't deny a hard-working single father and his adorable progeny a few small comforts?"

Yeah, he'll get down if Purple really insists on it. But first they need to get insistent.

"Do not turn into a spider big enough for a child to ride on," is what Purple gets insistent about. "Not if I have to watch."

They have seen enough giant spiders for one lifetime, thank you very much. Is he using their reaction from last time against them? It's hard to tell; he might have said the same thing to anyone.

"Good for you," Purple says, a tad curtly. How come he can change his body mass that much, and that easily? They wish they could do that. (Although if he can only turn into variously-sized spiders and spider-humanoids, that's a tradeoff they wouldn't take. Not even because it's spiders, just the inflexibility of it.)

"Is my head really that comfortable?" They glance at a street sign. Still going the right way. "That's one of the weirder compliments I've received."

Tarantulas sniffs disdainfully. "I forgot you were one of the town arachnophobes. Too bad; they're really very delightful creatures when you stop to observe their habits and anatomy. But yes, you make a very serviceable moving platform. I've had less comfortable rides from people who were actual trains."

Edited 2025-03-12 23:40 (UTC)

"My objection to being in chomping range of spiders big enough to eat me isn't because I haven't spent enough time getting to know them," Purple complains. "They were all over the place in my last job. I've never actually seen one eat someone who was alive when it found them? But not because they didn't try."

There were a lot of close calls and non-fatal maulings between themselves and their coworkers, but at the end of it Purple's eaten more spiders than they've been eaten by, so they came out ahead in that sense at least.

"Well, thanks. This hat was expensive, so it's good to know I'm getting my money's worth." They pause. "Have you really met train-people?"

"I have put far too much time and effort into establishing myself as a productive member of this society to throw it all away by eating someone now," Tarantulas points out, speaking briskly as if this is an old, worn conversation that he's already tired of. "Predation may be effective in emergencies, but it's terrible optics -- especially when may one have to explain themselves to their food the next day. I have no intention of eating you even if the opportunity should arise."

He laughs, however, at Purple's question. "I certainly have!" he says, voice warming. "As well car-people, shuttle-people, even a space station-person or three. I suppose this must be your first exposure to Cybertronians, you poor thing? We're a highly variable species, very specialized at the individual level. I wish I could say it's made us wonderful generalists as a whole, but alas. The dominant culture of the planet, not to mention our world government, has been trending towards authoritarianism for the last ten or twelve million years."

This is really awkward and feels almost more like a preemptive scolding in case they let their appetite get the better of them (which they have no reason to, they can eat all the fish they want on the clock, not to mention the ferocious things in the woods, they have so many options they could turn to first) than an admonishment for their aversion to big spiders. They tell themselves there's no way Tarantulas could have found out about that. Nimona's probably put the pieces together by now and some of their coworkers from the fishing boat might suspect something, but the only one they actually said anything to was Dahlia, and as far as Purple knows none of them really hang out with him that much.

At piggyback-ride range, he might still notice the way Purple's shoulders tense up as Tarantulas goes over the subject of people-eating and why it's a bad idea. More defensively than when they were just talking about spiders. "I didn't say you would actually do it. But you see why I'd be nervous, right?"

Oh good, something they can talk about that isn't related to anyone's chances of eating their neighbors. "Not a species I've run into in my universe, no. Do you all turn into different things?" They pause. "Twelve million? I think my species was still figuring out walking upright twelve million years ago."

Edited 2025-03-13 08:44 (UTC)

"Right, so I'm explaining to you why you have no logical reason to be nervous," Tarantulas says dryly. "Besides, I'm not even hungry right now. Although Dawn could probably use a snack when we get home..." He taps his forelimbs on the flat crown of Purple's hat. "I think we still have some casserole from the last time Cesar came over, if you're feeling peckish."

With that settled, he turns back to one of his favorite topics: educating the general populace (and Dawn!) about Cybertronians. "We're an exceptionally long-lived species," he says grandly. "I myself am just over six million years old, and I have every expectation of living six million more, at minimum. As will you, darling," he adds to Dawn. "Because you have a Cybertronian spark too, it was calved off from mine when I made you!" Dawn, who has already been told this several times before, merely giggles, much more interested in looking at the houses they walk past.

"You make it sound like such an easy task," they grumble. "I believe you about not eating me, or else I wouldn't come over to your house and eat your food. Leftover casserole sounds great, by the way."

They won't get a lot out of it if it's vegetarian, but anything that César can eat should at least be digestible and calories are calories.

"Exceptionally long-lived is right. Is it weird living at the same speed as the rest of us? I bet a boring meeting on your homeworld could go on for longer than this planet's had agriculture."

Tarantulas merely hums, neither confirming nor denying that eating Purple would be simple for one such as him. Some things are better left a mystery. :::;3

"A common misconception among shorter-lived species," he remarks, "but actually my sense of time is no different than yours. The sun still rises and sets, an atomic clock ticks at the same rate on Cybertron as it does on Earth. Or Concorde, although without an electron microscope it's not like I can actually check...But I digress. With us the real danger is complacency. It's far too easy to fall into habit, every day much the same as the one before, and let the years slip past you unremarked. That way lies senescence, and eventually obsolescence. Naturally it was precisely the state the Senate found most desirable for the common workers of our kind, pretending that each one of them was an unthinking cog in the great Cybertronian machine -- until Starscream massacred them all. Ironically the Senate had fallen into complacency themselves, and never saw it coming."

Purple at least likes to think they'd make the digestion process as unpleasant for the eater as the eaten. Maybe there's a baboon hawk somewhere on Adamance that got a real bad case of food poisoning a few months back. Until they got here, they wouldn't have had any way to find out.

With all these Earthlings in town, the place still manages to be the center of the universe even in a different universe. But if they point out that it's not where they're from, then he's just going to ask them a bunch of questions about their homeworld that aren't any of his business, and they get the point he's making anyhow. It would have taken more effort to not learn Earth's timekeeping system.

"Good for Starscream. Sounds like they deserved it." They've taken an instant dislike to the Cybertronian Senate and also that's a badass name. "Spending a million years doing nothing but going to work every day sounds like a fate worse than death."

"'Deserving' is rarely a useful metric in world government. Certainly only a few well-placed politicians benefited under the Senate -- but only mercenaries and arms manufacturers benefited from the chaos that followed. With no unified coalition to step into the power vacuum left by the Senate, one might argue that a civil war was inevitable. Certainly it seemed so at the time."

Now you've done it, Purple. This is Tarantula's area of special interest and he can easily talk about it for hours.

"This is not to say the Senate were undeserving of being removed, of course. They'd been puppets of the Functionist Council for millions of years by that point, and I'm the last person you'll ever hear defending Functionism this side of Megatron himself, hyeh hyeh hyeh!"

"Hm," says Purple, disappointed that murder didn't solve everything. It's not that surprising but they're still disappointed. They turn onto another street as the talking spider riding on their hat exposits upon Cybertronian history.

"So what's Functionism? Is it a philosophy, or a political movement, or...?" The name does sound like something that someone trying to appeal to senators who want everyone to spend their lives moving in orderly and productive little lines would come up with. Past that it could be a school of architecture for all Purple knows.

"A philosophy, yes. It began as a religious movement, an off-shoot of Primean Determinism. Hm, where to begin..." He drums his pedipals against Purple's hat in thought. "I should mention, for context, that it is commonly believed on Cybertron that the planet itself is a deity, and the progenitor of our species. Certainly it used to be true that newsparks were generated by certain regions of the planet's crust via no means science has been able to explain. Whether that is adequate evidence of sapience on the planet's part I leave for you to decide, but the Determinists believed that, as every newspark 'born' in this manner comes online with their altmode already determined, it is therefore desirable that every Cybertronian be given the chance to pursue an occupation which will make use of their 'Primus-determined' form. This is what passed for natural on a planet populated entirely by robots." He snickers.

"The Functionists, now...as I said, they began as an offshoot of this philosophy. They developed the idea further, reaching the conclusion that it is undesirable for any Cybertronian to hold an occupation that does not make use of his alt-mode. You can imagine how satisfying this restriction was for those of an intellectual or creative bent, who the Functionists now decreed were only fit for menial labor."

He's not exactly giving them much time to get to grips with the implications of one thing before he throws the next at them. The planet of Cybertron is alive? And it might be a god? And they're all shapeshifting robots, which explains a lot about why he knows so many vehicle people. (Purple wouldn't have guessed that he was a robot if he hadn't said anything. He looks totally organic both as a biped and a spider.)

"Yeah, I bet." A vital piece of context about this conversation occurs to them. "Hang on, what kind of job options are there for turning into a spider?"

They can think of a few things, but the things they can think of are making lots of spiderwebs and half a dozen non-spider-specific uses for the ability to become any size he wants while flipping eight middle fingers at the law of conservation of mass. They'd be so much better at sneaking into places if they could decide to weigh less than a chicken nugget while doing so.

"Oh, I wasn't a spider back then," Tarantulas says lightly. "This adorable form is of my own design. But my original form was a lightweight all-terrain vehicle -- they had me doing courier work." He spits the words contemptuously. "I first hacked my personal file to give myself intellectual-class privileges when I was, hm...36? Or was it 63...? Something like that. Did a little prison time for it too, hyeh hyeh hyeh."

Now they'd feel like an asshole if they told him he should have picked something else, no matter how much they disagree about the adorableness of his adopted shape. They can't personally relate to getting stuck with a form they don't want and finding the one single specific one to change into that fixes everything, but it's not that uncommon of a situation. Except for the part where he turned from an ATV into a spider of wildly inconsistent size, anyhow. That's a little out of the ordinary.

"Didn't know it meant that much to you," Purple says. The spider shape, they mean. In their opinion courier work is far from the worst job the government could have assigned him, but considering that he's wired half the town's electricity it's pretty clear that it was a waste of Tarantulas' talents.

Interesting that he specifies first. In a jovial tone, they respond, "And then you did it again after you got out and knew where you went wrong last time?"

(no subject)

tisnotthehouse - 2025-05-02 06:56 (UTC) - Expand

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only