Fandom Island and Town

Marcus had started the day on the distinctly cranky side, partly caused by the fact that he had a hole in his arm (thank you Parents Weekend), partly caused by the fact that said hole was healing rather faster than it should be.

He doubted the island's weirdness was to blame, which left him wondering what was.

The wonderings were completely driven out of his head, however, by what awaited him when arrived at the junkyard.

Baby goats. Lots of them. Whole herds, even. Jumping around the place, leaping off wooden crates, and, very notably, playing poker. They'd also set up a roulette wheel in one corner, particularly impressive given their lack of opposable thumbs.

Marcus took one look at them, shook his head, and disappeared into the shed.

[ooc: junkyard is open and, yes, the kids are gamboling.]

Marcus was aware there were extra people on the island, and that there'd been some sort of commotion up at the school.

Since it wasn't his problem, he didn't much care. Mostly, he was just glad all seemed to be normal in the junkyard today.

It made a nice change.

[OOC: there is OCD, including a ship thread for those who have ships in the junkyard if they want to use it.]

The junkyard was a riot of colour today.

No, it hadn't been covered in multi-hued graffiti, nor had the various bits of junk spontaneously transformed into junk-of-many-colours, nor had a passing rainbow fallen from the sky, splashing itself across the yard.

The cause was much simpler than that: the junkyard was full of butterflies. Ridiculously ornate, candy-coloured, curly-winged butterflies, swooping and dancing and fluttering about the place.

It was all very pretty.

It was all too much for Marcus. He took one look at the latest infestation and decided the junkyard could manage itself today. Once the gates were unlocked, he went and found something far less cheerful with which to occupy himself.

[My head has an ache, so the junkyard has moddability.]

Marcus had been having such a good morning. He did the rounds of the junkyard, checked the fences, and unlocked the shed, experiencing an unfamiliar sensation of satisfaction that everything was where it should be.

Done with that, he went to lean on the gatepost, looking out at the rest of the town, feeling strangely mellow. “Maybe this place isn’t so ba--”

Which was precisely when Marcus turned into a raccoon.

Any fondness he’d developed for the island since last weekend disappeared. Grumbling, he struggled free of his clothes and shoulder holster, then sat up on his hind legs, pawing at his face.

He was annoyed and he looked it.

[Briefly expecting one, but please mod the junkyard should you need it.]

Where the puddle had come from was a mystery, given the complete lack of rain Fandom had been experiencing.

The puddle wasn't really holding Marcus' attention, despite the fact that it was smack bang in the middle of the gateway to the junkyard.

No, what was holding his attention were the fins.

He weighed it up, asking himself what the chance was that there were actually sharks in the puddle.

"Pretty damn good," he muttered and decided not to walk through it. Instead, he hopped the chainlink fence, avoiding the puddle and its piscine potential entirely.

[Open junkyard, but there be puddle sharks in the gateway, for which you can blame weetinyreese!]

The junkyard was open, but Marcus wasn't paying much attention to anyone who might be coming or going.

He was pondering whether it would be some sort of automotive sin to attempt to pair parts from a '57 Caddy with parts from...actually, he wasn't sure what they were from, but they were sleek and smooth and looked like they could possibly break the sound barrier all on their own.

Granted, sinning wasn't something that Marcus would usually give a damn about, but this was different. This was about cars.

[No, it's not Friday or Saturday (sorry), but a post was needed!]

Marcus needed space in the junkyard, enough space to assemble a car in.

Why?

Because he was going to see what he could make of the various automotive parts. He was well aware that what he'd probably end up making was some sort of Frankencar, but hey, it wasn't like he had anything else to do.

Marcus didn't mess around, just got stuck in shifting stuff, working out the best way to get his large flat space and still leave everything accessible. After a bit of experimentation, he realised the best way was to simply stack everything up in layers.

Not really a suprise; he'd kind of known from the beginning that it would all end in tiers.

Marcus was eating breakfast when he arrived, specifically an egg and bacon muffin, and he was really enjoying it.

He unlocked the gates, opened up the shed, then happened to notice an upside down metal basket under which was trapped a rat. The rat was glaring at Marcus, obviously remembering the short-lived war they had waged not so long ago.

Marcus crouched in front of the basket and offered the rat a piece of bacon. "Know how you feel," he told the rat, who stared at him in rodential bemusement. It was a practical rat, however, so it took the bacon, nibbling it while Marcus talked.

"I'm trapped here, same as you are. Worst part is, I'm getting used to it. Some days I don't even mind. Beats the hell out of where I was before." Marcus considered the rat, then tipped the basket over. "Difference between you and me is you've got someone to let you out." He broke off a small piece of muffin and held it out to the rat.

The rat looked over its shoulder, obviously contemplating flight, then reached out to take the muffin.

"You should know better," he told it. "Nothing's free." It earned him flattened ears and a suspicious look. Marcus smiled, just a small one. "Except hard as it is to believe, sometimes it is." He set the rest of his breakfast in front of the rat, then stood up and went to work on his current project, leaving behind a slightly confused, but very grateful, rodent.

[Open junkyard is open and conversations with rodents suggested by wrongkindofsith! Marcus may tell you all about his feeeeeeeelings today, just be warned.

ETA: Warning for Marcus and Kyle sharing their feelings. Yes, Hell has truly frozen over.]

Marcus was blue today.

No, not depressed or down in the dumps, but actually blue. He hadn't woken up that way; it had happened the moment he'd walked through the junkyard's gates.

Which was only fitting, given the entire junkyard was also blue: different shades, from palest eggshell to deepest royal, but everything was some variety of blue. And glowing slightly.

It was weird, but Marcus couldn't be bothered getting annoyed. If this was the worst thing the island felt like doing, he wasn't going to complain.

[Blame Avatar and the fact that it stars Sam Worthington as one of many blue people. If your character comes into the junkyard today, they will temporarily turn blue for the duration of their visit.]

The gates were open and there was a black circle in the dirt, legacy of yesterday's not so successful but very satisfying attempt to be rid of Fandom's weirdness.

There was no sign of Marcus and the junkyard was quiet.

A little too quiet?

A clanking rang out from behind the shed, followed by a muffled curse.

Nah, not too quiet. Just the right amount of quiet for a junkyard in which one person was working out of obvious sight at something not overly noisy.

[Yeah, I have no idea, but open!]

Marcus was here, and he was busy.

That's probably all you really want to know.

Marcus had taken one look at what was going on in the hotel this weekend and decided somewhere else would be a good place to be.

So, the junkyard. Not that a casual observer would know he was there. He was adding a cache or two of weapons to various spots, and they wouldn't be much good if someone could find them easily.

He was listening carefully, though, in case someone showed up.

It was dead quiet at the junkyard today.

Marcus was sitting in the shed, staring at nothing. He'd been doing it for awhile now. It was a skill he'd perfected in the long months he'd spent on death row.

He could do it forever. He wouldn't, this was just a day when he didn't feel much like being stuck on this island, and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it.

So he sat in the shed, falling back into old habits and trying to keep his mind from visiting memories he didn't want to touch.

The sensible thing to do would have been to ignore the rats. Or find an exterminator, or a pack of terriers, or a really nasty cat. Sensible wasn't getting a look in, at least not today. Marcus had an entire junkyard full of parts which he intended to make use of. Anyone around in the very wee hours would have heard strange noises emanating from within.

Soon an elaborate construct had taken shape, far back in a corner, away from the gate. Having set it up, he left while the sun was climbing high in the sky.

When he returned some hours later, the holding cage was full of rats. They looked normal enough, but they were squeaking angrily and glaring at him. Of course, now he had to figure out what to do with a cage full of rats, but that was a problem that could wait for later.

Winning a war against a pack of vermin wasn't exactly something to brag about, but it didn't stop him from being satisfied they were trapped. It wasn't until much later, when he was finally finishing up the radio, sitting in the shed on the world's ugliest couch, that he looked up to realise the rats weren't, in fact, trapped.

Somehow, they'd escaped and were now arrayed along the top of the walls, in the gap under the roof, staring down at him. They were utterly silent and utterly still, teeth bared and beady eyes glittering red.

This...wasn't good.

One hand tightened on the radio, the closest thing he had to a weapon. His finger brushed the switch and suddenly music blared out of the speakers: loud, almost off-key children, yodelling about a mountain man and his goats and his quest to find a wife*.

The rats shrieked and fled, the terrible noise too much for them, running as fast as they could out of the junkyard and far, far away.

Marcus flicked off the radio and set it down.

He really, really hated this island.
________________
*IT'S A VON TRAPP! Tips hat to the Skywalker clan.

Marcus was back at the junkyard this morning, a paper bag in one hand.

Walking around, he began to hear the rats. As he tracked the sound, which moved with him, almost as if they were running away, he realised he could smell them. He knew what rats smelled like; it was something you never forgot.

Eventually, he cornered them in one spot: an old, upended, wooden wheeled carriage*. Quick and efficient, Marcus laid down a circle of poison bait around it.

Rats were rapidly gaining on the island for position of 'thing he was least fond of'.
_____________________
*IT'S A TRAP!

Marcus could hear yesterday's vermin skittering around, the occasional clank of falling metal or tumbling parts letting him track their movements.

But he'd come prepared with just the things* he needed to see the end of his rat problem.

Methodically, he baited them with bacon, set them out around the junkyard, and disappeared into the shed to work on the radio.

__________________________
*IT'S A TRAP!

Marcus had stolen a lot of stuff in his life, but this was the first time he'd ever stolen a job. Far as he could tell, though, it's what had happened.

He'd never actually told anyone he worked here, wasn't his fault if they assumed it, but now it seemed he did. There was an envelope--smudged with grease and bearing the junkyard's name and address--sitting on the crate in the shed, his name scrawled on it in barely legible handwriting. Inside? Cash, and a bit of paper with his name on it and the hours he'd spent down here. He'd never actually had a job before (at least, nothing legal), but he recognised a paycheck when he saw one.

He stared at it for a minute, then pocketed it. Money was money, however it got to him.

Marcus stood in the gateway for a couple of minutes. He'd come down to take a look, expecting the junkyard to be still underwater. Instead, it looked like it always had: no mud, no damage, no sign of any kind that yesterday it had been at the bottom of a lake.

A quick check revealed the shed was equally untouched: fridge, radio, creatively acquired tools, all where he'd left them, all in perfect working order. Even the ugly plaid couch was the same, though that might have been improved by a good soaking.

Of all the strange things he'd encountered since ending up on this too-small island, this might just be the weirdest.

Having nothing to do was making him restless, which would be why Marcus was back at the junkyard. He'd swung past the Causeway on his way, just to check if he was still stuck on this island.

He was.

So he'd begun surveying the junkyard, taking note of what was where, making note of things that caught his eye. He bent to pick one up, turning it over in his hands, studying it: it had lots of wires and lights and switches, and looked very expensive.

Nothing happened when he shook it, but there was a big red button on the top. Big red buttons were meant to pushed, obviously, and hey, if something bad happened as a result, it would at least relieve the boredom. He pushed it. It made a noise.

Apparently, Marcus had found a machine that went ping.

[Open junkyard, I'll be around in the afternoon.]

The gates were open, the sign advising passers-by that the fixing of things could be obtained within was hanging on a gate post, and there were...sounds coming from deep inside the rather-more-than-a-yard of junk.

Loud sounds. Banging sounds. Crashing and resounding thumping sounds, with definite metallic overtones.

Almost as if someone might be ever-so-slightly irritated and taking it out on the innocent and abandoned detritus of Fandom. Possibly with a hammer.

[Junkyard is open, Marcus is cranky, I will be around in the afternoon.]

Marcus was in the shed (which really deserved a better name, what with the improvements) working on the TV. He had a beer, the parts he needed, and quite an impressive array of tools the origins of which it was best not to inquire about.

The junkyard gates were wide open and the junkyard itself full of all manner of interesting things.

[There is OCD today. If you want Marcus for something, like torturing him with small children, he's in the shed. If you're looking for a place to hide from small children, he might be willing to offer sanctuary, and possibly a beer. If you want to use the junkyard for anything, like family bonding, or, say, you need parts to build a cage for holding wee visitors or recalcitrant parents, please do so!]

Marcus was not good at having nothing to do. It wasn't good for him, and in the past had rarely been good for others. Sitting in his hotel room had no appeal, so he'd returned to the junk yard and hung up his sign.

The shed he'd originally broken into had started out empty and filthy. Now it was swept clean, had an old couch, duct taped and worn, and an empty crate as a table, both of which he'd scavenged. It even had power and space for a fridge. All Marcus had to do was take the three old ones he'd found and turn them into a single working unit.

The best of them was sitting on its front, door leaning nearby, back panel off with its guts hanging out. The other two were already gutted, the parts he needed lined up nearby.

[Open, but player is sleeping for a few hours.]

Marcus had walked very casually from the bar to the junkyard. Anyone watching would think he hadn't a care in the world and was completely oblivious to the two who'd been following him all day.

This was not the case. He knew they were there; he didn't want them to know that. If they thought he didn't see them, they'd get careless.

Marcus wandered into the junkyard, moving deep into the piles of old car parts and abandoned furniture, and disappeared into the shadows.

Waiting.

[Specifically for the two shadows, but open after them if anyone wants.]