[OPEN] You know, I think this Christmas thing. It's not as tricky as it seems.

[beatupgrass]

Who: Santa Rocket and YOU
Where: All around the mansion.
When: December 22-25
Rating: PG
Summary: Free of Krampusjail, Rocket finds his room in a state and submits to the will of the red suit. Christmas spirit ensues... sort of.
The Story:

Rocket's liberation from the pits of Krampusjail didn't come without a price- specifically, the fact that his damned closet was malfunctioning. At first, he tried to work around it, but after realizing his choice was either a pair of overalls soaked in oil or the d'asted red suit the closet kept spitting out, he swallowed his pride and slid the thing on.

...And immediately a new sense of perspective washed over him. His eyes get a little brighter, his tail a little bushier, his fur a little glossier, and his mind no longer preoccupied with the idiocy of the universe. No, of course not- there's so much to be done to spread good cheer to this mansion. With a new determination, he sets out to begin his work.

~*~

The... problem of being a raccoonoid from space with no concept of Christmas is that he has no idea how idea how all this works, but he knows what he likes and what would probably benefit the mansion's youth, so Santa Rocket and his overlarge bag of tricks will be delivering gifts to the mansion's youth in the form of weapons he's made himself and hoarded over his time in the mansion, ranging from slingshots to grenades to fancy guns. It makes perfect sense to him.

So there's a raccoon handing out weapons to children in the most cheerful way possible, because surely this is how Christmas works. That's happening.

Comments

[rosswood]

It's taken him the better part of the day, but Alex thinks he's finally - finally - managed to get those goddamn gremlin things off his back. He's still darting infrequent looks over his shoulder, frowning, paranoid that those damn goblins will come cackling back to fuck up whatever it is he's doing next. Just like old times, almost.

He's hiding out in the kitchen, for now - plenty of distractions and handily sharp objects should those little fuckwads come crawling out of the woodwork. He's expecting them to come at him any minute. Any minute now.

What he doesn't expect is a surprise visit from a gun-toting raccoon resplendent in a red and white Santa costume, and he promptly jumps in alarm.

"What the - " He adjusts his grip on whatever this...thing is, frowning at it in trepidation. It's shiny and metallic and vaguely gun-shaped, which for some reason is making him sick to his stomach, and not in a fun way. "What is this?"

[beatupgrass]

"Merry Christmas!" Rocket beams, brandishing the gun with a flourish, but somehow in a nonthreatening way... or as nonthreatening as one can be when you have sharp teeth and a large gun. It also just isn't right for any creature like this to sound so... jolly.

"And you look like you're having a flarkin' crap one," he beams. "Here." He hands over the gun- it's not one of his better ones, but it's got plasma rounds and is pretty effective at murdering things. "Now you can take out those gremlins in style. Just be safe about it."

He winks. It's hard to tell if it's a 'i'm-kidding-do-what-you-want-wink' or an actual endearing wink. Really, all of this is just... It's just weird, whether you know Rocket or not.

[rosswood]

"Flark?" says Alex with a raised eyebrow, now biting down hard on his lower lip to keep from snickering at the sheer absurdity of the sight. He'd say that Christmas has come early but apparently it really fucking has. This is beautiful. A raccoon is giving him a fucking weapon. And like - not just any weapon, but a futuristic alien spinning thing. Hell. Yes.

He takes it with enthusiasm, grinning, and tries without success to do the alien equivalent of cocking and loading it.

He whistles, as if he has any idea what he's doing. He doesn't, but, you know, it's the principle of the thing. "You, uh, you do this often, hotshot?"

[beatupgrass]

Rocket sighs in an aggrieved fashion and raises a hand to take the gun back. "Careful, pal. You're gonna put your eye out. Lemme show you." He proceeds to slowly take him through the process of loading the round, locating the trigger, and lining up the target, before handing it back. "Nah. Just woke up this mornin' feeling like this was a thing I gotta do, and I'm glad I did. You know how many people around here don't know nothin' about defendin' themselves?"

[rosswood]

Aw nice he's even walking him through the steps. Alex tries to look appropriately laid-back, as if he already knows the deal with an alien plasma-shooting whatchamacallit, but he can't really contain his incipient intrigue with just being up and given a piece of hardware like this.

(Ignore the shiver that runs up his hands when he takes the gun back, ignore the chill in his blood, ignore that he can't be trusted with a thing like this after what he did to keep everything under wraps.)

"Travesty, is what it is," he says, shaking his head. The man's from Alabama - defending himself is pretty much par for the stupidly-nationalist, paranoid course. "Doing god's work, my friend."

[beatupgrass]

"Just spreadin' the holiday spirit." He's not sure what god has to do with it, but whatever. If it keeps people from getting killed by monsters or whatever this holiday season, then he's good with it.

"So you gonna try it on those gremlin things or what, kid?" He's got some time before he has to make another delivery, and he can't say no to some good old-fashioned violence.

[rosswood]

"If they come back, I'll tell them to eat, um...what's this thing fire?" He almost peers down the barrel but, wait, that would be a really bad idea with a piece of equipment he's not totally familiar with.

Oh and, hey, there's one now. Free target practice. One of those sneaky little fuckers, probably on their way to his room to trash it for the third time this week. Alex braces the stock, or the alien weapon equivalent thereof, against his shoulder like one might fire a rifle. There. Seems about right, kiiiinda how raccoon-boy here did it, yeah? Totally. He was never one for shooting cans or birds and shit like some people might've in his piece-of-shit state, but he's seen how it works in the movies.

Turns out goblins are really, really fast, because Alex misses his first shot entirely. He's also totally unprepared for the kickback, which promptly knocks him flat on his ass like a pro.

[beatupgrass]

"Lasers." Matter-of-factly, as he observes Alex lining up his shot, curiously peering over his shoulder so he can see what exactly he's shooting at. The goblins seem to be satisfying targets for him and he grins toothily, waiting for the satisfying KZZZWARK sound of the gun.

...Which he gets, but not with the added benefit of weird ugly creature guts all over everything. He watches Alex hit the floor and tsks lightly. The suit, at least, prevents him from making fun of the misfortunes of others.

"Probably shoulda mentioned it's got a hell of a kick to it." How Rocket remains standing with one of those or any weapon at all is a question for the ages. Good balance, apparently.

[rosswood]

"Gee," says Alex dryly. "Thanks so much for the warning."

He rolls over, pushing himself upright and retrieving his brand new gun - like hell he's getting rid of this thing, not when it's damned useful. So what if his shoulder aches after the butt of the weapon punched into it. He can deal with it. He can walk it off.

He eyes the raccoon whom he's privately dubbed "Fursuit Santa" and frowns.

"So how d'you deal with the kick, then? S'not like you've got size on your side. No offense." All said with the tone that offense is very much intended.

[beatupgrass]

Rocket's ears flick and he looks immensely proud of himself for something that would normally send him scowling and deflecting. You don't talk about the things he's been through with any sort of pride or levity, even when it gave him a lot of good things. The torture wasn't worth what he gained, and he normally begrudgingly accepts his freakish traits, rather than consider them a point of pride.

But here he is, jovial as can be, and he raps his disconcertingly human-like hands on his shoulder, where under the thin layer of scruffy, thin fur, you can almost hear a muffled sound like metal striking metal. "Reinforced shoulders. Barely feel a thing."

[rosswood]

Uhhhhhhhhh

uhhhhhhhhhhhh

"Wait."

Alex doesn't know whether to be surprised, excited, freaked, or all three. This is incredible. This is definitely a first. All the weird shit he's seen since he ended up here? Worth it.

"So lemme get this straight." He makes a floaty, equivocal gesture with one hand, pointing vaguely skyward as he mentally tries to work this out. "You are, and I just wanna be a hundred percent on this: an anthropomorphic cyborg raccoon who doubles as Santa Clause."

Wonderland is the shit.

[beatupgrass]

"Who's a d'ast good shot and a flarkin' genius, too. Don't forget that." He actually even let someone call him a raccoon without yelling about it, though he does, surprisingly gently, correct him. "Not entirely sure on the raccoon thing, though. I'm from Half-World."

So he's an anthropomorphic cyborg alien raccoonoid gunslinger and technical genius, who doubles as Santa Claus.

"That about covers it, though."

[rosswood]

So...a bipedal raccoon who isn't a raccoon. Does he not have raccoons where he comes from, whatever the hell Half-World is? Is this a world where everything is half-human or anthropomorphized or some shit. This is some straight-up sci-fi junk.

"Genius, huh?" He taps the ridge of his brand new gun with a fingertip. "Did you build this or something? Could you build something big enough to blow a hole outta this place?"

[beatupgrass]

It's a terrible place, Alex. Even cheerful, Rocket probably wouldn't give it more than a passing shrug. The less remembered the better.

His ears lower as he glances away, the first scowl he's probably made since donning the suit spreading across his muzzle. "I freakin' wish. I coulda hotwired a ship by now if I could find one, though. So far, no dice. This rock's escape proof, and I should know. I've escaped prisons before. Twenty-three of 'em."

[rosswood]

"Goddamn." Alex whistles, impressed despite himself. Whatever wacky kind of comic book world this not-raccoon comes from, sounds like a real doozy. Unfortunately, it also means that they're probably pretty well fucked in terms of escape attempts.

Still, if they get free guns, it can't be so bad, right? If it weren't for the don't forget, you're here forever footnote, this place would be downright peachy. At least compared to Alex's home.

"Not even like a, a big car or a spaceship or something?"

[beatupgrass]

"Not unless the Queens or the Duchess have a sweet ride they're hiding somewhere." He's pretty sure that one's unlikely, but it's nice to dream. They can't be the only ones here. It's just that they can't go anywhere else, but this one freakin' landmass.

"There's a freakin' barrier or somethin' that keeps people from gettin' too far out, so I figure if there's anything, it's out beyond that, while we hang out here." Having a great time, which for the moment, isn't sarcasm.

[rosswood]

Suuucks. Alex tches his disappointment and shoulders his new weapon with all the awkward hefting of someone unaccustomed to dealing with all that extra weight.

"Shit." He sucks on the wall of his cheek thoughtfully, then shakes his head. "Well, figured I'd ask. If there's ever a breakout I guess I'll know who's behind it, yeah?"

He smirks. "Merry freakin' Christmas."