[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

[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."