DECEMBER 2020 EVENT - PART 1

[robbies]

CHAPTER ONE, PART 1: A HOLLY JOLLY HOLIDAY

Do you hear what I hear?

DECEMBER 5th | A MYSTERIOUS VILLAGE | THE MAYOR HAS INVITED YOU...

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DECEMBER 5th

Don’t you hate to be the last to know? Out of the windows of your brand new homes, you spot families trotting along in their happy, nuclear units. Stores and restaurants have closed early—on main street, where jingle bells hang from every door, the only souls to be seen are heading toward the town hall, where wreaths hang around the stone lions’ necks. A stage, awash in string lighting, has been erected with three chairs sitting empty behind a podium. Policemen with their smiles and baby-blues stand guard before it; they too are not allowed beyond the velvet ropes. Twenty feet tall—near to reaching the tip-top of the clock tower—a mass is hidden by black tarps. This is the most guarded of all, ringed by no less than twelve junior policemen standing vigil around the clock. At sundown, you start to see what’s to come. As the crowd swells, bundled in their coats and scarves, the ladies with silk scarves drawn around their perfectly coiffed hairstyles, three figures take to the stage:
Chief of Police, Dale Harding, who must constantly slip away and bend his ear to listen to one of his boys, giving orders with long sighs, firm words, and grumbles as he takes his seat again. Occasionally one sees a flash of silver moving from his lapel up to his lips, but surely that must only be his policeman’s badge that he kisses, because he loves his town so very, very much! The Happy Homes Association—or at least, their junior representative. Her bright and shining pin of office sits hidden behind the tremendous fruit basket poised upon her lap, where green and scarlet cellophane cannot quite hide the fruitcake inside the way it does her name. How does she keep her teeth so white and her lipstick so clean and red? Subscribe to their newsletter and read Cathy’s Cosmetic Can-Dos! column to find out!
Mayor Phillip Clarke—well, Phil to his friends. He takes his place at the podium, his top hat inky black, leather gloves oiled and bright, and draws all the town’s breathless attention. He taps the microphone. Once—the crowd inhales—twice—their eyes shine as they look up—three times— “Gooooood evening, Santa Rosita!” The crowd goes wild as Clarke bellows. Eventually, he raises both arms and gestures for them to quiet down. “I want to thank each and every one of you for coming out, especially on a school night!” Like the admonishing parent, he wags a knowing finger at several teens in the crowd. “Believe you me, on a night like this, I know how tempting it is to stay home and curl up on the couch with a good book. And,” he adds with a wink to a woman in the front of the crowd, “maybe some of Margie's famous hot chocolate.” Laughter ripples through the crowd. Again, Clarke patiently waits until they’re finished before continuing, “But that's exactly what makes our little town so special. No matter the time, every day of the week there's always someone out there who will sacrifice something for the better of the community. Be it the energy to get this terrific tree set up—” he gestures to the tree, “—the patience to string twenty yards of lights up—which, I might add, have been generously donated by our pals at Honeybees—or even just time.” Clarke’s tone turns solemn, but his face remains fixed in a winning smile. “Santa Rosita isn't just a town. It's a family. Each and every one of you out here tonight is a valued member. Even all you new faces out there!” He points to several newcomers in the crowd in what might almost be an accusatory manner if not for the smile on his face. “Don't think I can't see you! Tonight, you have become part of that family. Santa Rosita is your home now. It's through our traditions that we endure, and it's my sincerest wish that you, all of you, will join together with us and help us keep them alive for years to come.” The crowd applauds, everyone turning to face the new families. As Harding takes a swig from a flask he pulls out of his pocket and the HHA representative continues to beam at the audience with her too-white smile, Clarke fully turns to the tree and pumps his fist in the air, riling the crowd back up. “And now, without further ado, let's RING. IN. THE HOLIDAYS!”

As his words come to a close, at last the tarp is pulled away—revealing twenty feet of pure, polished, brilliant... ...aluminium christmas tree. Quick as the busy bees they are, the Happy Homes Association is there to announce that you can buy both table-sized and home-use duplicates for your own homes! The cost is $8 for the little ones and $18.50 for the big trees—get your wallets ready! As the crowd stampedes toward their own tiny and/or six-foot silver replicas, the three figures on the stage are hurried away. The HHA representative presents their gift basket to the Mayor. He kisses her on both cheeks, rubbing his belly in anticipation of the deliciousness to come, and hurries on. Chief Harding takes the rear, casting back a sour look, and before you have a chance to see if the three could answer any questions, the stage is empty again. ...well, get in line! You want those trees too, don’t you?

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A MYSTERIOUS VILLAGE

The days are getting colder and the entire town seems to be getting into the holiday spirit, between the tree lighting ceremony and the decorations your neighbors are putting up. But something seems to want you to get into the Christmas spirit as well—you haven’t done anything out of the ordinary, but when you open the door, you’re met by a burst of frigid air carrying the scents of gingerbread and peppermint on it. Stepping through the door, you are not in Santa Rosita any more. Well, technically, you are; you’re just down by Rose Garden Park, before the Old Growth starts. But it’s not where you thought you were going, and it doesn’t resemble the normal streets of suburbia now. You’ve stepped into a charming Christmas village, packed with all sorts of fun winter activities and sights to see! The ground is covered in pure white snow that never seems to melt into slush, and the sounds of high, sweet jingle bells fill the air as a team of reindeer haul a sleigh past. Maybe that’s Santa’s sleigh they’re pulling?

As you walk into the village, a red pole demands your attention, placed in such a way that no one can miss it. A letter is attached to it: ’Twas the month before Christmas and all through the town The people were smiling; there was nary a frown! They entered my village, all brimming with cheer And knew that quite soon, old St. Nick would be here There's skating and snowmen and light shows galore There's even a place to make wreaths for your door! But somewhere inside there's a mailbox to find And Santa may bring you what's most on your mind… As the letter suggests, the village is full of hustle and bustle. Santa’s elves—Robbies decked out in red and green costumes with matching tights and jingle bell boots—are everywhere, making sure that there’s always plenty of holiday treats available for visitors to eat and drink. The nearby pond is iced over and the elf manning the ice skate exchange station seems to be able to guess your perfect size with a glance, while reindeer racing courses have been set up encircling the village. All of the buildings and many of the trees have been lined with lights, warm and bright, and there are stations set up where visitors can make garlands or wreaths to take back with them to the real world. The real world? Yes, of course—that boring place with work and school and vacuuming! Though the door you initially walked through may have turned into a station for making gingerbread houses, you can hoof it back to your home in Shadyside at any time. The public library is just that way, past the baseball diamond! Any time you open a door, however, you run a risk of finding that it leads back to the village, where the elves are waiting to ensure you enjoy your visit. You can try to close the door and open it again, but who knows if your luck has changed? The organizers of the village seem to be most insistent that you come and enjoy yourself—flyers are all around town, stuffed in your mailbox, and pinned on bulletin boards. Though some signs on lampposts seem as though they’ve been torn down in a huff, you still can spot them on Main Street: “Visit Santa Rosita’s Very Own Christmas Village!” And visit it you will.

While the elves are happy to welcome visitors to their village, they also have to work. Christmas toys don’t build themselves, you know! The elves will point out Santa’s Workshop to you, where you can buy freshly made candy canes, charming ornaments for your new aluminum Christmas trees (you did buy one from the Happy Homes Association, didn’t you?), and other sundries and stocking stuffers. There’s even a German-style bar in the back serving hot chocolate and mulled wine—non-alcoholic, of course; this is a family event. Just outside of the workshop’s entrance is a mailbox, its post swirled red and white and wrapped in garlands. A small desk sits next to the mailbox with a stack of stationery, envelopes pre-addressed to Santa Claus at the North Pole, and pens on top. At the top of the stationery, beside cutesy illustrations of hippos and children missing their front teeth, are the words, “What I want most for Christmas is…” Why not write Santa a letter? What have you got to lose?

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THE MAYOR HAS INVITED YOU...

...to the annual Christmas gala, beginning at 4:00 pm sharp at Santa Rosita’s stately town hall! The invitation appears in your mailbox with just enough time for you to gather all your family and go shopping, because you certainly want to look your best. You simply must. The who’s who of the town will be there, all wearing their finest velvet dresses and shined black shoes. Be warned that the dress code will be strictly enforced by the Happy Home Association—only red and green allowed, or else it simply isn’t festive. Men in bright red or green suits - women sporting taffeta skirts in complementing shades - pinned corsages and matching handbags - no detail left untouched! You wouldn’t want to be caught standing out from the crowd, would you? In the Mayor’s presence? That might be a bad idea.

But the holidays do get the better of us sometimes, don’t they? The HHA understands, and if on the day of the party you have found yourself without a red or green garment, they have some loaners to wear. If you’ll simply follow Mrs. Jones down to the coat room, she can show you some options. For the ladies (and female-presenting), they offer up beautiful green or red dresses as loaner. ”It matches the metal trees!” the coat clerk brightly tells you, her own dress as shimmery as they come. For the gentlemen(ly presenting among you), fresh off the rack at the local Sears Roebuck department store, these fetching blazers are available, complete with matching trousers. In front of you in line is someone who very clearly does not have the Christmas spirit flowing through them, judging by how they wish to argue with the HHA about these “loaner garments.” How rude! But don’t worry—when you see the once-irascible individual later by the punch bowl, there’s a glassy smile on their face and they’re decked out in jolly green and poppy red, happy as—well, a kid on Christmas morning. Tables are laid out with food and drink aplenty. Even the sandwich loaf has made its effort to match the decor, as red poinsettias and holly berries dot the windows (careful children—they’re poisonous) and rich green pines occupy every corner. Move outside of the room and you’ll find nothing more than locked and darkened offices, with the occasional policemen and night guards shaking their fingers at you to go back and enjoy the party. This is a night to be merry and drink some mocktails, not to go through the filing! Up by the fine wood paneling and brilliant metal tree stands the mayor himself. Looking dashing as Santa Claus, a cluster of parents flock nearby beaming as their child gets their photo taken with Mayor Clarke! That’s certainly going in the Christmas newsletter! Each of them has a little present—perfectly wrapped, just see Grandma’s Gift Wrapping Guide in this month’s HHA newsletter—to give to the Mayor for all his hard work this year. You didn’t think that stack of presents by Santa’s chair was for him to pass out, did you?

Between music sets (graciously played by the Frederick Loren High School marching band), the Mayor stands—the hall falls silent, all the little cups and plates still in jolly hands. He has a speech to give you all, you fine citizens, faces old and new: “Ho-ho-hi there, Santa Rosita! And how are we enjoying ourselves tonight? I see some of our new families were able to make it out tonight—is that Richard O’Reilly and the missus?” Using a hand to shade his eyes, Clarke squints into the throng of townspeople. “And Jim Astin with Lucy and little Susie! Wow. Isn’t that something?” In the back of the room, Chief Harding pours himself a glass of punch, takes a sip, then reaches into his suit jacket for his flask.

“Now, in my house,” Clarke continues, “we have a rule not to open any presents until Christmas Day, but with all the ones I've gotten tonight, it's just too darn tempting.” Reaching down, he takes a box from the pile of gifts at his feet. “I think this one's a tackle box, and I'm pretty sure this—” he reaches down for another smaller box, “—is that electric razor I’ve had my eye on.” He shakes the box, chuckling, as the rest of the crowd joins him. “But let's get serious for a moment.” Clarke’s expression turns thoughtful. “Although getting a truckload of Christmas presents is swell, do you want to know what the greatest gift you've given me is?” He pauses performatively, waiting for an answer from the crowd that never comes. “The greatest gift you've all given me... is letting me serve you.” In the back, Harding ditches the punch cup and just drinks straight from the flask. “I'm honored to be here with you all tonight,” Clarke continues proudly, “just I am honored to be able to wake up every morning, look in the mirror and tell myself that I... am your mayor. Which is why I want to give something back to you. How many of you have already visited Santa's little village?” There’s a round of cheering in the front of the audience from the many children in attendance with their parents. Clarke opens his arms wide. “My idea! I decided that if I can't bring Santa Rosita to the North Pole, I'm going to bring the North Pole to Santa Rosita. Enjoy yourselves! Saint Nick's got a lot of work to do before Christmas. So be good, don’t pout, and for goodness sake—have fun!” The clapping threatens to take down the garlands hung from chandeliers. ”A fine orator!” “Reminds me of the war, when we heard Churchill over the radio. Why, Clarke gives him a run for his money, ha ha ha!” A delightful HHA elf comes to replenish the pickle tree on the appetizer table, and the covers of Bing Crosby carry you away into the night. Remember to stay until 9:00 pm, when the Santa Rosita Children’s Choir will start caroling!

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OOC INFO

Welcome to the first part of the event! You can use this entry to top-level for the event, but feel free to use the log and network communities as well.

A few things to keep in mind: Firstly, there is no return portal back into town once your character is teleported into the Christmas village. They will have to walk back on foot or get lucky and catch a ride from a helpful citizen.

Secondly, please be mindful of how your character interacts with the setting. While characters are welcome to explore the town and ask questions, Santa Rosita is still a happy little suburb in the 1960s, where appearances matter and acting too out of line from commonly accepted societal norms can come with their own unique consequences. We do not intend to punish players for their curiosity, but be aware that the townsfolk may not be so understanding of wanton disrespect for their ways!

And thirdly, the NPCs will not be available for interactions. At the party, Harding will leave early and Clarke will leave to handle other business. Santa does have a schedule to keep, after all.

Any questions can go in our FAQ thread below. Try to check and see if your question has already been answered on the plotting thread first here.

Remember--Part 2 of this event is coming December 15th!

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SETTING INFO	calendar | setting | housing | npcs | death and tranquilizing | event suggestions/engagements

Comments

[m1895]

[ There are, sometimes, advantages to being comparatively short in this society—one of them being that a man as tall as the American has to lean down more than a foot, and move his skull much closer, to bring his elbow level with his stomach. Vasiliy fires a round into the ceiling, both reflexive and as a deterrent, simultaneous with his retaliation: apparently the ancient Chekists who trained him did their job well, because his body snaps into the old motions without much thought on his part: moves meant to subdue prisoners, not necessarily for personal safety, but damaging regardless.

He smashes the butt of his pistol upwards against Archer's nose as soon as he bends down enough to come into range, folding in around the elbow and breathlessly bringing his kneecap against the man's crotch. Hard. Despite the wheezing. ]

cw blood

[undiagnosed]

[archer curses in surprise when he's met with not what he assumed would be some regular frump a dump moron from the russian army, or even just some guy that knows how to use a gun. his head jerks back when the gun connects with it, a nice gash across it that immediately starts spilling blood down his cheeks.

--the pain of which doesn't really compare to being smashed in the crotch. archer wheezes and goes down immediately, though purposefully angles himself so he drags vasiliy down with him.]

I told you! [he wheezes out, throwing a punch at vasiliy's head.] Not to shoot that again!

cw blood, violence, gun mentions, brief suicidal ideation

[m1895]

[ The hit lands, hard, a shock of pain across his cheek that's quickly followed by the taste of blood seeping onto the edge of his tongue—but this man is not taking him back there, even if that means he has to die by his own hand to avoid it, and he's not going to rot in some capitalist prison cell or fry for a national audience like the Rosenbergs, either. Thank God he's still armed, though if he shoots the guy, he's going to have to explain a murder to people who are already looking for a reason to kill him—

so he just holds that arm as far from Archer as he can and does the exact opposite, pulling the trigger and moving forward to slam his forehead against his opponent's nose and teeth in the immediate aftershock of the impossibly loud bang. His ears ring, blotting out the sounds around him, but he knows it's not as disorienting as it would be if he didn't know it was about to discharge, and that's half of what he's putting his hopes in here—that as much as his eardrums hurt, it had the same effect on the intruder, or worse. ]

[undiagnosed]

DO YOU HAVE- [archer yells, reeling from the headbutt though mercifully almost numb from adrenaline.] ANY IDEA - [he jerks his head forward to connect back with vasiliy.] HOW BAD THAT IS - [he puts one hand on vasiliys face, shoving him back down to smack the back of his head on the floor.] FOR MY TINNITUS?!

same cws as above & for rest of thread unless otherwise noted

[m1895]

[ That hurts, like his brain's collided with the back of his skull, and continues to hurt as he retaliates, more from reflex than ability to think clearly. Probably a concussion, but Vasiliy doesn't worry about it any more than that detached concept as he brings his knee and then his foot between the two of them to strike at the bastard's crotch a second time, without the aid of a jackboot's steel toes or sharp, unyielding leather heel, but with the benefit of repetition.

He's not truly out of breath yet, but he's breathing more rapidly with the exertion. It's vaguely apparent when he answers. ] Don't care! I'll kill you, son of a bitch! I'll kill you! Last chance!

delighted to add emeto to this mess

[undiagnosed]

[that gets another pained yell out of him, the well placed nutshot making him reflexively puke up his stomach contents (pretty much just alcohol) on the floor next to vasiliy while his hands go to his crotch.]

That was... meant to be... on you... you asshole...

[god, at least getting shot would make his damn balls stop hurting.]

And-- last chance for what? Leaving? Get the fucking gun out my face, Tchaikovsky! But... you know. Not cannon balls. Heh.

[m1895]

[ Vasiliy doesn't flinch when vomit splatters next to his face, because it's not the first time and it's not on him, which is a step up from what has to be like 50% of Chicago's EMS calls. What matters is that his strike has its intended effect: it compounds Archer's pain and it occupies his hands, allowing him to weasel his way out from underneath his opponent and quickly shove himself to his feet despite the pain of his impending post-concussion syndrome.

He returns the gun's aim to the center of the home invader's doubled-over silhouette, coughing, and takes a few seconds to catch his breath. ]

Done?

[undiagnosed]

[he's glaring up at vasiliy from his position hunched over on the floor, gunshots still ringing in his ears, nose still bleeding. balls still hurting.]

I had more, but I think it can wait.

[m1895]

Good. [ Vasiliy coughs again, making a concerted effort not to close his eyes in response to the pain that slams his forehead and the base of his skull like a sledgehammer with even that slight movement. ]

Why are you here? Really?

[undiagnosed]

Poor life choices, [he says, straightening up and then burping into his fist.] and way too much grain alcohol.

[archer tentatively stands up - vasiliy can likely easily tell one of his legs doesn't take weight anywhere near as well as the other and it's not from anything that happened in the house.]

Why the Hell are you here?

[russian... military? in some ass-backwards town in the US? colour him curious.]

[m1895]

Because this is my house! Because I was sleeping!

[ It takes a second before the less literal interpretation of that question occurs to Vasiliy through the haze of adrenaline and his head injury; once he realizes what this man is really asking, he takes a few moments to debate whether or not he's inclined to answer truthfully. He definitely doesn't fit the model of the other town natives—too crude, unbalanced, seemingly unhappy—but that also doesn't mean that he's an ally, or even someone who wouldn't gladly give names under duress or torture in a California prison cell. ]

I live here. I am refugee from Communist Russia.

[ Saying it feels like a knife to the chest even still, no matter how many times he's already had to disavow his own country over the past two months. He feels vile, skin crawling under the knowledge that this place has turned him into the worst kind of coward: one without principles. ]

[undiagnosed]

Yikes. That's... yikes. [he stands up properly, fully, shaking his head. the ringing in his ears from the gunshots hasn't stopped, but he'll take it over bullets in his body.] Good choice in... town?

[not at all. not even close.]

Will you put the goddamn gun down so I know you're not gonna blast my head off the second I go down the stairs?

[m1895]

Are you crazy? No.

[ Especially because that was close, far too close for his liking, and he's still out of breath. And his jaw is throbbing and even without looking in a mirror he can tell it's swollen just from the way it feels, from the taste of blood in lingering his mouth.

At least his teeth weren't damaged. He's already had much, much more dental work done than he ever wanted, and he'd like to avoid being back in that office (well, whatever office they have here now, he supposes) as much as possible. ]

You try anything, I will kill you.

[undiagnosed]

Yeah, because there's anything to try, here. Who do you think I am, John Pershing?

[he holds his hands up, shifting back and towards the stairs. stopping momentarily by a small table with some misc decor on it, floor boards creaking under the weight of the boots he's wearing. you can't break into houses if you ain't cute, after all!]

I mean, seriously, you couldn't pay me to rob this place. [he picks up some kitsch off the table, turning it over in his hand for a moment, then puts it back down far to the left of where he took it.] Is that a Robert Fritz vase? Ugh.

[m1895]

I do not know who any of these people are.

[ Said flatly, but Vasiliy's dark eyes follow the man with a rabbit's alertness. The home invader could, after all, pick up anything from that table and throw it to try and catch him off-guard. ]

If you are not robber, why are you here? [ He extends the arm carrying the gun. ] The truth. You work with me, I do not call police. You try anything, you will wake up in California jail cell.

[ The offer only rings familiar after he's said it. ]

[undiagnosed]

Not even John Pershing? Polar Bear? [he snorts, staying moving, slowly and deliberately with the practice of someone who's been at gunpoint because of their own stupidity (and in general) many, many times before.

vasiliy isn't wrong; he did consider throwing the vase.] Recon, whatever. Nighttime neighborhood watch? Whatever sounds more believable.

[god, he's not even trying anymore. archer burps into his fist, looking back over at vasiliy.]

Oh, yeah, and you don't just call the police anyway? Bullshit. Jesus, were you Russian police? Do you know how many goddamn times they've pulled that shit on me?

[m1895]

[ It's gradually become increasingly clear that this man's pretty intoxicated, and probably not in here with any malicious intent, just his own stupidity. He's even ready to consider telling him to just leave.

And then the intruder drops that second part, and Vasiliy's blood runs cold. There's no way he can let the guy just go now, not when he's so confident in his correct guess at the truth. His voice comes out icy and flat, almost monotone. ]

You have no proof. I am EMT. Emergency Medical Technician.

[undiagnosed]

[archer laughs as he continues his sloppy way down the stairs. his own stupidity indeed...]

Oh my god, did you flinch? That's like telling an undercover cop they still have their badge on and they actually look to check! [god, he's gonna get shot. shitty frickin' russian cop-spies. they don't ever get any better.] Whatever, Khrushchev, I don't give a shit.

[a beat:] Unless you know Katya. Did she say anything about me?

cw murderous ideation, antisoviet sentiment mention

[m1895]

[ You could push him down the stairs right now. He gets concussed, you write it off as delusion. Or he dies and takes this with him. Tell the police you did it in self defense— No. You'd never get away with it. You'd end up like the Rosenbergs. Dead WASP found in home of Russian Communist. There's a headline. Vasiliy swallows hard, dark irises boring holes into the space between Archer's shoulderblades. His heart races quicker than it was already beating; his palm feels wet against the grip of the shitty American pistol in his hand.

Kill this guy, and then what? How many more people would die after that? ]

Katya? You think because I am Russian I know some random woman? USSR is largest country in world and Katya is very, very common name.

[ But if he has some connection to some unfortunate Soviet woman, that's leverage in this neighborhood. Vasiliy's familiar with the old rules of a guilt-by-association society. ]

[undiagnosed]

Eh. Worth a try. [he says, shrugging a shoulder. as if it wasn't already clear he has no respect for vasiliy or russia. that's not a surprise, though, is it?

archer carries on like he's not in danger, like vasiliy couldn't do anything to touch him even though he's holding a loaded gun. definitely worth discussing this with ray.] Jesus, no-one's coming to investigate the gunshots? This town sucks.

[m1895]

[ Oh, they probably will. Eventually. But, seeing as nobody's wounded (at least not seriously), he's probably not going to end up in jail with this listed as the formal charge, at least.

Offhandedly: ] Like Chicago.

[ Or, well, the part of Chicago he lives—lived?—in, a combination of what he could afford on a municipal EMT's salary and the level of danger he'd already gotten pretty used to in his childhood. It's not like he really needed a large apartment or anything—he's one guy, and compared to his flat in Moscow and the Petrograd tenement that preceded it, the place was pretty fantastic, even if the super was... a difficult son of a bitch.

The invader seems to have shifted into a more conversational tone, which plays in his favor. He's not going to forget his correct conclusion on Vasiliy's previous career, but he's drunk, and he'll likely say something incriminating before too long. ]

You are new here, then.

[undiagnosed]

Or Myrtle Beach. [fortunately for vasiliy, though he's not going to say it, archer will not be following any of this up for a while.] Ohhh, yeah! Missed the creepy Leave it to Beaver intro to it all, I guess.

[which... good for him for finding someone else in this situation, even if they are a shitty russian possibly secret police member. is that the plot of this dream? archer is way too intoxicated to actually give that much thought.]

[m1895]

[ Vasiliy squints. Another reference he's supposed to know. Or idiom. He can't really tell, but he doesn't plan on asking, because he frankly doesn't care that much. It's a shitty language and he's not going to assimilate any more than he needs to. ]

Where are you from?

[ His inflection's actually pretty good for that one, all things considered—it's one of the first sentences you learn in... pretty much any language, so he's had some practice, at least.

He doesn't ask when, but he's pretty sure that'll come up. ]

[undiagnosed]

Not here. [not like saying he's from new york would really mean anything, but archer does enjoy being obtuse.] Where are you from?

[he asks that, knowing vasiliy won't actually give him the right answer, or any at all.]

[m1895]

[ It's bizarre, occupying a social position in which someone would say that to him. Not that people didn't persist in their attempts to hold out when they were interrogated, but... it's different, having that levelled at him in a purposefully difficult way, one completely detached from the interests of survival and personal safety.

Flatly: ] Russia. St. Petersburg, but I am asking about you. Because you are in my house. [ Speaking of. In the light of the downstairs lamp it becomes apparent that the man's still got his filthy shoes on. Vasiliy glares. ] And—take off your damn shoes, pig.

[ It'll make it harder for him to run off, yes, but he also has a gun for that. This is more about the cleaning he's going to have to do tomorrow morning, like having his house broken into and the persistent ringing in his ears isn't enough. ]