kingdomsofrain | picture prompt meme

[1 2 3]

It's hard keeping track of anything anymore. If he'd ever known how to keep track, and really The Photojournalist couldn't say. He knows he's a (he thinks is a?) photojournalist, or he was, or he wanted to have been. He knows he's had the bandana around his head for a while. He knows there's someone very important somewhere around and somehow he'd wandered away from that very important person (or had he run off? why would he have done that?) and he has to find Kurtz as soon as possible even if the name spells trouble down his spine, even if he feels a little nauseous a little grateful a little awful just to think the name. He knows he's somewhere in the desert, though he's pretty sure he's never been to this part of the desert before and he's definitely certain that he has no idea how he got here in the first place.

The Photojournalist sits down by the cactus to think it out. Maybe his memory trouble's caused by something. Probably comes from um. Walking around in the sun too much or maybe not getting enough water. He's never been good at staying hydrated. Maybe he's been smoking too much? ...Nah, that can't be possible. It's probably the water thing. Man, he's got to drink more water. But where's he supposed to get that now?

He's looking around when he sees someone, a somewhat small someone. Can he approach the somehow? He stands, takes a few cautious steps toward the figure. "Hey, uh... Good morning?"

The Photojournalist doesn't look any different from the men in Olathe. This one just has the decency to wear a shirt. As for Buddy's appearance, she's clad her her usual poncho with a mask on her face, obscuring her feminine features and hair. At his question, she doesn't speak much at all, choosing to nod at his response.

She'll have to play everything by ear and sight.

Hey, this guy's friendly enough to nod! That's got to be a good sign, right? Not everyone around here's like that. Some of them'll put a bullet right through your gut, ha! ...That isn't funny. For his own part, the Photojournalist isn't really armed. That is, he has a gun but he never uses it and he's pretty sure it's out of bullets and rusted, which is for the best really because he'd probably just shoot himself in the foot. He's not made for violence. He survives mostly by telling people he'll take their picture and put it in an upcoming magazine with a killer story, that - who knows? - maybe they'll be on the cover! A lot of people like that shit. And it's not exactly a lie; he could end up getting the photos published. If there are any publishers operating. And assuming he hasn't run out of film which, well, is kind of a big assumption.

He takes another step or two toward the figure, scratching at his ear. "Hey, it's good to see another face out here! Man, I was starting to think it was just me and all these cactuses. Or, uh, cacti? Shit, I never know. That's why I'm a pictures guy! But now we've found each other so it's not just a lonely party anymore.

"Hey, um. Have you seen any water around here? Or anything you can pour in your mouth, I'm not picky! It's just I don't know where anything is."

What is wrong with this man? Is he high on Joy? Delirious from a lack of water? He keeps talking about 'taking pictures' but he sees no sign of art supplies. He's... strange, but doesn't seem like he's any sort of threat. And he does need some water... so she reaches and inelegantly throws a bottle of beer at the guy.

The Photojournalist snatches the bottle with a grin; success!

"You're a nice guy, you know that? Man, the last guy I ran into... Heh, it's funny, he said he could crush my skull and feed me the fluid from my brain. So that's wasn't... That wasn't very cool." He gets quiet for a moment, eyes distant. Someone else had said the same thing to him once, or close enough that the echo crawls his spine, his guts.

He shakes his head, then opens the bottle and takes a long drink. "That's good shit. I can feel it already. Ummm, beer's a real gift from the gods. And you're a good guy."

This may or may not be a mistake, but in the spirit of the beer, The Photojournalist approaches the unknown dude. "You want a drink?" He's going to sit down next to the generous spirit if he can.

Well... that is a common Olathe thing to say to a stranger. The people here fight just to fight here, it's a way to pass the time here while humanity dies every minute, every second.

Either way, this man has the wrong idea about her. Buddy merely shakes her head no. The masked dude is a rather silent person.

He's sitting beside the guy now, glancing at the mask without giving the stranger any kind of extended look. The Photojournalist has learned the hard way that it's better not to stare out here. (Better not to stare anywhere. Kurtz had almost driven him away for looking just a little too long, pitched a shoe at him and sent The Photojournalist running for cover. Shit, he never should have left. The man had a temper, but he meant something. Knew things. And he echoes always in The Photojournalist's head.) Instead, he looks at the bottle in his hand, fiddles with his camera, stares off into nothing.

"Oh, you're the silent type, huh? I can dig that. Uhhh, never could stick to it, myself. Every time I try it's like, it's like give me thirty seconds and BOOM, running my mouth again." He laughs, a trailing, uncertain sound, and takes another drink.

"Whooooee, that's good stuff. I haven't had anything to drink all day. Or, uh... Maybe yesterday, either. Hehh, the days all fade together, don't they? I tell you, man, it's a weird world we live in. A weird weird world."

Buddy tries to explain to the strange man why she can talk in a simple way, she points to herself with one hand, mimics talking with the other and soon enough, mock slices her own throat with the hand that was pointing with. It's outright dangerous for her to speak or even show her face in public.

Hopefully he understands.

His first thought is the guy had his throat cut; it’s just the kind of thing the jerks out here would pull. "Holy shit, are you kidding me, man? Are you fucking kidding me? That's some tough shit, that's real fucked up, they cut your... Ah... Uhm. Wait wait wait." Because that's not right, is it? Going over the gestures again, he sees a different meaning. Still shitty, but with a little less actual throat-cutting.

"Hehh, that's me, always jumping to conclusions. But I get you now, man. Sure, I get it. People really don’t like you, huh? Or they don't like what you've got to say? Sometimes I feel like that. Uh, felt like that. Back at the complex. Every time I'd start shooting off my mouth and the Man would give me a look or, ah, or just push me into a corner and give me some of his own words. Because, you know, he has the real gift, a true way of speaking, and I... Hell, I'm just splashing around, small fish in a small pond, you know what I mean?"

He's grinning now, fiddling with his camera. "Hey, uh. Is it okay if I talk around you? Or does that piss ‘em off? The people who want to" he repeats the gesture, finger across the throat "you?”

It's the opposite actually. The people here want her and are fully willing to brutalize her to take her. Talking will give away her gender, as will her face, so she doesn't do it. But this man... seems unfamiliar to the ways of this land. He might have actually seen a woman... women with his own two eyes. Maybe if she can bring him inside and de-mask without complication, she'll explain. If not, well... it's been a little while since she's had open a throat.

She sort of misses it.

Buddy nods her head quickly at that. After, she points to a nearby hut, her home for now, and makes the gesture of talking once again.

picture prompt meme

Buddy | Lisa The Joyful | (honey badger don't care, honey badger gaf)

i'm sorry buddy

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject