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Not many people can say in Rapture that they have befriended the scientist that enabled people to breathe in this underwater tank, not only for the proximity to power, it's because Julie Langford was... a slightly disagreeable sort. Not in a bad way, she just had the chip on her shoulder a lot of people that are freakishly good at what they like to do have. (Plus, if the stories about her boss are true and she's pretty sure they are, Julie often has a good reason for being grumpy.) Then again, Aramat thinks she's the only person Julie ever bothers to be nice to. (She reminds her of Isolde in a way... why she attracts such women, she isn't quite sure.)
But Aramat loves Arcadia, and she thought she knew every part of it. Until Julie told her of hidden spot she deliberately put inside. She has the feeling Julie wants to seduce her in a place hidden away from most eyes, and Aramat has no problem with it. Mickey knows about her openness in such things and Isolde is a little less jealous when she gets involved with other women. (For some reason, she doesn't see women as big of threats as men, she's still possessive of her.)
Julie has hidden this place exceedingly well. But she doesn't want to text her for any reason. (She wants to be clever for Julie.) She told her it was in between a few nasty bushes and she's brave enough.
...She didn't warn her it was that rough though. (She would have worn better, more bush squeezing clothes. Or lost some pounds.)
So Aramat gracelessly falls near the blanket.
But Aramat loves Arcadia, and she thought she knew every part of it. Until Julie told her of hidden spot she deliberately put inside. She has the feeling Julie wants to seduce her in a place hidden away from most eyes, and Aramat has no problem with it. Mickey knows about her openness in such things and Isolde is a little less jealous when she gets involved with other women. (For some reason, she doesn't see women as big of threats as men, she's still possessive of her.)
Julie has hidden this place exceedingly well. But she doesn't want to text her for any reason. (She wants to be clever for Julie.) She told her it was in between a few nasty bushes and she's brave enough.
...She didn't warn her it was that rough though. (She would have worn better, more bush squeezing clothes. Or lost some pounds.)
So Aramat gracelessly falls near the blanket.
The Mojave is a fascinating place. Compared to other places in his travels with Zenigata it seems to have some semblance of pre-war order. Of course there's always complications. Factions fighting against each other, roving gangs that are always ready to steal or beat you bloody for whatever is on you.
On the road, these rules never change, nor do the legends and tall tales told by campfire to strangers or whispered about on trade routes. There's the rumors about Courier Six, The Legend of the Burned Man, The Tales of the One Eyed Wanderess, The Witch of the Mojave, and many more.
But Oscar is amazed at the crown jewel of the Mojave, New Vegas. Electricity works, a lot of the buildings are still there and it's one of the few places wholly dedicated not to mere survival but to actual pleasure. Even though he doesn't understand a lot of it and he came alone, without Zenigata. He can't guide him in this city filled with Vice. The neon screams at him, the drunks sort of scare him, he doesn't wish to take his chances at the gambling and he gets offers from prostitutes and just sexually loose people on the street. (Some want payment, others don't.) He gets nervous in cities and it's even worse in New Vegas. Without the anchor of Zenigata's presence, everything is too much.
He goes into The Lucky 38 and... it doesn't help much, but maybe he could find a room to relax in and take a breath. He soon notices a man sitting in the corner of the room, all covered in bandages. It takes only a little while out who he is...
The figure has managed to put down his gray kerchief he often wears about his mouth, but he keeps his large sun hat on. His face is delicately carved for a man, could almost be mistaken for a woman from far away. It isn't often one sees those sort of features in the wasteland. His blue eyes with long, long lashes are wide in wonder at just who is in front of him.
"You're The Burned Man, Joshua Graham..."
He thought he was just a legend.
On the road, these rules never change, nor do the legends and tall tales told by campfire to strangers or whispered about on trade routes. There's the rumors about Courier Six, The Legend of the Burned Man, The Tales of the One Eyed Wanderess, The Witch of the Mojave, and many more.
But Oscar is amazed at the crown jewel of the Mojave, New Vegas. Electricity works, a lot of the buildings are still there and it's one of the few places wholly dedicated not to mere survival but to actual pleasure. Even though he doesn't understand a lot of it and he came alone, without Zenigata. He can't guide him in this city filled with Vice. The neon screams at him, the drunks sort of scare him, he doesn't wish to take his chances at the gambling and he gets offers from prostitutes and just sexually loose people on the street. (Some want payment, others don't.) He gets nervous in cities and it's even worse in New Vegas. Without the anchor of Zenigata's presence, everything is too much.
He goes into The Lucky 38 and... it doesn't help much, but maybe he could find a room to relax in and take a breath. He soon notices a man sitting in the corner of the room, all covered in bandages. It takes only a little while out who he is...
The figure has managed to put down his gray kerchief he often wears about his mouth, but he keeps his large sun hat on. His face is delicately carved for a man, could almost be mistaken for a woman from far away. It isn't often one sees those sort of features in the wasteland. His blue eyes with long, long lashes are wide in wonder at just who is in front of him.
"You're The Burned Man, Joshua Graham..."
He thought he was just a legend.
Edited 2018-03-24 02:04 (UTC)
He could almost sigh.
But hadn't he brought this on himself? This, and every other aggravation. It isn't the boy's fault that he stares; even without the legend, a man wrapped head-to-toe in bandages is going to attract attention. Especially here in Vegas, where everything's a spectacle and everyone's seeking entertainment. The entire atmosphere makes Joshua's skin prickle. Who, after all, would want to remain in this place?
Joshua doesn't fault the boy for speaking, either. It's one more step than most others would take, and he's only saying what they're thinking. It's all a game of observation for most of them. For this child... Hard to say. There may be something different in his expression. Right now, Joshua's not interested enough to look too too close.
"I am." He looks back at the boy, gaze unmoving. The boy cuts a figure unusual for the Mojave, even for New Vegas. Could be in from the East; this city's has been drawing even more wanderers since the Courier took over. In any case, the boy certainly doesn't look like a threat (most people aren't, not in here, not to him), nor as if he bears ill will. His is merely (is it?) the look of a young man meeting a legend.
It doesn't hurt to be civil to the boy, though there's no discernible warmth when Joshua speaks again. "Is there something I can help you with?"
Soon enough, Joshua will be free of these encounters and on his way back to Zion. Assuming the Courier isn't planning otherwise, and even then, it'll take a lot of convincing for Joshua to stay.
But hadn't he brought this on himself? This, and every other aggravation. It isn't the boy's fault that he stares; even without the legend, a man wrapped head-to-toe in bandages is going to attract attention. Especially here in Vegas, where everything's a spectacle and everyone's seeking entertainment. The entire atmosphere makes Joshua's skin prickle. Who, after all, would want to remain in this place?
Joshua doesn't fault the boy for speaking, either. It's one more step than most others would take, and he's only saying what they're thinking. It's all a game of observation for most of them. For this child... Hard to say. There may be something different in his expression. Right now, Joshua's not interested enough to look too too close.
"I am." He looks back at the boy, gaze unmoving. The boy cuts a figure unusual for the Mojave, even for New Vegas. Could be in from the East; this city's has been drawing even more wanderers since the Courier took over. In any case, the boy certainly doesn't look like a threat (most people aren't, not in here, not to him), nor as if he bears ill will. His is merely (is it?) the look of a young man meeting a legend.
It doesn't hurt to be civil to the boy, though there's no discernible warmth when Joshua speaks again. "Is there something I can help you with?"
Soon enough, Joshua will be free of these encounters and on his way back to Zion. Assuming the Courier isn't planning otherwise, and even then, it'll take a lot of convincing for Joshua to stay.
"Says the guy who's getting an extra ten fuckin' percent."
He never should've agreed to this. Should've stuck to theft without the murder, but the pay'd been too much to pass by. Grab the jewels, grab the documents, kill one asshole, and get out of there. Trouble is, he's not the most experienced with knocking someone off. He can do it, sure. Has done it plenty of times in self-defense, usually while fleeing a crime scene. But just walking in and pulling the trigger? He thinks he can do it, but there's no guarantee. And for this much cash, he's not about to leave loose ends.
Which is where Mr. Personality comes in. Pink (it doesn't hurt to use code names, okay?) had brought him on to make sure the murder part of the assignment goes smoothly. Pink's fine grabbing the documents and jewels from the safe, knocking out the security systems, whatever. As far as he's concerned, he'll handle all of that, this guy can stick to the blood and guts. Lorne Malvo's not a totally unknown entity - there's a mutual acquaintance, someone they've both been on jobs with - but Pink doesn't have a clear picture of him, either. Which makes him nervous, but it'll have to be one of the prices of this assignment.
And now he wants ten percent, which to be fair isn't really that much, he could've asked for worse. It still bothers Pink, and the harsh disquiet in his eyes betrays as much.
"Yeah, sure, fine, an extra ten percent to you. And my personal fucking thanks for saving my ass. Is that enough for you?"
All right. All right, he needs to calm down. Take a deep breath. It's the uncertainties that're getting to him, the stress of taking on a job that may be beyond his means. Which shouldn't be a problem any more. He's taken care of it; that's what Mr. Ten Percent is for. So he's got no reason to be so worked up. Anyway, if he doesn't calm down, the job'll be a wreck.
"Shit. Honest, I appreciate your coming on."
He never should've agreed to this. Should've stuck to theft without the murder, but the pay'd been too much to pass by. Grab the jewels, grab the documents, kill one asshole, and get out of there. Trouble is, he's not the most experienced with knocking someone off. He can do it, sure. Has done it plenty of times in self-defense, usually while fleeing a crime scene. But just walking in and pulling the trigger? He thinks he can do it, but there's no guarantee. And for this much cash, he's not about to leave loose ends.
Which is where Mr. Personality comes in. Pink (it doesn't hurt to use code names, okay?) had brought him on to make sure the murder part of the assignment goes smoothly. Pink's fine grabbing the documents and jewels from the safe, knocking out the security systems, whatever. As far as he's concerned, he'll handle all of that, this guy can stick to the blood and guts. Lorne Malvo's not a totally unknown entity - there's a mutual acquaintance, someone they've both been on jobs with - but Pink doesn't have a clear picture of him, either. Which makes him nervous, but it'll have to be one of the prices of this assignment.
And now he wants ten percent, which to be fair isn't really that much, he could've asked for worse. It still bothers Pink, and the harsh disquiet in his eyes betrays as much.
"Yeah, sure, fine, an extra ten percent to you. And my personal fucking thanks for saving my ass. Is that enough for you?"
All right. All right, he needs to calm down. Take a deep breath. It's the uncertainties that're getting to him, the stress of taking on a job that may be beyond his means. Which shouldn't be a problem any more. He's taken care of it; that's what Mr. Ten Percent is for. So he's got no reason to be so worked up. Anyway, if he doesn't calm down, the job'll be a wreck.
"Shit. Honest, I appreciate your coming on."
Edited (gonna adjust until my eyes fall out) 2018-03-24 05:43 (UTC)
Willard doesn't really want to read. Or research, or even deal with words, really. He's come to the library on an errand of distraction, hoping to find something that could pull him outside of himself. He's tried a mystery novel about somebody's grandma, Proust, a fishing magazine, a treatise on something about aviation, a kid's book about penguins; nothing really works. Nothing tears him away from the reality he knows and was nearly consumed by.
It doesn't help that staccato noises - an almost-shout, a slam, a pointed flickering of pages - have been assaulting his mind. That a sound of muttering keeps him from forgetting about the world around. Impossible to distance himself when these invasive noises drag him right back down, leaving him all too aware of the way his skin crawls, the way his shoulders tense a little more with every sound.
After what feels like an eternity (but it's not, but time is never as slow or as fast as you think), Willard heads to the offending patron, placing his palms on the table.
"Hey, pal. Do you think you could keep it down?"
He doesn't know when he last slept. It's hard to sleep these days. Hard to make it more than two or three hours without dreams that leave him choking fog and damp air, feeling clasped tight by the sound of one immovable unerring voice. Doesn't know whether he'd changed clothes this morning or whether he's been wearing the same shirt for three days. It's hard to keep track, sometimes.
It doesn't help that staccato noises - an almost-shout, a slam, a pointed flickering of pages - have been assaulting his mind. That a sound of muttering keeps him from forgetting about the world around. Impossible to distance himself when these invasive noises drag him right back down, leaving him all too aware of the way his skin crawls, the way his shoulders tense a little more with every sound.
After what feels like an eternity (but it's not, but time is never as slow or as fast as you think), Willard heads to the offending patron, placing his palms on the table.
"Hey, pal. Do you think you could keep it down?"
He doesn't know when he last slept. It's hard to sleep these days. Hard to make it more than two or three hours without dreams that leave him choking fog and damp air, feeling clasped tight by the sound of one immovable unerring voice. Doesn't know whether he'd changed clothes this morning or whether he's been wearing the same shirt for three days. It's hard to keep track, sometimes.
It's going to be a long day.
This is the first time Lorne has met with his contact outside of their mutual acquaintance and he already has his share of reservations. The piercing nag of the voice coming out of the scrappy little man goes a long way in terms of doubt. What credentials his voice alone doesn't demolish his heated exchange with, well... himself, obliterates any form of competency.
That said, Malvo expects to be paid and leave this job alive all the same. He can't say the same for Mr. Pink.
"Just the ten percent is fine," he replies casually before setting his bag on the counter. It looks like an old doctor's bag from a time long past, inherited and repurposed for god only knows. From it he begins producing weapons, ammunition and a small vile of liquid with a syringe.
This is the first time Lorne has met with his contact outside of their mutual acquaintance and he already has his share of reservations. The piercing nag of the voice coming out of the scrappy little man goes a long way in terms of doubt. What credentials his voice alone doesn't demolish his heated exchange with, well... himself, obliterates any form of competency.
That said, Malvo expects to be paid and leave this job alive all the same. He can't say the same for Mr. Pink.
"Just the ten percent is fine," he replies casually before setting his bag on the counter. It looks like an old doctor's bag from a time long past, inherited and repurposed for god only knows. From it he begins producing weapons, ammunition and a small vile of liquid with a syringe.
Edited 2018-03-26 00:03 (UTC)
He is taken out his reverie and in the aftermath Oscar is clearly embarrassed. Living legend or not you just don't stare at a person like that. That is a good way to die or get beat bloody no matter where you are. Zenigata would scold him about it if he was here. So Oscar feels the need to apologize.
"No I don't. I'm sorry for looking at you like that. It was rude." His voice surely doesn't sound like he's from the Mojave or any of the surrounding areas. It's a clean almost book-learned English, with the trace of something foreign to most people in the desert. He's traveled a long way.
You don't expect to come to a major city only to be greeted by an actual Legend in the tales. He almost wants to ask him if the stories are true or it's all coincidence but keeps his curiosity on a leash for now.
"No I don't. I'm sorry for looking at you like that. It was rude." His voice surely doesn't sound like he's from the Mojave or any of the surrounding areas. It's a clean almost book-learned English, with the trace of something foreign to most people in the desert. He's traveled a long way.
You don't expect to come to a major city only to be greeted by an actual Legend in the tales. He almost wants to ask him if the stories are true or it's all coincidence but keeps his curiosity on a leash for now.
Edited 2018-03-26 11:44 (UTC)
Most wouldn't even think to offer an apology, and the boy does seem contrite. Joshua feels himself soften slightly. This is just a boy - a boy who has almost certainly traveled far - and a boy with no mind toward trouble. His horrified expression, his words tell as much.
The boy's voice is noteworthy, touched with an accent Joshua can't pinpoint. There's something of the old world to it, something of sounds that gathered dust for years. He's heard something of its kind before, but that was years ago, amid so many other meetings. Perhaps if he hears more, he'll put the pieces together.
"We all stray from time to time. And I appreciate your contrition."
He watches the boy for another moment. "What is your name, child?"
The boy's voice is noteworthy, touched with an accent Joshua can't pinpoint. There's something of the old world to it, something of sounds that gathered dust for years. He's heard something of its kind before, but that was years ago, amid so many other meetings. Perhaps if he hears more, he'll put the pieces together.
"We all stray from time to time. And I appreciate your contrition."
He watches the boy for another moment. "What is your name, child?"
"Will you require me to close the shades?" The woman asks, her eyes wide, staring at the man with an expression that could be curiosity if she could show emotion.
She senses several sorts of chemicals within the man still lingering. "Would you like me to purge you of your chemicals?"
She senses several sorts of chemicals within the man still lingering. "Would you like me to purge you of your chemicals?"
Edited 2018-03-27 04:07 (UTC)
Child, a lot of people call him 'kid' even though he's twenty-two (and that can't really be helped, he just has a reedy body for a man) but that... that just sounds more intimate for some reason. He doesn't bother to correct Joshua because it just feels... right. The word and giving him respect, the man just has a voice and a presence that doesn't demand respect like so many do, it simply comes in response to him. It's a little strange, to be honest.
"Oscar... Oscar Douxange." Normally he would call himself 'Oscar Zenigata' after his traveling partner and adopted Father, but he isn't here and doesn't want to use his name right now. He doesn't remember his surname when Zenigata found him, so he made up a surname based off his Mother's pet name for him. Most people in the Mojave think it's something fancy with no one the wiser.
"Oscar... Oscar Douxange." Normally he would call himself 'Oscar Zenigata' after his traveling partner and adopted Father, but he isn't here and doesn't want to use his name right now. He doesn't remember his surname when Zenigata found him, so he made up a surname based off his Mother's pet name for him. Most people in the Mojave think it's something fancy with no one the wiser.
Edited 2018-03-27 21:39 (UTC)
Though he doesn't encounter a vast variety of languages these days and his work's focus is in other directions, Joshua retains much of his linguistic knowledge, his training and work as a translator. "Douxange." The boy's surname - from the French, he thinks, or some variant - is unusual, but the wastes are full of those. Names people have made for themselves or names that have been jumbled over generations. He half-wonders what the case is with this boy, but it isn't a question to ask now.
Joshua gives the room a quick but thorough survey, seeking the Courier, seeking signs of threat; he finds neither. Well. For the time being, it can't hurt to continue speaking with this boy. Something about him - the instinct to apologize, a sort of raptness, the set of his shoulders (the boy looks frail, but coiled, capable) - makes conversation not entirely unpleasant. And Joshua does try to speak with those who wish to talk, who have something to give voice to. This boy hasn't yet run; perhaps there is something he wishes to say.
"Are you from around here?" Of course not, but at times it does no good to speak assumptions.
Joshua gives the room a quick but thorough survey, seeking the Courier, seeking signs of threat; he finds neither. Well. For the time being, it can't hurt to continue speaking with this boy. Something about him - the instinct to apologize, a sort of raptness, the set of his shoulders (the boy looks frail, but coiled, capable) - makes conversation not entirely unpleasant. And Joshua does try to speak with those who wish to talk, who have something to give voice to. This boy hasn't yet run; perhaps there is something he wishes to say.
"Are you from around here?" Of course not, but at times it does no good to speak assumptions.
It's rare that Oscar gets to run into someone that knows language like him and Zenigata and probably knows a bunch he doesn't. (He doesn't know about Zenigata though, he's been on the road before he was even born.) He has the vague feeling the surname he gave isn't convincing The Burned Man but he ignores it.
He normally doesn't go around spilling details of his life to strangers he's just met in casino lobbies (and Zenigata doesn't recommend that sort of thing either), but for some reason he's fine with telling Joshua.
He shakes his head. "No, not at all. I'm from out east. Not far east, but very far way from here. I was born in a small settlement in Louisiana, or the the locals call it: Louis." That old accent of his that was in the background comes out in full force with that word. "I wasn't there for long, I've been on the road since I was eight."
He normally doesn't go around spilling details of his life to strangers he's just met in casino lobbies (and Zenigata doesn't recommend that sort of thing either), but for some reason he's fine with telling Joshua.
He shakes his head. "No, not at all. I'm from out east. Not far east, but very far way from here. I was born in a small settlement in Louisiana, or the the locals call it: Louis." That old accent of his that was in the background comes out in full force with that word. "I wasn't there for long, I've been on the road since I was eight."
Ah. That would explain the accent. It's also more information than Joshua had asked for, but he doesn't mind, and he's only mildly surprised that so much was given. People will speak as they like, and Joshua's always had a talent both both drawing candid confessions out of people and for freezing them to solid silence.
"A long road, indeed. And here you are in the Mojave." There are a thousand reasons a boy might journey to the place, but the questions seems too personal, and Joshua waves it aside.
There's a wry tint to his voice when he speaks again. "How do you find the city?"
Joshua hadn't intended to pose so many questions; it's just a way of making conversation, and a habit of finding out all he can about the people he encounters. Never know when the information might prove useful, or help to save your life (or their own).
"A long road, indeed. And here you are in the Mojave." There are a thousand reasons a boy might journey to the place, but the questions seems too personal, and Joshua waves it aside.
There's a wry tint to his voice when he speaks again. "How do you find the city?"
Joshua hadn't intended to pose so many questions; it's just a way of making conversation, and a habit of finding out all he can about the people he encounters. Never know when the information might prove useful, or help to save your life (or their own).
"Not unless closing the shades is gonna turn this white fucking room umber or someshit." He's not intending to be barbed; it's just the hangover and waking up in a strange place and, well, his customary mode of being.
He rubs his forehead, appreciating the fleeting relief it brings to his pounding head. Rubs his forehead harder. "Purge me– What the fuck's that mean? You gonna make me hurl? No thanks, lady.
"How about a glass of water?"
He rubs his forehead, appreciating the fleeting relief it brings to his pounding head. Rubs his forehead harder. "Purge me– What the fuck's that mean? You gonna make me hurl? No thanks, lady.
"How about a glass of water?"
"I guess wandering's in my blood." Or rather Zenigata's. On occasion Oscar does wonder what it would be like if he stayed in one place for more than a couple weeks. But he dismisses it. The home of his birth is probably a burned wreck, and he thinks that no place would accept a person like... him. So flawed, so defective as a wastelander. When he and Zenigata split, Oscar may have sobbed the entire way to the next town.
He cut out the one person that accepted him, even if sometimes he doesn't understand him. All because he lost control...
In response to Joshua's question... "You want me to be honest? It's crowded, and it makes me nervous. I never really liked cities. Plus New Vegas is filled with things I don't understand and sometimes I don't want to."
He cut out the one person that accepted him, even if sometimes he doesn't understand him. All because he lost control...
In response to Joshua's question... "You want me to be honest? It's crowded, and it makes me nervous. I never really liked cities. Plus New Vegas is filled with things I don't understand and sometimes I don't want to."
There has never been a shortage of wanderers in the Mojave. Joshua understands the impulse - a joy in the possibility that lies ahead, a fondness for meeting new sights, an inability to call any place one place home - and had felt it himself for years. Or had felt something similar: an ungroundedness, a feeling of existing most clearly in movement. When he reached Zion, that feeling finally flickered away. Had been draining bit by bit since he was accepted in New Canaan, and finally (mostly) left him. Finally allowed him to feel that he had found a home.
His voices softens almost imperceptibly, a shift few might register, a shift that almost, almost suggests the edge of a smile. “Your feelings match my own. I dwell outside of any city of major settlement, and have grown unused to so much company. I’m told this city has its uses, but it isn’t for everyone.
“You may sit, if you’d like.” He gestures toward the chair across the table. The Courier still hasn’t arrived, after all, and it’s unkind to make the boy stand under a barrage of questions.
His voices softens almost imperceptibly, a shift few might register, a shift that almost, almost suggests the edge of a smile. “Your feelings match my own. I dwell outside of any city of major settlement, and have grown unused to so much company. I’m told this city has its uses, but it isn’t for everyone.
“You may sit, if you’d like.” He gestures toward the chair across the table. The Courier still hasn’t arrived, after all, and it’s unkind to make the boy stand under a barrage of questions.
It's truly something strange for a Living (and still very much feared) Legend being nice to a relative stranger and offering him a chair to sit in. But Oscar takes the chair, it's rare for him to have a good conversation with someone he's just met.
"It's very good for trade, which I'm here for. But aside from that I really don't know how to spend my time here. Some wanderer am I, I'm a stick in the mud."
And he doesn't know where to go after this, stay West to California like Zenigata planned? Go east to Utah? Maybe go further north? He doesn't know... he doesn't know.
"It's very good for trade, which I'm here for. But aside from that I really don't know how to spend my time here. Some wanderer am I, I'm a stick in the mud."
And he doesn't know where to go after this, stay West to California like Zenigata planned? Go east to Utah? Maybe go further north? He doesn't know... he doesn't know.
And it's rare for this Living Legend to invite anyone to sit with him outside of Zion, but Joshua senses no ill-intent in the boy, and even outside of Zion, it is his duty to give comfort and welcome where he can.
"You're a trader." It's on the edge of being a question, and there's a subtle hint of approval in Joshua's voice. "It can be a hard life." The boy must be more enduring than he appears at a glance, and seated so close, Joshua can see the resilience written in his face, the ways experience has marked him.
"Do you belong with a particular caravan?" He asks partly because he suspects that the boy may be traveling alone, or nearly alone. He seems too adrift to be attached to any outfit, nor does he seem like he spends much time around other people.
"You're a trader." It's on the edge of being a question, and there's a subtle hint of approval in Joshua's voice. "It can be a hard life." The boy must be more enduring than he appears at a glance, and seated so close, Joshua can see the resilience written in his face, the ways experience has marked him.
"Do you belong with a particular caravan?" He asks partly because he suspects that the boy may be traveling alone, or nearly alone. He seems too adrift to be attached to any outfit, nor does he seem like he spends much time around other people.
Surely enough, when looked at closely there are calluses on his graceful hands that could only come from constantly holding a gun, his small body coming from a lifetime of running, his eyes are shadowed from a lack of sleep, (He's traveling alone for the first time in the wasteland, he will not bother with sleeping on the road alone, it is a risk.) and a manner that suggests he not only keeps his distance with customers a lot but also most people.
Despite all this, there's an undercurrent of earnest youthful purity within him, a desire for something bigger than him, bigger than the wastes. To find something pure and shining in this dust to hold on to.
He shakes his head. "No. There's no organized caravan's that wander in from places from east and far east, but I think that might change." He'd read that before the war, cities were often in trade with one another, maybe the regions were finally becoming less isolated.
"But really I'm just a wanderer with more things on my back."
Despite all this, there's an undercurrent of earnest youthful purity within him, a desire for something bigger than him, bigger than the wastes. To find something pure and shining in this dust to hold on to.
He shakes his head. "No. There's no organized caravan's that wander in from places from east and far east, but I think that might change." He'd read that before the war, cities were often in trade with one another, maybe the regions were finally becoming less isolated.
"But really I'm just a wanderer with more things on my back."
Edited 2018-04-02 02:05 (UTC)
"The process of purging is more... sophisticated than that I think." Nona responds, tilting her head. Still might be freaky as hell.
She draws the curtains without even touching them, only closing her eyes for a moment and the light becomes much more shadowed and somewhat tolerable.
"I'll be retrieving your water..." And she moves out the room, barely a change on her face.
She draws the curtains without even touching them, only closing her eyes for a moment and the light becomes much more shadowed and somewhat tolerable.
"I'll be retrieving your water..." And she moves out the room, barely a change on her face.
It's jarring to have someone physically invade his space (having claimed a majority of the table). Ritchie turns his head only slightly, gazing out of his peripherals like a frightened animal. Logically he knows what could have drawn the man over here: disruption, unease and the simple desire for peace.
"I'm sorry," even his effort to placate remains disingenuous. Raising a hand, he reaches over to grab the book that is coincidentally the farthest from him and the closest to the stranger. Perhaps he's fishing for a reaction-- perhaps he's just really in need of that particular book. Hard to say.
"You can go now."
"I'm sorry," even his effort to placate remains disingenuous. Raising a hand, he reaches over to grab the book that is coincidentally the farthest from him and the closest to the stranger. Perhaps he's fishing for a reaction-- perhaps he's just really in need of that particular book. Hard to say.
"You can go now."
He notes the way the man watches him, knows that kind of furtive glancing, but it doesn’t move him from the table. Maybe he should deal gently with the guy, but Willard’s not in the mood for anyone’s bullshit right now. Especially when they look like they're just fine continuing their disruptive ways.
"I’m concerned you didn’t understand me." Willard reaches out and presses his hand onto the book, eyes still fixed on the man.
"I don’t want to make a thing out of this. I'm just looking for a quiet afternoon at the library. "
"I’m concerned you didn’t understand me." Willard reaches out and presses his hand onto the book, eyes still fixed on the man.
"I don’t want to make a thing out of this. I'm just looking for a quiet afternoon at the library. "
Ritchie knows libraries. He's got a PhD, thank you very much. It's been nearly a decade of libraries, libraries and more goddamn fucking libraries.
In his heart of hearts, he knows this guy doesn't belong anywhere near a library.
"Oh. You're looking for a quiet afternoon at the library."
He raises his hands in the air and tucks them to his chest. If this guy thinks he has any kind of throw around these stomping grounds, he's sorely mistaken.
"Why don't you tell me what you're reading, pal?"
In his heart of hearts, he knows this guy doesn't belong anywhere near a library.
"Oh. You're looking for a quiet afternoon at the library."
He raises his hands in the air and tucks them to his chest. If this guy thinks he has any kind of throw around these stomping grounds, he's sorely mistaken.
"Why don't you tell me what you're reading, pal?"
So maybe this asshole's looking for a fight.
Willard feels his muscles coil, feels his head run cold and feels himself going still. He doesn't move his hand, doesn't move his gaze, though his expression shifts colder. "That's none of your business, friend."
The world around's growing hazy, distant, sounds are coming clearer, and Willard knows his own warning signs and where this is going. He can't do this. He can't do this here. Shit keeps up, it's going to be him and the urge to throttle this man, at least physically shake him out of his self-satisfaction.
He'd only. All he'd wanted was somewhere to get away from himself. And here he is, slipping right back into the fog.
"There any reason you need to be so loud? There are other people here."
Willard feels his muscles coil, feels his head run cold and feels himself going still. He doesn't move his hand, doesn't move his gaze, though his expression shifts colder. "That's none of your business, friend."
The world around's growing hazy, distant, sounds are coming clearer, and Willard knows his own warning signs and where this is going. He can't do this. He can't do this here. Shit keeps up, it's going to be him and the urge to throttle this man, at least physically shake him out of his self-satisfaction.
He'd only. All he'd wanted was somewhere to get away from himself. And here he is, slipping right back into the fog.
"There any reason you need to be so loud? There are other people here."
"Then you're here alone.
"The road is long with company. Taken alone, it is interminable." He hasn't taken his eyes from the boy, though his mind remains partly with the yet-absent Courier. It's like her to be late, but perhaps it's for the best; he's beginning to feel as if he was meant to meet this boy.
"You are brave to have survived so far, child."
"The road is long with company. Taken alone, it is interminable." He hasn't taken his eyes from the boy, though his mind remains partly with the yet-absent Courier. It's like her to be late, but perhaps it's for the best; he's beginning to feel as if he was meant to meet this boy.
"You are brave to have survived so far, child."
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