If one wanted to walk into Junkyard, one couldn’t look like military at all.
Suppose that piece o’ logic right there shoulda also advised him against even attempting an entrance-- but:
Jessie S. Michels knew he had been making his way in and out of here for years, now.
Years of forming friendships, in some lying sense, within the people in here-- bonding and landing himself deals, capable of collecting intelligence.
It made it sound oh-so-easy.
It was not.
As Jessie did enter through the gate-- just the one in this place, passing the walls that didn’t compare to Stronghold’s attempts to hold off the infected, he understood that every visit of this variety could also be his last.
He understood he could die here.
Should anyone understand whom he belonged to-- who signed his paycheck, words really plain, and normal, stinking too profoundly of a world long in the past, they would shoot him.
They would hold him--
Force and hurt him, so many options here, such many ways to deal with a rat like him.
But they didn’t know.
And as he walked in here, looking like another drifter, coming through, coming through, move outta my way, my lovely whores, ain’t a piece on him suggest he even interacted with the military, at all; not a piece of armor with their insignia, not a kinda weapon issued to the sons and daughters of the uniforms--
His get-up, at that moment, was that usual stalker slash survivor slash drifter disheveled heaven, and his weapons appeared as aged up, as fixed up time and over again as did the dirt smudges exist on his face, victims of the wind and its need to ruffle up some sand, toss it all over the place.
And Jessie walked, even, with a startling, and amazing confidence right towards the communal hall-- hauling with himself a backpack loaded with everything and anything that not only promised him some kinda dealing here, but also continued to allow him into the encampment, just for now, anyway.
Except which happened next was no part of a plan.
Suppose.
He got bumped into; as he neared the hall, donning his dumb-ass smile that tended to piss people off, someone did decide to punish his presence, and two people quite so stocky rudely shoved into him when leaving the hall, causing his gasp to flutter out his lips, and his body to topple forward, clumsily.
That alone woulda sufficed in making him look goddamn stupid.
On a day bright, and the spring kinda ending, and the camp fucking busy--
And yet Jessie S. Michels fell, and while doing so shouted--
“COWABUNGA!!”
Before just like that, his heavy backpack thrown over his head in the momentum, and landing even before he did, he face-planted.
Posted 05-03-2021, 05:16 PMThis post was last modified: 05-03-2021, 05:36 PM by Jessie Michels
While Paris had a list of more important things to do than associate with the drifters who came and went from the Junkyard on a daily basis, their cut of the world was a small place. He at least committed himself to memorizing the faces of regulars who made business with Eclipse since they were the ones most likely to survive another night outside their walls, but he maintained no particular opinion of their lot otherwise.
Today however saw fit to put on a show for him as he observed the infancy of an altercation in the dining hall where he had been making his rounds. Although such encounters between their people and drifters on their home turf were common but short-lived, Paris braced himself to intervene should matters become violent.
Rather, he would enlist someone else to intervene on his authority, lest Paris receive a busted mouth for his valiant if misguided efforts.
Fortunately for his own patience, the raucous lasted no longer than it took two gruff gentlemen to shoulder some less fortunate drifter into the wheel. Paris would have moved on then had the drifter not announced his fall from grace with the most ridiculous cry he had heard in a while.
What fresh hell was this.
He casually strolled across the hall toward the fellow who had caught the floor with his forehead, his pack of goods nearly knocked loose from his shoulders. Had Paris not come to stand over him momentarily, he was certain some less scrupulous members of their community would have relieved the drifter of his burdens.
With a sigh, Paris leaned down and offered the man a hand, yearning for a cigarette or pot of the blackest coffee.
“Come on,” he said, for once unsure of what else to say to this poor buffoon.
Posted 05-26-2021, 08:47 PMThis post was last modified: 05-26-2021, 08:49 PM by Paris Savaci
Mostly in light of understanding several things: one, he could not really bust his cover here by, what, making a scene-- more than this already had-- defending himself?
Two--
Well, really, it did boil down to him fretting and fussing over the idea of causing mayhem here, defending against what could only result in a huge altercation in the worst kinda place, with the worst kinda people, as well--
But:
Just as Jessie was starting to get back up, thinking to himself this drove of people was likely to ambush his belongings, and whisk off with one or several, he felt a presence approach, sure to tense him somewhat--
Any kind of an interaction here-- and any bit of a misstep could fuck him up.
So, he looked up.
He was an idiot, he’d tell all.
“Wow.”
Goddamn, right.
He had surely ignored the sigh-- or even how very much done with the world this man was; in fact, his pure level of fuck everything was so enigmatic (and, honestly, hilarious) that Jessie could only beam-- disregarding the flush upon his cheeks, not embarrassment, not at all.
He rather reached out to accept the man’s hand.
“Thank you, handsome,” he spoke-- once the hands had connected, of course, all to discourage what would… surely be a rather logical gross, what reaction on the other’s part-- mostly in lieu of being perfectly hit on.
Perfectly.
But Jessie did get back up to his feet-- letting go of the other, before he gasped at the sight of some of his things--
“Well, shit, fuck me.”
But don’t call him Sally. Not yet. He crouched quickly to collect the few foods that had spilled from the top of his rucksack, going as far as to swing it over his shoulder so he could fix up the top-- make sure he had no more escapees, while pinning the other with a surely awkward, big smile--
“So. So how’s the day. Hello. I’m Jessie. How are youuuu."
Posted 05-03-2021, 05:16 PM
This post was last modified: 05-03-2021, 05:36 PM by Jessie Michels
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