1964-01-05 - Diner Blitz!
Summary: Put together two speedsters in a diner, and what do you think it gonna happen, other than no good?
Related: N/A
Theme Song: Ain't No Mountain High Enough - Marvin Gaye
tommy hope 

Another day, another breakfast at the Empire Diner. Why? Because Frank's is out of reasonably easy food to make. There /was/ still money left behind, so just grabbing that to feed himself and Hope seemed like it was a good idea. Of course, it's /also/ starting to run out. Which meant more theft, or asking the /other/ parents for cash, or the dreaded J-O-B. Which meant going through with the plan in his head at best, or working somewhere far less interesting in a worse-case scenario. Right now, though? He's looking through the menu, sitting across from Hope in one of the booths.

"So, Spicecake… whatcha wanna do today?" asks the platinum-haired teen, lips curving up into a cheerful grin. There's definitely ideas in /his/ head, but getting her input on the day seems like a good idea.


Another day, another breakfast. A girl with the energy burn as high as Tommy's, partly because she mirrors that whether she likes it or not, needs food. A lot of it, generally, and she makes a point of chowing down on scrambled eggs by the plateful, ignoring the stack of toast. Not really good energy there. Yogurt? Devoured, spoon by spoon, and there's also a bowl of oatmeal. Fortunately all of this is bound to be cheap even if visions of omelettes dance in her head. The redhead puts her hands in her lap, fidgeting. "I don't like the look of that man out there." That man? US postman in blue, going to collect the day's mail from a blue mailbox, and riding around in one of those repurposed white jeeps. He might also be seen to deliver the mail, which understandably might look odd to someone who is used to bizarre trouble. Or whatever the hell happened in her future. He might start daydreaming about Mad Max or Conan, given her dystopia is very dusty apparently.

"Visit a store with hardware. Rope, carabineers, proper gear," she says without any reason behind it, except clearly someone wants to do that. "Tools. We're sort of sitting ducks without much to work with, and that seems like a bad idea. I doubt we can go anywhere to practice shooting, and I don't even think people in this day and age let women touch guns. I'll need to make my own ammunition then, unless you can get it."


There will be a day. It will likely be soon. That day will have such delightful food entirely available to them. Tommy's quite confident about being able to leverage his abilities into making money, especially knowing just /who/ to leverage them with. The option was simple after all. But for today? Cheap and energy-giving were probably wise enough ideas. It meant that the rest of the money could be used for other things, after all.

As for the mailman? Tommy can't help but crack a smile, though he keeps from outright laughing. "History lesson number three-hundred and two," The last one was five-hundred and eighty-nine, he hasn't kept count. "In the mornings, these dudes go around in those trucks and deliver letters and packages but mostly bills to people. They're mostly harmless unless they have guns." In which case, he'd worry too about them going postal.

As for the plan? Tommy considers. He grins a little wider - at least until he realizes that it's probably /not/ for what he's thinking of. Still. "We can do that. There's plenty of places; anything we can't afford, point out and I'll grab at speed on a return trip." Because really, if he gets in trouble, that's one thing. Someone without birth records might just be treated like an alien. That worries him sometimes. "…and we can. A trip out to the bluegrass states, we'll have privacy, and anyone hearing gunshots will think it's perfectly normal." It might even be a story 'bout a man named Jed, after all. "Ammo isn't always easy," he's done it before. Exploding bullets make good noisemakers. "But it's doable. I can get my hands on almost anything." …and he can't help but wink at the end of /that./


Whatever that mailman is doing, it still warrants a sharp look from Hope. The waitress comes by and fills up their coffee cups without even stopping to consider, because habit drives her to pour from her carried pot and not even question if any wants decaf. That stuff will kill you, don't you know. The woman hustles on to talk to the regulars instead of dealing with the teenagers who barely even tip and cause her no end of headaches, partly because they talk back and look beautiful, all the hopes and dreams that never came to fruition for her. No doubt she came to New York to get rich and famous like everyone else and that day never showed up.

"Way he walks, he hasn't been a courier all his life. Injured knee, probably, but not the sort you get in sport. Probably a blunt trauma injury, given his colouration I would guess he might belong to an Italian gang if they still have them this far back. He favours his right side and probably still boxes. Way his arms are developed? If I had to disable him, I'd aim for the right knee cap, then impede his left ankle to effectively immobilize his ability to turn or move," she comments in a dry as dust tone of voice, no light in her eyes. "I'm getting slow." The hand stealing around the coffee cup shepherds it towards her and she sniffs the brew, making a face at the astringent undertone of whatever dish liquid they use. Then a tentative taste forces her to wince, putting the piping hot brew back down. "Ugh, that tastes awful. How can anyone drink this? It's like steamed motor oil." A shove away puts that on his side. Maybe he drinks it.

The danger of being a mirror to the original, she's getting used to thinking and acting at Tommy speeds without the Tommy impulsiveness; at least not all the impulsiveness. Her eyebrows rise slightly, and she slowly regards him. "Just what do you want to be doing with that rope, Thomas?" Not even Tommy, ooh. "I know a look for an idea when I see one, and you're having /many/ ideas. Fess up."


Of course, when Hope starts to really /talk/ about it the mailman — Tommy starts to watch the man too. Thoughtful. Trying to pick out the little details like she does. He's not that good at it. Maybe with Hope to focus him, he'll end /up/ that way… but for the moment? Definitely not that good at it.

However, he can fill in some of the blanks. "They do. Hell. They still exist in my time, just hush-hush like. Makes you wonder if it's a day job or just some kinda front." After all, a mailman - someone meant to go from house to house like that - would be a very effective way of getting to people. Or delivering horses heads. Maybe he's seen a few too many mobster movies in /his/ day… or at least half his brain has, but hand seeks out the coffee and he goes for a sip of it himself. And makes so many faces. "Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. I know what this needs." He grabs for the sugar. About a quarter of the decanter is dumped in. Followed by a good amount of cream. Then he tries again. "/Much/ better." he adds, pushing the cup back in case Hope wants to try it which his changes. He'll be seeking it out if not. Caffeine + Tommy equals good.

He decides to hop over into the other side of the booth to answer the /last/ question. There's something to be said about having no shame, but scandalizing the other patrons of the diner? …maybe not good for somewhere that he actually enjoys eating. So he whispers the words to her, voice only becoming audible on occasion. "… … … bedposts … … … and again … … … /hours/ … … … move." With that said? He just has this cat-that-ate-the-canary look on his lips, and moves back to his side of the booth.


ROLL: Hope +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 41


"It's a way to see houses and businesses without anyone suspecting you. Easy to move material and store it, come back, and leave. You learn where the vacant properties are, and who is home during the day instead of going out. Do they have a dog or none? Security around the house, even simple things like locked windows, barred windows, doors with a heavy bolt or just a chain," murmurs the redhead under her breath, not trying to pull attention to Tommy or herself. "You get to know routines, you have a person down pat. That's why I never keep to one, because having a routine is dangerous and means that it's too easy to follow up with someone. You would be surprised how much people start forgetting when they fall into a way of doing things. You can overlook the giant bear on your lawn because you went out the same way you always do." Harsh life lessons, but still.

When he pushes back the adulterated coffee with more sugar and cream than Arabica bean juice, she looks at him very questionably. Still, trust calls for sipping a devil's drink, and she is sparing about it. Let's see if this is any better — "Ugh, what the… This is like iron-flavoured sugar." Her eyes close and she makes a face, shoving it back. "Waste of good sugar, that is. I'll wait until the waitress comes by and ask for some water." Because hydration is important, and they still need eggs. Omelette. That decides it. She edges up to the booth. "I'm going to be right back. Good mark over there, I think. Be prepared to run if I botch, mm?"

Is that her response to his hardware suggestions? He's going to have to ask, because she slides out after him in the booth and then bolts off at speed as soon as someone opens the door for him. Not top speed, but about as fast as she thinks she can go and be safe. As it goes, that's pretty respectable and she blurs down the street, going a block past to find the gentleman in the suit with the big fancy watch and stuffing a billfold into his pocket. See, pickpocketing is almost easy when you move at the rates they do, and she snatches a few bills clean away from the half, giving the denominations a look over. Fine, one more.

Zippity-doo-dah, and she blithely sails right back through the pedestrian traffic, slowing only to move through the diner without causing any ruffled skirts and ties. This time, it's back beside him. "Figure this is enough?" The money is shoved into his lap lightly, below the table in literal terms.


"Might not be a bad job idea for me if the first thought doesn't pan out, then." Tommy considers. Because seriously? He might save the world on occasion, but that doesn't mean he's exactly the clean-cut model of heroism. He puts himself and those he cares about first, even at the detriment of others. It's the edge of a knife that he teeters on, with dips into either side of the pool just as likely as the other.

"Trust me, I won't take my eyes off of you." Because Tommy Shepherd is always ready to run, always ready for action. It's just the way that the boy operates, partially because of his speed, partially because of the way he grew up. So he tenses and he waits for her to do her thing.

Green eyes follow the redheaded girl the entire way, most people wouldn't be able to, but that's the good part about working at speed. He can tell. Watches her work, lips curved into a wide smile; a girl who thinks the way he does. It's refreshing. Delightful. …and when she comes back with money? He can't help but grin from ear to ear. Eyes glancing downwards and counting over the money that she deposited into his lap. Then that grin turns over in her direction. "Oh yeah, this ought to be plenty to get what we need. You wanna go now, or…?"


Hope waits for that waitress to wander by, and she will make a simple enough order: the big breakfast on offer, one of those three eggs, three sausage, three pancakes, three bacon combos that has all a growing body needs to get fat in forty years because 'Murica. Syrup will await, and that's liquid sugar for her to fuel the fires with. A flick of her tongue over her lips agrees with her stomach: good food is good. Toast is something to look forward to, especially smeared with strawberry jam. Mmm, Smuckers.

"I want my breakfast first. I'm going to need energy if you're going to be rigging, and that means we both ought to make sure we're well fed. Would be a pity for you to pass out for the lack of food and calories." Smirking, she takes a glass of water and sips it, doing her best to drain the contents even though they are flavourless. Beggars aren't choosers, for the most part. She waves her straw lightly. "Then we can fetch up what we need. I am a little more worried about the ammunition medium term, and probably something like a storage facility to have a spot to put my caches. Locker ought to do it. No one complains too much of that. So, anyways, no need for a dry run on that."

She mildly stretches, rolling her shoulders lightly. The complication of getting to a hardware store is something she isn't too concerned about, and nothing that a pancake won't fix. "So, sound good? Meal, store, and… wherever. Home?"


Tommy can't help it; he's going to order the same. Why? She doesn't have to ask, he's pretty sure. She moves like him, she eats like him. She would understand better than anyone else. When the food comes? He's not at all shy about eating, happy to dig right in and devour the food. Delicious, delicious food. He hasn't eaten like this in quite a while.

"Mmph. If I pass out, it's not gonna be from lack of food and calories," he teases, shoveling bite after bite into mouth. Normal speed fork-to-mouth, super-speed chew and swallow. "…and I'm pretty sure that you're the one who'll go down first." he teases. No, /challenges./ "I know plenty of places that we can handle these things. Most of them in the city. Practice wouldn't be, but I know spots for that too like I said." A pause, and a slight grin is offered. "Think you'd be willing to teach me? I wouldn't mind having a backup plan in case something ever does neutralize…" he trails a moment, waving fingers at super-speed in order to show her exactly what he means.

It's something he's kept in mind. Something he considers. It helps that the thought came from her in the first place, someone who he's more likely to listen to than anyone else. "Sounds like a plan to me, though. A very, very good plan."


"I hope you aren't starving," says the young woman quietly, adding unhealthy amounts of ketchup to her eggs and sprinkling syrup on the pancakes. Sweet is taken one bite, savory the next, and she is incapable of resisting the pleasure for any. Mmm! Delicious food demands equal amounts of attention, slicing up everything into bite-sized pieces, and swallowing a fluffy morsel of pancake hungrily. Toast with jam, munched. Eggs, nibbled. Ye gods, it's victuals worthy of the gods and she slumps into the bench happily. This is heaven. This is the way to endure the pleasures of the flesh, not by gluttony, but by finally being full. Someone else's hard day of work turns into a lovely breakfast for a girl who doesn't know what it means to be full. Not truly.

"I think you already proved that," she points out for no reason at all. Her lips smooshed to the fork brings a hidden smile out, short lived as it is. "You really think I'll be the first? You're on, and sorry to disappoint, but you'll cry mercy before I do." Smug as an otter with a salmon, that one, a nd she speaks with total awareness of what she's saying. Apparently this is a certainty with her, and she won't take anything less than total success. "You want to know how to shoot, grasshopper? Figures you wouldn't back this far. Everyone here is lucky to have it so soft. Yeah, I can show you. You don't get to start with anything fun, mind you. Like it or not, you learn with the little guns and work your way up. But I can give you a good tutorial so you don't end up shooting me in the foot when I ask you to pass me a desert eagle and you end up handing me a long gun or a freaking bird." Because he would. It would probably be an angry eagle she had to throw at someone. Because Tommy.

Her fork scrapes bare plate and she stares at him. "Huh. I guess we're hungry."


Copious amounts of sugar, honey, jellies… other various bits are added happily. "I'm never starving. I don't do starving." Tommy retorts, crinkling his nose a bit. "I mean, you do what you gotta do to survive. I learned that lesson really, really young. I'm guessing you did too." Tommy admits, alternating between food and speech. He likes to talk, he likes to eat. He likes other things as well. There's plenty of all of the above involved at this table.

As for the latter? He can't help but grin. "Yup. You're fast, and I'm sure your speed's done things to /you/ like mine has to me, but…" …how little does he know. She's probably the one girl out there who /can/ outlast him, since she borrows the same exact powers. In that way, he really, really was lucky. "…but hell. Even if you /do/ win, I can't imagine I'll be anything but happy." he tells her, grinning from ear to ear on /that/ particular note. Then there's other things to keep in mind, "Never needed to. Never kept it in mind, because I always had my own bag of tricks." Smile. "But, you know. No reason I can't borrow someone else's fun from time to time just to mix things up, right?" She'd know that better than anyone. "…and you don't /throw/ birds at people, you use a /slingshot./ Did you learn nothing when you came from?"

His voice is serious, but his eyes betray him. And the plates are emptied. "I'll go pay, and we'll blow this pop stand." …just not literally.


Poor girl must be starving with how fast she puts away a bit of strawberry jam on toast, licking her fingers to clean off the crumbs and jelly. Awfully hard for her to resist the pleasure of it, especially given the immediate impact of tasty, sticky goodness immediately on her palate. There is a heaven to be found in jam that plain grape jelly or icky marmalade preserves will never, ever reach. Tommy speaks and she plows through the food, hungry enough.

His chatter is not ignored, listened to with depth and care. She's used to having no one but herself and Nathan, lonely stretches of road without another living soul for miles. Talking sometimes is a blessing, even if she is not always certain about what to talk about. He might find her in that state if he has a loss for words (read: never), and she hasn't anything to add (read: not as often). "You actually use birds on your arm to go get you some dinner, but that's not a problem. I can bring down a deer easy, and probably make you a decent venison steak. If we had to. It's not like anyone does that here."

No dead deer in Central Park? Proof enough New York is spoiled rotten!

She leans back a little, then smirks. "Go pay. I'll catch you outside." Probably will, too, as she gathers her book bag and slinks out of the booth, dusting crumbs off.


For his part, Tommy loves just having someone who will sit and /listen/ to him babble on and on. His parents weren't ever interested in; at least the birth parents weren't. The new ones might be. His friends would pretend to listen and just more onto well.. something more troublesome. But those were the kinds of crowds that he would roll with when he was a kid, and very likely a contributing factor to the delinquency of his youth.

The time spent paying doesn't take long, a bit of chatter, a counting of change… and a return to her back outside the door. Arm is tucked naturally around her waist if she allows it, and a lazy smile is offered. "There should be a hardware store about a block from here. Ammo shops… are just about everywhere, but we might have to snatch what you want there." Pause. "Or find a buyer. I don't know if they'll sell to us in a reputable place." Pause. "There's some /other/ places we could go, too. The kind that don't ask questions."

Then there's a wink offered, and he starts moving. "I /do/ like steak, for what it's worth~"


Hope? Despite all the chatter with Doctor dad guy, isn't exactly a talker. She will when she needs to, but she prefers to be to the point and understand rather than ramble on. Her happy place is somewhere in the middle with a solid footing towards listening more than yapping. Unless he gets her started on something she cares about, and the tables are turned. But Tommy can have that stage all to his lonesome.

Outside is chilly but not cold, and she glances askance at Tommy when he falls in line beside her. "Ammo shops aren't gonna work so easily 'cause I don't have whatever you use on those old plastic cards. I need someone to give me an identity. My papers wouldn't make a lick of sense, and you don't have the scans I'm used to. Not that Dad ever let me get square coded. No way in hell. And you're talking about the black market, and I know how to deal with them a bit. I got some ideas, but that's not so important right yet."

One street feeds into another, and then they're relying on Tommy's sense of navigation to get around. "So, hardware store. It'll take a few minutes to find all I need. You want anything in particular? Some fancy saw to make lots of noise and scare the neighbours? Impress your friends? Build a treehouse?"


Tommy considers the words she says. Frowning thoughtfully to himself, trying to work out just what to do about that. There's a few options. Temporary fixes that he can think of. People he used to run with back in the old days. But… "Birth certificate's the tough part. I know people who could get you a fake ID; before the speed happened, I used to need 'em to buy booze." Now? Frankly he just steals it when he wants it. Cheaper, and no need to worry about things like IDs. Even if he is old enough. "Social could be a problem too. About the only thing that comes to mind is, y'know, pretend you're from another country or something and get citizenship the other way. Can you fake an accent?" Yes, he was definitely talking about the black market. Or at least a gray one.

It doesn't take long to get to the hardware store, and he's leading her inside with ease. "We're not gonna be staying at Frank's much longer. If I can't get the gig I'm looking for… we might stay with my uncle, he's supposed to be fast, too. Or if you think trouble's really coming for you soon… maybe find an abandoned place to squat or somethin'." He's going to let her handle the shopping, he'll help out as needed. "So grab what you need, we'll worry about anything else later on." Pause. "Maybe some wood to build a makeshift range, though."


"You don't want to know what borders look like in my future. Sounds like they were a whole other bag of bombs compared to yours, and some of the times we lived in… nations didn't look at it that way. I suppose I could maybe convince someone I was from the upside down part of the world, Australia or the like. Far enough away they aren't going to call to check, but not so weird no one is going to ask why I came from the middle of dirt, and how do I have a passport if they don't even have doors." Right, because there's a nation without doors. Probably Latveria or Sokovia or something.

When they get to the hardware store, she isn't kidding about needing only a few minutes and a basket. Scratch that, a really ugly plastic trolley she can shove around to drop things in. Throwing together a standard household toolkit is easy, and she adds a fair number of oddities by anyone's standards: metal rings, carabineer equivalents, rope in varied weight and colour, a lot of duct tape. Even in the future, duct tape is magical. Wire, a fair amount of copper, steel, tin. Roaming the aisles doesn't take much effort. "I don't know where we will stay. It was easier with Nathan. Sometimes I could just look at them and things happened, I don't know why. I knew what to say, and they would let us on. I could hot wire a car but that's not somewhere to live. Gotta take up that courier job, bet you I could find a place where no one lived easy. Don't need much. A loft over a garage is sometimes enough but I'm not so comfortable with making you stick that out. And your uncle is gonna want to put up with us? Man, he's cooler than I give him credit for." Which is probably no credit. Hello hot plate, and several bottles of kerosene for a stove in the camping section, or what passes. "The other way is uglier, force, but I rather not look into that. Getting somewhere they'll take cash for rent is good enough for me. Won't be pretty but it'll work."


"Ever hear of mail order brides?" Tommy points out, quirking an amused grin. "Lonely guys in the states with money pay for a hot chick from across the sea to come to America, he gets arm candy, she gets a green card. Might not be the best way, but it'd probably be the /easiest./" he tells her, considering for a few moments. "Other than that… I dunno if maybe the Doc or Billy could just… /will/ you into having an identity or something. Or if they would. Billy'd be easier but I'm not sure if he can /do/ it. The Doc would probably be more effective, but I'm not sure I can convince him. I'd owe him for that." …but, he considers, it might be worthwhile. She's pretty worth it to him in general, after all.

Tommy trails behind her as she does her thing, watching with thought. Trying to figure out what some of the stuff could be used for. Both her ideas and his own. Because … well… yes. The thought on staying places? He can't help but grin a bit. "Either they did it because you were running around with a cybernetic bear, or because he looked old enough to be your dad and they were hoping to have a piece of you for themselves. I mean, let's be real, you /are/ pretty hot, Hope." Tommy points out, amused. "I'll check on the job later today. I gotta borrow a suit, first." Pause. "Spicecake, don't worry too much about me. If I've got a bed to sleep in, especially if you're in it /with/ me, and somewhere to get food? I'm happy. I don't /need/ the Ritz. Somewhere to lie low from the cops or other trouble on occasion? Sure. But…" On Pietro?

"I'm told my real family's really big on family sticking together. They invited me to stay there already, but… I wanted to get to know you some first." Pause. "And if I'm gonna stay there, I should be able to bring my stuff, right?" That's right — Hope's now officially part of 'his stuff', for better or for worse.


She almost runs the trolley into a display of axes, because firewood chopping is totally necessary in NYC. "A what?" Tommy is given a sharp look through flaring emerald eyes, and her cheeks flare slightly pink. Hope straightens herself up slightly and bares her teeth at him in a frown bordering on snarl. "I would never sell myself for money to stay somewhere. I have at least a few standards. You are this close to being the one trussed up." A waggle of the rope intended for defensive and training purposes, as she's apparently got soldier's ideas of jungle gyms and rope course practice.

He's lucky she has a cashier staring at her, chewing gum with his mouth hanging open. She steers the cart that way and practically drops a bucket and a toolbox onto the wooden counter. "We want all this. He's paying. I can totally tell the difference between the spanner and the socket wrench so if you value your tongue, shut your mouth. Else it's gonna grow fur and run off to be adopted and renamed Sparky." She scowls and stamps outside to cool off. Evidently Tommy's got something to learn about human slavery or, more importantly, contracted servitude. Yeah, it was a thing in 18th century colonial America times, and 28th century or wherever the hell she's from.


Tommy's response is a blank look. Obviously, he touched a sore subject there, but where /he's/ from the subject's a completely different matter, often imitated by… "You've… never seen a romcom, have you?" the speedster replies, crinkling his nose. "Seriously, Spicecake. Do you think I would want you to try and sell yourself for money after agreeing to the exclusive thing with you?" She gets a poke for that. "It goes both ways." A point at her, "Mine." Thumb back at him. "Yours."

Not shy about saying that, either. Honestly, to this point, it's worked out pretty well for him. Of course, there hasn't been any real temptation either, so it's been all fun and no difficulty either. The clerk gets a slightly apologetic look, before totals are discussed and money is paid — if Hope's been keeping count? There's still money left even after all the stuff she bought. A hundred bucks go a long way back in the 60s!

Once it's all collected into bags, Tommy rejoins Hope outside. Carrying the bags along with him — truth be told, he's ignorant to the fact that slavery might've made a comeback /after/ his time, so it seems like something that can be joked about to /him./ "You okay, Hope?" is asked, head inclining a bit. Eyes watching her. He's not in the apology stage yet; but it might come to that soon enough.


Rom com? She doesn't know what movies are, or cinemas, Tommy Shepherd, why would she know what a rom com is? Now sci-fi….

A hundred bucks does go a long way, and so does an explanation even if she's outside with her arms crossed. Still frowning, which is watered down from a scowl, and that may count as something acceptable. Twisting her gloves around, she tugs them up and then reaches out her arms once he trudges closer. "Give me the bags and we can leave. No one /wants/ to sell themselves. They do it because they've got nothing else or they've got a gun to their head. No papers, no money, border problems? Guess who now becomes fourth wife of Bob McRobertson. If you're lucky." It's stated in a flat tone separating her from the bitter reality of memory, seeing what should not be seen. "People are a commodity. It doesn't change with a pretty term for it. Did we get oil?" She peeks into the bag, forcibly altering course instead of ramming into a cliff of sociopolitical history. Apparently they did, important to keep cogs turning and fires burning.

"Let's just go."


Tommy does what he's told. Not the kind of sentence that gets put together often, but Tommy can tell he messed up. A little piece of paper is pulled out of his jeans, a note scribbled onto it, and then it's tucked back in. Sometime later on? Hope's going to awaken to roses and chocolates. Tommy may not remember /why/ he got them for her when the time comes, but that's what the note is for — to make sure it happens eventually. "Sorry, Spicecake. It won't happen." he offers lamely. People as a commodity, if not directly slavery? He can understand that. The people who ran his juvenile detention center wanted to make him into a weapon, after all.

Of course, then she's talking about /oil/ and he doesn't connect it with what it probably is at first and just grins a bit despite himself. Hummingbird mentality, go! "Shall we run back to the house, or did you have somewhere else you wanted to go?" Pause. "Drug store, maybe? I know you said you had those stim-pack thingies, but do they work for everything you might need?"


Spice cake has the occasional bite of seasoning, and there it is. Fortunately it doesn't tend to stay too overtly visible, especially when there is a genuine attempt to at least sound lamely sad. Oof. Not fun, and a kid in juvie - - even if she doesn't know what this means - - gives someone a pretty rough understanding how life doesn't treat people all that girls. She can definitely take up the nuance of emotion even if the rest doesn't much change her course.

"I don't need any bandages. Pretty sure I can make do with what I have on me, and the rest is just going to be experimentation one day to see what makes a better gel or bandage option. Really, we're cool." Her breath blown out to send her bangs flying around. She gives her thumb a nudge. "Let's get going. You lead the way and when we get there… we get there, I guess. Let's go make some trouble and magic."

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