joel miller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
shittybirthday) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bezoar2014-04-08 07:13 pm
shittybirthday) wrote in bezoar2014-04-08 07:13 pm
run, little rabbit, run
Well, thinks David as he steps out into the cool, crisp afternoon, this place sure beats a harsh, apocalyptic winter.
He's been in Asgard for a few days now. Perhaps a week. Enough time to overcome his initial fear and confusion of the place; enough time to work out that, strange though everything is, weird though everyone seems to be, it's a hell of a lot safer than life back in the world of Infected.
That's not to say he isn't paranoid. Oh, he's paranoid, all right. He trawls the streets, hands buried deep in his ratty pockets, his eyes dart here and there, twitchy and on edge, though he always manages a smile that seems mostly easy to anyone who happens to do so for him. Always best to seem friendly, harmless, non-threatening, no matter what situation he finds himself in. Always best to make people think the best of you. Easier to gain their trust, that way. Makes them easier to manipulate should the need call for it.
Underneath those seemingly easy smiles and the seemingly friendly wrinkle of his eyes, the last thing he remembers before waking up in this place keeps playing and replaying over in his head: the searing, ripping agony of the machete being slammed down into his face. The taste of blood in his mouth. A vague recollection of that little bitch climbing on top of him and raising that machete over her pretty little head--
Yeah, he doesn't much like thinking about that. David is good, though, at suppressing his fears; he's had twenty years of practice at pushing fear deep, deep down until it becomes something that drives him rather hinders him. As he turns a corner on the cobblestone street, marvelling at how strangely quaint everything is, even despite the odd lack of colour, a wonderful smell hits his nose. Coffee. The glorious smell of freshly brewed coffee, oh good Lord, how he's missed coffee. And freshly baked bread. And pastry. He follows the scent of food to a cafe and the wonderful aroma of scents that take him back to a time before the world ended fill his senses. Not that he's got any money to buy anything, but - perhaps he can attempt to plead his case. His eyes land on a girl with red-brown hair behind the counter, her back to him. Seems quite young, he notices. A kid. Kids can be pretty easy to win over.
Hands still deep in his pockets, he glances around at the other customers, gives them an easy smile, wanders up to the counter. The smile freezes on his face when he catches sight of the girl's profile. She's rushing off, then, heading towards a storeroom to collect something. Hasn't seemed to have noticed him yet. He's certain she'd remember him. Quite very certain.
He glances over his shoulder at the customers, and then slowly begins strolling towards the storeroom. Casual, calm, like he's just a friendly guy wanting to ask the girl a friendly question. His heart has begun to beat a little faster, though; his stomach has begun twisting with disgust and anger. A completely benign expression on his face, though, and when he reaches the storeroom, he stands in the doorway and simply watches her for a moment.
"Well, I gotta say," he begins with in a light tone clipped with condescension so subtle it could be mistaken for mere friendliness by anyone listening, his lips quirked into an equally patronising smile, "things really do happen for reason."
He's been in Asgard for a few days now. Perhaps a week. Enough time to overcome his initial fear and confusion of the place; enough time to work out that, strange though everything is, weird though everyone seems to be, it's a hell of a lot safer than life back in the world of Infected.
That's not to say he isn't paranoid. Oh, he's paranoid, all right. He trawls the streets, hands buried deep in his ratty pockets, his eyes dart here and there, twitchy and on edge, though he always manages a smile that seems mostly easy to anyone who happens to do so for him. Always best to seem friendly, harmless, non-threatening, no matter what situation he finds himself in. Always best to make people think the best of you. Easier to gain their trust, that way. Makes them easier to manipulate should the need call for it.
Underneath those seemingly easy smiles and the seemingly friendly wrinkle of his eyes, the last thing he remembers before waking up in this place keeps playing and replaying over in his head: the searing, ripping agony of the machete being slammed down into his face. The taste of blood in his mouth. A vague recollection of that little bitch climbing on top of him and raising that machete over her pretty little head--
Yeah, he doesn't much like thinking about that. David is good, though, at suppressing his fears; he's had twenty years of practice at pushing fear deep, deep down until it becomes something that drives him rather hinders him. As he turns a corner on the cobblestone street, marvelling at how strangely quaint everything is, even despite the odd lack of colour, a wonderful smell hits his nose. Coffee. The glorious smell of freshly brewed coffee, oh good Lord, how he's missed coffee. And freshly baked bread. And pastry. He follows the scent of food to a cafe and the wonderful aroma of scents that take him back to a time before the world ended fill his senses. Not that he's got any money to buy anything, but - perhaps he can attempt to plead his case. His eyes land on a girl with red-brown hair behind the counter, her back to him. Seems quite young, he notices. A kid. Kids can be pretty easy to win over.
Hands still deep in his pockets, he glances around at the other customers, gives them an easy smile, wanders up to the counter. The smile freezes on his face when he catches sight of the girl's profile. She's rushing off, then, heading towards a storeroom to collect something. Hasn't seemed to have noticed him yet. He's certain she'd remember him. Quite very certain.
He glances over his shoulder at the customers, and then slowly begins strolling towards the storeroom. Casual, calm, like he's just a friendly guy wanting to ask the girl a friendly question. His heart has begun to beat a little faster, though; his stomach has begun twisting with disgust and anger. A completely benign expression on his face, though, and when he reaches the storeroom, he stands in the doorway and simply watches her for a moment.
"Well, I gotta say," he begins with in a light tone clipped with condescension so subtle it could be mistaken for mere friendliness by anyone listening, his lips quirked into an equally patronising smile, "things really do happen for reason."