(Untitled)
Stepping out of a body’s usual modus operandi is a strange, and, in many ways, unsettling proposition. Though it can often be a rewarding proposition, it leads to strange feelings in the pit of one’s stomach often accompied by the feeling that one’s gotten in way over their head.
( In which our heroes discover that modern conveniences are anything but )
( In which our heroes discover that modern conveniences are anything but )
It should be noted that his plain white t-shirt fits well, but he's apparently some compunction about standing around in public in what, in his world, amounts to underthings -- thus the crossed arms. Luckily, khaki shorts and sandals aren't completely alien sort of fashion, as strangely ill-designed as these examples are.
"If not purgatory," he says, then takes an experimental sniff of the air; disinfectant. "no color or smell, only... noise."
It's a few moments before the people at the front of the line finish arguing with the poor attendant about window or aisle or some sort of related rubbish, and the queue proceeds.
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Tilly had been kind enough to write to an old friend of hers in the fae courts, getting Basch some form of sponsorship and papers. And really, being able to explain away various mannerisms with the excuse of 'been away in Faerie for hundreds of years' could very well come in handy. It's a slick looking thing, vellum and bound in decent leather of unfamiliar origin.
Miki passes it over, thumbing through her own papers, and the tickets. Seems everything's in order, and with luck, they'll be at the head of the queue in mere moments. A small cheer for business travelers eager to be on their way making up the rest of the queue ahead of them.
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They move up a few places in the rapidly dissolving line, and he leans down a bit.
"I've never seen so many people so afraid of riding an airship, before..."
He peers over a shoulder, almost conspiratorially.
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She bumps back, grinning, eyes on the last person left ahead of them. Seems as though someone’s trying to weasel their way into first class, that it does.
Casting a responding glance over, her grin widens a touch. “They certainly do seem to be a bit edgy, to be sure.” She pauses, expression turning wry, “Though that does seem to be something of a common state of mind.”
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"You'd be discomfited, too, were you forced to stand around in your slips." He taps the leather folder on his chest, lightly, meant to indicate his shirt. SO PLAIN NO COLOR ARGH.
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”There’s likely a store about where you can grab an overshirt,” as shit son, it is cold in outer space the terminal. Though this will likely have to wait until they get through the next bout of queueing. Seems people in these parts have a terrible and vile love of the practice.
Twisted little buggers.
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That point gets an agreeable sort of half-grunt, and he looks up again to take in the sights; in particular, the lights that were much brighter than any indoor fixture he's seen in his life, and the high, flat ceilings. indeed, he should have packed his bags last night -- pre-flight It was actually kind of an intimidating sort of architecture.
The last business customer swipes their ticket, and then it's down to Basch, Miki, and the counter attendant. She stares for a moment or two, before impatiently waving them up.
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He just smiles, slowly, and nods. "My thanks," he says, careful to play up his natural taciturnity just a notch by tossing in a clearing of his throat and a crossing of his arms, and if he was a hoping man, would hope this was enough to put across that any lack of perfunctory and punctuated courtesy in kind is not on behalf of his lack of knowledge, rather that he isn't that chatty by nature.
Not surprisingly, he lets Miki do the talking until the exchange comes to a close, then quietly takes his slip and gently ushers Miki away with his hand on her back.
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Weeks later, would find her hunched over her laptop, finding out just what X-Rays are. This led to her feeling slightly discomfited before she was distracted by hearsay of a jam session out on the porch. But, that is a story for another time.
Overhead, a lite rock version of Closer plays.
The line for the luggage and person check moves swiftly, no-one is asked to take their boots off, nor is there an instance of a woman being asked to drink her own breast milk. Truly, the only real incident of note is that of a young man's vibrator going off while it makes its way through the machine. Rather embarrassing, that.
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He really has no idea what this little metal doorway is for, but considers it best to not make a scene. It takes a little extra goading on behalf of the attendants to get him to step through, and step through he does, and without incident. All at once the mounting tension is dissolved, and he gets a few hearty back-slaps and laughs about something that he can't quite identify.
It takes a fair clip of walking to get to the plane, and he uses this time to edge closer and say, low,
"...why are they laughing at my dossier?"
Darty eyes, in MY airport? More obvious than you think!
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"Either or, really."
This said, their path brings them amidst the horror that is the food-court and shopping galleria. Need kitsch or something that in some way vaguely resembles food? It's all here, from Tex-Mex to shotglasses with little ceramic boobies on them, and everything inbetween.
Wrinkling her nose as a teen wanders by with a sack from Taco Gong (home of China-Mex and the Pyramid Pack!), it comes to mind that, "...This is what they mean by sensory assault then. Gods."
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After her last comment (which has harmlessly binked off of his mental shield, erected out of gobsmacked surprise) he puts a hand on her shoulder, and leans down a little.
"Say that word again." Pause, then, "About the... farrots."
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There's a moment or three in which she considers what was said, tossing out, "Gift?" Which can't be right, every knows about the verbing of gift after all.
"Verboten?"
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It occurs to him his business may be too serious right about now, so he nods, and forces a more neutral expression onto his face.
"Is... this a word from Termina?" Which seemed REALLY WEIRD, but hey.
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