Claire enters the Wasteland in two efficient steps, striding up to the bar and placing an order for two drinks, one for her, one for Les who's trailing behind her.

Leaving him to carry them, she finds a table with a good view.

Something just about everybody tries to find time to do is go to the exchanges every so often. See what's been found, and who's willing to trade for what.

Rebecca has a battered bag slung over her shoulder, and is poking through a box of highly miscellaneous objects.

Judging by her expression, she's not finding much of use.

The couch in this living room is beat-up, worn down at the edges; it's like dorm room furniture, Rebecca thinks occasionally, from the wry distance of thirty-seven and the memory of her own tidy apartment. But this is the Shelter, and what matters is that the couch is there and it's comfortable, and it holds together ( Read more... )

Today, Rebecca told herself, she was going to go to the Wasteland for a drink come evening. (Early evening. Dusk's dangerous; nighttime's more so.) This is maybe one part PR, one part socializing impulse, and one part a fervent desire to get the hell out of these same few buildings, even just to an only marginally less familiar building ( Read more... )