(no subject)
It's not that Arcade doesn't like his- okay, it's not that he doesn't get along with his current companions as he travels the Mojave with Corazon. He does. Boone's a little difficult to actually like, but the man doesn't pry into other people's doings, so Arcade's happy to extend him the same courtesy and leave it at that. Privacy's an important thing.
It's just that some things, he knows, almost demand questions from the people around him. For instance, "Why are you using up so many energy cells?". Which is why he's glad to find that doors in wrecked Old World buildings work for reaching Milliways just as well as the door to the Atomic Wrangler. If he wants to spend his caps on some spare cells and a recharger rig, nobody's going to bug him about it. And he's going to need those spare cells, because they're traveling through cazador territory and he really would be happier if he had adequate assurance of being able to hold the vile creatures off.
All of which is an overly complicated way of saying that there's a tall blond fellow in a labcoat and glasses out back. He's set up an impromptu target range involving several dozen Sunset Sarsaparilla bottles and bent, ancient tin cans. And he's busy-
Tchooom! Tchooom!
-either shattering the bottles, or in the occasional odd case turning them into puddles of luminescent goo.
He could be bothered, but please don't do it by wandering into his line of sight without warning. Nobody wants that.
It's just that some things, he knows, almost demand questions from the people around him. For instance, "Why are you using up so many energy cells?". Which is why he's glad to find that doors in wrecked Old World buildings work for reaching Milliways just as well as the door to the Atomic Wrangler. If he wants to spend his caps on some spare cells and a recharger rig, nobody's going to bug him about it. And he's going to need those spare cells, because they're traveling through cazador territory and he really would be happier if he had adequate assurance of being able to hold the vile creatures off.
All of which is an overly complicated way of saying that there's a tall blond fellow in a labcoat and glasses out back. He's set up an impromptu target range involving several dozen Sunset Sarsaparilla bottles and bent, ancient tin cans. And he's busy-
Tchooom! Tchooom!
-either shattering the bottles, or in the occasional odd case turning them into puddles of luminescent goo.
He could be bothered, but please don't do it by wandering into his line of sight without warning. Nobody wants that.