his mama told him someday you will be a man [post--J-Day AU]
Its surface used to be sleek cherry red aluminum, Alex remembers. A bright white dial, flawless glass display, and 16GB of storage, room for thousands of songs. Anymore, the dial wasn't so bright. The screen was shot entirely. That beautiful cherry red was scratched halfway to hell -- after it and his rib cage met with a T-600's titanium alloy forearm, he had learned to keep it in a case.
Rigging a charge for it had been the second electronic trick he'd picked up. The first had been hotwiring a two-way radio to a car battery. The third had been speakers. He hadn't figured out how to build them out of flint and twine yet, but if he could find any halfway in-tact, the iPod would be hooked to them within minutes, sending whatever tune would play wafting out over the vast empty airwaves.
"Would you turn that garbage off already?"
Alex's tastes didn't always jive with the stragglers they picked up. Yesterday had been a man and his teenage daughter. Dad was big, sun-burnt, always sweating and complaining about sweating in the desert heat. Before the nukes had come down, he probably had a cushy job at a bank or a corporation, managing an infrastructure that was now no more than a memory. He was too old to face the music, too deep in his habits to change. If he made it back to the nearest base camp he'd live until the next time that was hit, but as nothing more than an extra set of hands and genes. He'd never be a fighter. He wouldn't help them win the war.
"Hey, I said turn that shit off before you get us all killed!"
Alex didn't like him anyway. He'd found it easier not to give a shit about people anymore. Humanity, yes, but individual people? That was E's job. Let E save people; he'd save E.
"Dad. Dad. Don't freak out, these guys know what they're doing."
"Like hell they do--"
"They saved our butts, didn't they?"
There was hope for the daughter. Kids are resilient, adaptable; when the scene changes they change with it. They can deal with the loss of a world, the loss of a parent or two. And she was smart. That was no guarantee, but it was a start. As Dad cursed his way back to the rear of the truck, Alex tossed her the nearest empty weapon.
"Take it apart. Clean it. Load it. Know it." Lesson number one. He could teach the kid without liking her.
She snuffed a smile and didn't argue. "Why d'you risk it anyway? Playing music, all the extra noise they could pick up." 'They,' the machines, the only other in their world anymore.
"You see them making music?"
"Pfft no, they're metal."
"That's why I play it."
...
"What."
"... So the only thing we've got going for us is being able to play Johnny B. Goode?"
Alex cracks a smile. "Eff you, little girl, Chuck Berry was the man."
Rigging a charge for it had been the second electronic trick he'd picked up. The first had been hotwiring a two-way radio to a car battery. The third had been speakers. He hadn't figured out how to build them out of flint and twine yet, but if he could find any halfway in-tact, the iPod would be hooked to them within minutes, sending whatever tune would play wafting out over the vast empty airwaves.
"Would you turn that garbage off already?"
Alex's tastes didn't always jive with the stragglers they picked up. Yesterday had been a man and his teenage daughter. Dad was big, sun-burnt, always sweating and complaining about sweating in the desert heat. Before the nukes had come down, he probably had a cushy job at a bank or a corporation, managing an infrastructure that was now no more than a memory. He was too old to face the music, too deep in his habits to change. If he made it back to the nearest base camp he'd live until the next time that was hit, but as nothing more than an extra set of hands and genes. He'd never be a fighter. He wouldn't help them win the war.
"Hey, I said turn that shit off before you get us all killed!"
Alex didn't like him anyway. He'd found it easier not to give a shit about people anymore. Humanity, yes, but individual people? That was E's job. Let E save people; he'd save E.
"Dad. Dad. Don't freak out, these guys know what they're doing."
"Like hell they do--"
"They saved our butts, didn't they?"
There was hope for the daughter. Kids are resilient, adaptable; when the scene changes they change with it. They can deal with the loss of a world, the loss of a parent or two. And she was smart. That was no guarantee, but it was a start. As Dad cursed his way back to the rear of the truck, Alex tossed her the nearest empty weapon.
"Take it apart. Clean it. Load it. Know it." Lesson number one. He could teach the kid without liking her.
She snuffed a smile and didn't argue. "Why d'you risk it anyway? Playing music, all the extra noise they could pick up." 'They,' the machines, the only other in their world anymore.
"You see them making music?"
"Pfft no, they're metal."
"That's why I play it."
...
"What."
"... So the only thing we've got going for us is being able to play Johnny B. Goode?"
Alex cracks a smile. "Eff you, little girl, Chuck Berry was the man."