periodically.
One, two, three, four-
She never has them all out like this. It’s unnecessary, suspicious - stupid, really - and besides the entire freaking point of having this many fake IDs to just have them all out at once. Otherwise there’s no way to link them. Nothing at all similar. The names have no running theme (because how fucking cliché can you get), the issuing states all vary, the birthdays plopped hither and yon on the calendar - there’s absolutely nothing in common whatsoever except the carefully neutral, blandly smiling face with the underlying nerves one would expect of anyone trying not to look like a schmuck for their DMV photo.
Lia pokes at them idly, feeling the smooth laminates catch on the scratchy coverlet the motel sent up with the cot. Debra Carson from Montana does an unexpected flip on some crappy factory loom fuckup in the already super low thread count - not the point. Deb Carson flips and lands sideways on both Rebecca Nelson and Georgiann White, causing this mega huge pileup somewhere in the vicinity of that one little hillock of misplaced quilt stuffing by her knee. It’s super sad. Very tragic. Who knows how many names will be numbered among the fallen once the burning wreckage is cleared, but we at the Channel 5 Action-Chopper will be the first to tell you after a word from our sponsors.
…Yeah, she’s not sure what she’s doing anymore.
(except where she is, but this retarded junk is helping her to not-focus on the rising wail of oh, fuck me running alarms in the back of her head)
When Raylan walks in to the sound of her making muted exploding noises under her breath and shuffling all her IDs like a cheap deck of cards, he has the good grace not to bother asking what’s going on - he just arches an eyebrow and hangs his hat on the television aerial before dropping into the chair farthest from her. Space. She appreciated it then but now. She doesn’t even glance up from where she’s kicked the cot against a wall to see how studiously he’s not-looking at her. She doesn’t ask where he’s been or who he’s talked to or what’s up because it doesn’t matter. It’s not her business for a million reasons and more, and why should she care.
The full moon’s going out and by all accounts so should she. It’s what she does - what she’s always done, these past weeks not fucking included, okay, since it’s all she ever looked to do (since all she’s looked for has turned up a giant zilch anyway). Blow into town, tumble around a while, then get gone before anyone starts to think about asking about a person - lather, rinse, repeat, ad nausea. And usually, because this is what she does and how she rolls, it’s okay.
Her duffel’s packed (wouldn’t have ever been unpacked in the first place if mold prevention and a lack of weather report hadn’t had a thing or two to say about it) and ready to go. Her heel bumps into the reassuring heft of it as her leg swings back and forth. Her hood is up. She just has to pick a new direction to head down, a new name to be, like she’s done she doesn’t know how many times before.
Not for the first time, and probably not for the last, Lia thinks to herself with a scowl and a growl - fucking Kentucky. Because the minute she got dragged kicking and cussing across the state line is the minute her nice little unordered order to life got shot all to hell.
She’s more than aware of how the cheap clock radio on the side table keeps ticking down the minutes and that sooner or later even Raylan’s Zen master bullshit is gonna get ground on under this silence.
“Fuck it,” she says conversationally, like he’s just showing up now rather than having sat there the last ten minutes. “S’bout time for a new one anyways.”
She evens out the stack of laminates against her thumb, then leans over to the point of just about falling and lets them flip down with a quiet series of slaps on the edge of the table between them. Then she scoots back over to a less precarious seat on her cot and shoves her hands back in her pockets as her head thumps back against the cheap wood paneling on the wall.
Debra Carson. Teresa Maly. Susie Jackson. Georgiann White. Nicole Gaunt. Rebecca Nelson.
And un-laminated and uncounted amongst those names - Cecilia Vedder.
Absolutely nothing in common. Even less so with the soft-spoken, Kentucky-fried marshal who waits until she’s more than settled back in her seat and been given ample time to take it all back before gathering up the cards. He reads through them one by one, chews his thoughts over. But he might as well have saved himself the time and pondering since she cuts him off before he can finish word one.
“M’feeling something with a ‘C’ this go.”
She never has them all out like this. It’s unnecessary, suspicious - stupid, really - and besides the entire freaking point of having this many fake IDs to just have them all out at once. Otherwise there’s no way to link them. Nothing at all similar. The names have no running theme (because how fucking cliché can you get), the issuing states all vary, the birthdays plopped hither and yon on the calendar - there’s absolutely nothing in common whatsoever except the carefully neutral, blandly smiling face with the underlying nerves one would expect of anyone trying not to look like a schmuck for their DMV photo.
Lia pokes at them idly, feeling the smooth laminates catch on the scratchy coverlet the motel sent up with the cot. Debra Carson from Montana does an unexpected flip on some crappy factory loom fuckup in the already super low thread count - not the point. Deb Carson flips and lands sideways on both Rebecca Nelson and Georgiann White, causing this mega huge pileup somewhere in the vicinity of that one little hillock of misplaced quilt stuffing by her knee. It’s super sad. Very tragic. Who knows how many names will be numbered among the fallen once the burning wreckage is cleared, but we at the Channel 5 Action-Chopper will be the first to tell you after a word from our sponsors.
…Yeah, she’s not sure what she’s doing anymore.
(except where she is, but this retarded junk is helping her to not-focus on the rising wail of oh, fuck me running alarms in the back of her head)
When Raylan walks in to the sound of her making muted exploding noises under her breath and shuffling all her IDs like a cheap deck of cards, he has the good grace not to bother asking what’s going on - he just arches an eyebrow and hangs his hat on the television aerial before dropping into the chair farthest from her. Space. She appreciated it then but now. She doesn’t even glance up from where she’s kicked the cot against a wall to see how studiously he’s not-looking at her. She doesn’t ask where he’s been or who he’s talked to or what’s up because it doesn’t matter. It’s not her business for a million reasons and more, and why should she care.
The full moon’s going out and by all accounts so should she. It’s what she does - what she’s always done, these past weeks not fucking included, okay, since it’s all she ever looked to do (since all she’s looked for has turned up a giant zilch anyway). Blow into town, tumble around a while, then get gone before anyone starts to think about asking about a person - lather, rinse, repeat, ad nausea. And usually, because this is what she does and how she rolls, it’s okay.
Her duffel’s packed (wouldn’t have ever been unpacked in the first place if mold prevention and a lack of weather report hadn’t had a thing or two to say about it) and ready to go. Her heel bumps into the reassuring heft of it as her leg swings back and forth. Her hood is up. She just has to pick a new direction to head down, a new name to be, like she’s done she doesn’t know how many times before.
Not for the first time, and probably not for the last, Lia thinks to herself with a scowl and a growl - fucking Kentucky. Because the minute she got dragged kicking and cussing across the state line is the minute her nice little unordered order to life got shot all to hell.
She’s more than aware of how the cheap clock radio on the side table keeps ticking down the minutes and that sooner or later even Raylan’s Zen master bullshit is gonna get ground on under this silence.
“Fuck it,” she says conversationally, like he’s just showing up now rather than having sat there the last ten minutes. “S’bout time for a new one anyways.”
She evens out the stack of laminates against her thumb, then leans over to the point of just about falling and lets them flip down with a quiet series of slaps on the edge of the table between them. Then she scoots back over to a less precarious seat on her cot and shoves her hands back in her pockets as her head thumps back against the cheap wood paneling on the wall.
Debra Carson. Teresa Maly. Susie Jackson. Georgiann White. Nicole Gaunt. Rebecca Nelson.
And un-laminated and uncounted amongst those names - Cecilia Vedder.
Absolutely nothing in common. Even less so with the soft-spoken, Kentucky-fried marshal who waits until she’s more than settled back in her seat and been given ample time to take it all back before gathering up the cards. He reads through them one by one, chews his thoughts over. But he might as well have saved himself the time and pondering since she cuts him off before he can finish word one.
“M’feeling something with a ‘C’ this go.”