The puba of the styles like miles and shit.
WHO: Max Guevara, and OPEN.
WHAT: Her arrival.
WHERE: A bench outside of town square (and onward depending on where the thread goes.)
WHEN: Early morning after breakfast, DAY 45
Max wasn’t expecting to be plucked from her life and thrown into the sixties. She’d woken up on that park bench, which was odd because she rarely slept and then thrown into the arms of some weirdo that claimed she wasn’t real. Her first instinct was to run as far as city limits went, but something told her that it would only get her into trouble. If Manticore taught her anything it was to stay out of sight and out of mind, blend into scenery, and never be too flamboyant in any one place. She knew that much to be true. It helped her survive in Washington for over twenty years.
Now walking through Peaksville without her baby, without her ninja, and dressed to her throat in her leather riding and fighting gear she already felt like she stuck out like a sore thumb. Her tape was in the pocket of her jacket closest to her heart. She was unwilling to take any chances. She just let her hazel eyes glide over the landscapes and resisted the pointed urge to grip the bridge of her nose. It was like she was on the losing end of an episode of Scooby Doo. She wasn’t sure what to do, where to go. She wasn’t aware that she was powerless yet, just that the buzzing in her head that happened when she was out of her element was oddly quiet.
She kept an eye out over the streets, walking for a while before popping to a squat. Whatever this was, she needed a few moments to meditate on it and accept it. She’d never seen such a perfect city. Everything was in ruins where she’d been before, and coming to terms with what West had said was a lot to swallow. Max chewed idly on her thumb nail. She’d said she could use a vacation before in jest, but she didn’t mean it like this.
WHAT: Her arrival.
WHERE: A bench outside of town square (and onward depending on where the thread goes.)
WHEN: Early morning after breakfast, DAY 45
Max wasn’t expecting to be plucked from her life and thrown into the sixties. She’d woken up on that park bench, which was odd because she rarely slept and then thrown into the arms of some weirdo that claimed she wasn’t real. Her first instinct was to run as far as city limits went, but something told her that it would only get her into trouble. If Manticore taught her anything it was to stay out of sight and out of mind, blend into scenery, and never be too flamboyant in any one place. She knew that much to be true. It helped her survive in Washington for over twenty years.
Now walking through Peaksville without her baby, without her ninja, and dressed to her throat in her leather riding and fighting gear she already felt like she stuck out like a sore thumb. Her tape was in the pocket of her jacket closest to her heart. She was unwilling to take any chances. She just let her hazel eyes glide over the landscapes and resisted the pointed urge to grip the bridge of her nose. It was like she was on the losing end of an episode of Scooby Doo. She wasn’t sure what to do, where to go. She wasn’t aware that she was powerless yet, just that the buzzing in her head that happened when she was out of her element was oddly quiet.
She kept an eye out over the streets, walking for a while before popping to a squat. Whatever this was, she needed a few moments to meditate on it and accept it. She’d never seen such a perfect city. Everything was in ruins where she’d been before, and coming to terms with what West had said was a lot to swallow. Max chewed idly on her thumb nail. She’d said she could use a vacation before in jest, but she didn’t mean it like this.