And this ol' world seemed new to me...
Dmitri Lang may be a bit saddened that her prospective new best friend Three Dog won't even return her unsolicited journal messages, but she's a resourceful girl and persistence yields more, if not better, results than spontaneity, so she figures she's going to work out this Chicago Underground thing sooner or later
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Comments 45
Iris doesn't have any reason to recognise Dmitri (and indeed, one reason to specifically not), but she does have one good reason to notice her. It's a world ago since she's seen anyone walking around with a pack like that, and if there was ever anyone who made that same sound when they walked, the clinking of glass against glass, well, she was never fortunate enough to run into them ( ... )
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Dmitri pauses in her bopping inward, tilts her head at Iris, does a little mental arithmetic, and breaks out into a grin. "My corner of the academic world tended more toward the chem-istry than the al-chemi, Reënboog, but I'm always up to learn. You would be the wild Iris, duì bú duì?"
She steps up, offering a hand.
"Dmitri Lang, liminally native to these parts, a scholar and a student, and bearing the one - the only - the traditional - bottles of La Fin Du Monde beer. Care for a drink?"
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It's a few minutes later-- it really isn't far-- when she arrives back, skidding to a halt in front of Dmitri, doubled over and panting. She's got some kind of paper in her hands, but that isn't, actually, the first thing she mentions. The mismatch has clicked in, while she was making the round-trip.
"...Wait, um, you did say Dmitri Lang, right?" There's confusion writ large on her face, because she's never not noticed an angel before, but the space is silent between them. Dmitri's alive, but beyond that, she's not reading the first thing about her. She thinks back to the journals: no, she definitely said she was an Angel of Knowledge, that's why she remembered the paper. So she should read. It ( ... )
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At Iris' pronouncement, however, Iris gets a headtilt of her (or Dmitri's) own, right back. "There's one I haven't heard before," she says. "Usually it's more three herds of elephants, half a mile away."
She shrugs off the pack.
"No religious-cultural-moral-personal-or-otherwise-possessing-veto-power injunctions against alcohol, I trust?" she asks, pulling out a bottle. "only met one so far, but best to check. Probably beating the odds there, to be honest."
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He strolls into the kitchen and glances at the man browsing the shelves. Hey, there is no reason that he cannot lend his expertise to someone in need. He walks over to the chip bag that he'd been day dreaming about and pulls it out from behind some pans.
"Looking for something specific?"
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Cwirko glances over. Hey, another college-age white kid asking if he needs something; that's not familiar at all.
Fortunately - he thinks - it's supposed to be safe in here. This guy is probably not going to jump him.
"Taking a look at the supplies," he says. "Hell of a lot more domestic than the last place I was stationed. Anything you can recommend?" Though the kid doesn't exactly look like a gourmand. Going, as he is, for that old classic: Doritos.
Hell, that's fine with Cwirko. Somtimes, a little junk food is good for the soul.
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He's a wanderer, she's pretty sure; he doesn't feel angel or demon or supernatural, but he's not completely human. Well, she supposes he could be a supernatural she's not run into yet, but the way he's carrying himself, the wariness and the way he has his weapons on him makes her think Wanderer before anything else. And she's always interested by new people.
"Jitter, jitter," she mutters, more to herself than him, though he can probably hear her just fine and dandy. She's talking into the dirty denim of her jeans, though, so he might not actually be able to make out individual words. "Wary predator is being watched."
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Cwirko is aware that he's not alone in the room. (It's not like he didn't go through the required runs of counseling for that whole PTSS thing, but sometimes a few of those survival mechanisms are useful and to-be-kept-around. Like the just-this-side-of-hypervigilance.) He can't make out the words, no, but he catches bits and pieces and the general contour of the words, and turns back from the cupboards with a can of pringles in his hand. The pringles are apparently pizza-flavored, which he finds both suspect and intriguing, but that's not the point.
"You ay something?" he asks, though his tone isn't unfriendly. Maybe a shade wary, but mostly curious.
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"Says many things, she does," she whispers, raising her head enough to say the words into open air instead of denim. "So on edge, so low, low."
And then she tilts her head, birdlike, in the direction of his pringle can. One can almost see the exclamation points appearing above her head as her eyebrows raise. "Pizza!" she exclaims, scrambling off the counter and bopping forward a few steps, though she stops short of Cwirko. She can sense the not-predator-but-not-prey, and sometimes she heeds the little voice in the back of her head that says not to startle those types. (Sometimes she doesn't, but the narration doesn't question the seemingly random obedience.) "They don't actually taste like pizza."
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Besides, he's... getting a feeling off this girl. He has no idea what that feeling is, but something tells him she's on his side. Or he's on hers. Or something.
He gives a dry chuckle, holding out the can. "Have 'em, if you want; they're not mine," he says. "Though I could go for a pizza right now. Real Chicago deepdish."
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