(Untitled)

[slc_bob]

It wasn’t like I went to see him ‘cause I missed him or something. It’s kinda hard to miss your old man when you don’t even know who the fuck he is half the time. You never know if the bastard will smile and remember your name, scream and beat the shit out of you, or start talking out his ass about the fuckin’ CIA or whoever’s watching him this

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[gotacigarette]

"One of those questions is easier than the other," says Eden, blowing smoke out of the corner of her mouth and flicking ash from her cigarette.

"You're on a magic island which is fuck knows where. And you can call me 'Major'."

[slc_bob]

I look up, but I don't really hear what she's saying at first. I'm too busy trying to decide if she's an angel or something. She's kind of hard looking to be an angel. Hot, but tough, you know? And I know tough, man, 'cause I've met plenty of girls at different shows who could hit harder than any guy I've ever fought.

Chicks are rough, man. You just never expect them to be 'cause they're all pretty and shit.

Still, she could be an angel, right? I mean, I never read the bible myself, but when you listen to all those hardcore Jesus fucks preach it, they come off as kind of bad-ass sometimes. I'm just sayin'.

Her words finally sink in though, and I get too my feet slowly as I look her over. "Magic, huh? Like fucking Narnia or some-shit?"

I pause a beat and then add, "I'm Bob, and I'm not calling you Major. I don't do titles."

[gotacigarette]

He's reimiscent of the shit she saw in Glasgow and, if this was a year ago, or if Eden was wearing a gun, this might have been different. As it is she just looks up at him and smirs.

"Some-shit sounds pretty fucking accurate to me," she says, studying him for a moment, eyes narrow, her stance deceptively relaxed.

"That's convenient. No fucker does around here." She offers him her hand. "Fine. Eden."

[slc_bob]

I didn't really know what to say to that, and in the end I just smile a bit and nod.

"Eden, right on," I reply after a beat, looking around and trying to ignore the fact that I smell like last nights party and my head's still kind of throbbing.

"So, uh, what's the deal? Am I dead? I was pretty sure I was dying before I passed out, but no one ever fucking listens to me. Drugs, man. Drugs are fucking evil. I don't even do them, you know? But my head was killing me, and that little mod bitch said they were fucking harmless," I mutter, pulling my lighter and my cigarettes from my pocket.

My hand is shaking a little as I light one. I dunno why, but that happens when I'm stressed or upset. I shake, and I get tense. I'm probably going crazy like my old man. Just like him. Soon I'll be takin' shots at strangers, and, like, paranoid, you know? But for now I can keep myself in check, and I do, forcing my hand to go still as I take a long pull on the cigarette between my lips and let myself move around just a bit.

[lt_blade]

Any soldier will tell, or rather they won't tell, that sometimes there are moments when it just becomes too much. That sometimes the most tempting thing to do is to just say 'fuck it' and bail, even though it's wrong and cowardly.

It's certainly what Sonya's thinking. She's also thinking that the compound is too crowded, she who's spent years in military bases, that she finds herself heading outside.

She's not sure of what to make of the man sitting on the steps. Years of caution are hard to ignore, and yet, after Outworld, she knows enough not to go by appearance alone. Sonya decides to give him the benefit of a doubt, acknowledging him with a nod, before taking a seat on the stairs, and pulling out a small pad of paper from her cargo shorts.

Sonya's not even sure what she's sketching, only it's something to keep her hands busy.

[slc_bob]

There's this woman watching me now, and it's making me nervous. I'm used to being stared at- I usually enjoy it. I enjoy tearing apart the perfect little world people think they live in. I like being a reminder to people that the world is fucked up.

But this place, man. This place. I've only been here a few hours and I can't seem to calm down. I'm shaking a little and when I'm not shaking I'm rocking.

I wish Steve-o was here.

I stare right back at her though, and when she nods I sort of nod in return.

[lt_blade]

The sketch is starting to take the form of jagged mountains, the sort that look more like teeth than mountains. Instead of snow or clouds, she just focuses on the 'ground' with it's stones, sand...and occasional stake jutting out of the ground.

It takes her a moment to realize that what's coming on the page is a rough sketch of the Outworld Wasteland. She rips the paper off from the pad and crumples it up in her fist.

Maybe she should just take up knitting.

[slc_bob]

When she doesn't actually say anything, I watch her crumple the paper and then look away bored.

I'm not the kind of guy who'll just walk up to people, and I never walk up to women. I'm not Eddie.

[jdick]

"Nice hair," Joe said in passing, catching sight of the mohawk out of the corner of his eye and turning around to look at the man -- kid, maybe -- with a faint grin. It had been awhile since he'd had his mohawk and he wasn't bald anymore either, just regular, short brown hair, but he kind of missed having it now. It reminded him of home.

"Used to have one of my own," he added.

[slc_bob]

I don't look up right away, not at first. I get comments about my hair all the time, man, and most of the time I just ignore 'em. But then, the guy says something about having one himself back in the day, and I take another long drag on my cigarette before looking up

[jdick]

For awhile the kid just stared at him and Joe started to wonder if he'd ended up talking to some retard or just someone who couldn't fucking speak. Then the kid said his name and Joe had to laugh, a half-startled sound, because that was the second fucking time in as many months. After three years on the island, two people recognized him.

"Yeah?" he asked with a laugh, rubbing a hand over his jaw in amusement. "Where was that?" There'd been a couple of roadies beaten up over the years, but if the kid mentioned a place, Joe might remember.

Or he might not, depending on how fucked up he'd been at the time.

[slc_bob]

"Nevada, man. We drove all the way from Salt Lake to this club an hour away from Vegas. Man, like, it wasn't even a real club, just this warehouse with a fucking stage in it. You guys were hardcore though," I say. And I mean it, man. It was a really fucking good show.

"What the hell are you doing here? What the fuck happened to your hair?"

I nearly ask why he looks so much older too, but the truth is, the lifestyle just has that effect on most people. The fighting, the drinking, the fucking smoking... that shit will fucking age you, man. That shit will leave you looking old before you even hit thirty.

[sink_nor_swim]

As much as she likes this place -- has a damn good reason to -- Mikal's been realizing more and more that there really isn't much to do here. It doesn't stop her from appreciating what she has, she doesn't think anything ever could, but she gets restless, always has, and can't help that.

For now, she's leaning against the side of the Compound with a cigarette to try to settle her down when she sees someone sitting there doing the same, the kind of guy it'd be hard not to notice. Stepping closer without so much as a second thought about it, she smiles a little, totally genuine. "Nice hair."

[slc_bob]

It's not what she says, but the way she says it that makes me look up. It's genuine and sweet. Familiar, like all the little punk girls I used to see at shows. Girls with cotton candy pink hair and cartoon backpacks who weren't quite as tough as the other punks. Some people would call them poseurs, but I don't think that's what they were. They just weren't punks. They were little girls playing dress up.

I liked them. They were always nice and they never punched me in the face just for having a penis or whatever. Not like some of the real hardcore punk chicks you'd meet.

She doesn't have candyfloss hair or a backpack though, and I don't think she's a little girl. She has a nice smile though.

"It's just hair," I reply, taking another drag on my cigarette. "...But thanks, I guess. I do it myself."

[sink_nor_swim]

Hearing that, Mikal likes it a little more. In a place like this, it's distinctive, hair like that, and she's never been the type to really care about blending in. That's not to say she's about to go giving herself a mohawk, her hair has grown out since she showed up here and she kind of likes it, but it's cool, the sort of thing she wouldn't ordinarily think twice about doing. Besides, she isn't sure what Zia would think if she came home with her hair like that, anyway.

"Really?" she asks, obviously interested, her grin widening a little. "You can do that here?"

[slc_bob]

"Huh? Oh, I, uh, i didn't do it here. I only got here, like, an hour ago," i explain. "Why, you looking to get a haircut or something? You've got nice hair, I wouldn't cut it if I was you. You could dye it though, maybe there's henna or something here."