Walking is good. Joining Alcuin's dance class has quickly taught Florence that she is not in the best shape of her life. Good shape, yes, but not the best and as a result she's starting to take daily walks, making sure to stretch and try gain some measure of physical grace that her instructor just inhabited. So each day, Florence picks a direction and just heads out, not really paying attention until she decides it's time to turn around and go back.
Her eyes are on the path in front of her, and certainly not in the trees as she passes by, dark hair pulled back with a pale ribbon that almost, but not quite matches the knee-length sundress. It's simple and comfortable and it doesn't show nearly the amount of skin that the so-called exercise clothing the box at the compound kept trying to give her. But she had to admit, the modern tennis shoes were much more comfortable than they'd been back in her day.
She doesn't even look like Maureen until he sees her face. Yeah, he guesses her hair is the same color, but Maureen would never wear it up like that and she sure as shit would never wear something so.... classy. Much less not mainly black in color.
Still, she looks like Maureen. And he thinks he might even know who she is. Anatoly once mentioned that Maureen bore a striking resemblance to his ex-lover, but he can't for the life of him remember her name.
"You new?" Roger calls, trying to swing his leg once to indicate where the sound may be coming from.
Giving a start at the sound of a voice, she looks up into the trees, bringing a hand up in the universal sign of 'is someone up there'? It takes a moment, even with the shocking blonde hair, but once she sees the man perched on a branch, it's very hard not to stare. Very. Very. Hard. It is uncanny in the creepiest sense of the word.
Yeah. The look on her face all but screams that she knows (biblically) Trumper, so Roger takes a deep breath before swinging to lower his increasingly thin arms around the branch so he can begin his descent. He wants to just drop, but he can't afford a broken leg or... anything.
"I'm Roger," he says, taking a moment to find his footing. He doesn't speak again until his boots have planted in the sand in front of her and he's sure his knees aren't broken. "You must be a friend of Freddie's." Roger's displeasure is not hidden. With Roger, nothing ever is.
It doesn't even occur to me that this is a clone. It's not just the hair that's different. He's smiling, which is rare enough that it always kind of shocks me, and he's sitting in a goddamn tree. But I know that it's him, instinctively, and not just 'cause there's pretty much nobody around as fuckin' skinny as him.
"What the fuck happened to your hair?" I call up with a cough of laughter, deciding that it's best to just pretend like we haven't been kind of weird with each other the couple months or so.
Not that Roger has never outright lied before, but it would just be too much of a stretch to even pretend that he hasn't been thinking about Neil in his absence. Nothing creepy, but he still feels everything he said he did. Yeah, maybe he shouldn't go around talking about it when Neil's entire life just sorta vanished, but that doesn't mean it's not there.
"I dyed it," Roger says, shrugging one shoulder to support his theory that it's not a big deal. He's still sorta smiling, though, so complete nonchalance is not achieved. "I always used to dye it. I found peroxide, so I used it." he shrugs again, then adjusts his seat on the branch so his balls are less taxed by the operation.
"Want a cigarette?" He produces the pack to prove it's not some kind of ruse.
Roger appears the consider the cigarette for a moment, "Nothin' in life's free," he says, eye moving to Neil as he dangles that cigarette down by the very last fraction of the filter.
The first thing that Amy noticed was the boots. It was important to point this out, given that her mind first went ooh boots without catching onto the fact that there was something off about them swinging from above her head. She got there, rather quickly actually, given that she wasn't an idiot but rather had the bar for what was strange to her set remarkably high.
Walking closer, she followed the line of the swinging boots to catch a glimpse of who and what the boots belonged to. Nodding slightly as she took the sight in, she smiled. "Nice boots," she commented. "Isn't smoking in a tree a fire hazard or something?"
Huh, Roger supplies to himself as he surveys his visitor. She's pretty damn easy on the eyes, what with that perfect porcelain skin under shocking red hair that only serves to dull the muted earth tones around them. On hair alone Roger figures that with the two of them, they can get an island rescue.
"Thanks," he says, wiggling one of them as he inspects. They are pretty nice boots, and well-loved.
He winked his vision back up to her face and continued, "nice hair."
With a casual toss of her hair, Amy shrugged. Her hair was fairly impressive, though it did have the tendency to get her noticed when she was in the middle of doing something she shouldn't. Plus there was the whole gingers are bad luck thing, which was frankly just a lie.
"You too. Your hair's got a bit of a Billy Idol vibe to it. I hope that was what you were aiming for." Otherwise that would be a bit awkward.
In a moment of astounding abandon, Roger laughes. It isn't any big, rich, Santa laugh, but it is a definite chuckle. He already likes her style.
"I'll take it," he says, obviously flattered enough. Any bleach-blond from the 80's is obviously going for Billy Idol, and anyone that denies it is an outright pussy.
She's energetic, she's cute, and she doesn't take herself seriously. Suddenly, Roger wants company. "Feel like climbing a tree?" He even flattens himself a bit to extend his hand to her, should she want the help.
The smoke draws Clark's attention first, a sharp burnt scent that cuts through the cloying aroma of the jungle and makes his nose itch. He woudn't call himself the most observant of people, but it's difficult to miss the heavy black boots swinging from the branches above.
People really like to climb trees, here.
"Hi there," he says, head tipped back as he peers through the wavering leaves.
He looks like Kon, that's the first thing that Roger notices, and then he decides that Batman's a detective, so it's time to do some detection.
'Hi there' isn't a normal familiar greeting, but it's not a foreign one, either. He can't remember what it is that Kon usually talks like because... well, because he doesn't care. And it's not like they know each other well. Is Kon (or this guy) the kind to be offended because someone they met twice can't tell him from a possible doppelganger?
"Kon?" Roger asks, beginning to climb down. He's not as smooth as Batman, but he's about to get information efficiently.
"Clark," he corrects, tracking the movements of the other man as he makes his way back to solid ground. "We're related," Clark adds, which is the generous way of framing it but not untrue. "It's been awhile since I've been mistaken for him, are you friends?"
Kon knows so many people, for awhile there it had been nearly constant. These days, people tend to recognize Clark more as the man he apparently becomes, and Clark can't honestly say which is better. If there's any benefit to be had from his notoriety, it's how quickly it cured him of a lifetime's worth of compulsive lying about his identity. Apparently Superman is a popular fellow.
Okay, Roger's already a shitty Batman. Not only did he mis-identify the subject (person? target? What the hell would Batman say?), but apparently, it's a pretty common mistake, or so Roger takes by the fact that the stranger is much more interested in where he's going than what he's doing.
Oh, well. At least he got to be Batman for a second.
"I don't really know him," he says, letting that sound that Dean always makes when he tries to talk like Batman float away in his mind. "I'm Roger."
These days, Prior was seeing far more of Roger than he had in a long time. Even if they weren't really... well, let's just say it was a lot different than their AZT dosing had been the first time around. There was an undeniable awkwardness now. Actually, maybe that was similar: Only back then it had been caused by sexual tension. Now it was just awkward.
He was actually coming to find him, since it was nearing that time, and when he heard the rustle in the tree he was pretty surprised to find him there.
"I feel like I should do a bird call," he said. "But I'm not sure what you are. Bleached-belly woodpecker?"
Shit, Roger had lost track of time. He's usually in the Compound by now, roaming around so that Prior doesn't have to go very far in case his leg is acting up or he's not up to the walk to Roger's place. A quick glance up at the sun reveals that yes, he lost track of time, and he begins to descend from the tree.
"Sorry, gimme a sec," he calls, trying to make quick work of his disembarking.
It doesn't matter if he's early because the guilt that Roger had forgotten is probably going to drive him to drink before the sun even goes down. Some days, though, that's not really weird, anyway.
"Thanks," Roger says, unable to elaborate as he digs in the back of his jeans for the pills. He's not even sure why he decided to dye his hair after all this time, but he's afraid it has something to do with hiding something, so he doesn't spend any more time trying to uncover it. "Here."
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Her eyes are on the path in front of her, and certainly not in the trees as she passes by, dark hair pulled back with a pale ribbon that almost, but not quite matches the knee-length sundress. It's simple and comfortable and it doesn't show nearly the amount of skin that the so-called exercise clothing the box at the compound kept trying to give her. But she had to admit, the modern tennis shoes were much more comfortable than they'd been back in her day.
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Still, she looks like Maureen. And he thinks he might even know who she is. Anatoly once mentioned that Maureen bore a striking resemblance to his ex-lover, but he can't for the life of him remember her name.
"You new?" Roger calls, trying to swing his leg once to indicate where the sound may be coming from.
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This place might just give her a heart attack.
"New? Enough, yes." She can't stop staring.
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"I'm Roger," he says, taking a moment to find his footing. He doesn't speak again until his boots have planted in the sand in front of her and he's sure his knees aren't broken. "You must be a friend of Freddie's." Roger's displeasure is not hidden. With Roger, nothing ever is.
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"What the fuck happened to your hair?" I call up with a cough of laughter, deciding that it's best to just pretend like we haven't been kind of weird with each other the couple months or so.
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"I dyed it," Roger says, shrugging one shoulder to support his theory that it's not a big deal. He's still sorta smiling, though, so complete nonchalance is not achieved. "I always used to dye it. I found peroxide, so I used it." he shrugs again, then adjusts his seat on the branch so his balls are less taxed by the operation.
"Want a cigarette?" He produces the pack to prove it's not some kind of ruse.
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I think I've done more tree climbing on the island, as an adult, than I ever did as a kid.
"And I know you did, man. I saw it in that fuckin' movie, remember?"
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Walking closer, she followed the line of the swinging boots to catch a glimpse of who and what the boots belonged to. Nodding slightly as she took the sight in, she smiled. "Nice boots," she commented. "Isn't smoking in a tree a fire hazard or something?"
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"Thanks," he says, wiggling one of them as he inspects. They are pretty nice boots, and well-loved.
He winked his vision back up to her face and continued, "nice hair."
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"You too. Your hair's got a bit of a Billy Idol vibe to it. I hope that was what you were aiming for." Otherwise that would be a bit awkward.
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"I'll take it," he says, obviously flattered enough. Any bleach-blond from the 80's is obviously going for Billy Idol, and anyone that denies it is an outright pussy.
She's energetic, she's cute, and she doesn't take herself seriously. Suddenly, Roger wants company. "Feel like climbing a tree?" He even flattens himself a bit to extend his hand to her, should she want the help.
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People really like to climb trees, here.
"Hi there," he says, head tipped back as he peers through the wavering leaves.
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'Hi there' isn't a normal familiar greeting, but it's not a foreign one, either. He can't remember what it is that Kon usually talks like because... well, because he doesn't care. And it's not like they know each other well. Is Kon (or this guy) the kind to be offended because someone they met twice can't tell him from a possible doppelganger?
"Kon?" Roger asks, beginning to climb down. He's not as smooth as Batman, but he's about to get information efficiently.
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Kon knows so many people, for awhile there it had been nearly constant. These days, people tend to recognize Clark more as the man he apparently becomes, and Clark can't honestly say which is better. If there's any benefit to be had from his notoriety, it's how quickly it cured him of a lifetime's worth of compulsive lying about his identity. Apparently Superman is a popular fellow.
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Oh, well. At least he got to be Batman for a second.
"I don't really know him," he says, letting that sound that Dean always makes when he tries to talk like Batman float away in his mind. "I'm Roger."
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He was actually coming to find him, since it was nearing that time, and when he heard the rustle in the tree he was pretty surprised to find him there.
"I feel like I should do a bird call," he said. "But I'm not sure what you are. Bleached-belly woodpecker?"
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"Sorry, gimme a sec," he calls, trying to make quick work of his disembarking.
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He tilted his head to the side a little and added, "I like the hair. Very Billy Idol."
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"Thanks," Roger says, unable to elaborate as he digs in the back of his jeans for the pills. He's not even sure why he decided to dye his hair after all this time, but he's afraid it has something to do with hiding something, so he doesn't spend any more time trying to uncover it. "Here."
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