OPEN | prompt one | RAIN

[wrens]

prompt one | R A I N I have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain - and back in rain. I have outwalked the furthest city light. I have looked down the saddest city lane.

 

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amelia sahin (kookaburra) | CONSTANTINOPLE | pre-Event

[extortion]

[ There's not much room left beneath the awnings that line the busy shop center so instead of trying to push and pry her way through the crowds, Amelia (Kookaburra to her associates, those in the know) is standing on a street corner instead, doing what little she can to shield her head with a splayed-out bit of soppy newspaper. It's not really doing a very good job, though.

God, she could really use a smoke. ]

[fibbed]

[ There's footfalls, then the shift of a hand through the air and the pavement is suddenly colored orange. To her left, just-outside of the awning stands Marcus, said orange-sherbert colored umbrella clutched in his right. Maybe he doesn't have any cancer-sticks to offer but he does have a cheeky wink and a broad smile, tipping his head as if to say go on, there's plenty of space for both of us.

You can stand under my umbrella and all that jazz. ]

Wotcher, Kookiebird.

[extortion]

[ Amelia wouldn't be a very good extortionist if she didn't know how to give people the things that they want. Marcus is a bit of a conundrum because he pounds the same paths that she does as far as the warm end of the Spectrum is concerned, but Amelia also knows that Marcus is a bit of a snitch (and that the green-level clearance stamped onto all of her IDs would be nothing short of an irresistable treat for the likes of him.

Still, she plays nice since that seems to be in both of their best interests for the time being. Amelia abandons the newspaper in a nearby bin and then steers herself over, her hand not hesitating to close over his around the umbrella's handle. ]

Careful, Marcus. A girl can get used to being rescued, y'know.

[fibbed]

Live to do the rescuin', that's me. [ The grin Marcus gives is wide. It doesn't quite fit on his face; it threatens to split it in two, almost as if such an expression never sat right on his features and now that it has there's no way to fix it.

When he walks, he doesn't set the pace or steer her one direction or another (except to avoid a passer-by or two). Instead, Marcus matches his pace to hers; he follows where she goes, even if that's not what he wants. Want is a stupid (though not altogether fruitless) word to chase after, when you're this end of the Spectrum.

Marcus catches her eye and quickly glances up at the umbrella, using his spare hand to gesture upwards at it with a slight wriggle of his fingers. ]

Y'like it? Looks just like me, I reckon. Got the colorin' right and everythin'.

[wastenot]

[ Patrick usually likes being settled in the midsts of a crowd, but the lunchtime rush is a bit more of a herd. Stepping out of the shop just in time to meet the wave of hungry eyes, he unfurls his umbrella into the faces of those who huddle at the edges of the payment, using it as a battering ram of sorts to make way down the sidewalk. He apologizes, of course, but he doesn't stop, shaking the stings of annoyance off his shoulders like a bird ruffling its feathers.

He's not all that eager to drive in this weather as much as he is to get to his car. Maybe he'll call in late and take his lunch in there. He doubts the family in today wants to watch their overpriced hole in the earth spill mud all over the fresh casket they just bought - it really is all about the presentation.

There's a woman at the corner of the street, hiding under a sheaf of paper that is quickly soaking through. One could make a decent analogy out of that. Patrick isn't a poet, nor does he consider himself much a gentleman, but a damsel in distress is worthy, at least, of a passing attention. He's tall, taller than her, at least. As he steps closer to the curb, he sidles up beside her and sweeps the long, black canvas of his umbrella over her head like the shadow of a wide wing. ]

You look like you could use a friend.

[ He'll joke, low with a mild curl to his lips. ]

[extortion]

[ Were she a different sort of person, Amelia would probably take the gesture as proof of hope for humanity, an act of kindness or pay it forward. But unfortunately (or fortunately — that's how she would see it) she's not a different sort of person, she's the person she is and has been ever since the day she was born. And what Amelia's learned since then, being the person that she is, is this: everybody wants something. Whether that's power or influence or money, love or understanding or compassion, it doesn't matter. Life, as a process, is constructed out of a series of exchanges — Trades, to put a not so fine point on it. Her particular speciality in understanding this is finding out how much a person is willing to trade in order to keep things like dignity and reputation and social standing. Then, once she finds out that price, she adds a little more.

Amelia wonders idly what this gentleman could possibly want in exchange for a bit of samaritanism. None of that shows on her face when she looks up at him, though, her mouth curving a crooked smile as she begins to refold what's left of her newspaper. ]

That obvious? Never a good sign.

[wastenot]

Playing chicken with pneumonia's probably a worse one.

[ He smirks in return; he looks more curious than patronizing. It's true: everything comes with a price, and Pat happens to know the exact ballpark figure he's going for these days. But not everything has to come tit for tat -although he had a brief assessment of the former as he was arriving- and he really was planning to go this way to cross the street to the carpark.

If it looks like he's dressed for a funeral under the thick undercoat, it's because he is. And planning to eat lunch there as well, if the bag in his other hand is any indication. ]

What're you trying to do here, flag a ride?

[extortion]

I was actually trying to see what looking like a poor, unfortunate soul would win me, [ Amelia says with a bit of a smile as she attempts to wring a bit of rainwater out of her hair. There's no point to it, really, as soon as he wandered off again and took his umbrella with him, she'd be out of luck. But the respite is nice, however temporary; there comes a point when being wet stops being simply damp and starts becoming annoying and Amelia had crossed over that threshold a good long while ago.

Wiping her dripping bangs to one side, she blinks at the stranger through the wetness still clinging to her lashes. ] You wouldn't happen to be going that way, would you?

[ She points down the street in the direction she'd been originally travelling. ] Traveling that way and in need of a little polite conversation between points A and B?