[Visual] [Location- Random Warehouse]

[smecker.livejournal.com]

The tablet briefly displays a skewed glimpse of what looks like a makeshift science lab inside a large empty warehouse-- the emphasis on makeshift. A few library books stacked on surfaces, spines bearing titles like Chemistry for Students and Practical Science. There's bits of pipe, a sink, projects scattered in phases of half-completed.

Paul Smecker rights the tablet, and takes a breath. In one hand he has a pair of safety goggles, which he sets down on the counter with a level of care that is a marked contrast from the last time he made a broadcast.

"Hey, Taxon," he says after several awkward seconds. "I don't know how many people got a chance to know her, but Alexis Castle's gone."

He pauses, opens his mouth as if to say something else, then just shakes his head and presses the button to end the call.

Paul stands there a moment in the silence of the warehouse, then sets a plastic bag full of supplies down on the counter. No need for them now. Class for Alexis has been canceled, permanently.

Comments

[smecker.livejournal.com]

Paul makes a face out of habit, but doesn't pull away from the touch. He just lets his head drop to his chest, squeezes his eyes shut, takes a deep breath and lets it out.

He studies his shoes for a bit. They're scuffed. He doesn't remember when they got scuffed. Goddamit, there was a time he'd have had these fuckers polished after getting a little stray fingerprint dust on them. Did they get scuffed during the zombies? No-- no, that pair had gotten wrecked, he remembers now. He'd replaced them entirely by means of employing the good ol' five-fingered discount.

And now the aliens have started paying him.

They give you the toys, they give you the hatches, they give you the tablets. They let you march through the motions of having jobs, and they think it makes up for things like Alexis, like vampires biting you, like dying.

There's a trash can next to the bench; Paul tosses the rest of his coffee into it and stands.

"Sanctuary pool, check. Sounds good to me. Let's mosey, cowboy... I have to stop and steal me some new shoes along the way."

[hasaheart]

Wyatt shakes his head with a long suffering sigh that is nothing at all like that. He stands up, bringing his cup along for the simple sake of not wasting even crappy coffee.

Even if lately, even hatched coffee seems to be tasting better.

Falling into step beside his friend, he turns to him with an unreadable look on his face.

"When you say shoes, I hope you mean proper ones." As in 'not heels'.

[smecker.livejournal.com]

Paul flutters his eyelashes in answer. "Whatever is wrong with heels?" he asks in an abrupt falsetto, then kicks at a leaf that's drifted across the path.

Back in his normal octaval range, he says, "No, regular shoes. Replace these. I... should probably get some work boots, really, with what we've been doing on the birdhouse."

At least he knows Wyatt won't make a Village People reference.

[hasaheart]

That voice always seems to tug his lips into a perplexed little smile; he shrugs, reaching up to right his hat against the glaring sun up above.

"Nothing wrong. It's just, if you want us to get nothing done...

"Work boots is a safer bet, but not by much."

[smecker.livejournal.com]

Paul snickers in answer. "Construction Worker it is."

He may be humming YMCA as they walk towards a tram line to take them to the Sanctuary. The sun's hot-- but hell with it; he's not giving up. And it's good to know you're not alone.