milliways_bar | (no subject)

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There are Americans on the other side of that door. Americans. There hasn't been anything in the sky for twenty years, and the shipping lanes've been closed nearly as long. The roads of Britain haven't been run in five years, not that Quinn knows of, and there hasn't even been word out of the other fortresses of the North- but there are Americans out there, and they all have guns and very little to lose.

You'll understand, we hope, if Quinn is more than a little reluctant to open that door and go home.

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Brooklyn is nearby and pops the cap off his beer bottle with a claw tip.

"That kind of day, huh?"

Oh, God, another one. Well, they're different around here. "You might say that," says Quinn. "I don't- aaah!"

He jumps backwards a good yard or so, stumbling into a table. It isn't every day you encounter a portable dragon.

... all right, they're all portable, but it's a matter of scale really.

Scale, ha! Ba-dum-cha.

Brooklyn lets out a small laugh. "Dude. It almost feels good that someone finally did that. Everyone here is so blasé. 'Wotcher, big red dude with a beak. Alien, right?'" He shakes his head. "Humans."

It's worth noting that that meaning really and truly didn't occur to the poor fellow.

"... you can talk," says Quinn. "I mean- I-" He shakes his head rapidly. "I'm sorry... ah...bit of a lifetime of bad experiences with dragons, you see."

Generally, his brain is pointing out, his dragons aren't red.

And haven't got hair.

And can't talk.

And they're bigger ALL RIGHT HE GETS THE PICTURE.

Soothing, "I get that a lot. Relax. I'm not insulted. Get kind of used to it. It freaks me out more when people don't freak out. Probably want to dissect me."

He grins and shakes his head. "Wow, great conversation there!" And offers his hand. "Brooklyn. I'm Brooklyn. And I talk. And I'm a gargoyle, not a dragon. Different things." He thinks. "...I think."

Quinn makes a rueful face and persuades himself to shake the offered hand. "Hallo, Brooklyn," he says. "My name's Quinn. I... almost have to say they're different things. I don't believe I've ever encountered a dragon that could talk, for one thing. For another, you'd be trying to eat me by now if you were."

"Nah, too boney."

He grins again.

"You've met a dragon before? Man, never met one of those."

"My world's swarming with 'em," says Quinn. "Hundreds of thousands of the things. They were pretty much the downfall of civilisation, them and the people blowing everything else to hell trying to fight them."

"Yeah. Exact opposite where I'm from. There aren't a lot of my kind left."

"We make great statuary," he says helpfully.

Quinn tries to picture this, peering at Brooklyn's hands. "What, literally?" he says. "Or do you mean you're a sculptor of some sort?"

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