milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

alex drake,
fawkes

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Fawkes didn't have nearly as bad of a reaction to the battle at Adams Air Force Base as Ellen did. There are... advantages, sometimes, to the sort of nature he was endowed with long ago. But that doesn't mean he can't be concerned for his friend, or come looking for her. He figures that now that he's at the Bar, he might as well wait. She'll make her appearance eventually, when she doesn't want to be left alone any more. It's not as if he's hard to find.

Thus, seated at one of the larger tables, there is an oddly solemn, nine-foot-tall green-skinned fellow in the tattered remains of an old blue and gold jumpsuit. He has a very large mug of something that smells not unlike root beer, and a similarly large (though slender) hardcover book. Bar gave him a reinforced volume titled The World Is Made Of Stories, and he's working his way through it slowly.

He could be disturbed. He doesn't bite.

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The sound of tiny wheels nattering over the hardwood floor passes him by, and then returns, their chatter telling him the source is slowing down. A young girl still in her school uniform (and bright pink roller skates) catches herself on a chair opposite the green giant and stares, eyes wide not with fear, but abject curiosity.

"Hello."

Edited 2011-08-02 20:21 (UTC)

Well.

That's new.

Fawkes carefully puts down the book and glances up. Granted, not terribly far, given comparative heights and all. But still. He makes a game attempt at a smile, which does not really work but which is at least something, and says, "Good afternoon."

... well, all right, more like 'rumbles' than 'says'.

She glances down at the book and then back to him. He must have some sort of thyroid condition, that's what her mother would say. And a complexion problem.

Okay, he's green. She'd like to know what her mother would have to say to that. 'Just because he's green doesn't mean he doesn't deserve to be treated like a person.'

"My name's Alex. What's yours?"

Social niceties first. (And then, once a rapport has been established, the awkward questions.)

Well, it's certainly a very active thyroid. And a very active pituitary. Among other things. So, yes, that should work from a certain point of view.

"My name is Fawkes," the big green fellow says solemnly. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Alex."

If she was anyone else but Caroline Price's daughter, she might curtsey. But she isn't, so she doesn't. Instead, she grins, her gaze sharp. There's something about her, he might notice. A sadness just beneath the surface, covered over with a thin veneer of determination.

"The pleasure is mine," she says, again eyeing the book. "Fawkes? As in 'Guy Fawkes'? Did you try to burn down Parliament?"

At this age, her accent is as posh as the day is long.

"That would be the man I named myself after," says Fawkes, "but I've never burned down anywhere. The halls of Congress were long since burned before I ever found the place."

He's trying to smile again. This is the first person he's ever encountered who recognized the source of his name.

Her brow furrows. That smile is a bit on the intimidating side. But she's not easily put off, not when she's started down a line of questioning.

"Why did you name yourself after a man who was hanged for treason? And did you say Congress? Are you a Yank?"

Alex often gives her teacher's splitting headaches with her incessant questioning. We're sorry, Fawkes.

"I named myself after him because he was willing to die for what he believed," says Fawkes. "I- am probably an American. There is much of my past I don't remember."

He spent all his life that he can recall being subjected to the stupidest taunts and abuses imaginable. Being asked even moderately intelligent questions is a very, very long step up.

"Oh." It's clear by the expression on her face that this is an Idea, and while Ideas are important, and must be allowed to flourish in a free and democratic society, 'violence is never the answer.'

"Wait, did you say 'probably' an American? How do you forget something like that?" Her eyes get big. "Do you have amnesia?"

It's said with the kind of horrific glee, as if she's always wanted to talk to an Amnesiac, but the opportunity has never presented itself.

"I'm afraid that a very long time ago," Fawkes says, "I was... subjected to something. A kind of virus. I don't remember anything before then, not even whether I was a man or a woman."

Again, her consternation shows in the lines of her face. This is a difficult thing to wrap her mind around. She slowly tugs out the chair, balancing on her rollerskates as she does, and takes a seat across from him, leaning on her elbows, earnest as the day is long.

"So you named yourself Fawkes. And you don't remember where you're from or if you're a man or a woman." (This seems like something that could be remedied very quickly, in her limited understanding of such things, but she does know enough not to ask that question.) "Aaand you were subjected to a virus -- a very long time ago."

Her chin drops and she looks him square in the eye.

"You're not contagious, are you?"

It's likely the first question Evan will ask, after she tells him all about this.

"Not in the slightest," says Fawkes. "The exposure was a very long time ago. I don't carry the virus any more."

It's only fair to ask, after all.

Right then. She seems to relax a little.

"How long is 'long ago'?"

The details are important, she thinks.

"Years," says Fawkes, "but I'm afraid I don't know how many. It's not always easy to keep track of time."

"Hmm." More puzzling.

"Two years?"

When you're twelve, two years is a lifetime.

Fawkes chuckles, and while he can't really smile properly, the laugh, at least, is quite real. "Oh," he says, "longer than that. Longer, I think, than you've been alive."

Alex does not take kindly to being patronised. Her lips set in a thin line.

"How old do you think I am, anyway?"

"I fear I'm not much good at telling human ages," says Fawkes. "Perhaps fifteen. My friend is nineteen years old, and about so tall-" He indicates something a little more than five feet. "And you look younger than she does."

"Oh."

Well, that's not unusual. Most grown ups mistake her for older than she is.

"I'm twelve, actually. But everyone thinks I'm thirteen going on thirty." It's not that funny a joke, but the adults seem to laugh at it.

"So, if you're not human... What are you then?"

Of all the things he is, green, mottled, huge -- it never once occurred to her that he wasn't human.

"Well," says Fawkes, "I was human. Back in my world, many would call me a super-mutant. I prefer the term 'meta-human', myself. So much less crude, don't you think?"

She rests her chin on her palms, kicking her feet back and forth, making the skates clatter as she thinks.

"Meta-human. Meta, from the Greek, meaning 'beyond'." Metaphysical, beyond the physical. She was always better at Latin, but the Greek sank in a bit, just by osmosis.

"So you're green, and big. And they call you a super mutant? Are there mutants who are, say, just green? Or just big?"

Over-analysis. It's a gift.

"Most life of the Capital Wasteland is mutated in some way," says Fawkes. "Or so they tell me. I haven't met it all. I suppose it's better to be green, and big, and strong, than it is to simply be born with two heads, or an extra set of toes, or something like that."

"Wait, Wasteland? Two heads?"

She shifts in her seat, scootching her chair closer.

"Is it the acid rain? My mother always said the acid rain would cause the fish to have three eyes and the frogs to grow extra legs."

Was she right? That's a scary thought indeed.

"The cattle of the Wasteland are born with two heads," Fawkes says, "although I haven't seen any other creatures with that particular problem. There's not much rain, acid or otherwise. Mostly it's the radiation that causes such problems."

Her face goes white.

"Radiation!? Whoa. From -- the Bomb?"

Okay, this is getting a little too real for her.