milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Slack?

Yeah, she's in the bar.

Curled up on a couch stragetically placed somewhere ~~that isn't out by the lake, though maybe that one's still there~~, in a rather very very short skirt.

She ran out of leather pants, it seems, but for once is not trying to attract attention to herself.

... Oh well.

She is also reading. The book seems to be in Sumerian, if you know what Sumerian looks like.

Come interrupt.

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Preston's meandering around the bar, and his meanderings happen to bring him to a table near a certain couch.

His hands are gloveless today, but he's got the gloves in his hands and he's twisting them around.

"Drop those in something?" Slack asks innocently, peering over the cover of her book.

Preston looks up, startled, "I beg your pardon?"

He puts his left glove on, tugging on it, then taking it off again.

"I never realized how confining these things things are."

Slack grins, looking thoughtful.

"Let me guess. Your world is surrounded by a rapidly spreading plague that only travels through the skin of the hands, so you have to wear gloves constantly, especially when meeting new people, but you won't get sick in Milliways. Am I close?"

She's joking, but not really trying to seem sarcastic.

Preston blinks, "Was...that a joke?"

It's not sarcastic in his case, it's genuine curiousity and it shows.
"There...the plagues have long since been wiped out in my world...or if they are then we're safe due to our isolation.

A pause.

"Not really. It's always possible. My world's got its own version."

She bites her lip, then shrugs, going back to her usual genial, slightly narrow-eyed look.

"You know, isolation's bad for the mind. Makes you think you're more than you are. Then you end up getting blown up by a gas pump, a limo, a dropped match and a suitcase full of money."

The memory still makes her smile.

Preston turns to look at her fully, "Wha?"

His exprsesion is that of confusion.

"Oh, nothing. Just something some friends and I did once."

She manages to look utterly innocent.

Preston shakes his head, "...why?"

There doesn't seem anything else that he can say.

"People," she sums up, "are stupid. Stupid and selfish and really, really asking for it, at times. Guy ruined my life as a kid, and set out to ruin everyone else's."

Preston once again reflects on the strange nature of humanity.

"Yes." Preston says, "But...then why are they your friends?"

Curiouser and curiouser.

"My friends are renegades."

She eyes her fingernails suspiciously, clicks them together once, and looks back to him.

"My friends tend not to be stupid, or selfish. Sometimes they are stupid and very very stupid, but nobody's really on with bein' selfish except for Cholo, and we don't talk about him."

Preston shakes his head, amused, "If you don't talk about him can you still call him a friend?"

Was he even a friend? Preston doesn't know. However, the idea of human relationships is still one preston doesn't get.

"I hardly knew the fellow, he didn't seem too bad to me, but there was all that tension brewing, and I was new. Still am new. Working for a group of renegade soldiers is not where I saw myself, honestly."

Slack shrugs.

"They call him a friend, 'cause apparently Riley thinks it's his fault Cholo died. Riley thinks everything is his fucking fault, though, and it's ridiculous. But. Like I said. Not my primary occupation, and I just live with 'em. Love 'em like family, but don't bother trying to get it all."

Preston can relate to this fellow Riley's feelings, "Is Riley your leader? That might be why he feels that way."

Preston's just trying to make sense of this.

"How can you love them if they're not related to you?"

There's another hint of a more fond smile.

"Yeah. He is. But he doesn't realize he can't be the fault of things outside anyone's control."

And then the teasing smile returns. "Closest thing to family I've got. I don't even know what my actual name is, can't remember my parents. And I live with them, so they are my family. I love plenty of people, though. Different kinds of it."

Preston cocks his head at her, "Different...kinds of love?"

Just what he needs. more ways to confuse himself.

Very very short skirt...

Bzzt. I'm sorry, but Slack's attempt to not attract attention to herself has just failed on a grand scale.

So the sleazy guy in the snakeskin and leather and shades, who usually has a glass of Stoli permanently attached to his left hand, wanders over to wear she's sitting and plops himself down on a chair that I delcare is strategically placed somewhere near her.

"Nice legs and brains...now that's a combo I can't resist."

It sometimes happens, when you're a post-apocalyptic prostitute, which really her mun just wanted to type again.

But she has that terrible habit of attracting attention anyway.

She shoots him a grin. "Thanks a million. The name that comes with the legs and the brains is Slack. What's the name that comes with the smile and the sunglasses?"

"Well, sure."

Slack wrinkles her nose.

"I've got the kind of love a friend gets, the kind of love for family, the kind for a lover, and the kind that's just physical. Need all of them, in my personal experience. Many people don't need the last one."

"Cypher. 'Cause let's face it, last names are for suckers."

Oh sure, Mr. Reagan, sure they are.

He sips his Stoli and peeks at her over his shades, checking out the whole package. "Can I buy the girl with the attitude and the great name a drink?"

"You can."

Slack just keeps smiling. Hey, she doesn't have a last name either, isn't hurting anyone, is it?

"She happens to be engaged, but she and hers are also rather ... open. Especially considering her daily life."

Third person? It is fun.

It is. Cypher has no problem with it.

"Then she's getting whatever she wants. Tell her to name her poison...and her position, and I'll see what I can do."

Pushing the envelope is also fun.

"Strega. And she's a rather clever cheap whore, she'd like to say."

Another nosewrinkle. Slack's eyes are lit up and that's when it starts getting sort of scary.

"To tell the truth, it's more like I was, as we've gone from 'cheap' to 'classy' these past few years, but it'll do. Makes for a better description."

"Cheap, classy, it's all the same to me. Bar, would you get the whore a drink?"

There it is. He drinks his own Stoli. He's pretty much been living on it since he got here.

"So you're a hooker? Good, we should get along then. I got plenty of experience with you broads."

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