“I’m a mechanic,” he told her with a wry smile. “The technical term on my paperwork is roustabout, which is kinda a glorified janitor I think... I don’t fuckin know why they wouldn’t just put mechanic. But I do everything from crowd control to hauling trash. My specialty is fixing shit though. If it can be taken apart, I can put it back together. Usually better than it was in the first place.”
He arched his brows, sat back a little bit. “I don’t know. I’m learning about people, like I said. But mostly I guess I joined up so I had a place I could just be myself. I was doing just fine on my own but it’s nice to be a part of something sometimes, I guess. Never know what interesting shit might happen with a crowd like this.” He flashed his teeth again.
“What do you do for fun around here, vetala?” he asked, trying the word on for size; it rolled off that Appalachian tongue like scuppernong wine.