Re: Bus stop: Misha & Lou
Misha, he was expecting her to ask what he was. Folks did that, they asked, but he didn't feel it necessary to answer. Religion, it was a real touchpoint for folks. And, more than that, he wasn't even sure what to say he was these days. A boy, an angel, the Antichrist, and he reckoned he was all of them things, but it didn't seem a conversation for now, amid the wrecked bodies of folks.
He glanced on over at the man he'd sent flying, and that man was sitting up and trying to brush off with a groan. He glanced on over at the other man, the one that'd just been kneed, and then he looked back at the woman. "I reckon maybe we should move on to the next stop, and not waste breath talking here," he offered, and his bruises didn't matter none. This boy, he was accustomed to a whole lot worse, and he could heal himself in a second 'fore getting home, so as not to fuss Damian none.
He stood, and he picked his fiddle case up. His bag he slung higher on his shoulder, and he took to walking toward the bus stop down the way and 'round the corner. Best to be gone 'fore those men got to their feet. To coax the woman, he talked as he moved. "You answer that question ready to strangers who ask you what you are?" he asked, and he shook his head some and sent fine hair 'gainst his forehead. "It don't matter. Everyone's something, honey."