At least Noah could say he'd never gotten inked as a result of a drunken blowout. He'd always been aware that tats were fairly permanent. Sure, there'd been the option of having them removed, but that was time-consuming and expensive; it seemed more feasible to carefully consider what you wanted to put on your body. "I've got my iron and a kit," he replied. "Everything I'd need to do basic tats. Just don't have any ink. But I know there's gotta be some out there waiting to be found." He wasn't necessarily an optimist, but he had to hope for something, right?
Noah took interaction by spells. Sometimes he was a cynical, moody son of a bitch who didn't want to talk to anyone, and sometimes he liked to pass the time of day. Thus far, Dominic was easy enough to converse with, and he didn't regret sitting down. He'd simply reserve judgment on whether the guy might be involved with the crazy shit that had started happening.
After teaching for several years, Noah had developed the opinion that teenagers lived to complain. That and make sure they had the latest gadgets and designer clothing. He supposed it was a reaction to being underage and unable to make many of life's important decisions for themselves, but that didn't necessarily make it easier to deal with. "Yeah, they do," he said with the slightest shrug of one shoulder. "Guess I don't blame 'em, under the circumstances." How much more would it suck to be a teenager in this kind of world?