lookforheaven (aucontraire_) wrote in remains_rpg, @ 2015-05-12 02:34:00 |
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Entry tags: | # 2018 [05] may, adelaide hawkins, ezra galloway |
Who: Adelaide and Ezra
Where: A gas station, a couple of miles from the Hellhound camp
What: Chance meeting!
When: May 12, 2018, afternoon
Status: Complete
Why the damned Puppy Prince can't just carry a beeper or text in code like other shady criminal types used to, Adelaide will never understand. Hey can I come over to play some Madden? or You wanna buy some Smurf houses?" Or rather, she does understand, and her rational mind even knows it's likely smart, but it's still a damned nuisance.
Adelaide hasn't left the Capitol very often since she and the Boston crew arrived, not quite two years ago. Pregnancy and an infant have been stellar excuses, but as she pulls her borrowed Xterra up, a block over from the gas station, she knows that she hardly needs an excuse. Thomas Lansing's wife is perfectly well taken care of without picking through the ruins of a city, she thinks, as her boots - quite different than the ballet flats she usually wears in the Capitol - step out onto the hot asphalt.
Except there is one thing that Adelaide wants that Thomas doesn't, and so here she is, dealing with outlaws. Her wary eyes scan the area, freckled nose scenting the air trying to detect the foul calling card of the dead - or the s'mores, whichever one feels like ruining her day first. True she hasn't been out of the shelter much, but before that she saw plenty on the way down from Boston. Picking up no traces of either telltale scent, Adelaide grabs her latest letter to the Dog King off the dash, machete drawn, and she hurries across the space between her and the gas station.
When O'Brien named the couple of locations where the Dog King is known to appear, Adelaide cursed him. She'd been hoping for somewhere she could slip to and back on foot, quickly. As it is, this place is ten damn miles away, and she had to bribe a babysitter, wait until Thomas was in a 'meeting', and play up the Imperial Mrs Lansing card to the kid who watches over the garage for the keys to a damn vehicle. She treated it as a matter of course that she could have a car any time she liked, and hopes he won't think twice of it.
She moves warily into the convenience store attached to the gas station, the glass of the door shattered so she just steps through. The shelves are thoroughly picked over, except for a couple of jars on the bottom shelf labeled pickled cod. Apparently some things are too disgusting even for the end of the world. There is a funny expression on her face of mingled amusement and pain as she looks at that jar - Jims and Sarge would have gotten a kick out of pickled cod, they'd have dared each other to eat it and laughed loud watching the funhouse mirror of expressions as the food went down. They had stomachs of iron and the stupidest best sense of humor.
She turns away from those thoughts quickly - no time for getting distracted now - and props her letter up in the empty shelf facing the doorway. She doesn't wait anymore than that before moving back out the door to the sidewalk.
The coast is clear one moment, machete up, eyes scanning, and then the very next moment it isn't clear anymore.
A runner is charging, one arm hanging by tendons only and flopping madly with every jackrabbit horror-show stride, fast. Much too fast. Probably drawn by the sound of the car's engine, she thinks, annoyed by the quiet of the day. She's got her blade raised and at the ready, and though she may not look near so practiced as most people do out on these streets by now, her swing at least doesn't hesitate when the runner is in range and she doesn't fool herself that she could run. But that inexperience is what has her missing the fact that three shufflers are moving in from the other direction, between her and the vehicle that is her escape.