Marcus Caravahlo (caravahlo) wrote in remains_rpg, @ 2015-09-09 14:56:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | # 2018 [09] september, marcus caravahlo, willa davidson |
Who: Marcus and Willa
Where: Dog Park. Near the outdoor shower area to start.
When: Late afternoon, September 2nd
What: Other than the gratuitous nude internal whining in my intro, I'm guessing they talk!
A few of the abodes in the dog park were outfitted with working plumbing. It was usually a sign of influence, rank, or personal ingenuity of some kind. Marcus had the hook ups for such things in his trailer, but they'd long since rusted and he wasn't exactly a plumber, so he didn't know how to fix whatever system was -- theoretically -- supposed to run the old water tank to what had once been a bathroom. He also wasn't going around asking for favors from those who might, especially now. The last thing he wanted was to owe of the Hellhounds more than he already did. It seemed more pragmatic to keep clean water in his trailer for drinking and sterilizing his equipment.
Besides, he still wasn't shy, so the outdoor showers suited him just fine. He'd initially found them tantalizing, in fact. Not in a sexual way so much as an affirmation of camaraderie. People who were willing to get naked together, even for a quick rinse, were his kind of people. At least, he'd thought so. Now that a veil had been lifted between his view of the camp and what the realities were, he was feeling unsure about things. It wasn't fair to blanket the entire camp with the sins of the minority, but what the fuck was a guy supposed to do when that minority was in charge of shit?
Well, that was an easy question to answer, at least: keep his fucking head down. That was a struggle in and of itself for a man like him. He wasn't used to being inclined to keep his mouth shut about anything, but he didn't want to get shot as a traitor to the cause, either. So he managed, keeping to himself as much as he could and trying to act relatively normal.
He wasn't a good actor. Alcohol was still a welcome lubricant to his thoughts, but he discovered that it was hard to drink and revel with people he didn't trust. Wasn't sure if he should even like. So he'd been mostly drinking alone, which was not helping his mood any. More, he'd been abstaining from sex, which helped his mood even less.
If he wasn't careful, he'd send himself into a spiral of depressive angst. That shit was not what he'd signed up for. Especially having already gone through a dry spell of no human contact. Fuck that.
So some amount of socializing was necessary, if just to keep him sane. He could tap into a well of professionalism when treating patients, he could eat with these people, and he could enjoy the public showers. The temperature was still climbing into triple digit territory, which made the unheated water seem like a godsend. Putting his clothes back on after the shower was a harder sell, so Marcus hung around letting the sun do most of the work of drying him off (had to be good for something, as oppressive as the heat could be). Not for the first time, he wondered what the weather would be like if he'd gone West instead of East. Would he have reached the ocean by now? Could he swim in it, or was it somehow deadly, now... a wet, salty wasteland made toxic by poison gas or an influx of dead?
It was something to think about. Just like the other people showering were something to watch. Trustworthy or not, there was no faulting the view of other human beings drying off in the sun. Not feeling particularly lecherous, however, he refrained from too much staring. Now and then he'd nod or smile at someone in the vicinity, just to prove that he wasn't a complete asshole.
As he was putting his pants back on, he noticed someone walking through the camp who was new. A woman. The one with the cows, who'd come from the city. He wasn't sure what her story was, or how she'd ended up there, and the rumor mill hadn't really gotten into full swing yet on the subject. He wondered if she was like him. A stray taken in with the promise of freedom, only to find herself drafted in some kind of war. By know he'd come to learn that Teagan was something of an anomaly, insofar as women on the front lines went, but that didn't mean she was the only woman who might end up being a casualty. That thought triggered an odd sort of moral dilemma within him. If this woman was unaware, should she be warned about what she might be getting herself into if she stayed? Would it matter? Would he have listened to any warnings he'd received?
After Dugger. After the other shit he'd seen go down... if someone had been that direct to him, maybe he would have. "Hey, cow lady," he calls, pitching his voice to carry over the other ambient sounds in the camp and lifting a hand to get her attention. "Don't think we've met, yet. Where you headed?"