Re: The Jaded/The Disaffected
Emil couldn't afford vanity. The blue was dye, applied from a box in a bathroom. The hair was a guy with clippers who could shave in a straight line. It was about as personality-driven as anything Emil put into public which was, ding-ding-ding, not all that much. A blank page bounced back everything someone was looking to see. Emil had made bank out of being a blank page. He was counting on making bank from it again. The sweater, the jeans. No one was punching metal through his cheek wall to make a statement. It was a lot of statement, from the guy -- Nicky -- who liked to quip.
Emil walked past the car where old men drank expensive spirits. Probably where Nicky had come from with that drink that smelled like money and expectation souring. Emil stopped somewhere in between the front of the train and the back, where the options spread out like a piano keyboard from middle C. Upper register, lower register. Options, for Nicky, who thought he needled.
Folded his arms over his sweater, he tucked his left hand into his armpit, the backs of his knuckles gnarling against wool. It was an old sweater. It didn't say anything about Emil. He didn't believe in his clothes doing the talking about anything. People had to earn the right to listen to shit about Emil and he stood there and unfurled to full height. Gaunt, maybe. But tall. He looked down the length of his nose at Nicky, and raised one thin eyebrow. "Go on. Participate." He made a short, indicative gesture with his right hand, his fingers spreading like the spokes of an umbrella. "Show me what participation looks like." Didn't believe Nicky would.