nexus_crossings | communication and stuff

communication and stuff

Rosco is randomly wandering around. He's talking to anyone who is willing.

"They're just some things about this place that I can't get the hang of. Like all the things people go around talking and typing into. I'm just a good old boy from Georgia. What are those things and should I have one?"

He's also a bit confused about jobs and how Nexus society works, especially as a member of the establishment in his own universe.

"How'm I supposed to get work here and what's the employment rate like? I've been feeding myself by selling stuff I find...stuff I find outside that looks unclaimed. I've even sold bottle caps, like that one fella suggested. Is anyone hiring? I don't know much outside of law enforcement."

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"Depends how many and where they landed," she says quietly. "But I hope for your sake it doesn't happen."

She looks pleased when he mentions family. Mother and sisters she took for granted as a child, but by and large, blood relatives are rare in the Wasteland. "You have family? That's good. Take good care of them."

She walks slowly to start with, following a narrow dirt footpath through parklike trees and undergrowth. This is where she usually comes when she visits the Nexus, anyway, often to look for berries or seeds.

"I appreciate that," Rosco says with simple gratitude. He nods at her question about family. "Yeah. I've been doing that since my daddy died. I got lots of them though, what with aunts, uncles, and cousins. How about you? I guess you gotta have large families, if the human race is gonna rebuild."

Rosco looks around a lot, taking in the scenery and trying to learn his way around.

She's not quite sure how to take that comment about rebuilding the human race. On the one hand, it's alarmingly like Immortan Joe's excuse for taking the women he wanted. On the other hand, Rosco just talked about protecting his own family, rather than hoarding people like commodities, so after a slight wince and a thoughtful grimace, she chooses to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"The place I come from, the Citadel, had its own system. Children were taken from family as soon as they were weaned and raised in a group. It's hard to say whose child is whose right now. We're working on changing that. They should always have the interest and attention of all of us, blood relations or not, but pups need the love of family, too."

Rosco looks appalled. He notices the wince, but isn't sure what caused it.

"Well, that's..." he sputters, no real words coming out, before he finally forms a sentence. "That's just wrong. You don't take babies away from their mamas, not unless they're in some kinda danger. ... The babies, I mean, not the mamas."

He trails off, not sure what else to say and not wanting to sound like he's judging. He tries to imagine being taken away like that and is glad he can't quite manage it.

She tilts her head at him pensively, then nods. "The last regime didn't want the children to have loyalty to anyone but their leader. It worked well, for a while."

"I'm glad it's over. That warlord is dead." She smiles grimly, as if pleased by that, but doesn't offer details.

"One of my friends just had a little baby girl, though. She'll be keeping her close. Things are changing."

Rosco grimaces.

"Huh. I guess earning people's loyalty never occurred to him. Most people're loyal to a ruler what's decent to them."

He smiles brightly at the mention of the baby.

"Aw, well, congratulations to her. Nothing like a new baby to give folks hope."

"You know...I'm not sure what actually occurred to him, in the beginning. He was well and truly corrupt by the time I knew him. Maybe he didn't start out that way." Part of her would rather believe he did, that Joe was always a neck in need of a noose. But she has no way of knowing without going back in time, and it's for the best that she can't do so.

"I think the sickness of the world around us may have broken his brain. It happens. But he might also just have been a bad man."

Babies are easier to talk about. "She's sweet. All fluffy, like a dandelion. Healthy. I'm not holding her until she's strong enough to sit up on her own, though."

One has to be careful when one has metal claws.

He shake his head at her musings.

"Nah. Any polecat that would take babies from their mamas, just to ensure their loyalty...that takes a meanness that comes from deep inside. He just sounds naturally bad to me."

He smiles a bit sadly at her talk of the child.

"Well, better safe than sorry, I suppose. Though, I reckon you'd find it easier than you think," says the man who has had very few opportunities for holding babies.

She tilts her head at the word 'polecat', because that means something very different to her than it likely does to Rosco. "He was a polecat...? Wait, what do you mean by that? Where I come from, that's a job description."

Sort of. It's a kind of fighter, anyway.

"I don't know...the baby's mother said she'd make me a big mitten to put over my arm, but I don't think she meant it." Glory, she hopes Dag didn't mean it. That could be ridiculous.

"A job?" Rosco repeats, confused. "A polecat is an animal. It's another word for a skunk! I meant it as an insult, y'see?"

He realizes she might not know what a skunk is either. Everything he'd heard about nuclear war made it sound utterly devastating. He giggles at the mitten idea.

"Well, that sounds like a good idea though! It'd give the little tyke something soft to cuddle into."

She has no clue what a skunk is, but maybe she'll look it up in the library later. "Insults are good," she murmurs dryly. "He certainly deserved them."

She shakes her head. "We called...well, one of our allies used to have fighters that held onto these tall, swinging poles on the backs of vehicles. They would use the vantage point to shoot or drop grenades in a fight. They were called polecats."

One of them did a pretty good job trying to garrote her, as a matter of fact, but she's still alive and kicking. Switching to kinder topics, she smiles a little at his laugh. Odd sound, that, but she supposes the can't blame him for being amused. "If she makes it, I'll wear it, I guess. But I'm not making myself one. I hate knitting."

Rosco blinks at her description of polecats, his lips pursed in disbelief, his eyes wide.

"If you ever meet a couple of fellas named Bo and Luke Duke, please don't ever mention that to them! That's a heckuva way to fight. I bet it'd be pretty to watch though. Like acrobats!"

Rosco isn't sure what to say to that. He's impressed she can knit, but it seems kinda rude to say so. He just nods.

"Well, not everyone likes that sorta thing. Mama tried to teach Lulu needlepoint, but Lulu hated it. She said she'd rather sew herself in a sack and fall into a river, than waste her time that way."

"It took a lot of training," she shrugs, looking amused by his assessment. "I'm not sure how it got started as a practice, not that I think of it...but it was impressive to watch."

She enjoyed it more when the attacks weren't directed at her.

As far as knitting is concerned, she holds up both hands with a smirk, clicking the metal talons. "My dexterity is a little limited. Half the time I have to hold a needle in my mouth. Lulu would be your sister?"

"Shoot, I just bet it did!" Rosco agrees. "I bet they had to start teaching them young, to get 'em able to do that."

Rosco blushes, a bit embarrassed. He's glad she doesn't seem upset by his foolishness. He latches on to the question about Lulu.

"Oh, yes! She's my older sister. I mean, not the oldest. Hortense is the oldest of us. Lulu is just older than me," he explains awkwardly.

She's not sure when training for polecats started, but it's something she'll be considering now. There may still be young recruits in Gastown that have been partially trained and might be amenable to working for her. He may never know he's given her a valuable idea.

If she's offended by him forgetting her metal arm, she doesn't show it. She smiles, rather and nods. "I had half-siblings and clanmates. Most of them are gone now, but some of my half-brothers may still be out on the road somewhere. How many sisters do you have?"

"Well, I hope you find your family, some day," Rosco offers kindly. "I have the two, Hortense and Lulu. Daddy died soon after I was born, so it was just us three and mama, when I was growing up."

He considers her world and how little he knows about it.

"Did you have other kids around, than your family? Neighbors and all? Hazzard's a pretty small place, so folk tend to be tight knit and mostly friendly. Or at least very polite."

"I never knew my sire," she says mildly. "It was tradition in my clan for women to raise their children themselves, and send the men on their way on the road."

Which is why she doesn't know for sure where her half-brothers might be. As soon as they came of age, they left, too. "I don't know. Maybe we missed something, there. Some men are kind, even in my world. But when I was young, before I was stolen from home, there were maybe twenty children and twice that many grown women."

Privately, she thinks 'Hazzard' is a very Wasteland-like name for a town. She approves. Might even plagiarize that for a vehicle name, if she remembers later.

Rosco frowns at her clan's treatment of men.

"Well, that ain't very loving, if you'll forgive me saying so. It'd be real hurtful, if Mama suddenly wanted nothing to do with me. Most men are kind, given the chance to be. I know there are bad ones, but there are bad women, too."

He reflects with bitter grief on his charade of a marriage, to a woman who broke his heart, just to create a distraction for a theft.

"I hope you find some family. The world's lonely enough, without being kinless."

She shakes her head. "In all honesty, it wasn't meant to be loving. It was meant to be practical. Sometimes, the men who'd left came back to visit, but...well. I've heard all the arguments I'm sure you're thinking. All I can tell you is it kept us alive for a very long time, but failed us in the end."

She won't argue that there aren't bad women, too. She is one.

"I have a sort of family now, I think. Not by blood. Closeness based on what we've shared."

"I didn't mean to be uppity at ya," Rosco says, humbly. "I'm sure there are worse ways of going about things. Picking a family ain't so bad. At least, that way, you know what you're getting and you know there's affection in it."

"I'm not offended," she smiles at him. "My world is harsher than yours. We all do ugly things to survive. One of the reasons I come here is to hear what people from gentler places do, what they think about what's right and wrong."

She shakes her head. "Makes things clearer for me, sometimes. Even if I can't do what's objectively right, I can keep it in mind as a direction to turn toward. Slowly."

"Well, you gotta give yourself credit for tryin'," Rosco tells her. "There's a lot of folks in those so-called gentle places that don't even do that much. Not that doing right or know what's right is easy anywheres."

"That's a kind thing to say," she pats his shoulder with her right hand (the one that's not a metal claw), and nods. "I appreciate it."

"I think I should get home now. Will you be all right? Finding work and getting yourself fed?"

"Oh. You're welcome," Rosco says sincerely, with a bit of surprise.

He smiles widely at her concern.

"Oh, shoot, yeah. You don't get to be an old law dog like me, if ya can't scrape by. I'll be all right, thank you."

She chuckles softly, amused by the way he talks. She meant it though, that she appreciates his kindness. He seems a decent sort, and she'll look for him again.

"Good. Take care of yourself, Rosco. I'll see you around."

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rosco_coltrane - 2016-08-30 16:56 (UTC) - Expand

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