nexus_sages | (no subject)

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"Hey, uh . . . anyone here ever had to, you know . . . reconnect with anyone before?"

The question comes from a man seated at the edge of the forum. A heavy, fringed overcoat is draped over the back of the speaker's chair, and he's kicked his pair of dusty boots up on a nearby tabletop. Overall, it looks like the man would be more at home in the American west: he wears a bolo tie and bandana around his neck, embroidered denim shirt, heavy belt buckle holding up crossed gun holsters and reinforced jeans. The tanned, scarred skin of his face contrasts starkly with his shaggy white hair. At a glance, he appears to be (at least) in his late 40's, but his eyes have a youthful, fiery spark to them.

The gunslinger swings his boots down off the table so he can sit forward and pour himself another shot from a brown-bagged bottle.

"Family in particular?" He adds before taking a swig.

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"Their mom was holding down the fort. She knew her stuff, but an agent from the uh . . . well, from our old life caught wind of her location. She was killed defending the kids." He breathes in sharply and lets out a slow exhale. Gotta keep those emotions under wraps.

"I should have gone back then, but I didn't get word for a good, long while. The wife and I kept radio silence, just in case we were being watched. That's how goddamned paranoid we had to be."

He shakes his head. "It's just one of those fucking things. Easy to get caught up thinking about how you could've done shit differently."

"Keep your eyes forward, pardner. Lookin' back ain't good for nothin' other than makin' sure you're not bein' followed."

He picks up the bottle and pours his companion another shot instead now.

"Kids made it out okay, though? They're still livin' and still fightin', so they must be."

"Good words to live by, those." He raises his glass as if in a toast and knocks it back in one swallow.

He clears his throat and rasps the back of his hand across his stubbly chin after that last shot. "Kids are healthy. My youngest wasn't talking for a while, but she's finding her voice again. If she grows up to be anything like her mother, she'll be a force to be reckoned with.

"My son's finding a place for himself, trying to do some good in the world. Been helping him with that -- best I can, anyway -- but we still get into spats. More often than not, he's getting after me about drinking."

One shaggy eyebrow raises. "Did you have any family before this zed stuff, or is that a sore topic?"

He's quiet for awhile, scratching the meager stubble on his jaw, leaning back and throwing an arm over the back of his chair. Quiet long enough that it's probably clear this is indeed a sore subject.

"...Nah."

Eloquent!

Jesse waves his empty shot glass as if clearing the air of his last question. "Sorry, buddy. Forget I said anything."

An awkward silence falls, and it occurs to him that it might be his turn to fill the other Jesse's glass.

"How long have you been coming around this place? How'd you get here?"

He'd taken to look down at his boots, but looks back up again when he hears his glass being filled. Nice. "Kind o' ya," he says as he takes it back up with a polite nod.

"One o' my scavengers found the place, actually. Cutter was pullin' junk outta of a subway hall we ain't gotten around to yet and found it opened up to another exit. But he popped his head up and found this waitin' on the other side rather than, say, a zed-filled street or a station.

"That was, ehhh," Jesse scratches at his stubble again, trying to think back, "'bout two weeks ago? Give or take. Time kinda goes funny in this place, I gotta say."

"Any chance your zed or -- hell -- any other nasties could get into this place, too?" If other Jesse is indeed a zed himself, this Jesse hasn't made that connection. Still figures he's just a particularly bad mutie. He's too personable for a zombie or a reaper!

He throws his hand over the back of his chair, possibly drawing the eye to the rifle slung back under his coat. He's ready if there's trouble to be had in this place.

"Hell naw. We got our bases closed up tighter 'n a nun's habit. Zed or gangs ain't gonna come knockin' down doors any time soon. The zed ain't strong enough to get past us and the gangs know better than to do anything other 'n leave us be." Well, with the exception of the Government, but forget those guys. They're mean.

"We wouldn't let nothin' get into this peaceful place without a proper fight," he concludes, patting one of the two .45 colt revolvers slung at his hips beneath his duster.

"Good to know. Gotta make sure these precious few quiet places stay that way."

He lifts his chin in acknowledgement of the heat Jesse's packin'. "Fine pair of weapons you got there, friend. Can't go wrong with revolvers."

Jesse also has one on either hip. They're difficult to identify; 44 caliber to a trained eye, possibly modified, but well cared-for. Far cleaner than anything else on his person, that's for certain.

"Indeed you can't! Stylish and effective. One good slug will put down anything walkin', undead or otherwise. Most folk where I come from settle for the rifle or the shotty, but I got a reputation to maintain." He flicks at the brim of his hat; that reputation is bein' a cool-ass cowboy.

"Yer iron ain't so bad yourself. Looks like they're well taken care of two." Complimenting one another on their respective guns. What's better than this; just guys bein' dudes.

Nothing unnatural about admiring another man's firearm!

Jesse draws one of his pistols. "Yeah, just some old relics. They don't make quality sidearms like this anymore. Just feels solid in your hand, you know?"

He offers the gun for Jesse's inspection. "Customized 'em a bit, though. Shortened the trigger pull, re-rifled the bore for a little more accuracy."

He takes it carefully in both hands, then flips open the cylinder to check if it's loaded. Since it is, he's careful to keep his finger along the barrel, off the trigger, thumb pressed against the hammer to avoid accidentally cocking it. Even the undead and the weird cowboys and the undead weird cowboys gotta have trigger discipline.

Jesse takes a squinting look down the sight, arm out at full length (careful to only aim at a potted plant, not anyone moving or places where people might move.) "Hoowhee, ain't this thing a beaut. Bet it hits like a mule too." He takes a chance to spin the cylinder once because that act always makes him feel cool, then hands it back over.

Jesse takes back the revolver, slides it back into its holster and snaps it in. "Glad to meet someone else who appreciates the art in a fine firearm."

He extends an open palm across the table, inviting a shake: "Look at us. All this talk and no introductions! Name's Jesiah Black. Jesse for short."

"Hah! Well ain't that a hell of a thing. I'm Jesse too. Just plain ol' Jesse."

He looks at the offered hand, then up at the face of the owner of it, then back down, his eyes flitting between the two quickly. Of course, with how milky his eyes are, it's hard to always discern what direction he is or isn't looking at the moment. He clearly hesitates before seeming to force himself to reach across the table and take other Jesse's hand as firmly as he can manage. The touch of his skin is dry and unnaturally cool. He gives two pumps before looking quick to take his hand back.

"Damn pleasure meetin' a fella who's got an appreciation for the drink AND the iron. Damn tootin'." He coaches the usual lopsided, gap-toothed grin back onto his face.

Edited 2015-08-14 03:58 (UTC)

Any lack of strength in the other Jesse's handshake is more than made up for with this Jesse's firmness. That's a good, manly shake. "Well, what are the odds!"

The quality of the other man's touch does not go unnoticed, but his leathery face doesn't betray any strong reaction.

"Thanks for the words and the company, Jesse." Makes him feel like less of an alcoholic, drinking with someone else.

"Pleasure's all mine, pardner." His smile is back naturally now as he gives a tip of the hat to his drinking buddy. "Sometimes a body's gotta drown those woes a bit so y'all are in good company.

"Y'all ever need another round or an ear to listen to 'em, though," he taps one of his, which might draw attention to the fact said ear looks like it was stitched back on at some point, "y'all just mosey over to that there subway station and ask for ol' Jesse. Jesses gotta stick together." He laughs.

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