Scenario Entitled: The Freaks Come Out On All Hallow's EveCharacters:
Walter, the star anchor of Channel One News.
Roberta, front page reporter for The Town Crier newspaper.
Sterling, roadganger extraordinaire, holding his own with these loons.
Location: Freedom Plaza East
Date: Norand 1st, 109 P.A.
A pile of luggage rests precariously in Walter's arms as he struggles to make his way over to a convenient park-bench before the entire pile spills over the ground. He bears the unmistakable expression of a news reporter having narrowly escaped certain death: the slightly widened eye, barely showing just a bit more eyeball than necessary; the twitching eye-lid, the constricted pupil(s), and the stiff-legged gait so common in the Newsies' asylum wing at Memphis Hemingway. Being so near to Halowe'en as it is, the reporter looks like he's seen a ghost... as unlikely as that could ever be.
Walter
Early winter brings changes to our favorite reporter's fashion sense. Not only is the ever-present 'Channel One' logo missing, so long a decoration on his usual summer wardrobe, now his entire color scheme has changed. A well-cut, formal business suit somewhere between black and grey replaces the starched and pressed, grey shirt he usually wears. His 'reporter-issue' khaki's have disappeared as well, replaced by the lines of a pair of professionally tailored slacks. Covering his shoulders is a thick, black leather trench coat, sporting all sorts of neat loops and pockets, and cleverly disguised as useful in some special sort of manner that eludes anyone but a fashion designer. Walter's usual accoutrement, the presence of leather holster and peace-tied 11 mm semi- auto, is missing from his left breast. Instead, an official looking 'Press' badge proclaiming him to be a Channel One 'tuft hunter' hangs there. Perhaps the only constant in this sudden change of wardrobe seems to be his ever-present cybernetic replacement. The implant dominates the left half of his face, replacing one of his brown eyes with a bit of cold medical grade metal and plastic. Unlike most implants of this type, this one bears at least a little styling, vaguely resembling the shape of the bit of skull that once resided in it's place. The contoured lines would almost blend into Mister Reily's skin if it weren't for the total difference in tint and reflectivity. The cool, smooth greyness of the implant versus the healthy skin next to it, seem to set off the man's mediocre appearance - enhancing it in some strange way through the quasi-conflict of man versus machine.Cha-chick! The moment is captured for posterity by the quick finger and quicker eye of woman reporter Roberta C. Gheist. A small, oh- so-stylish silver device in her hand, the brightly-dressed eccentric adds wool-lined, rumpled warmers to her long arms and legs, under the flaps and straps of her outfit. "Channel One's Star Anchor... and.. Closet Hypochondriac, Walter Reily, seen here carrying his varied daily supplements through Freedom Plaza park," she hazards speculatively into the little microphone head protruding from her throat. Thus inspired, she lowers the camera and strolls along the brickwork path towards the same bench.
Roberta
This woman is in her late twenties, fairly tall, and rather striking in an extreme, aggressive fashion. Her skin is deathly pale as marble, and the sea-green webbings of her veins can be seen beneath the surface in the right light. Starkly contrasting her complexion is the charcoal black color theme that runs throughout her 'natural' features: ebony hair, chopped short and curling wildly about her head; large black eyes fringed with thick dark lashes reinforced with heavy kohl; lips and fingernails painted a glittery, but otherwise opaque black matte. Her body and limbs are long and slender, with only the barest hint of musculature over otherwise boney joints.
That's where the ghoulish look ends, and the next contrast begins. Her spring attire is a complex and colorful outfit that wraps, twists, and furls around her arms and torso, lending her additional volume as well as an air of daunting eccentricity. Twisting, carved 'tails' of the underwired fabric curl and dangle at different lengths from mid-thigh to below knee, over legs netted thinly in white hose. Her footwear seems overly large even for her height, a style mixed between moccasin and military boot, with both polished black leather and raw deerhide. Adorning two of her slender fingers on each hand are hematite and jade bands of stone.
Perhaps her most remarkable features are her long, pointed ears; much longer than the standard elf's and tapering as steak knives. Each one is only pierced once, at the tip, by a sliver of jade hoop. Threads of metal and wire can be seen moving like veinwork along the waxy pale skin, if one looks closely enough.
The other things about her that are noteworthy are the knife that saddles width-wise along her lower back, and the small microphone head extending from her throat from a delicate, adjustable wire attached to a ribbon of black steel that loops around the base of her neck.Walter drops the pile haphazardly on to the ground and plops down into the bench with a loud sigh escaping his lips. The contents of the luggage bags scatters around his feet as it slowly settles. The reporter nervously reaches into his jacket and brings out the little cellular phone and flips open the microphone cover. He shakes it for a moment before holding it to his ear and listening for a dial tone before dialing a random number into the little machine. He looks up for a moment and holds out a finger as if to say, "Just a second, I'm on the phone..." to the lowly pulp journalist approaching him with that: "Could I get an autograph?" look on her face.
Roberta palms the camera and makes it... disappear! As she arrives at the bench and is shushed before she can even utter a single syllable (so rare a moment for her!), the journalist nods agreeably first, then starts in to chattering, anyway. "Of course, Mister Reily, I understand perfectly. I'll just wait right here then." She sounds cheerful and not at all forced in her words. "But afterwards, I hope you'll have a few moments. It's not often that I have the opportunity to meet you right here in the park, dragging your whole wardrobe behind you. In fact.. it's rather unique!" She turns and sights her gaze across to where a few party-goers dressed up in their fancy clothes, move at a fast pace into Druid's Grove, where most likely there's a blazing fire, and a master storyteller with zombie-fest on the brain.
The cell phone remains against Walter's head as its radio antenna slowly microwaves his already obviously scrambled brain. The reporter nods impatiently to Roberta's suggestion as someone suddenly picks up on the other end. Walter shouts into the cellular phone, expecting the person on the other end to hear him better if he uses the full capacity of his lungs, "Hello!? Yes! I'm trying to reach Sydo Zandstra! What?? I can't hear you very well!_ No! I'm not looking for a good time! No! I will not inter my Cred-Stick number over the telephone! Hello! Hello!? Are you there!?"
Roberta turns her bird-like attention back on Walter as he commences hollering, and grins widely at his antics, her face lit expressively with interest and amusement. "Oh dear," she exclaims, and steps over a piece of luggage to sit down beside the man, dress hems a- furl. "I think I can help with this," she offers, and leans forward as if to also take a listen at the receiver against Walter's ear. "I have exceptionally good ears," she explains further, unaware that her continual interjections of conversation are probably making it even harder for Walter to concentrate on what must be The Lovelorn Hotline, by the sounds of it.
The noises coming from the phone barely resemble human speech, the line is filled with static and Walter slams the phone closed in frustration at the interference running through the skies tonight. The television reporter turns to face the eccentric woman sitting next to him and admits to the reporter, "I should have realized I was going to have a bad day today when I got off the transport at the gates." He glances at the microphone at Roberta's neck before holding out his hand, "Have we met before? I don't seem to recall your name." Whether or not this is entirely true is up to the observer, of course... after all, isn't there always the chance he might be faking it?
Roberta remains in her leaning, listening position, even while Walter is shutting down the connection violently, her eyes rolling in their sockets to regard him in her peripheral vision, a big smile on her face. She's either having riotous fun watching and feeding his own quirks, or she genuinely likes the man. After a moment, she sits back, and turns to face him just as he addresses her. She bobs her head quickly, that's a definite yes yes yes! "We have.. and that's quite all right, Mister Reily. My name usually makes the synaptic connection through the eyes, rather than the ears, as is more usual with a television personality like yourself." Bing! she reaches the end of that lungful, and swiftly draws in another to chirp, "I'm Roberta Gheist, with the Town Crier. I believe we met once at a party.. the one-oh-eight awards banquet, it was. You won that night... it was quite thrilling!" She offers her hand about halfway through, black eyes gleaming enthusiastically.
Evening time, and the Plaza is alive with small activities, the least of which concerns a bench, and two Tolkeen news personalities, one of television and one of the written word according to the Crier. Several groups of fancily-dressed groups are moving intently through the park, into Druid's Grove, where most likely there's a blazing fire, and a master storyteller with zombiefest on the brain.
The armored, black-on-black V-8 Interceptor is parked half up on the sidewalk quite aways off. The leather-clad driver is squeaking his way up to the disturbance. Sounds like a party, maybe. Or just a get together. Or what have you. Boots echo hollowly as Sterling eases up along the sidewalk, eyeing the fancily dressed oddballs. Seems like particularly odd fashion to him, perhaps. With hints of a grimace, he stretches out weary hands, leather creaking, knuckles cracking. Patiently, he eyes the two folk nearby. The least odd-looking... or... well, the least oddly dressed. The steel in the man's face - he can get used to that. The tips on the ears? Ah, he knew this mutie chick out near Lake Canberra... but that's a different story for a different time, right? The youth ambles over, scratching his stubble absently, tilting his head to them.
The two reporters sit upon the park bench, surrounded by a pile of half-open luggage in the light of the street lamps. Walter blinks once before nodding slowly as the young woman finishes her breathless introduction. He hums for a moment and then answers, "Ah yes, I remember now!" He pauses for a moment after demonstrating his excellent grasp of interlocution before asking a question of his own, "Do you find working for the Crier pleasant? I take it you've begun to make a name for yourself there?" The male reporter's phone rests in his hand, forgotten for a moment.
Roberta has eyes for only Walter... oh, and the small, inner-lit fountain behind them. Aaannd, that person over yonder strumming a banjo- like instrument and singing a little ditty about the warding off of weeping, howling spirits, by.. well.. laughing uproariously. Which he does, at regular intervals. Meanwhile, Roberta pays about six-eighths attention to the celebrity, bobbing her head again with wild good cheer and splaying one long, black-tipped hand against her chest as she speaks, her voice clear and ringing in the open air. "Yes, indeed, Sir! Can you imagine I started in the entertainment features, fact-checking for the underwriters there," she drops her voice dramatically, "but my lucky break came about when I actually managed to track down that secretive poet, whose work caused all that intellectual hooplah in the Primaries!" She cannot keep in all the glee! "And then, came the Dream plague, and, well... here I am now.. Woden's Day headliner. Do you suppose I'm preening overly much?" she shifts down her tone again, not looking apologetic whatsoever as she gazes eagerly into Walter's eye(s)... then darts her head, bird-like, to spy out Sterling a moment.
Curses. Poor Sterling's gonna have to elbow in. How he so hates to cause a disturbance. Really, a mild... pleasant soul. Leather all a- creak, the gawky wanderer eases up to the two, with an abrupt, "Oi!" probably -designed- to rend peaceful, fountain-bound conversations in twain. "Pardon f' the int-dis-turb-eruption an' all... but wassis? Wha's all this, then?" The youth half-interrogates - long arms gesturing grandly, seams of his driving suit creaking, mouth all wide as he asks the question. Trying to enunciate for these poor savages who don't know The Queen's Own English.
This? This is a park, you drunk ninny... Walter doesn't exactly say this out loud, mind you as he eyes the leather-clad individual for a moment. Walter cranes his neck to look around at the area indicated by the biker's waving arms. He stands for a minute, undoubtedly intending to place himself between the young woman and the scruffy looking ruffian... or to clear his feet from the luggage should he need to high tail it out the park if the young man turns out to be Roberta's boyfriend. Ahh, Chivalry is alive and well in Tolkeen. He raises his voice and theatrically waves his arms as he does so, "This... is Hallowe'en! The day the spirits of the dead are visible by moonlight, and they must roam the earth bearing a hollowed out turnip as lanterns to light their ways!" Hmm, obviously this man is one lovesick pup... I mean, Turnips? Come on... How symbolically suggestive can you get?
Roberta sits back a little more, not so much as to get away from this stinky-leathered, incomprehensible young man, as to get a wider scope of the larger-than-life Traveler. Of course /she/ doesn't think of /her/ own self as so outrageously dressed.. why, this is her everyday wear. The eccentric has, in fact, added wool-lined, rumpled warmers to her long arms and legs, under the flaps and straps of her bright outfit. The changing weather, you understand. Anyhoo... "What.. a.. /marvelously/ unique tongue you've got," she exclaims, after Walter is done posturing. She invites further, "Say something else, if you please?" and leans forward, almost teetering off the bench, as she puts energetic speed into thrusting her throat mike forth to capture the harsh, butchered phrases from Sterling's gullet.
The automobile enthusiast kind of squints his eyes just slightly at Walter. "Allo'een?" A pause as Sterling straightens up... scratching his scalp wearily, twisting to eye the strange costumes. His back cracks, pops. Then, back and leather alike wearily groaning, he leans back down to smile toothily at Roberta. Nope. No orthodontists where he's from. "Jibber atcha fer a mite, lass? Yeh, I dunno much, but that, I kin 'andle." A dry chuckle... then, finally, tilting his head Walter- wards, he spits back, "Oh! Like... like All-Sain's Day, oi?"
The male reporter scratches his head for a second as he struggles to remember his childhood catechism and parse the man's strange accent before answering with a plerophory of assuredness. "Yes, I believe it's the same thing." He decides to take the plunge and give one of his patented television smiles to the obviously ill-educated man before offering his hand for a shake. "My name is Walter Reily, from Channel One News... and your name is?" He raises his one eyebrow as if expecting a response, or at least some sort of grunt...
"It's something from another land, with word fragments that are distantly related to our own, and yet spotted with so many alternations, that the listener is left struck dumb by the realization... that the humanoid creature before them... believes that it is /he/ who is speaking in true American," Roberta declares in a startlingly MovieTone NewsReel voice, speaking, it seems, into the wired microphone below her jaw, though her black, snapping gaze weaves between Walter and Sterling like an excited pair of weasels. She lets Walter take control of the conversation, smiling with sharklike interest as she waits for the next installment of The 'Beg Pardon?' Improv Show.
"Well," Sterling grins happily at ol' Walter, "th' gents back home - an' some gents here, in yer North Amerigo, they done taken t' callin' me Ramblin' Jim Tannin... but me mum, she named me Sterling Tannin, after... well, I don't rightly -know- what aftah," he admits, with a cheerful, goofy smile, "but it's me name, an' it'll -haveta- do f'now, oi?" Some silence... then 'Rambling Jim' narrows his eyes, peering skeptically at the elf. "'uman-wha'? Lissen, lady. I dunno 'bout this funny 'Merigo'a yers, but I kin tell ye' one thing... I don't bloody well speak it. I speak -English-... language'a civilized blokes, world over, come the Before-Time. 'afore the Pocky-Clipse, that is to say."
"Well, Mister Tannin, I take it you obviously haven't been around here in Tolkeen for very long..." Walter says, looking down at his unaccepted hand before placing it at his side. His eye widens for a moment as he realizes one crucial detail he's missed, causing his hand to swing once more outward and indicate the presence of Roberta, "...Where are my manners... this is Mizz Roberta C. Gheist of the Town Crier. I don't know if you read the papers here or not..." Walter says in an almost rude tone, as if disgruntled by the non-acceptance of what he thought was an almost universal gesture...
Roberta yaps easily on the heels of Sterling's protest, "Correction.. the humanoid creature doesn't even /know/ that he's speaking American. He scatters his inflections like birdseed, shouting unnecessarily, and putting a crude, sing-song spin in his phrasing that makes him suspiciously reminiscent of a warlock, drawing nigh the thunderheads..!" With a dramatic flourish, she reaches up faintly, thespian-like to indicate the driving dark clouds building above, surrounding, but not quite blocking, the cold white moon. She is quite the expressive personality. And she misses nothing, looking back sharply at the sound of her name, and straightening her long, tall frame from the bench to greet the subject of her impromptu essay, with due delight. "Thank you, Mister Reily. Mister Jim Sterling Tannin!" She dips her head in an elaborate bounce, and offers her own hand, oblivious perhaps to the fact that Walter's previous attempt was rebuffed. What was that about 'missing nothing'?
Seems like Sterling's too dazzled by all the attention to really mind his manners. Not that he was very good about that in the first place. Shifting on his weight, he counters, "Papers, ah? Wha' sortsa... ah, buggeritall, ye'll explain later - you're the type'a standup gent what doesn't leave a bloke in the dark, oi?" A toothful smile as he reaches out to grasp Walter's hand with both of his - pump it firmly. "Damn glad to meetcha, Reily." Then to Roberta with a similarly expansive grin. "Bleedin' d'lighted to meetcha's well, Birdie. 's not 'Merigo, tho'. Whatever that may be. Nah... nor none'athem thunder'eads, neither. Jes' Rosinante an' I." Releasing Walter's hands, there's a quick jerk of his thumb to the car half-'parked' on the sidewalk. Finally, he moves to grab one of poor Roberta's hands, and subject it to the same hand-dislocating greeting. All in the name of civilization, whatwhat?
Walter grins for a moment as his hand is enthusiastically shaken, then begins to realize that this is surely the path to a headache as the shaking continues up his arm, through his shoulder, and then to his neck: causing his head to bounce like one of those novelty dash ornaments for a moment. The reporter remains standing after the near concussion but rubs his forehead for a second before firing off another question, "How long have you been in Tolkeen, Mister Tannin? Have you seen many of the sights here?"
"Birdie..?" queries Roberta, her voice quavering a bit due to all the tremors moving up her arm from Sterling's convulsive handshake. A few shakes in, however, and she's eagerly matching it, matching enthusiasm with effervescence, with her strong-fingered hand and her somewhat feral grin. They are all, it seems, of aggressive dispositions.. giving old style film-quality performances at that. If only there were a punier, retiring personality present, so they could take turns hammering it wittily into the ground. Or perhaps Tout Ensemble. "Charming, absolutely charming," the woman journalist muses, of the sudden offering of faceless names. She defers to Walter's break into questioning again, casting her keen gaze upon the Interceptor so many yards away. Her ever-active mind clicks a few times, and makes the final connection, and she roves her gaze towards the Traveler again. "A man and his road-eater," she says softly into her throat-mike, "A trick of the moon on this most dangerous night. Wouldn't that be a delicious tale, if the man /were/ a spook?" she hazards, and trills laughter at her fond imaginings.
Ought to be interesting footage, if that eye has a camera, and the camera is on. For a moment, Sterling's just lost in the ritual of shaking Roberta's hand. But then Walter pulls him down from where he soars amidst the clouds, flying like a kite. A grin emerges at the question. A kind of savvy, knowing grin. This could be trouble. "Sights, oi? I'll tell ye'... tha' Alejandra? She's a sight! That Dawn, over at Java Fact'ry, at tha'! She's the sorta girl wouldn' min' havin' near ye'... warm ye' up, on a cold night out beyond the stump" Sterling's eyes light up - his lopsided grin effusive, now, as he continues on in blind praise of the fair 'sights' he's seen in fair Tolkeen. "An', ah," he adds, as an after thought, "That... Del Reyhart, wazzit? That bird... she's got 'erself a -lovely- personality. If she los', maybe, five'a ten pounds? Grew out some hair on 'er noggin? She'd be aces, all apples, mate, believe you me," he remarks quite readily, though the grins faded some. Then... turning on the (in)famous Tannin charm, he turns a more subdued grin on Roberta. "An' if Mizz Birdie don' min' me sayin' so, she ain't so bad a sight, 'erself.... though... I s'pose she does jabber 'er pretty mouth a bit much f'my tastes."
Blinking at the flurry of women's names, Walter expression changes slowly, as he undoubtedly realizes he knows most of those names the "Traveller" quickly rattled off in sequence. Suddenly, the little cellular phone in Walter's left hand rings loudly, interrupting any response the male reporter could make to these statements, instead causing the cyclopean professional to excuse himself for a moment to answer the annoying bit of technology.
Roberta peers raptly at the be-leathered man, a Birdie caught in the gaze of a snake.. or is the snake to become prey to a Hawk, after all? "And so, the spook /is/ a man," she relays in her running commentary of the encounter, a flavor of disappointment for a mystery solved. It doesn't last three seconds, before she's found something new to speculate and marvel at. "Do you know.. I understood /all/ of that!" she realizes with a surge of misplaced satisfaction. "I always had an /ear/ for languages and accents, but I never thought I'd pick up a new lingo so readily. It must be due to your own jabbering, Sir.. and I thank you for that." She's just so darned pleased. Her glance darts over to observe Walter, not having forgotten her original goals in approaching the bigtime celebrity.
"Oi!" Sterling exclaims, suddenly... brows furrowing a bit, eyes narrowing some as he peers at the hand-held radio. "Wassis? Lookit'er! Tiny as a bedroll mite, an' twice's smart, innit!" he remarks, probably loud enough for the other party to hear. "I musta done trans-par-tated meself inta the future-like!" It's only half-serious, really. City- Dwellers have all kinds of machines like that. It's not the -far- future. It's just a short time later, in a land far away. A pause as he looks back to Roberta with his sloping smile, directed towards her gracious thanks. "Lissen 'ere, Birdie... me? I'm jes' glad I gotcha t' jabber up the English right proper-like." A soft laugh... then, quieter, "You an' 'im... uh... t'gether-like? In a man-woman... ball-chain... tranny-crankshaft kinda way?" The knotty knuckled hands gesture vaguely, somewhat helplessly as he searches for words.
"Hello? This is Walter Riely... who is this? Who? No, I don't want to subscribe to Techno-Magus Monthly... Yes, good bye!" The reporter slaps the phone closed, only to have it ring again, forcing him to answer it: "I said... Oh... uhm... I'm sorry there Mister... I must have been transferred to the wrong line..." During the quarter second it took Walter to close the phone, shouting could be heard emanating from the little hand-set. Walter glances at the little machine and almost gets it placed into his pocket before it goes off again. Such strange behavior... maybe those egg-head engineers hadn't quite gotten all the bugs out before they came out with this model or something.
The wire filaments traveling Roberta's ears gleam, catching light from the moon just before the clouds rush over it, the blue tint to the ley-rich air of the Plaza jumping up by several watts, in the absence of the cold reflective rays. A few thrilled screams chill the air, coming presumably from the Grove, where the story being told is accentuated in effect by the springing up of new, pallbearer-looming shadows. All serving to fuel Roberta's sense of the dramatic, and she takes this moment to laugh merrily in clear jangles across the emptying park, over Sterling's question, as if it were the single most ridiculous notion in the world. The attentive, almost adoring gaze the sharp-eared woman casts to Walter, though, might indicate otherwise. "Mister Sterling Tannin, you are full of the most interesting ideas!" she praises with a touching sincerity. "..and it's a lucky thing that Mister Reily is still occupied by his cellular, or you'd have ended up embarrassing him terribly, I'm afraid." Her alert, sharkgaze slides over to Walter speculatively, and she shakes her head, this time minutely, and very out of character from what has been witnessed so far. "We are, thus far, only once acquainted," she says quietly.
That -does- attract a bit of Sterling's suddenly rapt attention. The flicker, that is. The flicker of light over chrome. "Hey," he whispers, momentarily transfixed. "Like the Man in'th's face on me mate's backpipe." The distant screams snap him out of it, as does the quiet, enigmatical response from the strange humanette. Some silence as Sterling pales... then, "-Only- once acquainted, issit? Well... back where's I come from, that's more'n enough. Some partsa th' Rim, you an' 'im'd be married, by the now, after the one time. But, by-an'-large," he helpfully supplies, "by common consent, jus' the once acquaintin'... that there's enough to mark you as off limits, if not, by a kinna de- fac-toh, as proper-like his." A careful nod as he draws away. "So, don' sell y'selves short with this 'only once' business."
Walter continues to be occupied by his tiny cellular, timidly answering it yet one more time, "Hello? Yeah. This is Walter... I just got back. Yes, I'm down here at Freedom Plaza. Why don't I just take a taxi? Have you /ever/ ridden in any of the cabs around here? Alright, thanks... I appreciate it. Yeah, good night." Walter closes his phone and proceeds to remove the battery lest it ring /one/ more time tonight, placing both pieces in his inside jacket pocket. With that deed accomplished, Walter turns and walks back a step or two to where Roberta and Sterling are continuing their conversation.
Roberta moves her head in a faint, ethereal angling of her gaze back to Sterling, pausing briefly over his encouraging words, and understanding quickly that a gross misunderstanding has occurred. Her too-pale skin is sea blue in the current moon-less lighting, with her jet black hair and eye coloring transforming her into a tall, thin, alien creature. "Most amusing man," she says softly, though it's not quite certain that she's actually talking for the benefit of the microphone... and who's to say that it was ever really on? "A very dear, very interesting man," she continues, with a succinct nod that the light turns into an alien bow. Just then, the White Tower gleams anew as the moon jumps back out from the pitching clouds. Applause can be heard from the Grove.. Congratulations for a story well told. Roberta seems to come alive again, sharp-eyed gaze snapping over to Walter. She smiles like a drawn knife. "Forgive me for overhearing, Mister Reily, but I have very keen ears. I take it you're stranded here in the park with all your baggage," she remarks loudly.
Tall, thin alien creature. Yeh, but it's not an issue. There was this wallabee girl in Queensland that Foggy the Three-Toed Miner wound up... well, stories. Sterling's got a thousand of 'em. The point? A humanette - pointy ears, jet black hair, and strange too-pale skin - is more human than an animal-like mutie... who, in turn, is paces farther along the evolutionary ladder than your average Tech-City dwelling slug. And there we have it. "Well... I do what's I'm able," the youth shrugs in pleased, humble amusement. Rather perplexed, beneath it all. Some silence, then, finally, "... 'ey, you lovey-doves need a bitta th' ol' lift-er-oo?" A thumb jerks back in the vague direction of 'Rosinante', the armored, black-on-black, sleek two door sedan with the ram-prow, the empty roof turret, the chrome engine, and the police bubble.
With a glance down to the scattered and half-opened bags around the bench, Walter answers Roberta and Sterling's questions with a shrugged: "Yeah, I guess with this weird stuff happening to my phone, I'm going to have a hard time getting a hold of someone who's not scared witless of driving tonight..." Walter glances over at the Druid's Grove as a number of strangely dressed couples exit and stroll home for the night. He appraises Sterling with his good eye and then asks more politely, "If it's no trouble to you?"
"...I am almost tempted to lie, Mister Tannin," intimates Roberta in her usual, non-intimate tones. "But the sad story is, that I only live just down the Way." She points with her wool-banded arm, south, probably towards the five-story white-stone structure just down by Tarn Avenue. "But not even a glimpse into the interior of that strange machine is worth a falsehood, tonight." She smiles broadly though, as she hints, "-They- know it for what it is.. and they'll use any excuse." Wait.. was /that/ just a lie?
Stroking a hand back through his already contorted hair, Sterling offers Walter a kind of dubious stare. It -must- be a hoax. People scared witless of driving? People -unwilling- to drive? And... 'no trouble to you'... to drive? A blink, then, once he realizes Walter is in earnest, he openly replies, "Well... Christ Lord Jesus, nosir!" As if to punctuate, he tugs twice on the strange cross and the stranger clay handicraft (like an dancing man with spikey hair getting an x-ray). "I'll help y' loadjerstuff in - careful for me dog, is all." Then, he looks to Roberta, brow arched. "You sure, Birdie? I could take y' for a spin-er-oo roun' an' roun' for a few klicks, if y'willin'. 's not a bad ride." Still, wouldn't be the worst thing if she didn't go... because an increasingly perplexed Sterling has also just begun calculating how much of this luggage his chariot can hold. Sleek, sure. Armored? Yes. But two-door sedan is the key, here. You can't keep bags in a ram-prow, and you can't stow a carry-on in a flamethrower.
To Walter's defense, it's not like there's /that/ much luggage... with a little creative packing it's entirely possible to fit it all this material into the small machine. Granted it might mean placing half of the bags in the passenger's lap, and maybe one or three in the driver's as well. And then with leaving the windows rolled down in order to fit the long tube-like packages mixed amongst the bags... well, it'd be a tight fit, but if Walter held his breath for the whole ride it might work...
Roberta smiles with hardlight cheer. Like children and puppies, she needs no excuse. "Next time, Mister Tannin.. next time," she declares. "And there will be one. I've no doubt it'd be impossible to lose you even in a city of this size. Mister Reily." She turns to the rescued anchorman. "You are frightfully elusive, even though I see you almost every day." Way to confuse Sterling on the facts, even further! "But I always hope to run into you again during one press conference or another. Now, goodnight, goodnight all!" With a parting grin, she steps around a piece of luggage and strides boldly off along the southern pathway of interlocking brick. Could her interest in Walter be any more vague-... ah, that is.. obvious? If Walter doesn't ask her out to dinner soon, she may well lob a brick through his condominium window one energetic night. As she drifts farther away, she can be heard talking to herself.. or to whatever manner of ghostie has decided to stalk her on her way home.
"Oi!" Sterling remarks quite pleasantly. Kind of a snap-to like remark. Like he's in the militia for play-like, when he was just a wee anklebiter. Watching the woman wander off with a kind of meager smile, Sterling eases forward... snatching up two of the bags... grimacing slightly as he hefts it up. Apparently, movement is his basic thing... not so much, with lifting. "Roit..." he mutters, quietly, "Howmuchathis?"
Walter bends down to grab a few of the other bags off of the ground and strolls over to the two-door. He stands there estimating the cargo capacity of the vehicle without seeming to understand Sterling's question at all. He scratches his forhead for a moment and then mutters something along the lines of: "Maybe we can strap it down to the top? I've got those poles there too..." He points to the tube like boxes lying on the ground as well.
With a low, breathless grunt, Tannin sets the bags down by the trunk. "Only'smuch space inna boot," Sterling remarks, rather wearily. Some silence... then a lost little shrug, "I s'pose I could secure somma't up there, yeh. 's not the mos' secure bit, though..." Especially with the way Sterling drives. Cripes.
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