Plenty. Parents and parental-adjacent figures aside.
When I was a kid, we lived in a... closed settlement. Pretty much everyone I knew was an authority figure, back then. Not a lot of other children around. And when I found the Followers, obviously there were teachers and instructors and lecturers to rule our lives.
Even now, there's Julie, who's technically my boss. Sure, we don't really do the whole command hierarchy thing, around here - it's more like a voluntary organizational position, at the top. But I respect her, and what she says goes. Generally speaking, anyway.
I'm sorry to hear that. About growing up without anyone your age, I mean. I was lucky to have children in my cohort... though most of them were related to me.
I think Vaults are a lot different from what you must think of them. It's not a dictatorship. We're Americans, after all.
I understand not all Vaults are the same. Some of them even seem to have produced some pretty well-adjusted, ordinary folks, somehow. Like 21.
But you'll have to forgive me if I find it hard to trust that any of them were structured with enduring altruism and pure democracy at heart, after what I've seen.
Everyone's rigid in their thinking when it comes to their morals. Almost everyone. I just stick out like a sore thumb up here because I've never wondered what babies taste like.
It's fine. I've had worse said to me for a lot less.
Besides, you have every right to be angry. Frustrated. Exhausted. If I woke up one day, walked outside, and found out I had to relearn pretty much everything I thought I knew about how the world works, well. I don't know if I'd have stuck with it quite as long as you have.
I have a little brother. You don't complain half as much as him ;)
There's a second part to that, but I don't remember what it is. I tried to take Latin, but I was better at Spanish. All I remember is how to say hello and thank you.
[She doesn't ask if he took Latin. Wastelanders are-- understandably, she thinks-- a bit twitchy about Antiquity.]
In that expanse of scrub brush, Lucy sees above her a sky of endless, placid blue. The sandstorm on the horizon has sucked every spare smudge of cloud from the sky; it rides the wind like the prow of a ship, eating the land beneath it. She took a few survival courses when she was young-- they all did, they all had to-- and she remembers stories of ancient travelers in unmapped lands. Protect your eyes and mouth. Drink water. Get to high ground or, if you can't, find shelter.
The cave isn't far off, a relic of an ancient ice age-- proud rock honeycombed into the earth. Lucy finds a place sufficiently far from the entrance, enough that she can take off the goggles she was wearing, pull the cloth down from her mouth. She hopes there's water, here. She hopes she doesn't have to hide for too long.
It's hard to see in the brownish dark of the cave. Her pipboy casts a green light that bounces off the red rock walls, making everything seem pallid and dead. The rock curves in ancient whorls, and it looks like the mutilated skin of a dead giant. There was a fairy tale about that; Lucy's father told it to her after her mother died. Like so many things from that time, she can't fully recall all the details.
She delves further in. Over the echoing howl of the storm, she can hear the crackling of fire. In some self-conscious instinct, she brushes sand from her hair, pulls up the zipper of her suit, tries to look presentable. She is caked in dust, smells like sweat and ozone-- but you can only make a first impression once.
Turning the corner, she sees an unknown figure-- hazy in the half light, caught between the green of her pipboy and the orange glow of flame, but she thinks it's an older man.
"Well, hey there!" Her voice is high, cheerful; it doesn't touch how tired she feels, how relieved she is to see another human face. "I guess you had the same idea as me."
Plenty of warning, if he needs it, with the way that light advances. Jumping in time with footfalls' crunches; throwing its sickly cast, melded off-hue with fire's glow, over rock and dirt. When the bearer finally heaves into view, it's as though her shadow already gave him sufficient report. He doesn't reach instantly for a weapon (which is not the same as there being no suggestion of one present), any more than he would at the shadow itself, its approach over the cave walls well-assessed.
"I intend to survive, yes." He speaks more softly than she, though still clear enough to be heard above the storm outside. Voice unencumbered by the scarf at his throat, pulled down since the air back here was deemed acceptably sand-free. His head is bare, hair a thick shock over the high brow. Darker than the scruff along his cheek and jaw.
There's a tripod and hook braced over the campfire, hanging a little pot of something highly questionable, bubbling away. On the ground to his one side sits an empty plate scraped clean. To his other, the rest of his gear: just a simple pack, no bells and whistles, no tech. Nothing that's been left out, anyway.
He doesn't say anything else, or do much at all. Just sits there, elbows on his knees, and looks at her.
There is a moment, just a brief moment, where Lucy considers that this man might be dangerous. But assuming the worst of a stranger goes against her entire ethos-- people are inherently good, and need trust to prove it. She reaches for her rucksack, and pulls out an ancient can of preserved Vienna sausages. The label, while somewhat faded, is still legible, if cast in a grim light by her pipboy.
"I brought dinner. Want to share?"
She gives her best, brightest smile, though lit from underneath it overemphasizes her teeth.
"I don't need to share anything, except this shelter, right now." The slightest emphasis on need. Which might seem a little underscoring of his own self-sufficiency, and it is; he has everything required to make it through this storm. Yet it's also a subtle advertisement, if she can pick it up, of what he doesn't deem necessary: violence, as opposed to temporary coexistence. (His voice, well-suited to tonal nuance, stays low, even striving with the cave's distortion.)
"But you can use the fire." Lifting his chin, he indicates the space on the ground across from his. The light isn't particularly kind to his features, either. More cadmium than phosphor, it still manages to shine eerie on the ridge of his brows, and hellish everywhere else.
Lucy sees it as an invitation, told sideways to preserve... something about the other man, pride or the feeling of being a rugged individual. Maybe he, like her, is tired of being underestimated. The thought makes her like him more, not that she needs a reason. She's predisposed to like everyone. She was raised that way.
She sits next to him, and, still beaming, begins to open the can. "More for me, then!" More chipper small talk, a refuge for when she doesn't know what to do. You need to be polite, and cheerfulness is part of that, even when she feels weary.
He stays where he is, when she takes the place beside him, though it's clearly not what was offered. No evident tensing, no recoil and frown. Though he does move his empty plate, soon as he sees her intent. Places it with the rest of his gear, so she's got that spot of ground—and room in front of the fire too.
"Alex." Reaching to clasp her hand, solid but brief. His is calloused, dirt rimed under the nails, a few minor scars across the knuckles. Both reasonable and noteworthy at once, out here, considering. He angles his head to look straight into her face, even after his arm settles back at his knee.
Her handshake is firm but gentle, her hands dry and warm. Her smile is genuine, even as her eyes rake over his face, trying to see him better.
Lucy cuts two holes in the can with a large Bowie knife, the kind used to skin alligators in some distant time or place. Even in the dim light, her movements are precise. If you can't do something well, you may as well not do it at all.
"I appreciate you offering," she says, very direct. "But I can't. Water is-- I know what it costs, up here."
“The offer’s not free.” When he corrects her it isn’t sharp, just firm and swift. Like his hand. “I am open to a trade.”
He’s still looking at her head-on, in between the motions she makes slicing open the can. The flames’ glow washes the stark planes of his face, which gives back little, save the force of scrutiny itself.
As for what Alex sees in hers—he’d wondered if the composite sketches were half caricature, the size of those eyes. Not by much, it turns out.
Lucy goes a little still, considering his words. Of course she'd assumed a free gift, an attempt to be kind-- it's what she would have done. This is a different place, the surface, a different world. Another culture. Another time. The Wasteland lives in a perpetual future.
She should look at this as an opportunity. She can show him her kindness, and in doing so, prove trustworthy.
“I already told you.” Again, a correction. Delivered almost patiently, yet absent of any feeling—including even mild disappointment—which might result from his being at all impressed to begin with. “I don’t need anything, here.”
He glances away, long enough to reach for the pot still hanging over his fire. Unhooks it, sets it down in the cool dirt to one side.
A lifetime of excelling, of always striving, of always getting it right; her jaw twitches very sightly at this correction. She isn't supposed to get things wrong. But it's worth reiterating, if only to herself-- this man is from another culture. It's not wrong. It's miscommunication.
"Well, I'm a good shot, but I figure everybody's gotta be out here to survive." Her cheer is summoned back immediately, instinctively. "I've benefited from a full and vigorous education. I can name all the pre-war presidents."
She knows he won't care about that, but it's a fun thing to mention.
"Do you need anything repaired? I was a part of the Young Pipefitter's Association, and I once built a fully functional TV set out of spare parts. It stopped working after an hour, but only because one of the vacuum tubes was faulty." One day, she's sure, she'll finally find out who shot Liberty Valance.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
https://bakerstreet.dreamwidth.org/11377827.html?thread=4626189219#cmt4626189219
I'll have you know I got all A's in my literary analysis class, which was an elective! Which involves a lot of critical thinking!
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When I was a kid, we lived in a... closed settlement. Pretty much everyone I knew was an authority figure, back then. Not a lot of other children around. And when I found the Followers, obviously there were teachers and instructors and lecturers to rule our lives.
Even now, there's Julie, who's technically my boss. Sure, we don't really do the whole command hierarchy thing, around here - it's more like a voluntary organizational position, at the top. But I respect her, and what she says goes. Generally speaking, anyway.
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I think Vaults are a lot different from what you must think of them. It's not a dictatorship. We're Americans, after all.
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I understand not all Vaults are the same. Some of them even seem to have produced some pretty well-adjusted, ordinary folks, somehow. Like 21.
But you'll have to forgive me if I find it hard to trust that any of them were structured with enduring altruism and pure democracy at heart, after what I've seen.
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[A significant pause between that text and the next:]
Do you think I always listen to whoever's in charge?
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[ naive? ]
rigid, in the way you see things.
You're a good person, and you want to see the best in people. And I'm not suggesting you change all that, because it's exactly what we need more of.
But good intentions alone won't keep you alive out here for long.
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[Maybe his observation cut a little close.]
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Besides, you have every right to be angry. Frustrated. Exhausted. If I woke up one day, walked outside, and found out I had to relearn pretty much everything I thought I knew about how the world works, well. I don't know if I'd have stuck with it quite as long as you have.
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I know my vault is... messed up, for the record. But it did provide a good education and moral framework. Maybe accidentally.
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You can be grateful for something and also acknowledge that maybe it wasn't exactly the best thing. Vitiis nemo sine nascitur. Nobody's perfect.
https://bakerstreet.dreamwidth.org/11377827.html?thread=4626288803#cmt4626288803
Like what? I heard that in the old world, people would get metal plates in their heads! I'm not sure why...
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There's a second part to that, but I don't remember what it is. I tried to take Latin, but I was better at Spanish. All I remember is how to say hello and thank you.
[She doesn't ask if he took Latin. Wastelanders are-- understandably, she thinks-- a bit twitchy about Antiquity.]
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Well, Spanish is likely to serve you better, out here, anyway. Still plenty of native speakers, in the region. Some even from before the War.
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You gonna bite it out like you did my finger?
for @shales.
The cave isn't far off, a relic of an ancient ice age-- proud rock honeycombed into the earth. Lucy finds a place sufficiently far from the entrance, enough that she can take off the goggles she was wearing, pull the cloth down from her mouth. She hopes there's water, here. She hopes she doesn't have to hide for too long.
It's hard to see in the brownish dark of the cave. Her pipboy casts a green light that bounces off the red rock walls, making everything seem pallid and dead. The rock curves in ancient whorls, and it looks like the mutilated skin of a dead giant. There was a fairy tale about that; Lucy's father told it to her after her mother died. Like so many things from that time, she can't fully recall all the details.
She delves further in. Over the echoing howl of the storm, she can hear the crackling of fire. In some self-conscious instinct, she brushes sand from her hair, pulls up the zipper of her suit, tries to look presentable. She is caked in dust, smells like sweat and ozone-- but you can only make a first impression once.
Turning the corner, she sees an unknown figure-- hazy in the half light, caught between the green of her pipboy and the orange glow of flame, but she thinks it's an older man.
"Well, hey there!" Her voice is high, cheerful; it doesn't touch how tired she feels, how relieved she is to see another human face. "I guess you had the same idea as me."
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"I intend to survive, yes." He speaks more softly than she, though still clear enough to be heard above the storm outside. Voice unencumbered by the scarf at his throat, pulled down since the air back here was deemed acceptably sand-free. His head is bare, hair a thick shock over the high brow. Darker than the scruff along his cheek and jaw.
There's a tripod and hook braced over the campfire, hanging a little pot of something highly questionable, bubbling away. On the ground to his one side sits an empty plate scraped clean. To his other, the rest of his gear: just a simple pack, no bells and whistles, no tech. Nothing that's been left out, anyway.
He doesn't say anything else, or do much at all. Just sits there, elbows on his knees, and looks at her.
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"I brought dinner. Want to share?"
She gives her best, brightest smile, though lit from underneath it overemphasizes her teeth.
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"But you can use the fire." Lifting his chin, he indicates the space on the ground across from his. The light isn't particularly kind to his features, either. More cadmium than phosphor, it still manages to shine eerie on the ridge of his brows, and hellish everywhere else.
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She sits next to him, and, still beaming, begins to open the can. "More for me, then!" More chipper small talk, a refuge for when she doesn't know what to do. You need to be polite, and cheerfulness is part of that, even when she feels weary.
"I'm Lucy, by the way." She holds out her hand.
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"Alex." Reaching to clasp her hand, solid but brief. His is calloused, dirt rimed under the nails, a few minor scars across the knuckles. Both reasonable and noteworthy at once, out here, considering. He angles his head to look straight into her face, even after his arm settles back at his knee.
"You need water?"
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Lucy cuts two holes in the can with a large Bowie knife, the kind used to skin alligators in some distant time or place. Even in the dim light, her movements are precise. If you can't do something well, you may as well not do it at all.
"I appreciate you offering," she says, very direct. "But I can't. Water is-- I know what it costs, up here."
In her youth, it was so plentiful.
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He’s still looking at her head-on, in between the motions she makes slicing open the can. The flames’ glow washes the stark planes of his face, which gives back little, save the force of scrutiny itself.
As for what Alex sees in hers—he’d wondered if the composite sketches were half caricature, the size of those eyes. Not by much, it turns out.
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She should look at this as an opportunity. She can show him her kindness, and in doing so, prove trustworthy.
"What do you need?"
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He glances away, long enough to reach for the pot still hanging over his fire. Unhooks it, sets it down in the cool dirt to one side.
“What do you have that’s useful?”
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"Well, I'm a good shot, but I figure everybody's gotta be out here to survive." Her cheer is summoned back immediately, instinctively. "I've benefited from a full and vigorous education. I can name all the pre-war presidents."
She knows he won't care about that, but it's a fun thing to mention.
"Do you need anything repaired? I was a part of the Young Pipefitter's Association, and I once built a fully functional TV set out of spare parts. It stopped working after an hour, but only because one of the vacuum tubes was faulty." One day, she's sure, she'll finally find out who shot Liberty Valance.