[She's never seen any dogs in the desert despite the cans of dog food being a staple of every runner's diet. She suspected the city still had them, but for Girl the knowledge of creatures that weren't sand critters or her own cat was restricted to stories from old timers or pictures in the Zone's questionable magazines. It catches her off guard to see one now, same way the cat had startled her when she first caught it chasing lizards up Joshua trees.
She walks up to the creatures from behind, cautious because she knows what a spooked animal is capable of and Girl's not looking to get bit. That and the size. Maybe that's why her cat has hunched up several steps behind her, hissing like a viper. Were dogs always so big or was that just how things grew when radiation wasn't a problem? She kneels a few feet away from the pack, hand outstretched.]
Hey there.
[She realizes her mistake when the creatures turn all at once, gasp stalled in her throat. Girl may not know anything about dogs but she knows anything red eyed and smoking can't be be good. She falls on her back, rolling to her knees and grabbing the now yowling cat in one shaky move. She gets to her feet and starts running as the dogs snap at her heels. She takes off blindly, concerned more with getting distance than where she's going and ignoring the cat's claws digging red rivers into her arms. When she stumbles upon other people, she doesn't slow down by much. Instead Girl shouts at them as the dogs draw near.]
Go. Now!
ii. Dreaming
[She's used to nightmares. Since Girl was a child, or rather since her childhood came to a violent end, night had come with a promise of panic, of waking up gasping and crying. She dreams of death, more often than not Girl always knows in the back of her mind what she's seeing isn't real. It's just guilt and bad memories catching up to her.
She's used to nightmare; she has no defenses for the pleasant dreams.
The shack is old, with badly patched holes in the walls and boards bleached rough by sand storms. Broadcasting equipment sits on the lone table, most of it clearly thrown together from whatever bits and bobs could be found. It's admitting sound that could almost be called a song, ringing with off-pitched guitar solos and a gravel-voiced singer that slurred over their words. Most of the single room is taken up by music; tapes, CDs and vinyls stacked on every surface. Even the walls show signs of a music lover with snatches of what could be lyrics spray painted where the pictures aren't hanging.
Girl's standing there, in front of the taped up photographs. Some of the colorful faces are family, most she imagines are people the shack's owner had once loved long before Girl was born. She takes down a group shot, thumb near obscuring the face of someone with hair as red as blood. She's dimly aware someone else is in the room, but she's so caught up in the memory of being here that she can't find the will to be on edge. She remembers being in this room back when she was still too small to see out the car windows, playing here during long rainy days and helping Cherri pick songs for the radio lineup.]
I haven't heard this song in years. Pretty sure the tape got busted up in a raid more cycles back then I could count. [She's smiling as she turns to the newcomer.] Band always sounded like shit, but pickin' was slim at the time.
The Girl | True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys
[She's never seen any dogs in the desert despite the cans of dog food being a staple of every runner's diet. She suspected the city still had them, but for Girl the knowledge of creatures that weren't sand critters or her own cat was restricted to stories from old timers or pictures in the Zone's questionable magazines. It catches her off guard to see one now, same way the cat had startled her when she first caught it chasing lizards up Joshua trees.
She walks up to the creatures from behind, cautious because she knows what a spooked animal is capable of and Girl's not looking to get bit. That and the size. Maybe that's why her cat has hunched up several steps behind her, hissing like a viper. Were dogs always so big or was that just how things grew when radiation wasn't a problem? She kneels a few feet away from the pack, hand outstretched.]
Hey there.
[She realizes her mistake when the creatures turn all at once, gasp stalled in her throat. Girl may not know anything about dogs but she knows anything red eyed and smoking can't be be good. She falls on her back, rolling to her knees and grabbing the now yowling cat in one shaky move. She gets to her feet and starts running as the dogs snap at her heels. She takes off blindly, concerned more with getting distance than where she's going and ignoring the cat's claws digging red rivers into her arms. When she stumbles upon other people, she doesn't slow down by much. Instead Girl shouts at them as the dogs draw near.]
Go. Now!
ii. Dreaming
[She's used to nightmares. Since Girl was a child, or rather since her childhood came to a violent end, night had come with a promise of panic, of waking up gasping and crying. She dreams of death, more often than not Girl always knows in the back of her mind what she's seeing isn't real. It's just guilt and bad memories catching up to her.
She's used to nightmare; she has no defenses for the pleasant dreams.
The shack is old, with badly patched holes in the walls and boards bleached rough by sand storms. Broadcasting equipment sits on the lone table, most of it clearly thrown together from whatever bits and bobs could be found. It's admitting sound that could almost be called a song, ringing with off-pitched guitar solos and a gravel-voiced singer that slurred over their words. Most of the single room is taken up by music; tapes, CDs and vinyls stacked on every surface. Even the walls show signs of a music lover with snatches of what could be lyrics spray painted where the pictures aren't hanging.
Girl's standing there, in front of the taped up photographs. Some of the colorful faces are family, most she imagines are people the shack's owner had once loved long before Girl was born. She takes down a group shot, thumb near obscuring the face of someone with hair as red as blood. She's dimly aware someone else is in the room, but she's so caught up in the memory of being here that she can't find the will to be on edge. She remembers being in this room back when she was still too small to see out the car windows, playing here during long rainy days and helping Cherri pick songs for the radio lineup.]
I haven't heard this song in years. Pretty sure the tape got busted up in a raid more cycles back then I could count. [She's smiling as she turns to the newcomer.] Band always sounded like shit, but pickin' was slim at the time.