After spending thirty years of my life hiding my association with the Enclave [open]

[taediosum]

Who: Arcade (taediosum) & OPEN
What: Arts & crafts (or some long overdue vehicle maintenance)
When: Some activity during the morning stop & early evening 
Where: His truck
Warnings: TBD but nothing likely

Note: I have an opt-in here for Arcade's vital sense ability, please leave a comment if it's something you're interested in coming up here or in future threads! Otherwise, no worries, it just won't work on/around them.



[ Ordinarily, Arcade only looks for salvage of practical things, at the intermittent garage stop. He doesn't know much about vehicle maintenance beyond the basics, and even that's mostly still only in theory. (Luckily, he somehow hasn't had to field a flat tire or an overheating engine, yet.) But he knows plenty about surviving in a post-apocalyptic waste with little to live on, from place to place. He also knows too much about personally handling triage, in those same circumstances. 

So it's really no wonder it's taken him this long to start picking up things that aren't necessarily needed but still... Well, probably should have been considered, at least, a little sooner. (But he's had a whole host of other things to worry about, these past few months, unsurprisingly.)

He's already started a small collection of patchwork canvas, wherever he can find it. It's going to take a while to actually completely enclose the back of the truck, again, so that it can serve as somewhat more suitable shelter - so he'll be around crudely stitching together the various pieces of cover that he's managed to collect, thus far, both in the early morning hours and at night. He's not quite as good at sewing as he is at suturing, and it's kind of obvious.

Or maybe he's trying to flag someone down to lend a hand with actually fitting his makeshift tarp over the top of the truck's trailer— ] Hey, do you have a minute? I could use some help, here.

[ One particular evening, he can also be found with a small collection of old paint cans, painstakingly hunted down in the latest set of ruins. He's set up alongside the truck's cab, eyeing the faded spray paint stenciled logo on the door in front of him - before unceremoniously dashing a swath of old beige paint over it.

Maybe it's because he hasn't made a plan until now to actually get rid of it (despite all the trouble it's already caused), but covering it up feels better than expected. ]

Comments

[purplexing]

[The (winged) turtle boy's been a bit frazzled ever since the attack of the brains, and while he has things to work on, he hasn't been able to find the focus for it. ...which isn't great when you're left with some free time before everyone is on the move again.

As it turns out, there are other ways to expend restless energy. Like flying!

The only previous experience Donnie's had flying has been technically existed, but he's found some new exhilaration in being able to do it by his own power. He'd actually spotted Arcade from a distance off, circling down from his aerial patrol of the convoy.

At being asked for assistance, he glides around to the opposite side of the truck, grabbing the end of the tarp so he can drag it along with him as he lets himself drop down on the other side with it.]

[taediosum]

[ Well, that's convenient. But it's also handy, so Arcade isn't going to complain. He just gives the tarp a bit of careful adjusting, from his side, before hopping down off of the trailer to check it from a better angle.

As he does, he glances over at Donnie - if not for the wings, he might've mistaken him for another big, talking, bipedal turtle he's briefly met here, before. On second glance, though, the differences seem more obvious. (He just hasn't met a lot of mutant turtles, frankly, and it's weird that it's happening twice.) ]

Thanks. I was never going to get that all the way over the other side, on my own.

[purplexing]

[Appearances aside, they're also conveniently color-coded!

Donnie hangs onto his end of the tarp while the human makes his adjustments. Once it seems like it's been evenly spread, he lets go, hopping back to eyeball it for himself before giving Arcade a clawed thumbs-up.]

No probbles, glad to be of service.

This thing looks like the missing link between covered wagons and Winnebagos. Although I may be being too generous with the latter.

[taediosum]

[ Arcade shrugs, looking somewhat bemusedly between the truck and his present company. ]

Pre-War military surplus. I don't think they were going for style.

[purplexing]

True. I guess so long as it's sturdier than it looks.

[He tries not to fidget too much, taking the excuse of looking around the truck so he can move. He's been a lot more anxious about being on the ground for long lately.]

[serialmurderbot]

[The gloves that SecUnit found on its ATV during the beginnings of the Convoy are long since destroyed, between its fighting style (if it could even be called that) and the general hard-on-everything nature of this journey. Which sucks for SecUnit, because that means the only way it has to hide its hands right now is shoving them into the pockets of its jacket, a tactic it usually doesn't like to do, considering its general paranoia.

It's compromised today by keeping one hand (the injured hand) in a jacket pocket, and leaving the other one free, so it can be only half as paranoid as it might be. That's the atmosphere around it - heightened stress chemicals, and the metal-electric-ozone lingering smell that is bloodlike but not quite blood. It should be in pain, but it's not acting like it, when it comes to a stop at Arcade's call for assistance. It's not looking up towards him, but it's clearly paying attention.]

What kind of help?

[taediosum]

[ It isn't the first time Arcade has been hit so abruptly by a wall of unpleasant air, the second someone steps too near. He doesn't answer the question, at first, hands fumbling the length of rope he was attempting to knot securely to the wire cage over the truck's trailer - that electric, coppery taste invades his senses, instead, turning his stomach as he turns an ever so mildly horrified look toward SecUnit. ]

...I was going to ask if you'd mind helping me tie this down. But I'm not so sure you should be helping anyone, in your condition.

[ Dropping the line entirely, Arcade climbs back down off the truck, dusting his own hands off on his coat. ]

Where are you hurt? [ He's not going to ask if it's hurt, because he can taste that reality every time he opens his mouth. ]

[serialmurderbot]

[SecUnit draws up short, its face going blank behind the mask. The hand tucked into its jacket pocket twitches, like it's about to try and turn to make sure that side of its body is less visible.]

What condition.

[Okay so the buzzing that accompanies its voice now is at the more intensive end of the spectrum when it responds, and the response is more of a defensive snap than genuine confusion. But in its defense, it thought it was doing a pretty good job of being casual! It figured out what to do with its hands and everything.

81% performance reliability is... not great, but Arcade wasn't asking it to shoot something. It would have been fine.]

It's not - it looks worse than it is. [Great start, Murderbot.]

[taediosum]

It's bad enough. I can tell just from— [ Arcade falters for a half-second, then thinks better of something before he amends, ] ...Looking at you.

[ Because that's all he's doing, definitely. Just. Noticing that awkward stance and having some kind of normal, medically knowledgeable insight. Sure.

That buzzing sound doesn't exactly inspire confidence, either. But one thing at a time. ]

You don't have to let me have a look at it, but I'd appreciate it if you did.

[serialmurderbot]

[Did it catch that hesitation? Yeah, but that doesn't mean it can process why. Arcade and the rest of the humans here don't usually have the kind of scanning capabilities to know that it got damaged, but humans who know it well have caught it off-guard before by reading something in its posture or expression that it didn't know was there.

... Does Arcade know it well? Weird thought. Time to ignore that.]

I already told you it looks worse than it is.

[But that's sign enough that it's capitulating. The reasons for the warnings become clear the moment it lifts the arm it's been hiding, because even with the sleeve pulled over its forearm, its hand and fingers are torn up with what has to be bite marks. The wounds are strangely bloodless, barely scabbed over and exposing not muscle and bone but metal strutwork at the core. At least some of the jagged bite marks carry up its wrist under the sleeve.]

[androidvictoriam]

[ Danse no longer deliberately parks his truck in a good vantage point to keep tabs on what's going on with Arcade's, but he's been reassured that he doesn't have to go out of his way to avoid it, either, and this is one of those nights where it just happens to be readily visible from where he's relaxing.

(It's a good thing, probably, that his hearing hadn't begun to feel this oversensitive when he was still attempting active surveillance, because he can hear the conversations in other vehicles now even when he's trying not to, and it would be all the worse if he still felt justified in invading anyone's privacy. But there's nothing in particular to overhear right now, and it's a quiet enough night in general that even the noise headache is less bothersome than usual.)

He tilts his head and wonders what Arcade's up to with the paint cans, thinks about going over to ask, but with that first stroke of paint it becomes entirely obvious. It isn't cathartic for Danse, the way it must be for Arcade, but it's pleasing nonetheless. After a moment, he hops down out of his truck bed and wanders over. ]

About damn time.

[ It's friendly, with a little smile and no actual reproach in it. It's not like he's known where to find any paint before now. ]

[taediosum]

[ It's friendly, but it still manages to startle Arcade, who turns his head jerkily, almost guiltily toward the interruption before finding (some of) his composure again. ]

I've had a few more pressing priorities, of late. 

[ Like, you know, mutating into a horrific freak and also just generally struggling to survive while hoping to help keep as many others alive as possible— 

But that's not really a clarification he needs to make. Or feels the need to, his defensive knee-jerk reflex a fast-fading one. Hard to be too standoffish, when at least they're on the same page. ]

But I thought I'd get rid of it before someone else decides to make it their whole first impression of me.

[ Not that that seems especially likely. Danse recognizing it in the first place had been one nasty stroke of bad luck too far, already. Arcade takes another couple of swipes at the cab door with the brush he found, blotting out the rest of the insignia. The brush's stiff and clotted bristles aren't ideal for the job, but luckily it's not needed for any delicate work. ]

[androidvictoriam]

[ It doesn't sound quite so unlikely to Danse, who would expect anyone who's spent time in the Capital Wasteland to have a good chance of recognizing it. Then again, he's the only one who's made a thing of it thus far, so Arcade is probably right. And Danse has made enough of a thing of it for like three people, in any case, so he doesn't push back, only exhales mirthlessly in a way that suggests he knows the pointedness is deserved. ]

I'll vouch for you. If anyone else from my side of the country gives you a hard time.

[ But with the logo now illegible, that would be unlikely. He sticks his hands in his pockets to survey the current progress. His coveralls are a bit worse for the wear after all of that simultaneous horrific mutating, but this at least means that a few paint stains are even less likely to matter than they would have before. And he ought to be willing to get them dirty, to extend some goodwill here, so Arcade doesn't have to do all of this himself now that the satisfying part of it is over. ]

You have a spare brush?

[taediosum]

You don't have to do that.

[ Ideally because there won't be any reason to, after this. But Arcade isn't asking anybody to fall on their sword for him. He wouldn't have done, back home, and he won't, here, either. The cards'll fall where they may, and he'll try to deal with the next probably inevitable disaster a little better - but it's his burden. His past. His life.

Reaching for a little more of the paint from the can balanced on the truck's step (a second coat certainly can't hurt), he looks surprised as he glances back up at Danse. ]

Uh, check the crate. [ There's a small wooden crate he also brought from the garage, the other nearly-depleted cans of paint he collected still sitting inside, and he gestures to it as he straightens back up. ] I think I grabbed another one, but it might've fallen out.

[ More brushes weren't a priority; he would've painted with his hands, if it meant getting rid of that. But he's pretty sure he found at least two that had more than a few bristles left on them. ]

[androidvictoriam]

I know. I'd just rather see the truth being represented than a misconception.

[ There's a note of finality in Arcade's tone that tells Danse it isn't worth arguing over a hypothetical that probably won't ever come to pass anyway, so he leaves it at that. It's partly the principle of the thing, partly the fact that he truly doesn't want to see Arcade forced to contend with that again now that he knows the real story, but he thinks he's at least done his best to warn Deacon in a more roundabout way against judging anyone in the convoy too harshly from the start, and that probably will be the end of it.

He crouches to pick through the contents of the crate and see what they're working with. He can manage well enough with the brush that's fallen over and gotten tucked in along the side, if he wiggles the bristles around a bit to loosen them up. ]

Just the cover-up, I take it? Not sure what you'd want to replace it with.

[hexrot]

[ the first thing that's showing up here is jayce's "stench" well before he actually shows up. it's not your average corpse-smell, just— incredibly weird, toeing the line between ew and ????. the staggering hoof-steps come next, uneven and overcompensating one side until the limp is as audible as the metal clicking of a brace that's gone through some maintenance. he's tried adding some makeshift padding to keep from chafing his legs— not because it hurt, because that was pretty dulled, but because it was starting to make the flesh around it give way and actually . . . expose the bone. it unnerves him, and reminds him of a time that makes him pick at his wrist.

of course, a weird dream was no real apology, only a reminder of one. so that's why jayce is finally here, after aligning himself and not getting stuck as a massive deer thing. by the time jayce stands some comfortable spaces behind arcade's handiwork, the draugr's cervid ears flop to inspect from afar. he's covered in soot and ends up smudging a good side of his scarred face when rubbing the black discoloring under his nose. ]

Didn't know you were an artist.

[taediosum]

[ It's vastly more ew, in Arcade's opinion, than anything else. A worse taste in the air than even the most unpleasant he's met, so far, and it causes him to falter and nearly drop his brush well before he hears the distinctive sound of hooves in the dirt, underlined by chattering metal.

Even though Jayce stands far enough back to give him plenty of space, Arcade still takes a reflexive step in the opposite direction, when he turns toward him. It's as much a response to his that overpowering stench (if decay were alive and somehow wildly irradiated, as well, it would taste something like that, he thinks) as his appearance. ]

I'm not.

[ The handiwork on the door, here, isn't even his. He's just carefully applying a second coat, at this point, to keep it from washing away too readily. It's been looking more and more likely to rain again, of late. ]

What happened to you?

[hexrot]

[ reactions such as those never get . . . staggering, from his perspective. his doe eyes pool to the ground at the general repulsed reaction everyone usually has, and he doesn't blame him, jayce feels it, too. it's damn irony that he'd been a poster boy one day, valuing his looks, and then the next he's worse off than roadkill. arcade, in particular . . .

he stays right where he is, only occasionally shuffling his hooves to relieve the right for a second, feel the surge on his left, then throw his weight to his right once more. when he still had feet and they were flat, it'd help stablize his center of gravity. like this— it jostles the bone. he can feel the fissure shift within the brackets of his leg brace and every time, it makes what little blood he has curl. ]

I, uh . . . [ gesture.....?? to something big. ] Had a scale issue.

[taediosum]

[ Arcade looks patently unimpressed with that less than helpful explanation. So it's not as if he's treating Jayce all that differently. ]

Am I supposed to know what that means?

[hexrot]

. . . Probably not.

[ the sorry is muttered. jayce snorts; so much for being helpfully vague (being vague is not helpful but it's better than being way too blunt, to the point that it felt just weird to come out and say it but here it goes): ]

I morphed into a— Giant stag-thing for a while.

[ and just in complete isolation. ]

[message sent from interior of convoy unit]

[lonedanger]

I know you need help stitching the new cover together, and I'm coming over to help, but I have a problem.

[taediosum]

[ It takes a minute or two for Arcade to respond, because he has to put down what he's doing and climb back into the cab. If it were urgent, though, he doubts if he'd be getting a secretive, vague message from the console. ]

You have a problem? Are you going to tell me what it is, or keep me in suspense until it escalates into something indescribably, incalculably worse?

[lonedanger]

[ How is he supposed to say this without sounding like a weird little freak about it? ]

I can't fit my hat on my head.

[taediosum]

[ Under ordinary, every day circumstances, an answer like that would prompt Arcade to ask exactly what all Len's ingested, so far, today. And how much of it had potentially mind-altering properties.

Under the current circumstances, however, it is perfectly possible Len's head has, in fact, changed shape. Which is more than a little unnerving. ]

Why not?

1/3

[lonedanger]