[ She waits for a response and doesn't get one--but he's taken his time before, and finding the part of the world that's thick with plants and damp air is a matter of trial and error. There's a reason she hasn't tried going back to the ruin of buildings since she came here.
(Multiple reasons, actually. There's more food there, and it's easier to find what's edible, but it reminds her too much of those last days in Brooklyn. And it's colder, too.)
So she goes back to her latest attempts at foraging--they need to build some real shelter here, find more reliable ways to eat, but she hasn't been in any shape for it--until her phone buzzes. And after it reads out the message to her, she sends one back. ]
okay thank you good i pardon I'll find you
[ It's not hard to get to the phone booth, she's discovered. Sometimes it takes some time, but wandering around in search of its scent and then following that does the job more often than not. And that's how, eventually, a young woman in ill-fitting clothing (hey, at least it's not bloodstained?) and a blindfold with ragged edges breaks comes through the trees. Her cane--still makeshift, just a slender piece of metal--swings in front of her a little awkwardly. Before she was pulled into this place, she'd never needed one. (Part of her still thinks it'd be better just to spend her days bloodied and nauseous, if it means she can find her own way through the world.)
(Speaking of blood, there's still a swipe of it above her lip, like she'd tried to wipe it away and missed some.)
She can hear him here, the waiting bulk of him, and it seems obvious it couldn't be anyone else. And she shouldn't be reaching for that trace of him, the sense of his shape among all the silent trees, but it's hard to tell herself to seal it away from herself. So she notices it, and she walks toward him, and she hopes it won't give her a headache later.]
Pardon. You want to go yes someplace else? It smells like a sorry, like a subway here.
no subject
(Multiple reasons, actually. There's more food there, and it's easier to find what's edible, but it reminds her too much of those last days in Brooklyn. And it's colder, too.)
So she goes back to her latest attempts at foraging--they need to build some real shelter here, find more reliable ways to eat, but she hasn't been in any shape for it--until her phone buzzes. And after it reads out the message to her, she sends one back. ]
okay thank you good i pardon I'll find you
[ It's not hard to get to the phone booth, she's discovered. Sometimes it takes some time, but wandering around in search of its scent and then following that does the job more often than not. And that's how, eventually, a young woman in ill-fitting clothing (hey, at least it's not bloodstained?) and a blindfold with ragged edges breaks comes through the trees. Her cane--still makeshift, just a slender piece of metal--swings in front of her a little awkwardly. Before she was pulled into this place, she'd never needed one. (Part of her still thinks it'd be better just to spend her days bloodied and nauseous, if it means she can find her own way through the world.)
(Speaking of blood, there's still a swipe of it above her lip, like she'd tried to wipe it away and missed some.)
She can hear him here, the waiting bulk of him, and it seems obvious it couldn't be anyone else. And she shouldn't be reaching for that trace of him, the sense of his shape among all the silent trees, but it's hard to tell herself to seal it away from herself. So she notices it, and she walks toward him, and she hopes it won't give her a headache later.]
Pardon. You want to go yes someplace else? It smells like a sorry, like a subway here.