| Misadventures in Beowawe |
[10 Nov 2005|11:59pm] |
H. A. N. N.
A jittery glance over her shoulder, as heavy steps trudged closer to the bunkroom. Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch... And then kept going. She released a pent-up breath, shook her head at how paranoid she was getting in her old age, and went back to what she was doing.
A.H. Underline. Exclamation point!
Hannah blew the dust from her finger and flipped on her cot. Boredom, closest friend and dreaded enemy, had set in about an hour after everyone else went to sleep. But she couldn't. She was still too keyed up from working in the mines, and her act of chicanery while there. Oh, yes, Hannah Flynn the rebel was back in action. It was amazing what a little bit of mischief could do for a girl's piece of mind.
She pulled a silver-flecked rock out of her jeans pocket and studied it in the dim light. "Suckers," she muttered. Hannah didn't know what the heck they were using all that silver for. And okay, maybe the chunks she'd thrown in the porta-john were just drops in the bucket, but so what? When you were scavenging scraps outta mine rocks, every missing bit hurt.
As he twirled it between hands Whistler couldn't help but notice the firm layer of dust and, much to his chagrin, probably a bit of mold as well. The drastic temperature changes from the dank, cold mine to the dry heat wasn't conducive to his health -- hell, it wasn't good for any living creature -- but he continued to survive. He'd survived the Chicago fire (really, it wasn't his fault), more than a few apocalypses (apocalypi?) and putting Angel on the right path. All that, with no visible health benefits package from the Powers That Be.
But what he really cared about was his hat. It'd seen more action that most Slayers he'd met in his lifetime. Which was ... considerable. And as long as he held onto that, he held onto hope.
He shifted uneasily in his bunk. Sleep was literally non-existent now. The slimy bastards didn't pull anyone -- or anything -- remotely human into this filth without a reason. And while his recent acquaintances, Joseph and Kael, were seemingly content with simply existing, Whistler was up for more than that. He wanted answers. He wanted to fill his brain with the knowledge the Powers took when they fired him. Starting with who these bastards were, why they needed silver so bad, and what the fuck they were building in the laboratory.
Day and night. Clashes of metal against metal, what sounded of gears grinding and -- most importantly -- the processed silver being shipped in, but never coming out.
Whistler swung his legs over the wooden bunk, feet lightly stamping up another layer of dust from the floor. He coughed lightly, not wanting to attract the attention of the guards that just passed by.
"Right, now or never," he whispered.
Movement from the right caught Hannah's attention. With the rock still held aloft, she turned her head and watched as a guy that reminded her of a hustler sat up. Okay, a crappily-dressed hustler. She had a feeling that suit hadn't looked any better when he got there than it did right now. But who was she to talk? If it was physically possible, there'd have been holes in the holes of her outfit.
"I like your hat," she said. "I always wanted to be a hat person.... hmm." On that slightly mournful note, she tucked her rock away.
The voice, soft and weary, startled him. After the back-breaking session in the mines today, it seemed as if no one had enough energy to crawl into their bunks, let alone speak. And given that their captors would beat down anyone who dared give voice while working...
Whistler turned to look into the sad eyes of the blonde to his left. One upon a time he could've read her entire history in that moment. Only now it was all closed to him.
Which made him smile. It was odd how not knowing something could be so comforting.
"Not everyone can carry it, see," Whistler replied, flipping the hat end over hand. "And it's not the shape o' the head, either. It's the attitude o' the wearer."
Hannah's eyes lit up. "Attitude, I've got in spades!" she whispered, with shades of her customary excitement coming to life in her words. She rolled first to her side and then propped her thin frame up on an elbow. "I dare ya to find anybody who's got more spunk than me!" She gave a smug nod and her chin jutted out.
"Attitude'll keep ya alive," Whistler retorted with a chuckle. "That and a good meal. And somethin' tells me the food here ain't agreein' with ya."
( Let's Be Rebellious! )
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