( The man goes just as motionless when he finally sees her, and she sees him, and they’re staring at each other across the near-empty room.
With the Bridges-branded cap and the hood up, it makes his face barely visible at first; but then with a faint beep, the hood actually retracts itself and then his tired blue eyes are looking at her with razor-sharp, mistrustful intensity. Sam’s sizing her up from head-to-toe, doing the usual calculus: she’s wearing Bridges-branded gear, but she doesn’t look like an employee (where’s the fucking coveralls?). She doesn’t look like a mule either, since there’s a certain deranged quality to them, their clothes worn and tattered from timefall.
But she doesn’t look right, either. It takes him a moment before he clocks what it is. The stranger’s wearing a sweater, not a hardy jacket. Her hands aren’t gloved. Bare skin. There’s no way for her to safely step outdoors, dressed like that. She can’t be living here, can she? Is there an underground shelter he didn’t know about?
Sam clears his throat, but his voice still sounds like gravel when he speaks. )
You with Bridges?
( Although he has a rifle, there’s a faint green light on the side of the gun, indicating: non-lethal rounds. And then, of course, there’s the other thing which makes him look a little less intimidating: that enormous goddamn stack of cargo strapped to the frame on his back. It had almost clipped the top of the doorframe, so he’d had to duck to make it safely inside without getting literally stuck in the door. )
no subject
With the Bridges-branded cap and the hood up, it makes his face barely visible at first; but then with a faint beep, the hood actually retracts itself and then his tired blue eyes are looking at her with razor-sharp, mistrustful intensity. Sam’s sizing her up from head-to-toe, doing the usual calculus: she’s wearing Bridges-branded gear, but she doesn’t look like an employee (where’s the fucking coveralls?). She doesn’t look like a mule either, since there’s a certain deranged quality to them, their clothes worn and tattered from timefall.
But she doesn’t look right, either. It takes him a moment before he clocks what it is. The stranger’s wearing a sweater, not a hardy jacket. Her hands aren’t gloved. Bare skin. There’s no way for her to safely step outdoors, dressed like that. She can’t be living here, can she? Is there an underground shelter he didn’t know about?
Sam clears his throat, but his voice still sounds like gravel when he speaks. )
You with Bridges?
( Although he has a rifle, there’s a faint green light on the side of the gun, indicating: non-lethal rounds. And then, of course, there’s the other thing which makes him look a little less intimidating: that enormous goddamn stack of cargo strapped to the frame on his back. It had almost clipped the top of the doorframe, so he’d had to duck to make it safely inside without getting literally stuck in the door. )