( 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. )
( It is the stack of cargo that causes the error in her mental processing, the visual cue matching absolutely nothing she's ever seen. How is he carrying all of that? And why? The gun is only slightly concerning with its little green light, but those crates tell her there's something she's missing. Possibly something big.
For a split second, she considers lying to try to pull on whatever allegiance he might feel toward this organization or company or whatever it is, but she decides it's too risky. Despite her investigation of that abandoned facility, she doesn't know the first thing about Bridges, and lying from the get-go might ruin her chance of easily getting information she desperately needs. )
No, I just needed clothes and found these.
( It's the first time she's spoken since waking up and the words feel strange in her mouth as if she hasn't used her voice in a long time. Some creeping sense at the back of her mind thinks it might have been a very long time... )
Where are we?
( Showing her hand like this is a risk too, but it's one she's actually willing to take. )
( Her initial answer is a long, slow, incredulous blink as Sam tries to make sense of that particular question, before he settles on: maybe she’s lost. Wandering in the wastes and lost track of where she was and how to get to the nearest city. It even happened to him sometimes, especially when he went off-grid to where the roads haven’t been rebuilt yet, and the signposts have corroded you can’t even tell where you’re standing on the country’s rotting bones. It was surprisingly easy to get turned around, to find yourself headed in the wrong direction for goddamn days. )
America, ( is the man’s rueful answer, with a bit of surprisingly angry bite to it before he continues. )
The United Cities of America. A little west of Capital Knot City.
( Some of the words are familiar, ghosts of themselves, but subtly askew and unexpected for her frame of reference. United Cities?
Unheeding of how that piece of information might have landed, Sam raises his free hand, indicates with a wordless little is this okay?, before he starts to unbuckle himself from the cargo straps. It’s the smallest gesture, making himself vulnerable in those precious seconds where he’s working himself loose from that monstrous backpack. It’s baring his throat for a moment.
But, also, it’s easier to run if he’s not lugging around cases of heavy metals. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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. )
no subject
For a split second, she considers lying to try to pull on whatever allegiance he might feel toward this organization or company or whatever it is, but she decides it's too risky. Despite her investigation of that abandoned facility, she doesn't know the first thing about Bridges, and lying from the get-go might ruin her chance of easily getting information she desperately needs. )
No, I just needed clothes and found these.
( It's the first time she's spoken since waking up and the words feel strange in her mouth as if she hasn't used her voice in a long time. Some creeping sense at the back of her mind thinks it might have been a very long time... )
Where are we?
( Showing her hand like this is a risk too, but it's one she's actually willing to take. )
no subject
America, ( is the man’s rueful answer, with a bit of surprisingly angry bite to it before he continues. )
The United Cities of America. A little west of Capital Knot City.
( Some of the words are familiar, ghosts of themselves, but subtly askew and unexpected for her frame of reference. United Cities?
Unheeding of how that piece of information might have landed, Sam raises his free hand, indicates with a wordless little is this okay?, before he starts to unbuckle himself from the cargo straps. It’s the smallest gesture, making himself vulnerable in those precious seconds where he’s working himself loose from that monstrous backpack. It’s baring his throat for a moment.
But, also, it’s easier to run if he’s not lugging around cases of heavy metals. )