Participants:
| Scene Title | Interesting Faces |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, it's faces and the stories they tell that Brynn finds lovely. |
| Date | August 26, 2018 |
The Red Hook Market looks more like a third-world bazaar in some ways than a marketplace in what used to be one of the most populated cities in the world. The destruction all around the city is massive, and entry to the Safe Zone is heavily regulated. For newcomers, once cleared to enter and remain in the city's environs, they are quartered in what amounts to barracks until suitable housing can be obtained. It's a rowdy place, perhaps the closest Atticus has seen since his days in the Middle East years ago.
And still there is an energy to the air here. Those New Yorkers who have remained? They're still New Yorkers through and through — they're pulling together, making the best of things, helping one another out, hawking their wares and making a living as best they can in this New World.
Newcomers to the city are warned that there are things like rolling blackouts daily and significant food shortages right now. They are warned that trouble will be dealt with — if they're lucky, it's by what passes for law enforcement in these parts. If they're not, they could just find themselves knifed in some ruins. So… proceed with care!
Not ominous or anything, right?
The market itself is doing brisk business. For those who manage to have independent suppliers, they're actually still selling foodstuffs. But the price is hideously inflated even above the normally ridiculous prices. Haggling is becoming an art form again. Amid the chaos and bustle, one petite, slender young woman with a sketch pad is not exactly that noticeable… but there she sits, drawing people from her perch on a low, crumbling wall.
He's not been in the city long, and while he could arrange for provisions from elsewhere, Atticus generally tends to be one that prefers a 'clean' break when such things are needed, as well as preferring to ensure that he can support himself wherever he is with what is at hand.
So… market day. Atticus makes his way into the market and starts with just wandering around, getting the feel for the place, letting his senses get attuned to the hustle and bustle just as he'd done any number of times in any number of other similar markets around the world.
He's wearing a pair of plain black tactical pants, a light blue t-shirt that's left loose and untucked, and a grey hoodie over that, that's also loose and left zippered only a few inches to keep the ends from flapping about. Those with keen eyes and training might well notice the shirt and hoodie both work to conceal a handgun tucked into a holster at the small of his back, while anyone can easily tell that this man moves with a confidence and understated natural wariness.
Brynn finishes working on a sketch of three children playing some variation of stick ball and flips to a new sheet, gray eyes scanning the area for something new to draw. It's not the tactical pants that draws her eyes, those are not terribly uncommon around here. Nor is it the fact that her eyes have picked out a weapon — nowadays that's almost expected. It's more the bearing of the man who wears them. And his size. He's not a small person, so he stands out… and wow, she's got to get him down on paper. When he scans in her direction, even from this distance the blue eyes are startling. And that color is going to have to go in color in the mental image she has — it's striking in the bold lines of the face.
Her fingers start moving and she doesn't take her eyes off the situationally alert man prowling the market. He walks like many people she knows; he's a predator. She's well familiar with the stride and the attention to detail. She has to wonder if he's one of Aunt Stork's people.
Any man with Atticus' training would notice such focused attention as the girl was giving him, eventually. Some more quickly than others, and given the events of the last decade or so, most of those 'predators' spend quite a bit of time making sure that they're very aware of what's around them.
Atticus doesn't make too much of it, continuing his scouting of the market without outwardly reacting to the new admirer he seems to have attracted, at least not for a bit. Eventually he stops in front of a stall for a fresh fruit vendor and he glances over the selection of apples and asks just what sort of outrageous price the proprietor wants to start haggling at. Laughing at the initial offer he shakes head and turns away, turns right towards Brynn and meets her gaze across the crowded street.
The young woman could be any age between 14 and 25 — it's hard to say exactly given the loose long-sleeved shirt over a pair of ripped denims and scuffed hiking boots. The pencil in her fingers moves swiftly even as he makes his way across the market. When the man catches her watching, she offers a shy smile and just gestures to the paper — as if to tell him she's not a threat, she's just drawing. There's a bit of a blush, perhaps because she got caught.
The meeting of their gazes was more of an 'I see you' than a threat, and Atticus nods just a touch as the young woman motions at the paper, a nod that turns into a touch of a smile at the blush. He starts to turn away when someone bumps into him, a young man by the looks of it — hard to tell under the rags, dirt, and grime.
Brynn may or may not recognize the type, but the rag-boy is quite clearly not just unobservant, she might even have seen the boy's hand reaching to try and lift something out of one of Atticus' pockets. What is clear, and immediately so to all concerned, is that Atticus is not just the new gawking visitor to the market. Nor is he slow, as some might think a man of his size should be, no… his hand flashes out and grabs the thief at the wrist before the younger man's hand can more than brush fingers at the opening of the pocket. Atticus lifts that hand… the arm… and the boy attached to it up off the ground, bodily, to where he can look into the would-be thief's eyes. "Wrong target. I'm new, not stupid or slow. You and the rest of your crew here can just go mozy off, right, mate? Next time I'll break your wrist - no fuckin' around, got it?" And with that, he lets the rag-wrapped kid drop back to the ground and apparently turns his back on him as he starts towards where Brynn has settled herself.
It's not an uncommon sight — people get their stuff nicked all the time. When the giant man has the scrawny youngster by the wrist, the petite artist goes very still, her gray eyes intent on what's about to happen. She's sitting with one ankle tucked beneath the other leg but she could be up and moving quickly. She restrains herself from getting up; she was that thief once upon a time. And she can't see what he says to the dangling would-be felon. But when he drops the kid to the ground and the wide-eyed thief scrabbles off, her body language eases instantly and she goes back to drawing as if nothing untoward has occurred. It really hasn't.
He might think she's oblivious to his approach, or he might not. But her posture seems at ease… at least until his shadow falls across her page and her gray eyes flicker upward. She's wary of him, waiting to see if it's that he wants to see the picture she was drawing — because she was pretty intent on him — or something else.
His bright blue eyes meet her gray ones for a moment as Atticus stops close enough to see what she's drawn without getting so close as to make her feel cornered. Atticus looks down, then, at the drawing, studying it for a few moments before shifting his gaze to the young woman drawing it. He takes a moment to look her over a bit more carefully than one can from across the street in a place like this, and while his gaze lingers it's kept from being intimate by his demeanor more than anything else. He's reserved, but friendly, and there's a certain almost professional detachment in his gaze that hints at his military and law enforcement background.
The distance eases her, he can see it. She offers another shy smile and holds the sketch pad out to him. It's obvious that it's a quick drawing — she was only watching him for a few minutes. But it's pretty good for all that. She's captured the watchfulness and thoughtful expression in a few lines. It's nowhere close to finished. While he looks, she fishes out a smaller palm-sized notebook from the backpack hooked around her foot to deter the same cutpurses that already tried him. She writes down quickly, You can have the sketch, if you'd like. I usually ask first, but I couldn't help it. She's a girl and he looks like he does — it's kind of a given.
Atticus glances at the note she holds up, after she writes on it, then hmmms somewhat pensively before he asks, "Are you deaf, mute, or both?" It's an odd question, and one that may not get him a lot of anywhere, depending on just what her impairment is, but he seems to have dealt with at least the former before - he tries to speak naturally and not hide his mouth from her sight. Question asked, he takes a moment, less than the space between heartbeats, to lift his gaze and sweep the surrounding environment once again… the man is always watching, before focusing his attention back her, while appearing to decline answering the question until she answers his own anyway.
Essentially both, Brynn admits candidly. She has no issues with answering the question, it seems. Tilting her head, she waits to see what he'll do with the information. The way he's looking around could be a good guy or a bad guy. A subtle shift of her body might give away the fact that she's preparing to bolt if he turns out to be a trafficker.
"I'm not gonna try and run off with ya, lass. Damned near young enough to be my daughter, if I had any, unless I miss my guess." Atticus says, noting the way she responds to his watchfulness. "I'm a bit of a professional paranoid, you might say." He adds by way of explanation to his wary attention to their surroundings. Then a glance at her note, before up at her once more, "Since birth, or since more recent events? " A pause… "Unless I'm prying too much. The drawing is quite good, but I've no place to keep it that wouldn't ruin it, so I'll pass until I have someplace I could keep somethin' that nice safe."
Brynn smiles slightly. She resumes writing in the smaller notebook. Birth. And I'm sorry if I offended. There are people trafficking in humans on the loose around here. It's why I sit where I do. She points toward the market. Some friends keep an eye out for me when my brothers aren't hovering.
She tilts her head. I can hold onto the sketch for you until you have a place. Would you mind if I drew more? Capturing that particular color of your eyes is challenging — they require some blending of color. Or a chromakinetic, though she doesn't comment on that thought.
"I have gotten more'n a mite few comments on my eye-color." Atticus notes with a hint of an actual smile this time, turning a bit to make it so he doesn't have to keep his back to so much of the street. "And I bet you come out here to find stuff to draw… despite everyone tellin' you just how much they'd rather you didn't. "
He considers the sketch a bit, then once more looks back to her, "I'd like that. I'd bet I can find you here again on a nice day, hmm? And sure, you can sketch s'more, don't really have much say over what you see in public and all that."
His apparent understanding of the situation makes her grin. My brothers gave up trying to tell any of us girls what to do years ago — unless we're on-mission. CoC's clear for that. Brynn has a curious mix of shy and cheeky going on. And for all that she's … up close, she's almost definitely under 20 years old. She's either an old soul or she's seen a lot of things over the past few years, though, because she's far more alert to their surroundings than he might have initially assumed. Yeah, you can find me around here pretty regularly. So I'll have it for you when you're ready. There's a pause. Since you're willing to sit for it, I won't charge you, she decides, gesturing for him to take a seat — she even gives him one backed to a wall where he can have the coveted sight lines that he wants. She can see him squirming about having his back to the market.
Atticus settles himself into the indicated seat, leaning back against the wall behind him with arms casually crossed across his chest and feet stretched out in front of him, though they're not crossed. "CoC hmm? Sounds like you and your siblings have had to grow up pretty fast. " Leave it to the military guy to pick up on the military terms, instead of the potential for being charged. A nod towards the market, "This place always this busy around now? With the same mix of predators and prey?"
Brynn shrugs a little, situating herself where she can see him properly to sketch without having her own back to the market. Before she picks her sketchbook back up, she answers his questions. I grew up in the Ferry. They had an orphanage with a lot of us. It's the only answer she gives on the idea of growing up too fast — the Ferrymen were heavily involved in conflicts against the anti-Evo groups well before the Second Civil War started, so it's an explanation in and of itself that she grew up within that circle of people. The market is same as everywhere. The mix varies a bit because there are more people, but generally yes.
She picks up her sketchpad to start working on her drawing. Although he's a handsome man, it's not his handsomeness that seems to have drawn her as much as his eyes — he, too, has seen a lot. There are lines in his face that are intriguing to her. And if he peeks while she works, she's pretty good at what she's doing though as with all art, improvement has its place.
The man most certainly knows how to stay still, though it's not very likely that it's due to any particular practice at sitting for portraits. Atticus settles into his seat with his back to a wall and mostly freezes into position. The only time he really moves at all is when his eyes track those around them in the market or when he speaks… and he takes the time to speak naturally.
"The Ferrymen were all over. You're not the first touchpoint with them I've had, helped them out a bit, in fact, not that long ago." Atticus notes with a glance in her direction, "Not an easy way to live, especially when you've not had any time to get some 'good times' in under your belt first with a family."
Brynn works on the lines she wants to capture for a time, though she pauses when he speaks, watching his words carefully. Her hands come up and she begins to sign a question and then smiles faintly and takes up the pencil she was sketching with again and shifts to a clean sheet of paper. Thank you for whatever help you gave, she writes. I'm sure my aunts and uncles were grateful.
She pauses, considering his implicit question. I can't say whether I had it harder than anyone else. We all grew up in a war, she points out. People talk about 'before the war,' but I don't really remember a time before hiding somewhere from bombs and explosions. Although Brynn has to be somewhere at least in her late teens and the war was only a couple of years, she seems sincere that she has never known life not at war.
Atticus considers that for a few moments in silence, the flash of thoughtfulness in his eyes the only change he allows in his expression for the moment. A glance is spared to watch a pair of men obviously more well armed than the usual crowd walk by… but as they keep on going he stops focusing his attention on them and returns to allowing his gaze to wander the crowd.
"I did what was needed, when it was needed, because it needed doing. " He replies with one of those casual tones that hides a lot of the real weight of the statement, or what was needed doing. "There's enough in your eyes to bely your age, easy enough. Along with the rest of that… Well, if wishes were fishes, as they say. Now, at least, things appear to be slowly on the way towards rightin' themselves."
Is that what they're doing? she scrawls. And then quickly runs her hand over the words to erase them. Because Brynn's not sure how much she wants to ask this man. He's helped the Ferry, he says, but how is she to know he isn't lying?
Her fingers go back to the drawing she's working on, a close study of his facial expression while he watches everything in the market. Tipping her head, she works for another long while wordlessly and then finally pauses. Her lips purse as she studies her work and she seems unsure if it's good enough. But she holds it out to him to let him judge for himself.
It's a reasonably good rendering. The suspicious gaze on everyone comes across clearly, as does a thoughtfulness in the expression. She's not sure about the eyes quite yet. But as he reaches out to take the sketch from her, she holds it long enough to make him meet her eyes. A long, possibly uncomfortable stare ensues. And then she looks down and touches her fingertip to each eye in the sketch, shading them the exact blue of his with that touch. Then she gives it to him.
"I like to think so." Atticus says with a quirk of a smile and a hint of a shrug and a wry twist to his mouth. "I may be being far more optimistic than I should be." He then goes still for a bit as she finishes up her work, occasionally glancing her way amidst the various scans of the crowd.
Atticus meets her gaze when she begins to hand him the drawing, only to glance downward as he sense the motion of her hand to the paper. Watching the shift in color at the touch of her finger, knowing his own eye color the way he does, he glances back over to the rather intriguing young artist. After accepting the drawing from her, there's just the faintest brush of air against her from the side..as if someone had walked up in her blind spot..a breath of wind that occurs at the exact same moment her 'subject' disappears from sight.
He stands just out of reach, but still exactly where her senses would've put him, and holding her drawing as it rustles just slightly, reacting to a motion that wasn't visible to anyone looking on.
The shift of the air against her cheek brings her head around sharply — deaf, but highly alert. Her gray eyes are wary on him as he reappears. Her hands come up and she signs something that might be, were she speaking, a scold if the way her gestures clip themselves is an indicator. Brynn's brow quirks upward and she simply waits for him to either sit his butt back down or move away — whichever he's about to do.
He notes the wariness, and then the scolding, and it can't help but evoke a bit of a smile in the man. Atticus makes a show of carefully folding up the drawing so as to be able to tuck it away somewhere safe before he says, or does, anything else.
"A trade. You'd no need to share your gift with me.But if you can be that fuckin' bold, then I'd be a piss poor fuckin' grunt not t'do the same."
She points, the order to 'Sit back down!' silent. Then she starts writing on the tablet of paper, shaking her head. A faint smile quirks her mouth, shyly flashing a dimple, and then she shows him what she's written. It's not about bold — I just don't have the correct colors to really capture that shade. They are quite unique, at least in my experience of people. But I appreciate the quid pro quo. I don't know if it's smart to exactly do that around people like me. Definitely don't do it in front of my brothers without warning. You might find weapons out pretty quick. She seems amused but serious about that part.
A man that's always got his head on a swivel doesn't ever really look like he's looking around more than usual, it becomes so much a part of them that it's 'natural'. So while Atticus doesn't appear to look around, he does, and at just the right moment he's back in the seat he left a moment ago - not crossing the space in between, and those startling blue eyes of his are positively dancing with impishness.
"I have been doing 'that' around many people, of many types, for likely about as long as you've been alive, maybe longer. " A twitch of his lips, a gesture of concession with one hand. "That said, there's a time and place for it… and here, with all the people, and you not in a good spot to shoot me then run… it was safe enough." And then a little bit of a seated bow, "I do, however, appreciate the concern, lass, thanks."
The phrase catches her this time when he says it, she missed it the first time, and she's clearly struggling to find a match in her mental lexicon. And then rather uncertainly, she writes, Did you call me an ass? She doesn't think she deserves that and pretty much assumes he didn't, based on her demeanor, but she can't place the word.
He laughs… an actual, voiced, and true laugh, rare enough for him, and then shakes his head. "No, a .. " and he hold up his hand to show an 'L' sign with thumb and forefinger, "A Lass. A young woman. I'm a soldier, and I've got a foul mouth more often than not… but I'm not gonna call someone I just met an ass without either a lot more booze, or a lot more fightin'."
Brynn's expression clears and she laughs, a silent giggle hidden behind her hand. She signs ok. Then she writes, I'm sorry! I couldn't see it! I didn't think you had, but I've never seen that used in a sentence before. Where are you from? She pauses and writes, By the way… my name's Brynn.
"I'm from 'Down Under' as they say, Brynn, and a mite pleased to meet you," Atticus says, the gentle pleased amusement visible in his eyes if not much elsewhere. "I'm Atticus McCallan… and it's been more than a bit since I was home. More recently I'm from Virginia, small little town in the Shenandoahs."
Tilting her head, Brynn seems fascinated with the information. That's a long way away. She shrugs a little. It's nice to meet you. Thank you for sitting for me to draw, she offers.
"Longer by the day it seems," Atticus says after a moment and then this time gets slowly to his feet and holds out a hand to her. "Thanks you for drawing me, Brynn. I've an interview here in … a bit, with Raytech. I manage to find a spot in the area, maybe I can catch you again here, and I'll return the favor with some lunch or something."
She blushes lightly and demurs, signing as she shakes her head in the negative. Clearly just telling him it's not necessary. She doesn't take his hand, but only because she needs them to write on the tablet, Good luck. My little sister does a bit of running for them. They're good people, and they house most of their workers. The market is pretty much the center off everything here, so… I'm sure you'll see me around.
She moves to stand up as well, shoving her tablet and pencil into her bag and zipping it before throwing it on her shoulder. When she stands fully, Brynn turns her gray eyes back to him and looks way up. She knew he was big, but Jesus, he's HUGE next her petite height. She waves goodbye somewhat tentatively, her amazement still showing.