Sativa Of Arroyo (
findthegeck) wrote2010-04-29 08:25 pm
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
(no subject)
Shiny buildings! Lush green parks! Sharp-dressed folk striding up and down the sidewalks with purpose and vigor! All of these descriptions would fit somewhere that isn't the Den.
To say that the Den was rustic would be doing authentic examples of rusticism a disservice. Many towns did not reach their dilapidated state because of the ravages of war, but rather the ravages of time. The town where the Den now stood had not been flattened by atomic bombs, but by looking at it, perhaps that would have been doing it a favor.
Some of the aging pre-war buildings have had whatever maintenance was necessary to keep the number of gaping holes in the roofs and walls to a minimum, leading to a sort of post-post-post-modern neo-retro-classical architectural style. Civic beautification is not a high priority, nor is filling in all the potholes.
There's no grass to mow, yesterdays junk is today's half-buried tetanus hazards, and plumbing is of the outdoor variety exemplified by the outhouse that for Sativa serves as a door to and from Milliways.
"This way," She tells her guest, pointing to crumbling road alongside the seedy bar (The Hole isn't just a clever name) they are standing behind. "The junkyard's just beyond the far end of the street. Watch your step."
That's no so much a warning about what you do here, as it is to actually make sure you don't put your foot in anything unpleasant.
To say that the Den was rustic would be doing authentic examples of rusticism a disservice. Many towns did not reach their dilapidated state because of the ravages of war, but rather the ravages of time. The town where the Den now stood had not been flattened by atomic bombs, but by looking at it, perhaps that would have been doing it a favor.
Some of the aging pre-war buildings have had whatever maintenance was necessary to keep the number of gaping holes in the roofs and walls to a minimum, leading to a sort of post-post-post-modern neo-retro-classical architectural style. Civic beautification is not a high priority, nor is filling in all the potholes.
There's no grass to mow, yesterdays junk is today's half-buried tetanus hazards, and plumbing is of the outdoor variety exemplified by the outhouse that for Sativa serves as a door to and from Milliways.
"This way," She tells her guest, pointing to crumbling road alongside the seedy bar (The Hole isn't just a clever name) they are standing behind. "The junkyard's just beyond the far end of the street. Watch your step."
That's no so much a warning about what you do here, as it is to actually make sure you don't put your foot in anything unpleasant.
no subject
no subject
She looks around and shakes her head. Cyborg would be out of luck even if there were. Music hadn't progressed the same way through the twentieth century on this world as it has elsewhere.
"No. What does what you listen to sound like?"
no subject
no subject
Things that never existed in this timeline for 200, Alex.
"Like a... thing that watches something very carefully," She assures him. "Doesn't look all that complicated."
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
What, now? "Sure," her mouth says.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
With one hand on the wheel, she shifts the stick and gently puts pressure the pedal. "Okay, nice and slow-"
Not gently enough, though, and then as she remembers to take off the break the car accelerates very quickly... in reverse.
"WHOA!" Slamming her foot on the break and fighting for control of the steering the car does a 180 and comes to a sudden halt, surrounded by cloud of dust.
With a white-knuckled grip on the wheel she glances sidelong at her instructor. "Whoops?"
no subject
no subject
She lets her breathing settle down, shifts into the proper gear this time, and with the most feather-like amount of force on the pedal eases the machine forward at a less hell-bent pace, keeping them on more-or-less on the road.
At least there's no other traffic to worry about.
no subject
no subject
Sativa lets out a loud laugh as the excitement fizzes up inside her. "...I'm driving."
no subject
no subject
They're going so fast that when she takes her foot off the pedal the Highwayman is still able to coast along at a good pace.
There's a turnoff to the left just ahead. The signpost's too faded to say where it leads. Just for the hell of it she veers off onto it.
no subject
no subject
Until that little bend along the ravine, that is.
no subject
Yet.
no subject
The only real hazard is running out of road.
no subject
no subject
no subject
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)