Ep. 2 - People Are Strange - (Closed)

[Deleted]

Set on Day 3, Week 2! The time is roughly 12pm. Lunch time!

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Northwest of Las Vegas was the town of Indian Springs.

And in Indian Springs was the Oasis Bar and Restaurant.

The sun shone down from a blue sky. White clouds drifted serenely overhead. For miles around nothing could be seen but dry hot desert and brush, and the distant hump of a craggy mountain range. The sun beat down on the little bungalows and trailers and scattered trees that sparsely made up the little town. Birds sang on the telephone wires overhead.

Waves of heat baked up from the restaurant parking lot, which was already beginning to fill up with cars.

"Well, this is the place," said Deuce.

He flipped up his sunglasses and squinted. "I don't see him here yet, though. He texted to meet him here. I guess the wings are really good at this restaurant? So maybe he's less interested in yelling at me for busting his equipment than he is in getting something to eat. I suppose that's a good sign. Normal blood sugar levels equals less scolding. Perfect. Fantastic. Good to know."

From the passenger seat of Sarita's rental car he scanned the surrounding area as if looking for snipers. He had been oddly jumpy during the flight into Nevada, and then transformed into a ball of wired-up energy during the drive towards Las Vegas. For a giant robot who took pride in being an obnoxious smartass it was unusual behaviour. Whether it was inspired by nerves or a sense of guilt was still up in the air.

But at least he had recovered after a good night of rest. His left hand was functional again too. Not that anyone would know it had been injured from his current avatar: a gangly man in an orange Hawaiian shirt and tan surf shorts, with wavy blond hair crammed under a khaki bucket hat. Big aviator sunglasses hid his eyes.

Miles above them, the distant roar of a jet engine was barely audible, swallowed by distance.

Deuce kicked open the passenger door.

"I'm gonna go rock a piss," he declared, which was Deuce-speak for 'I need to do obscure giant robot things while hidden in a bathroom stall.' He slammed the door shut again and gave Sarita a hasty wave before trotting off towards the restaurant: a cheery looking building with a single window out front and bright green trim. "I'll be right back! If you see a red car full of junk pull up into the parking lot, that'll be him. Just, um. Tell him I'll be right out!"

[Deleted]

Sarita was not stupid. She tended to get very pissed if people thought she was stupid, or if she was really that naive. Everything about Deuce and this meeting screamed "he's in trouble", and to top it off, his usual nerves about Nevada had gone up tenfold. It could have been guilt, it could have been that he had pissed off more than one person — it could have been anything. Whatever it was, Sarita knew, deep down in her gut, that something either horrifically bad or terribly pear-shaped was going to happen.

Huh. "Pear-shaped." I like that Britishism.

At least his hand was better, and she had gotten most of the filth off of him before they left. She smelt vaguely like old fish, however, and barely had enough clean water left at Base Camp to get decent for the meeting. She wore a plain, white t-shirt, the front blazoned with the words "Indian Springs" in gaudy Papyrus Bold; a pair of stonewashed, frayed jeans replaced her usual Bohemian skirt. Her eyes were sharp, scanning left, right and all over the place, always searching for ways in. Ways out. Ways left and right, to dodge around and hide in, and places from which the unexpected could spring. She'd been awfully quiet since (rather insistently) pressuring D to get a rental, something between a frown and intense concentration on her face.

If Deuce asked what the change in attitude was, he'd either be met with, "I'm thinking," or, "I have a lot of stuff to do when we get back." Which was a piss-poor excuse that practically screamed "I'm covering up my rage at how stupid you've been", but why would Deuce care? She had blown up. They had talked. Whether or not he would remember half their conversation was a different story. At least he hadn't lied to her, she hoped; when this was all over with, anger born of overprotective concern would probably melt away. They'd hit up the local shopping and music scenes, poke around for gigs, and do stupid things like play roulette with gear money. Sarita genuinely liked exploring around with her alien companion.

Deuce kicked open the passenger door.

"I'm gonna go rock a piss," he declared, which was Deuce-speak for 'I need to do obscure giant robot things while hidden in a bathroom stall.' He slammed the door shut again and gave Sarita a hasty wave before trotting off towards the restaurant: a cheery looking building with a single window out front and bright green trim. "I'll be right back! If you see a red car full of junk pull up into the parking lot, that'll be him. Just, um. Tell him I'll be right out!"

"You got it," the singer said, though she wanted to say far more. What, while you hide in the bathroom and look for an excuse to cover up whatever it is you're doing? was what was more on her mind. But she let Deuce go, and instead waited patiently for the car, tapping her fingers against the wheel as she quietly hummed In A Gada-La-Vida. She'd give Marco thirty minutes, and then, she'd head inside to see if he was there, and to see if Deuce had gone to meet him there without telling her. The jet was not going to get away from her that easily, if she had her way.

As for dealing with Marco? If he showed up, she would be civil. She would throw on her nicest face, and say all her pleases and thank-yous. She would give him the ear and respect he deserved as an associate of Deuce's, and keep her mouth shut when asked. That being said, she had a tire iron hidden underneath the front passenger's seat, a kitchen knife for emergencies in the glove compartment, and makeshift mace (read: a pungently-lavender bottle of body spray) to score the bastard's eyes with if he tried anything. If he swung at her or her jet's holo, she would at least try to fuck something up. Nobody — nobody — threatened her with every aspect of her life like that, trying to make her feel weak and cowed, without Sarita thinking up a plan in her head of how to get them into the boot of her car.

(It totally wasn't because the idea of someone having a file on her, on hand with all her deepest secrets, scared the shit out of her. Nope. Totally not. She'd seen worse, and if worse came to worst, that kitchen knife was going to get buried in something. Yep. Definitely. Not a show of paranoia at all, nope, and definitely not something she'd probably chicken out on.)

The singer exhaled quietly, leaning her arm on the lowered driver's window, propping up her head with her fist. Deuce had once said he'd worked a bunch of bad jobs to get on his feet, after Cybertron. Sarita had had some bad jobs too. She wouldn't have been surprised if this was turning out to be another one of them, for Deuce. Then again, what have I gotten myself into here?

[Deleted]

For five minutes or so, little happened.

All was peaceful and quiet. A drowsy heat hung over the parking lot as the noonday sun glowed down from the top of the sky. It was warm inside the rental car, although a nice breeze wafted through the lowered window. The faint smell of barbecue lingered in the air, which droned with the song of the cicadas hidden in nearby gardens and shrubbery. The sound of distant traffic drifted from the main road.

A silver SUV pulled into the parking lot. As a handful of children piled out of it, a second car arrived at the restaurant.

This one was candy-red, with white stripes up its hood and roof. It was an old Camaro, dusty and scratched. It roared into an empty parking spot in front of the restaurant and shut off its engine.

After a moment a man climbed out. He held a cell phone to his ear and spoke into it in an animated fashion. He was quite loud, and so was his shirt: a dirty red Hawaiian with white and orange flowers and green leaves all over it. A battered walky-talky was clipped to its breast pocket.

The man's dark hair was wind-blown back, his jaw unshaven. He looked older, maybe mid-forties. He picked up the old paper drink cup that fell out of his car and winged it behind the driver's seat. With a noisy slam he threw the door shut and leaned back against it.

His call ended. The man tucked his phone into his pocket and looked around the parking lot.

[Deleted]

The candy-red Camaro was instantly recognizable. Not too long ago, its driver had been in a shouting match outside of a mom-and-pop waffle house — Deuce had been the other participant. Sarita had stared awkwardly for five minutes as the men exchanged heated conversation, then had gone after Deuce and dragged him away after people had begun to stare. How she hadn't recognized Marco's voice over the phone was beyond her, but she chalked it up to the overwhelming sense of panic that had held her at the time.

Her eyes flickered over the parking lot once more, making a small list of escape options and places to hide to duck into. With a deep breath, checking once more for the tire iron under the seat, Sarita clicked open her door and exited the car. She was far less noisy than Deuce's manic acquaintance, striding over with a long, purposeful gait, reminiscent of a big cat making her way across a field. Her face was neutral, though her eyes were focused squarely on the man waiting outside of that ridiculously-red car.

"Mr. Marco!" the woman called out, once she was a few feet from the man. She held her hand up for a handshake, the grip firm but ladylike should the man accept it. "Rita, at your service. We spoke over the phone — I hope you are doing well. I apologize for the absence of my business associate; he had to use the gentleman's facilities. He should be rejoining us in a couple of minutes."

Her posture was business-like and unwavering, feet firmly in place. Compared to the thick, unshaven, loudly-clothed man before her, Sarita was particularly petite, thin and twig-like in build. She still hadn't gained much since living in Haven, too busy scaling hills and running from gig to gig to let her weight catch up. If Deuce had noticed, he certainly hadn't said anything, but he'd been kind enough to pay for food on more than one occasion. She hoped he'd be out of the restaurant soon — despite Sarita's courage, a deep part of her was still afraid of the stranger.

"I can't believe I didn't remember you when we talked," the singer said. "Last time I saw you, you were enjoying the blueberry special at Waffle Planet. The doctor hasn't told you to quit on the 24-hour breakfast menu and black coffee, has he?"

[Deleted]

For a moment the man just stared at her blankly, as if his brain was trying to catch up with his ears.

Then he laughed.

"Kiddo, I am a doctor," he said. "And I think my heart and my colon are still ticking along just fine. Doc Marco, at your service."

He leaned off the car door and brushed dust off the seat of his shorts. He wore leather sandals, and his hairy legs were striped with old pink scratches and scars, like he spent a lot of time crawling through thorny brush. His blue eyes fixed on Sarita as he reached for her hand and shook it firmly. His own hand was calloused and deeply tanned.

"So, you're Sarita," he said. "You're smaller than I was expecting. Your 'business associate' is hiding in the can, is he? I should have figured. I imagine he'll be out in a minute. He's probably hoping that talking to you first will mellow me out before he makes his grand arrival. And oh, look, right on cue..."

Marco looked back at the restaurant in amusement. Sure enough, Deuce had just opened the door and was peering outside.

[Deleted]

The scars didn't go unnoticed. Sarita, too, had a few of her own — the newest was a thin cut above one eyebrow, and several scratches on the edges of her arms. They had been courtesy of tearing through underbrush in the dark, only noticed (and felt) the morning after Deuce had teleported into Hideaway. They were still a bit red, but had scabbed over in the interim.

"So, you're Sarita," he said. "You're smaller than I was expecting."

"Well, to use a phrase I'm sure you are familiar with," Sarita said with a smirk, "it's not the size that matters, but how you use it."

"Your 'business associate' is hiding in the can, is he? I should have figured. I imagine he'll be out in a minute. He's probably hoping that talking to you first will mellow me out before he makes his grand arrival. And oh, look, right on cue..."

Sarita turned her head to look at where Marco's eyes had fallen. Sure enough, like a child peeking out of his room after being sent there, Deuce was keeping his distance in the restaurant. The singer's eyebrows rose, her attention going back to Marco as she turned her back to the jet's holo.

"I have to ask why he should be hiding, then," Sarita said. "You told me he broke one of your radios, and that he was up to something that you, as a bonafide nutjob and hallucinogens addict, considered psycho. Care to spare me the details while the parking lot is still empty? I rather don't like it when my associates think it's a good idea to keep secrets from me. Especially when they show up on my doorstep with a mangled hand."

Her eyes cut back towards where Deuce was peeping. She turned her head, and proceeded to give him the look.

[Deleted]

Marco didn't look at her. He kept his glare zeroed on Deuce.

"Maybe your associates believe strongly in personal privacy," he said. "And that some of their secrets are none of your damn business. Lenny! Get out here!"

His voice thundered across the parking lot. The family of four that had just stepped out of the SUV looked around at him before hurrying inside. Deuce held the door open for them. Only then did he slink towards the rental car, his expression a comical mix of guilt and dread.

Marco watched him with stern disapproval as he drew near, his fists on his hips.

"Eh, Doc," said Deuce. He stopped and looked back and forth between the two humans. "Er, Sarita. You all right out here, my little chickadee? No problems?"

He eyed Marco warily.

"No, I slapped her around while you cowered in the toilet, you idiot, and she slapped me back. Now we're BFFs. Will you stop looking at me like I'm going to bite someone? I'm not mad at you right now, chill out. Look, see? How about a high-five."

Marco held up one hand. Deuce smirked at it.

Then he went staggering backwards as Marco wound back and walloped him in the face with a blow so loud that birds flew up out of a nearby bush.

To his credit, Deuce recovered quickly. In outrage he reared back his hand and slammed it across Marco's cheek hard enough to knock the man back into his own car.

[Deleted]

And as Marco smashed into the car, Sarita launched at him like a rocket. She made a little jump off of one foot, giving a little howl of rage as the man's thud echoed out. Marco had made the mistake of punching her jet, Her travelling partner, her companion. And now, her unexpected little lump of responsibility, if the idiot son-of-a-bitch was going to keep getting into stupid shit like he was now.

Her free foot went first, aiming to dropkick the man in the crotch with as much force as she could muster. She'd then hop back, wiry muscles tense, and rip out the obnoxious lavender spray from one pocket. It was aimed at Marco's face, hopefully before he could recover; mace could be illegal to carry, but no one said anything about feminine body scents. A spray of the stuff, she prayed, would land in his face and temporarily keep him blind.

Next, she took her keys. She had pulled them out of the ignition after getting out of the car — like hell she'd keep them in there, ripe and ready to be taken. Quickly spinning them around so that the pointy ends faced upwards, she stuck them between the fingers of her punch (weak as it might be), and aimed for the nearest place she could land a blow. After that, she hopped backwards, dancing from foot to foot.

"Deuce," Sarita said calmly, "get back to the car."

[Deleted]

Deuce stared at her.

"Are you kidding?" he said.

There wasn't even a red mark on his cheek. He continued to stare at her in bewilderment, even as he absently straightened his rumpled shirt. "I came all the way out here to speak with him. He's my best - informant. Only in Nevada, anyway," he added snidely. "I've got better informants elsewhere in the United States, of course. Not to mention better dressed ones. What is going on with that shirt, Marco? You look like a forest fire."

Marco snorted as he rubbed his red eyes.

"You're one to talk," he croaked.

"Anyway, it's not like he can hurt me," said Deuce. He gave a show-girly wave of his hands. "Avatar, remember? So I'm gonna go on into the restaurant, pretend to drink a diet Coke I can't actually drink, and maybe doodle a bit on the placemat. Marco, you've got news for me, right? After the lecture."

Marco blinked wetly and squinted.

"Yeah," he said. "It's good stuff. You're buying me lunch, right? Because my credit card is maxed out."

"Yes, I'll buy you whatever you want, jesus. Sarita? Are you coming or not?"

Both men looked around at her, Marco through his tears. For two men who had just greeted each other with a slap fight in the middle of a parking lot, they looked remarkably calm now, as if getting cold-cocked and maced was something that happened every day.

[Deleted]

This was one of those moments where, "Oh, shit," could not accurately described how fucked Sarita was, or at least how she felt. Someone wasn't going to fuck Deuce up, his avatar didn't feel pain, and she had just maced one of his business partners in the face. Sarita's brain temporarily stopped working as she stared at the now-amicable pair, processing the last few minutes in what awfully felt like a disaster slide-show. Only, it was happening to her, and everything was in slow motion.

The woman's face turned bright, bright red. She said not a peep, but literally made a peep when Deuce asked if she was coming or not. And Marco asked if Deuce could pay — "Um, y-yeah!" she replied, hurrying over while trying to keep from choking on her own words. "I, uh, I'll pay for the food, sirs. I, um, got a bit of extra money from the last gig."

Her shoulders were slightly hunched, and her eyes were nearly on the ground. She looked ahead and kept behind the two, daring not to look either in the eye. Her movements were an awkward shuffle, one foot sore from the almighty dropkick aimed at Marco's jewels. The make-do mace canister lay on the ground, forgotten and still smelling like lavender, Sarita too embarrassed to bend down and pick it back up.

Please don't have someone who noticed that. Please don't have someone who noticed that.

[Deleted]

Luckily for Sarita, the parking lot empty save for the three of them. A motorcycle rumbled down the road in a cloud of dust and a lawnmower droned from the little row of houses nearby, but that was it. Safe!

Marco yanked his shorts out of his groin.

"All right, great, we're all friends now, hooray," he said. "Amazing. I would weep openly, except my eyes are already on fire. Can we all go inside now? Let's put the outdoor theatre show to a rest and get our food on. Don't worry, kiddo, Lenny is paying. Lenny owes me a couple lunches anyway. Doesn't he?"

Deuce grimaced.

"Sure," he said. "Come on, Reet. I'll get you whatever you like."

And as Marco stumped away towards the door of the restaurant, Deuce leaned in towards Sarita and hastily whispered, "Don't worry about me. I'm fine, honest. I appreciate the sentiment, though. Just watch yourself around this old bastard. He may seem like a harmless nut, but he's got ears everywhere here in Nevada and he pays attention to all of them. He's useful if you can put up with him, at least."

He grinned faintly and gave her a sidelong wink.

Meanwhile, inside the door the restaurant was… well, your typical roadside grill. It was old and a little dark and hard-worn, with a big bar stocked with bottles and taps and glass refrigerators full of beer and pies, and the walls were decorated in with dusty sports memorabilia, but there were rows of laminate booths around the windows to sit at. In one corner of the room a handful of electronic slot machines chattered and chimed. Already the tables were filling up with hungry lunchtime patrons, though a few were still open. A handful of motorcyclists sat at the bar, chatting together.

[Deleted]

Kiddo. God — if she wasn't so embarrassed, and her attention wasn't so focused on what had just happened, her next thought would have been, I wish he'd stop calling me that. Yes, he had to be almost twice her age (and for Deuce, several times older), but she was twenty-five. Twenty-five freaking years old, and she had been dodging cars, shankings, muggings and starvation for the last five. She wasn't completely naive, thank you very much.

(The less said about how her sheltered, sometimes-shy demeanour and lack of awareness, the better. The school of hard knocks hadn't completely kicked the mindset out of her, as much as she wanted to believe it had.)

When Deuce leaned in to whisper, Sarita perked her head up a little, but otherwise remained in a bashful shuffle. "Yeah, I figured," she murmured back, eyes flicking back to Marco for just a second. At least she'd gotten him back for threatening her, the bastard — the floral-scented pain in his eyes would probably last a while. As would the pain in his jewels. When was the last time she had hit something so hard? Her foot was still reminding her how much of a bad idea that had been. At least no one had been around to witness such a spectacle.

The singer entered the restaurant behind the two gentlemen, chin lifting as her eyes darted left and right, up and down. The place was tight, old, and humming with electronics, lights and the noise of its people — "organized oncoming chaos" was what Sarita thought of the place. There was the sharp smell of alcohol, the sizzle of roadside fare, and the clink of bottles and change into the register. The woman took on a more confident pose, yet kept reserved as to not draw too much attention to herself.

The place was going to be a pain to move through. She followed in step with Marco and Deuce, sitting beside her friend's avatar when they finally found a table. She did not want to get boxed in with the eccentric "informant", uncomfortable of sharing her personal space with a) a stranger and b) someone she just tried to beat up.

[Deleted]

As it turned out, Marco picked a window table.

They were lucky. A young couple had just departed from one of them. There were still coffee cups and loose change on the table when Marco slid into his seat. He gently ushered it all together into a little circle and left it at the edge of the table for the waitress to collect when she came around to drop off menus.

Deuce sat down across from Marco and patted the seat beside him for Sarita. He seemed to sense that she would likely prefer not to be trapped next to the window. He tugged off his hat and eyed the other man dubiously.

"What's the food like here?" he said.

"Oh, it's good," said Marco. "I eat here a lot when I'm in the area."

Deuce stared at him.

The waitress swished up with menus. She was a young red-haired girl, younger than Sarita, with a tired but friendly looking freckly face.

"Afternoon!" she said. "Hey, Doc. Sorry, I'll get this mess cleaned up for you in a moment. Can I get you some drinks for starters?"

She smiled at Sarita.

[Deleted]

That was the odd thing about her and Deuce's little partnership: they often ended up on the same wavelength. For all of his manic energy and tendencies, he could be predictable, and his interests often fell into the same spectrum Sarita's did. In return, she was beginning to pick up ideas and interests from him — as evidenced by their long flight-time chats — and he almost always knew when something was wrong. When he patted the seat, Sarita took place beside the jet, as if it were the right and natural way of the world.

"What's the food like here?" he said.

"Oh, it's good," said Marco. "I eat here a lot when I'm in the area."

Deuce stared at him.

The look from her friend's holo gave Sarita pause. The place already had a dingy, "motorcyclist's paradise" type of atmosphere to it, and Deuce's behaviour made Sarita take pause. Was this the kind of food that was going to send her sprinting to the bathroom mid-flight? One stretch had been spent trying to hold in every second fart, after a late-morning breakfast with Taco Bell's breakfast menu. Never again would Sarita indulge in cheap Tex-Mex takeout, especially when it meant a cockpit stuck full of fumes. Deuce had disappeared for three days after that.

A waitress came up to the table, breaking Sarita's train of thought. "Doc", the woman called Doctor Marco — he was known here, then. A regular, then, or perhaps even a local — he could have been bluffing about being "in the area". Being native to a place counted as "in the area" as well. Before the singer could wonder over this further, the waitress smiled at her, in that universal sign of "it's time to take your order".

Right. Food.

"I'll start with a Sprite, please, if you have it," said Sarita. "If not, Coke or Pepsi — whatever's available, ma'am." Sarita smiled back at the young woman in a friendly, practised move, not showing any of her teeth.

[Deleted]

"We have Sprite, yep!"

The waitress jotted it down on a little pad tucked into the front pocket of her apron before she turned to the two men, her pencil held ready. "What about you gentlemen? The usual, Doc?"

Marco lounged in his seat, one arm thrown across the back. "You bet. Thanks, kiddo."

He spoke in a friendly voice, as polite as pie. Deuce stared at him for a moment longer before he realised that the young girl's attention had shifted to him.

"Uh, yeah," he said. "I'll… I'll have a coffee. I guess. Please?"

The waitress was gracious enough not to raise an eyebrow at his awkward smile. Instead she laid down the menus tucked under her elbow and gathered the dirty cups off the table, hanging one by the handle off her pinky finger.

"I'll be right back with your drinks," she said. "We serve breakfast until twelve-thirty if you still want some, and then it's the lunch menu after that. The special today is a pulled pork sandwich, or a mushroom Swiss burger, both with fries or a salad. Soup of the day is cream of broccoli. I'll give you a minute to look everything over."

She swished off to the kitchen with a cheery smile.

Marco slid a menu towards himself using the tips of his fingers.

"All right, so, tell me," he said as he picked it up. "How did the two of you meet?"