[ Vincent has a fairly good idea of what Arasaka must've done to Johnny's psyche inside the Relic for so many years. Yet another reason why Mikoshi needed to blow the fuck up, all its constructs released to Alt. Better to be part of a whole than descend into madness, reliving the same things, feeling the same feelings, until they meant nothing.
(He wonders if that's ultimately what saved Johnny—his psyche providing a frame for his tattered memories, a tangible anchor. Much as Johnny loved to complain about the forced mind meld, it appeared to provide a stability he lacked for much of his life. Thinks on how it's the memories of his mother the rockerboy dwells on the most.) ]
Yeah, we would've. [ A gentle smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, turning cheekier by the minute. ] Better than when we first met, looks like.
--
Only way to survive on the road. [ Vincent can't imagine a world where people don't do these things. The harshness of the Badlands has a way of carving people down to their true selves. The nomads are good because that means sticking together, and sticking together means survival. The Raffen Shiv are not because they do the opposite—they prey on the weak and innocent, carve them up, toss them aside then move on to the next. They're like swarms of locusts eating up what little there is to go around.
Sees that here, on this boy—his ratty clothes, the purple-yellow bruises. The stink of neglect. The pointless cruelty for someone else's enjoyment. City people are more like the Raffen Shiv than the nomads. ] We're going to Kansas to work the wheat fields. I like the bugs there. [ Biggest beetles and spiders he's ever seen. From yet another pocket he removes a smallish block of clear resin. Inside it, a black-and-white beetle with striking markings. ] This one has funny eyes. Caught it in a forest. [ He sets it on the ground in front of Johnny, then sits down, hugging his knees. ]
You won't see them ever again if you come with us. [ There's been several bad people who'd tried to take back good people who ran off to the clans, but the outcome is always the same—the adults shake them off or tear them apart. No one drives faster or harder than a nomad. No one fights like them either.
(The world was so much more black-and-white then, the grown up Vincent thinks. But that's what safety and love felt like too—knowing exactly who you are, your place in the world, and that people would take care of you unconditionally. His life hasn't been easy, but he'll be forever thankful for the solid foundation his childhood serves as. So many people don't get that.
Like Johnny.) ]
Not this one. You'll just soak. [ Only so much wipes can do. Medicated baths feel nice, clean wounds and get rid of the itchiness and soreness. Makes people stink less too, which can become quickly unbearable when you share close quarters with so many people.
Basic hygiene and disease prevention. Nomads might not smell like flowers and fruits like the hoity-toity corpos who come to swindle them once in a while, but Vincent would rather smell like leather and skin than that chemical falseness the settled folk always bring with them. ] I'll get you a rubber duck.
no subject
(He wonders if that's ultimately what saved Johnny—his psyche providing a frame for his tattered memories, a tangible anchor. Much as Johnny loved to complain about the forced mind meld, it appeared to provide a stability he lacked for much of his life. Thinks on how it's the memories of his mother the rockerboy dwells on the most.) ]
Yeah, we would've. [ A gentle smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, turning cheekier by the minute. ] Better than when we first met, looks like.
--
Only way to survive on the road. [ Vincent can't imagine a world where people don't do these things. The harshness of the Badlands has a way of carving people down to their true selves. The nomads are good because that means sticking together, and sticking together means survival. The Raffen Shiv are not because they do the opposite—they prey on the weak and innocent, carve them up, toss them aside then move on to the next. They're like swarms of locusts eating up what little there is to go around.
Sees that here, on this boy—his ratty clothes, the purple-yellow bruises. The stink of neglect. The pointless cruelty for someone else's enjoyment. City people are more like the Raffen Shiv than the nomads. ] We're going to Kansas to work the wheat fields. I like the bugs there. [ Biggest beetles and spiders he's ever seen. From yet another pocket he removes a smallish block of clear resin. Inside it, a black-and-white beetle with striking markings. ] This one has funny eyes. Caught it in a forest. [ He sets it on the ground in front of Johnny, then sits down, hugging his knees. ]
You won't see them ever again if you come with us. [ There's been several bad people who'd tried to take back good people who ran off to the clans, but the outcome is always the same—the adults shake them off or tear them apart. No one drives faster or harder than a nomad. No one fights like them either.
(The world was so much more black-and-white then, the grown up Vincent thinks. But that's what safety and love felt like too—knowing exactly who you are, your place in the world, and that people would take care of you unconditionally. His life hasn't been easy, but he'll be forever thankful for the solid foundation his childhood serves as. So many people don't get that.
Like Johnny.) ]
Not this one. You'll just soak. [ Only so much wipes can do. Medicated baths feel nice, clean wounds and get rid of the itchiness and soreness. Makes people stink less too, which can become quickly unbearable when you share close quarters with so many people.
Basic hygiene and disease prevention. Nomads might not smell like flowers and fruits like the hoity-toity corpos who come to swindle them once in a while, but Vincent would rather smell like leather and skin than that chemical falseness the settled folk always bring with them. ] I'll get you a rubber duck.