Sash
Wooden spoon of justice
The setting is Space, as open as it can get, filled with the mysterious unknown, the slightly less enigmatic acquainted and the most endearing familiar, all in various forms and places, ready to be discovered at the time of our own choosing. The year is irrelevant, the time distorts around pulsars and wormholes, but it only adds to the fun experience. Except when the chronometer goes mad and we get lost in an unknown sector, but that’s what adventure is all about, isn’t it?
Imagine a group of very unique individuals of various species, contradicting morals, intersecting goals – a group that, despite their differences, functions like a well-adjusted clock, not out of necessity, not under someone else’s order, but by their own will and desire to look past what separates them and focus on what unites them – the mutual respect, the desire to travel, visit different far-away planets, learn about new cultures and find their place in this tremendously messed-up universe.
They aren’t yet acquainted – that’s our job. Long story short, I have a number of characters – some created long ago for other RPs, some fresh and written out for this project specifically, and some so new they don’t even have a sheet yet, but I still love them – and I want to do them justice in an adventurous futuristic story. So if you have or are up to creating the same or a close number of different characters and have them interact in the story we will plot around them, let’s jump into it! Hitchhiking with aliens can't be boring, am I right?
One more thing: I realize that it’s impossible to have many characters meet and do things at the same time, so here are our three options:
Now, to some things I expect from you and will offer in return:
Thank you for your attention!
Imagine a group of very unique individuals of various species, contradicting morals, intersecting goals – a group that, despite their differences, functions like a well-adjusted clock, not out of necessity, not under someone else’s order, but by their own will and desire to look past what separates them and focus on what unites them – the mutual respect, the desire to travel, visit different far-away planets, learn about new cultures and find their place in this tremendously messed-up universe.
They aren’t yet acquainted – that’s our job. Long story short, I have a number of characters – some created long ago for other RPs, some fresh and written out for this project specifically, and some so new they don’t even have a sheet yet, but I still love them – and I want to do them justice in an adventurous futuristic story. So if you have or are up to creating the same or a close number of different characters and have them interact in the story we will plot around them, let’s jump into it! Hitchhiking with aliens can't be boring, am I right?
One more thing: I realize that it’s impossible to have many characters meet and do things at the same time, so here are our three options:
- Start off with a pair of characters and add on as the story goes.
- Introduce them all, but in different places and under different circumstances – say, two of them are having a bar fight on a cargo spaceship, while two others are peacefully exploring a deserted asteroid, and so on – the option which I much prefer.
- Something you think would work better, ‘cause I’m open to suggestions.
- A thirty-eight years old military surgeon from Earth. A honest, brave man who’s been through too much for one person, but is still holding himself together and trying his best to do some good to this world. High morals, strict manners, a missing lung, a love-starved heart and no children, which is just a pity – he’d make an excellent father.
- An empathic life-form made of coal, heat and energy. An incredibly peaceful creature, and a very ancient one – sadly, the last of their kind, but very devoted to the traditions and “ways” of their species.
- An android built by a now dead colony of a human-like species. Currently deactivated and abandoned on a deserted hell of a planet, but as soon as someone or something reactivates him – a curious and benevolent personality in a high-tech body that seems to have everything but a single human feeling he so strives to understand.
- A young jester from a medieval-like society, by his own words, exiled from his kingdom and his planet for “too honest a joke” and “too quick a tongue”, but the reality is much more complicated. Also by his own words, “I can tell many tales, dance and sing, and walk with a pronounced limp in a hilarious manner should thy grace decide to punch me!”. That, unlike much of what he says, is true. Rarely serious, with enough salt in him to make everyone’s life sour, but keeps a good company and is great to have around if you prefer lyre over silence.
Now, to some things I expect from you and will offer in return:
- I’m looking for a long-term partner that can take an RP seriously and an OOC-chat light-heartedly, sometimes vice-versa. I don’t insist that we absolutely must make friends, but the idea and the format of this RP implies that we will have a lot of communication beforehand and in the process, so it would be nice to have someone who can… well, communicate.
- I prefer long posts, five paragraphs and longer, and I don’t do one-liners. It’s always a pleasure to have detailed replies where each player contributes to world-building, pays attention and reacts to what the other one has to say.
- I want this RP character-centered and action-filled, and I’m not a huge fan of romance. If it happens, let it happen. If it doesn’t, let’s not force it. (I also don’t double because I don’t understand how it works, don’t laugh at me)
- If you feel like giving this idea a try and decide to message me, please include a sample of your writing. I’ll have some examples of my posts attached below. Also please include something other than just “Hi, I’m interested”, anything, like your RP preferences and taboos, your ideas for this plot and your characters, or just how your day went. Just don’t make me carry the conversation all on my own, okay?
At this time of the year it tended to snow where he came from. He loved the sensation of snowflakes descending slowly, gently touching his skin and immediately melting, making his hair feel heavier, cooling off the nervousness and anxious vigilance deep inside him. The rain of these warm places, however, didn’t give him anything close to the familiar feeling. In fact, it gave him nothing but cold and irritation, as did everything in this land. He spent a lot of time at the North but couldn’t stand the change of hearts of his own folk, thus forced to leave hastily. He then headed South, got used to strange clothing but never truly understood the land’s moral standards. Neither East nor West came to his liking, and there was not a single place here, in the middle, of which he would think with warmth and affection. He probably just didn’t like people very much.
He realized it well, but the realization wasn’t enough to make the rain stop or change the way he felt about it. He didn’t have any acquaintances anywhere nearby, only an old tradesman to which he sold what he found on the way here for a decent amount of heavy gold coins people used here. They were always complaining about the money he brought from afar, refusing to take it, asking too many questions, arguing over how much is a coin actually worth. They won’t complain anymore. Not that he cares.
But you don’t really consider tradesmen your acquaintances, do you? He had no one to come to, knock on the door, wait through the rain. The number of his friends excelled only the amount of damns he gave about it. He could go to a tavern – Peckish Pixie was known as one of the best places around, warm and cozy, with some good food and even better drinks – but something bothered him. He didn’t know the weather of this land, couldn’t predict how long is it going to rain, had no desire to waste his earnings for a couple of nights and food only to find himself under an even heavier shower and not a single foot closer to his destination. Besides, the title reminded him of a pixie he once encountered. A nasty creature it was. Even remembering it made him shudder.
He entered the main road hoping it will lead him to the outpost before dawn so he can reach a possible natural shelter the same day. The road met him with people staring boldly, annoying him even more that the rain and the whole situation in general. He couldn’t help but be noticed, unable to hide what gave his foreign origin away, such as his warm jacket that could never be made or bought around these places because its forest lacked the animals necessary to make one, or his sword which was forged differently from those of local guards, longer and thinner, with no curvature and no pattern or symbol on the handle or the pommel. To top that, his messy and disheveled hair was of an unusual white-ish color, making him look older, but not too much, because his bright-grey eyes were clearly of a fairly young person. He was hiding the lower half of his face under a black mask, covering his chin, mouth and nose, making it impossible to tell what emotion he’s expressing. People noticed he was thin, but what he seemingly lacked in muscles he caught up in height, being at least six feet tall even when stooping and hanging his head.
To his own regret, people didn’t think him threatening and easily dared to pass close to him, not missing a perfect chance to take a closer look or even peek something. He was tired of the attention and feared thieves, with all of his vigilance still sometimes unable to detect one’s quick fingers in his pockets. He decided to take a shortcut through an alley, hoping it would lead him to his destination and save from the crowds he tried to avoid so desperately. It wasn’t too long till he found himself lost in the intricate labyrinths of darkness and narrowness, fitting where he normally wouldn’t even try to fit and whispering curses to all the Gods he has ever heard of. Seeing a church somewhere in the distance didn’t help at all – the only use it ever had to him was lost when people stopped orientating these buildings properly. It was an old, strange belief that every church shall face East, and there was an explanation to it that he didn’t bother to remember, but this land wasn’t too fond on the old traditions. Now he couldn’t even tell where he was heading.
Then he noticed a kid. He couldn’t tell for sure but assumed by the long hair that it was a girl, a very young and skinny one, unusually pale compared to the local folk. He was pale too, but this skin color was in his blood and nature, as of anyone born where he was born. The girl, on the other hand, was probably just hungry and tired. He knew too well what “a stray” is, easily recognizing her as one. But it was only when he came close enough, standing at arm’s length, that he stopped and looked at her directly. Then, searching for his wallet, he reached for the bag he carried on a wide belt across the left shoulder.
He always found a coin to spare with such kids, a golden one if he had any. He didn’t talk to them and there was never any sign of pity in his eyes. There probably was no pity in him at all, but he couldn’t simply walk past. If he ever happened to find himself equally poor, his wallet empty and his food eaten to the last crumb a long time ago, he would take off his gloves, scarf or expensive dagger and give it to the child that he believed needed it most. He would always earn a fortune and buy new clothes or weapons later. However, no money could ever buy a new life. This time he had enough gold to pay this child a dinner and a warm night. He could do that, just needed to find his damn wallet, lost again in the chaotic mess of scrolls, herbs and food in a poor attempt to hide it from possible pick-pockets.
“C’mere, I found the rat!” a loud, angry voice shouted in the distance. “Looks like someone caught her!” Three pairs of iron shoes shattered the ground, then three armor-clad warriors revealed themselves, yelling angrily and taking up their swords against the stranger’s unimposing figure. “Hey, you there, step aside! The demon’s mine!”
He didn’t listen to them. Standing right between the guards and the girl, he finally gave up on finding his wallet, always lost when he needed it most, and thought of the coins he left in the small pocket on his chest. He couldn’t remember if they were golden or not, but decided to check anyway.
“You deaf or what? You’re in my way, get lost!” one of the guards came close enough to almost poke him with the tip of his blade, but he waved it off with the back of his palm.
“If the child stole something from you, I’ll pay for it,” he suggested in such a calm voice it seemed like he barely felt any emotions whatsoever.
“You ain’t got no clue, you freak,” the guard blurted out harshly, “the brat’s a monster!”
“Funny,” the so-called freak replied, and everyone could hear that to him it was anything but funny, “I fought a lich once…”
“Move it before I kill you!” the guard shouted, losing his patience. The stranger tilted his head, his eyes tired, his look unimpressed and eyelids half-closed, as if he was more interested in a nap than a conversation. He wasn’t trying to mock the guards. It was truly how he felt most of the time for the past couple of years.
“I don’t want to harm you,” he admitted sincerely, being in no mood for killing or being killed today. He knew he could handle three of this land’s warriors. In fact, he would bid to win against four or five of them. They talk the talk but don’t walk the walk. They’re clumsy and slow. Heavy though, if one of them manages to land a hit on the thin unarmored outlander, he’s finished for sure.
It was quick. The first one to attack was stopped by a preventive but light scratch on the unprotected cheek but didn’t get the picture and went for another hit. This time the outlander sliced his neck, the wound was lethal. The second one managed to sneak past, but the stranger’s long arms and blade allowed him to keep the third one in the distance and prepare for a stab in the back. The third guard aimed for the head – a brutal and obvious move. It wouldn’t take a professional to outstrip him with a precise thrust in the eye, deep enough to kill him instantly.
But there was no anticipated hit from behind, meaning only that he anticipated wrong.
It suddenly came to him, but too late, that the guard was aiming for the kid. As the realization stroke him, he rushed back, thinking to himself something along the lines of “Well, duh”, but it wasn’t his style, nor was it in any of his basic helpful instincts to fight to protect someone. It almost cost him his left arm. Almost. The guard left a deep scratch on his shoulder and immediately paid for it, being thrust right in the guts between the metal plates of his armor. The stranger than cursed quietly, pulled the sword out of the guard’s body and pushed it aside with his foot. His own shoulder was now bleeding and itching, not to mention hurting like hell, but it’s not like he wasn’t used to pain. He just didn’t plan on getting cut today. And when something went not as well as he planned, it disturbed him deeply.
“Where was I?” he then asked as if nothing happened, slowly putting his sword back in the scabbard. But it occurred to him that maybe giving the kid some money wasn’t the best idea. If she had the reputation of a monster, whatever they meant by that, she couldn’t just go and by what she needed most. Sellers wouldn’t want to make a deal with her if she was haunted by the guards. And it wouldn’t be wise to let her wander in the streets where she can easily be caught again, with no one to fight for her next time.
“Are you hurt? I’ll buy you some food and a bed for the night, but we’ve got to go before anyone sees me with these corpses. Can you walk by yourself or should I carry you?” he said, no care in his soft and calm voice, nothing but tiredness in his eyes, and his face cold and emotionless, as if he truly was not human. He wondered that himself, though could remember the times when he was human enough for anger, happiness and even compassion. Those were… good times.
He realized it well, but the realization wasn’t enough to make the rain stop or change the way he felt about it. He didn’t have any acquaintances anywhere nearby, only an old tradesman to which he sold what he found on the way here for a decent amount of heavy gold coins people used here. They were always complaining about the money he brought from afar, refusing to take it, asking too many questions, arguing over how much is a coin actually worth. They won’t complain anymore. Not that he cares.
But you don’t really consider tradesmen your acquaintances, do you? He had no one to come to, knock on the door, wait through the rain. The number of his friends excelled only the amount of damns he gave about it. He could go to a tavern – Peckish Pixie was known as one of the best places around, warm and cozy, with some good food and even better drinks – but something bothered him. He didn’t know the weather of this land, couldn’t predict how long is it going to rain, had no desire to waste his earnings for a couple of nights and food only to find himself under an even heavier shower and not a single foot closer to his destination. Besides, the title reminded him of a pixie he once encountered. A nasty creature it was. Even remembering it made him shudder.
He entered the main road hoping it will lead him to the outpost before dawn so he can reach a possible natural shelter the same day. The road met him with people staring boldly, annoying him even more that the rain and the whole situation in general. He couldn’t help but be noticed, unable to hide what gave his foreign origin away, such as his warm jacket that could never be made or bought around these places because its forest lacked the animals necessary to make one, or his sword which was forged differently from those of local guards, longer and thinner, with no curvature and no pattern or symbol on the handle or the pommel. To top that, his messy and disheveled hair was of an unusual white-ish color, making him look older, but not too much, because his bright-grey eyes were clearly of a fairly young person. He was hiding the lower half of his face under a black mask, covering his chin, mouth and nose, making it impossible to tell what emotion he’s expressing. People noticed he was thin, but what he seemingly lacked in muscles he caught up in height, being at least six feet tall even when stooping and hanging his head.
To his own regret, people didn’t think him threatening and easily dared to pass close to him, not missing a perfect chance to take a closer look or even peek something. He was tired of the attention and feared thieves, with all of his vigilance still sometimes unable to detect one’s quick fingers in his pockets. He decided to take a shortcut through an alley, hoping it would lead him to his destination and save from the crowds he tried to avoid so desperately. It wasn’t too long till he found himself lost in the intricate labyrinths of darkness and narrowness, fitting where he normally wouldn’t even try to fit and whispering curses to all the Gods he has ever heard of. Seeing a church somewhere in the distance didn’t help at all – the only use it ever had to him was lost when people stopped orientating these buildings properly. It was an old, strange belief that every church shall face East, and there was an explanation to it that he didn’t bother to remember, but this land wasn’t too fond on the old traditions. Now he couldn’t even tell where he was heading.
Then he noticed a kid. He couldn’t tell for sure but assumed by the long hair that it was a girl, a very young and skinny one, unusually pale compared to the local folk. He was pale too, but this skin color was in his blood and nature, as of anyone born where he was born. The girl, on the other hand, was probably just hungry and tired. He knew too well what “a stray” is, easily recognizing her as one. But it was only when he came close enough, standing at arm’s length, that he stopped and looked at her directly. Then, searching for his wallet, he reached for the bag he carried on a wide belt across the left shoulder.
He always found a coin to spare with such kids, a golden one if he had any. He didn’t talk to them and there was never any sign of pity in his eyes. There probably was no pity in him at all, but he couldn’t simply walk past. If he ever happened to find himself equally poor, his wallet empty and his food eaten to the last crumb a long time ago, he would take off his gloves, scarf or expensive dagger and give it to the child that he believed needed it most. He would always earn a fortune and buy new clothes or weapons later. However, no money could ever buy a new life. This time he had enough gold to pay this child a dinner and a warm night. He could do that, just needed to find his damn wallet, lost again in the chaotic mess of scrolls, herbs and food in a poor attempt to hide it from possible pick-pockets.
“C’mere, I found the rat!” a loud, angry voice shouted in the distance. “Looks like someone caught her!” Three pairs of iron shoes shattered the ground, then three armor-clad warriors revealed themselves, yelling angrily and taking up their swords against the stranger’s unimposing figure. “Hey, you there, step aside! The demon’s mine!”
He didn’t listen to them. Standing right between the guards and the girl, he finally gave up on finding his wallet, always lost when he needed it most, and thought of the coins he left in the small pocket on his chest. He couldn’t remember if they were golden or not, but decided to check anyway.
“You deaf or what? You’re in my way, get lost!” one of the guards came close enough to almost poke him with the tip of his blade, but he waved it off with the back of his palm.
“If the child stole something from you, I’ll pay for it,” he suggested in such a calm voice it seemed like he barely felt any emotions whatsoever.
“You ain’t got no clue, you freak,” the guard blurted out harshly, “the brat’s a monster!”
“Funny,” the so-called freak replied, and everyone could hear that to him it was anything but funny, “I fought a lich once…”
“Move it before I kill you!” the guard shouted, losing his patience. The stranger tilted his head, his eyes tired, his look unimpressed and eyelids half-closed, as if he was more interested in a nap than a conversation. He wasn’t trying to mock the guards. It was truly how he felt most of the time for the past couple of years.
“I don’t want to harm you,” he admitted sincerely, being in no mood for killing or being killed today. He knew he could handle three of this land’s warriors. In fact, he would bid to win against four or five of them. They talk the talk but don’t walk the walk. They’re clumsy and slow. Heavy though, if one of them manages to land a hit on the thin unarmored outlander, he’s finished for sure.
It was quick. The first one to attack was stopped by a preventive but light scratch on the unprotected cheek but didn’t get the picture and went for another hit. This time the outlander sliced his neck, the wound was lethal. The second one managed to sneak past, but the stranger’s long arms and blade allowed him to keep the third one in the distance and prepare for a stab in the back. The third guard aimed for the head – a brutal and obvious move. It wouldn’t take a professional to outstrip him with a precise thrust in the eye, deep enough to kill him instantly.
But there was no anticipated hit from behind, meaning only that he anticipated wrong.
It suddenly came to him, but too late, that the guard was aiming for the kid. As the realization stroke him, he rushed back, thinking to himself something along the lines of “Well, duh”, but it wasn’t his style, nor was it in any of his basic helpful instincts to fight to protect someone. It almost cost him his left arm. Almost. The guard left a deep scratch on his shoulder and immediately paid for it, being thrust right in the guts between the metal plates of his armor. The stranger than cursed quietly, pulled the sword out of the guard’s body and pushed it aside with his foot. His own shoulder was now bleeding and itching, not to mention hurting like hell, but it’s not like he wasn’t used to pain. He just didn’t plan on getting cut today. And when something went not as well as he planned, it disturbed him deeply.
“Where was I?” he then asked as if nothing happened, slowly putting his sword back in the scabbard. But it occurred to him that maybe giving the kid some money wasn’t the best idea. If she had the reputation of a monster, whatever they meant by that, she couldn’t just go and by what she needed most. Sellers wouldn’t want to make a deal with her if she was haunted by the guards. And it wouldn’t be wise to let her wander in the streets where she can easily be caught again, with no one to fight for her next time.
“Are you hurt? I’ll buy you some food and a bed for the night, but we’ve got to go before anyone sees me with these corpses. Can you walk by yourself or should I carry you?” he said, no care in his soft and calm voice, nothing but tiredness in his eyes, and his face cold and emotionless, as if he truly was not human. He wondered that himself, though could remember the times when he was human enough for anger, happiness and even compassion. Those were… good times.
Everyone in the city knows where to find the Superhuman Police Department. Even strangers can easily find it by heading towards the tallest sky-scraper. No one would ever miss its bright blue signboard right above its wide sliding gate, nor would they find the nerve to ever enter the building uninvited. In fact, even being politely invited barely helps to calm down and keep it cool, because, as Mr. Oliver Pinker was standing right in front of the door, one passing by could physically feel the lack of courage inside him. And yet somehow Mr. Oliver Pinker pushed himself forward, gasped and sighed in disappointment, as in the end of a large passage there was but another door. The man grew nervous, silently cursing to himself and questioning the obscure reasoning of such an uncomfortable constructing. Little did Mr. Oliver Pinker know, because as he walked past the passage, a dozen of cameras and sensors scanned him carefully.
Then there was a hall, and as Mr. Oliver Pinker first saw it, the disappointment he felt earlier vanished as if it never existed at all. The hall was practically giant, with dozens of people rushing and running here and there, talking, filling papers, exchanging them, signing here and there, fighting over the access to the coffee-machine and generally looking confused, but not nearly as confused as Mr. Oliver “help me please” Pinker. Not sure where to go, as his instructions only said to enter the building, the man stopped next to the entrance and began to “notice things”, as he called it, hoping it would somehow help. The first thing he noticed was that it looked nothing like a regular police department. First, there was no uniform and no badges, and people seemed to just know each other somehow. Secondly, there also were no clear ranks, though some people acted like they were in charge, while others just did what they were told. Finally, the conversations Mr. Oliver Pinker managed to overhear were complete garbage, rot and nonsense, and he couldn’t bring himself to even understand what a young officer meant by greeting an elderly woman with “Sandwiches are quiet today, aren't they?”.
Suddenly, someone addressed him. “Your name, sir?” a voice asked, and Mr. Oliver Pinker only now noticed a man approaching him hastily. The question, all so sudden and direct, confused him even more, and, trying to choose wisely between “Uh?” and “Eh?”, he for once in his lifetime kept his mouth shut. “Sir?” the voice asked again, and it was only then that Mr. Oliver Pinker finally remembered who he is and what he’s here for.
“I’m Ollie, the new guy,” he blurted out, and his voice cracked as if he was sixteen.
“Mr. Oliver Pinker, I believe?” the stranger replied, and it was clearly stated by the tone if his voice that nothing surprised him or nothing could surprise anymore.
“Yeah, but… just “Ollie” is fine.”
“Right,” the stranger stated as if it didn’t bother him at all and he just wanted to get his job done, “Follow me.”
So Ollie followed. The crowd was surprisingly polite, as they went right through it without even turning, dodging or finding anyone in their way. Ollie also found himself not remembering any of the stranger’s facial features, even though he definitely saw his face at least once and was observing everything very carefully. “It’s probably just some trick,” he said to himself, ready to think it over again when his attention was caught by one of the crowd, a man with the face so usual and unnoticeable that Ollie wouldn’t be to recognize it in the streets. “Have a nice sun,” the man said.
“This is so beyond weird…” Ollie said to himself, frowning in confusion.
“Sir?” his guide reacted immediately.
“What’s with all these people?”
“Mere protection, sir. To the left now, please.”
So Ollie turned left and, thankfully, there was a door – a door to get him out of this mess. The guide led him to some kind of waiting room, fortunately empty and quiet. And to top the cake, there was a big can full of candies on a glassy table in the middle.
“That’s more like it!” Ollie smiled and for the first time today felt like he’s right where he needs to be.
“I’ll leave you now,” the guide said emotionlessly, “the second newcomer is to arrive soon.”
Ollie almost forgot about the second one. It was a girl, he was told. Hopefully a pretty one.
Then there was a hall, and as Mr. Oliver Pinker first saw it, the disappointment he felt earlier vanished as if it never existed at all. The hall was practically giant, with dozens of people rushing and running here and there, talking, filling papers, exchanging them, signing here and there, fighting over the access to the coffee-machine and generally looking confused, but not nearly as confused as Mr. Oliver “help me please” Pinker. Not sure where to go, as his instructions only said to enter the building, the man stopped next to the entrance and began to “notice things”, as he called it, hoping it would somehow help. The first thing he noticed was that it looked nothing like a regular police department. First, there was no uniform and no badges, and people seemed to just know each other somehow. Secondly, there also were no clear ranks, though some people acted like they were in charge, while others just did what they were told. Finally, the conversations Mr. Oliver Pinker managed to overhear were complete garbage, rot and nonsense, and he couldn’t bring himself to even understand what a young officer meant by greeting an elderly woman with “Sandwiches are quiet today, aren't they?”.
Suddenly, someone addressed him. “Your name, sir?” a voice asked, and Mr. Oliver Pinker only now noticed a man approaching him hastily. The question, all so sudden and direct, confused him even more, and, trying to choose wisely between “Uh?” and “Eh?”, he for once in his lifetime kept his mouth shut. “Sir?” the voice asked again, and it was only then that Mr. Oliver Pinker finally remembered who he is and what he’s here for.
“I’m Ollie, the new guy,” he blurted out, and his voice cracked as if he was sixteen.
“Mr. Oliver Pinker, I believe?” the stranger replied, and it was clearly stated by the tone if his voice that nothing surprised him or nothing could surprise anymore.
“Yeah, but… just “Ollie” is fine.”
“Right,” the stranger stated as if it didn’t bother him at all and he just wanted to get his job done, “Follow me.”
So Ollie followed. The crowd was surprisingly polite, as they went right through it without even turning, dodging or finding anyone in their way. Ollie also found himself not remembering any of the stranger’s facial features, even though he definitely saw his face at least once and was observing everything very carefully. “It’s probably just some trick,” he said to himself, ready to think it over again when his attention was caught by one of the crowd, a man with the face so usual and unnoticeable that Ollie wouldn’t be to recognize it in the streets. “Have a nice sun,” the man said.
“This is so beyond weird…” Ollie said to himself, frowning in confusion.
“Sir?” his guide reacted immediately.
“What’s with all these people?”
“Mere protection, sir. To the left now, please.”
So Ollie turned left and, thankfully, there was a door – a door to get him out of this mess. The guide led him to some kind of waiting room, fortunately empty and quiet. And to top the cake, there was a big can full of candies on a glassy table in the middle.
“That’s more like it!” Ollie smiled and for the first time today felt like he’s right where he needs to be.
“I’ll leave you now,” the guide said emotionlessly, “the second newcomer is to arrive soon.”
Ollie almost forgot about the second one. It was a girl, he was told. Hopefully a pretty one.
Pixie was doing her homework but really wanted to draw something instead. She knew there's gouache in stock and Mr. Jenkins would let her use as much of it as she wanted. She had three paint brushes: a big one to draw colorful backgrounds, a small one for tiny details and a middle-sized one for everything else and maybe a fancy signature in the top right corner. She wanted a new set of soft-tip pens since the last ones naturally dried out and turned too pale for her taste, but she could draw without them just fine and didn't want to bother Mr. Jenkins about such a trifle. Canvas wasn't a problem either, Pixie didn't mind even thin and soft low-cost newsprint, though it did sometimes soak too much and tore. But it wasn't like she was in the mood for water-colors today, so there was no risk at all. And she could search for some drawing paper instead. She would draw something with a lot of green, maybe a spring forest or an emerald castle - Mr. Jenkins loved green, and she loved Mr. Jenkins. Besides, such a drawing would look good on the shop's walls with their natural-green wallpapers.
But there was yet a lot of maths to do. Pixie was sitting at Mr. Jenkins' desk which was also a showcase and a cashier's office placed right in front of the entrance so that whoever sits there can see their client and greet them right away. There were two more doors behind her - one to the "living quaters" as Mr. Jenkins called them, the other to the mysterious "stock" in which they stored everything Pixie could imagine and maybe some more. The rest was but shells with various items with hand-made price-lists on them. Pixie made a lot of these lists herself, cutting small pieces of paper in the form of stars and clouds and writing on them the numbers Mr. Jenkins gave her. They were all different colors and some of them had little hearts painted on them as an indication of Pixie secretly liking the item. It was Mr. Jenkins' humble request and also the reason her markers dried - she used them all for this task.
But there was no time to think about the markers. She came home from school more than an hour ago and still hasn't got rid of all the equations Mrs. Humphrey threw at her class in one of her many temper tantrums about how much of a nuisance the young generation has become. Mr. Jenkins said she was "bitching" a lot but taught well, and Pixie had no reasons to doubt his judgement.
When the bell tinkled, warning the young cashier about a new client, Pixie jumped of her seat and stood up straight, the feeling of responsibility and pride filling her and speeding up her heartbeat. It was her shop, after all, her and Mr. Jenkins', and when he wasn't around, she remained the one in charge.
"Hello there and welcome to "Mr. Jenkins and Pixie's General Goods"! How can I help you?" The girl asked politely, smiling at the young man. It was one wide, happy smile that by no means could be fake, and Pixie was glad to greet with it anyone who might find her shop's sign interesting enough to enter and take a look. She was Mr. Jenkins' apprentice, after all. He taught her well. Her bright blue eyes were shining and smiling too, and she fit in in this shop so naturally one could have mistaken her for a decoration. Her swarthy skin and black curly hair, as well as white dress with pink flowers and silent steps of bare feet gave the impression of a "natural inhabitant" of the shop, like a squirrel in a grove.
The young man didn't seem very talkative, but Pixie didn't mind. His appearance caught her attention immediately, and as he was eyeing the old guitar, she was eyeing him very carefully, admiring most of all the color of his hair and the spikes on his shoes. Maybe she'll draw a hedgehog later. Lurking in the forest, sniffing grass, just a cute spiky blob. She didn't know why she thought about hedgehogs. And she wanted to ask him about it so bad! Maybe later, if Mr. Jenkins agrees that it's not too rude...
The guitar he was looking at was one of the items she would probably like if understood better. Her uncle played it extremely well and was always passionate about it, but he was a seldom guest here. Mr. Jenkins knew some chords and melodies too but, as he admitted himself, had no talent in music whatsoever. He taught her how to play that one melody though... What was it? "Dark Red"? "Heavy Blue"? Oh, no, "Deep Purple" he called it.
"Are you interested in the item? Should I call Mr. Jenkins?" She asked in a friendly voice, knowing that it wasn't her place to accept purchases. Maybe someday, when she learns her maths...
But there was yet a lot of maths to do. Pixie was sitting at Mr. Jenkins' desk which was also a showcase and a cashier's office placed right in front of the entrance so that whoever sits there can see their client and greet them right away. There were two more doors behind her - one to the "living quaters" as Mr. Jenkins called them, the other to the mysterious "stock" in which they stored everything Pixie could imagine and maybe some more. The rest was but shells with various items with hand-made price-lists on them. Pixie made a lot of these lists herself, cutting small pieces of paper in the form of stars and clouds and writing on them the numbers Mr. Jenkins gave her. They were all different colors and some of them had little hearts painted on them as an indication of Pixie secretly liking the item. It was Mr. Jenkins' humble request and also the reason her markers dried - she used them all for this task.
But there was no time to think about the markers. She came home from school more than an hour ago and still hasn't got rid of all the equations Mrs. Humphrey threw at her class in one of her many temper tantrums about how much of a nuisance the young generation has become. Mr. Jenkins said she was "bitching" a lot but taught well, and Pixie had no reasons to doubt his judgement.
When the bell tinkled, warning the young cashier about a new client, Pixie jumped of her seat and stood up straight, the feeling of responsibility and pride filling her and speeding up her heartbeat. It was her shop, after all, her and Mr. Jenkins', and when he wasn't around, she remained the one in charge.
"Hello there and welcome to "Mr. Jenkins and Pixie's General Goods"! How can I help you?" The girl asked politely, smiling at the young man. It was one wide, happy smile that by no means could be fake, and Pixie was glad to greet with it anyone who might find her shop's sign interesting enough to enter and take a look. She was Mr. Jenkins' apprentice, after all. He taught her well. Her bright blue eyes were shining and smiling too, and she fit in in this shop so naturally one could have mistaken her for a decoration. Her swarthy skin and black curly hair, as well as white dress with pink flowers and silent steps of bare feet gave the impression of a "natural inhabitant" of the shop, like a squirrel in a grove.
The young man didn't seem very talkative, but Pixie didn't mind. His appearance caught her attention immediately, and as he was eyeing the old guitar, she was eyeing him very carefully, admiring most of all the color of his hair and the spikes on his shoes. Maybe she'll draw a hedgehog later. Lurking in the forest, sniffing grass, just a cute spiky blob. She didn't know why she thought about hedgehogs. And she wanted to ask him about it so bad! Maybe later, if Mr. Jenkins agrees that it's not too rude...
The guitar he was looking at was one of the items she would probably like if understood better. Her uncle played it extremely well and was always passionate about it, but he was a seldom guest here. Mr. Jenkins knew some chords and melodies too but, as he admitted himself, had no talent in music whatsoever. He taught her how to play that one melody though... What was it? "Dark Red"? "Heavy Blue"? Oh, no, "Deep Purple" he called it.
"Are you interested in the item? Should I call Mr. Jenkins?" She asked in a friendly voice, knowing that it wasn't her place to accept purchases. Maybe someday, when she learns her maths...
Thank you for your attention!
