well, shit.

As he gestured his hand towards the town Amira wondered how she would answer him . What on earth could she possibly say to a man who compared this town to.. a prostitute? Taking a deep breath she looked back at him. “I-i think this town is nice. I am not sure why you are comparing it to p-prostitution.” Amira couldn’t help but feel a bit irritated at his comment. “I am not that young. I am twenty years old.”

He flashes his teeth in a grin, pearly whites clamped round his cigarette before he draws it free once more only to flick it off to the side “What? Too early fer ya’?” he presses, not entirely seeking an answer but more so aiming to fill the silence with something--the fact that it was his favorite sort of something (read:his own voice) was just a bonus “Hey, I get it; I’m not much o’ a mornin’ guy myself.”

Really, he was usually asleep at this time. The town’s cheery prison vibe must be sinking into him deeper than he’d realized. He’d need one hell of a hot shower tonight to scrub it off. Patiently, he waits for her reply--in neither hurry nor hustle for an answer. Really, he often didn’t get one when he talked. “Well shit,” he says sweet as can be “How in the world did ya’ end up ‘ere thinkin’ all o’ this is sweet--?” he asks, laughter light at the end of his words.

Instead she told her parents she needed some fresh air and took her favorite book, Persuasion, with her just to sit down outside on a bench - far away from her new home. She was enjoying reading her book when suddenly someone plopped down next to her on the bench. Broken out of her reverie Amira turned to look at the person.  She couldn’t help but frown when he started to talk to her. “I am sorry, but I don’t know what you’re saying.”

Eyeing the young woman with an air of almost disbelief, he wonders for a moment if perhaps his accent might have been a bit thick. Here he’d been thinking it had mellowed out some sucking on the American dream for nine years. “Really?” he questions in a slow drawl, the words nice and thick on his tongue and he cocks a brow not completely shuttered behind his aviators “What part confused ya’?”

With one tattooed hand, Deacon gestures about the expanse of town before them (really, it’s all around them) “I’m sayin’ it’s pretty as a painted whore, not one o’ the expensive ones either--” he kicks his boots out before him, and lifts his other hand to pluck the cigarette from his lips--the thin curl of smoke in it’s wake a welcome perfume.

Her voice was something she refrained from using, knowing that she had lost control of it since everything she loved had been taken from her, and her voice was capable of piercing a human’s ear drums, or worse killing them. Though of course there were no humans anywhere near Salutem, but using her voice to the point of strain always reminded her of her husband - and so she had started to avoid it. There was a time she sang beautifully, many years ago now: a distant memory to her, the last time she were truly happy, a time when her voice soothed others, not harmed others; it was a time lost to her.

When she heard the approach of a customer, she was still dragging a nail slowly downward upon the table making the usual piercing noise like a sharp object on a chalkboard. When she realised she was gawking at the person, continuing to ignore them except from that agonising noise; she stopped her hand and dropped the thin smile that enjoyed annoying everyone in sight. She knew the owner of Silkwares would not be overly pleased at her behaviour. 

“Oh - I’m sorry. A coping strategy, you see,” she explained to the stranger; not at all sorry in the slightest. A forced curve of the lips was given before she dropped the smile entirely. “Are you looking for anything specifically? If you need something tailored, or perhaps seeking to improve your wardrobe taste - you’ve came to the right woman.”

So, he follows the latest song of the damned because he’s outside and he’s not at work which, usually prompted him to do something off the line. For all the familarizing himself with the regulated maps he’d been gifted with his welcome package, he figured he might as well actually take stock of the town with his own two eyes to complete the whole picture. Hardly a dream. Which, in his case; was probably the good kind of thing.

How he found himself standing before one of the more curious characters, lit cigarette dangling from his lips and a halfway interested expression upon his face, was anyone’s guess. He can feel the poison in his lungs, just a moment--a heartbeat really, before his body wipes it away “Ya know, I could name at least six sonuvabitches who would pay top dollar for ya’ to do that to ‘em for an hour.”

She probably wasn’t in the market. Hardly seemed to be much o’ a market in this town for that kind of thing. And, they hardly had ready access to craigslist anyway. Lifting one shoulder in the kind of half shrug found on disinterested across America, Deacon shifts his cigarette to the corner of his lips with his tongue “Don’t go out much outside o’ the bars--heard a tune fit to strip paint,” he explains as though that’s that and cocks one brow at her “What? That’s how ya’ bring in customers?”