RED-PAINTED VINES

"Did you have to use your nails?" Lovecraft almost sounds... concerned (or disappointed?) as he looks at the spot in question. It's a bit of a mess, really.

“Yeah, well—” He winces as his fingers lift to his neck, feeling the blood caked there. That’s messier than his normal work, for sure. Fingernails aren’t nearly as effective as a knife, but... “Guy knocked my knife out of my hand. Didn’t really have another choice.”

Despite the pain and the brutal self-inflicted gouging of the flesh of his neck, Steinbeck offers Lovecraft a warm little smile—it’s the specific smile reserved for his partner, comforting and sincere. “’ve done worse.” His expression turns somewhat pensive. “Used to do it like this all the time, actually.” With the grape vines gone, there’s some fresh blood running down his neck again, staining the white of his shirt collar even more. (That’s a common occurrence, and the RV is well-stocked with peroxide per his ma’s old trick.)

“Good.” He’s doing his best to quietly radiate approval. Not being very practiced at smiling is making this hard.  

“Maybe I did. But having a reminder is nice.”

It’s easy to tell when Lovecraft is in a good mood, smiling or not—to Steinbeck, at least, and he’s wholly relaxed with that knowledge.

“Part of me wonders how you all got this far as a civilization. I’m morbidly impressed.” He nods at Steinbeck. “It’s nice to see you, though.”

“I think the, uh, morbid impression is well-deserved.” Interesting word choice there, but apt.

“Someday I’ll learn not to see. And then I won’t have to know what certain people are up to.”

ORSON Scott Card was known best simply as a cleanup guy. Simple, polite, professional, he would come in after anything went sideways just to fix the memories of bystanders, witnesses, and/or important figures whose opinions needed a little encouragement to change. He was not a fighter, and certainly he was not a grunt, dubbing himself far too important to be used for such menial work, but a leader? Him? Unlikely. His type simply wasn’t cut out for it; he was far too temperamental.

Yet, when the time came to step up and gain further influence in the remnants, Card’s time under Fitzgerald honing his ability was put to good use. It did not take any time at all for him to become a faction leader. Such a position, he learned, would require more than just a fancy ability to retain, though, especially as people don’t seem to enjoy when one invades their headspace for personal gain. As such, he was stuck with what perhaps was his least favorite part of this new role: speaking to superiors about grievances. 

Clearing his throat and glancing absentmindedly across the list in his hand, Orson spoke with detached coolness. ❛ Mr. Steinbeck, sir, Do you happen to have a moment free? I need to discuss with you some issues among my division; if not addressed, it could lead to defecting– neither of us want that, I believe– so I suggest, in my so humble opinion, you not take these lightly. ❜ 

Truth be told, Steinbeck’s not sure if he’s cut out for leadership at all—but the thing he finds himself thinking every time his mind drifts in that direction is, Do I really have a choice? Picking up the remnants that Fitzgerald left behind, now the remnants that chose to stay away from him and his new Guild, was a daunting task—is a daunting task—and every passing day seems to add more weight to his shoulders.

And people... people have always been his weakness, too. Fights, violence, that sort of thing? That was easy. That was mechanical. But dealing with people when he feels so little connection to any of them...

The sound of a throat clearing catches his attention, and he offers a small, almost apologetic smile. “Just Steinbeck is fine.” But not John. Never John (for anyone, now). Storm blue eyes drop towards the paper Card holds in his hand before lifting back up to his eyes. “Do you want to sit down to discuss this?”

ye…steinbeck cute