#anso.

The place crawls with faces familiar and unfamiliar alike, the food hall a place of congregation that Simon finds agitating on most days. The loudness, the chewing and crudeness with which some take to their portions, eating like animals when this situation does not call for animalistic behaviour. No, best to save such instincts for trespassers and infected, Simon thinks. Still, he sits there day in and out, ears sharp and table shared with fellow soldiers. Today, he doesn’t contribute to their conversation – something about the gear they managed to strap off a couple of travelers – but in stead stares at one of the less-familiar faces.

Defected from the notorious militia. Pissed Orquídeas off enough to get a shiner for it. Built like something that could snap half of this base in half. Called Anso. Simon finds intrigue, maybe. Concern, too. The idea that all it takes to vet someone is interrogation ( with the likes of Nikolai ) does not sit well with him. Does not sit well with Alexei either, he’s sure. Another mouth to feed has to be worth it, doesn’t it?

He abandons his ration, shoving them to his neighbour when he sees the other get up. His stainless steel bottle comes with, though, as he slinks after him. He is intrigued, let’s call it that — intrigued, by the way the other carries himself, by the aggression he supposedly showed when faced with Orquídeas. He’s concerned, though not on his own behalf. He moves, ignores greetings, and follows the other out of the court, into the stairwell. 

It’s of little concern to him, whether the door is quiet as it falls close. Feet thunder down the stairs, onto the landing below, and this is where he meets the other. “You’ve been kicking up a storm, newbie.” Simon’s hand reaches out, finger flicking against the other’s jaw where the skin is red from impact. He wears it well. Simon knows it well, the lasting impact of knuckles on facial bone. “Whatever is your deal?”