#flightriisks

“what don’t you need me for, is the question you should ask.”   belatedly he drops himself into the seat opposite the guy and it’s hard to see why he’d been told to show up here.   it’s rare they tell him the full story: a face, a name if he’s lucky, a modus operandi that he’s gotten especially good at picking up on.   supposedly it’s better if no one knows everything and, given his experience thus far, he’s likely to agree.   sometimes, though, he wishes they’d give him something more. 

he won’t eat here, god knows what they’re putting in the food.   he picks up the menu card at the end of the table anyway like he might actually make use of it but it’s all about playing a role, fitting the scene.   his body craves a drink—he’ll blame arlo for that forever—but if ever he needs his wits about him, it’s now.

she hasn’t exactly heard about him. it’s more like whispers — half murmurs tossed around town with the carelessness of a drunk. she doesn’t care; just needs someone to get her from point a to point b with no hiccups, & that’s it. (doesn’t trust others, she was never made for packs, but it is what it is: she can’t risk it, can’t screw everything for the luxury of pride). her smoke’s thrown out into the street the moment he comes into view. “ — you the driver?”. 

some words are ropes; two sides to pull from, but if they don’t bind, they choke. she hears his words, imagines them as blots of dark ink on a blank, harmless page, until they morph into another question, other words: why are you still here? the cigarette drops ash like snowflakes, drifting off into an orange twilight so bright it’s almost offensive. she has a need for ropes — anchors, if you will, the reassurance that there’s somewhere she belongs, somewhere she can stay. she turns for a second, forces herself to observe him without the clinical eye they’ve given her; she could guess whereabouts from hints & characteristics, but she won’t. he just looks frayed, & there’s a beauty in that kind of mystery. like there’s a beauty in the missing answer to any question. “so why are you still here, then?”. her question is thrown back his way, apathy showing in the downward line of her lips, though she’s not indifferent, just grieving something & not really knowing what.

❝  FUCK,  I’m  sorry.  Don’t  worry  he  doesn’t  bite  !  ❞  her  dog  managed  --  somehow  !  to  climb  over  the  chain  link  fence  of  the  dogs  area  and  reach  the  one  Yulya  thought  to  be  a  stranger,  until  she  got  close  enough  to  get  a  glimpse  of  his  features  and  recognize  the  guy  who  had  once  given  Ogon  a  treat,  outside  a  liquor  store.  Leash  in  one  hand,  she  bends  down  to  clip  it  on  his  collar.  ❝  I’m  sorry,  really,  I  was  told  pitbulls  like  to  climb  over  walls  but...  I  didn’t  think  he  could  do  that.  ❞      

“Lookie here, lookie here. Don’t I feel fuckin’ fancy seeing you ‘round my parts'a town?” His first week out of the can and he’s already not quite doing his best to stay out of trouble. What would mama say if she saw him now? Eh -- fuck that old bitch. She didn’t so much as pick up his calls, let alone come to visit. Not even once. The driver’s face feels more familiar than hers which is... well, maybe it’s sad, considering the amount of time he’a spent with the man without a name before he got himself arrested came to a whopping grand total of maybe a couple of hours -- but Tanner wouldn’t fucking know. He’s too busy getting drunk on cheap whiskey and Lone Star.

He settles down on the stool beside the driver’s and tips his half-empty bottle towards him in a semi-greeting. “To what do I owe this unparalleled pleasure?”

     .::   QUESTIONS FOR THE MUN ABOUT CANON MUSES  /   ↪  accepting

4.Have you made any outright changes to the canon material in order to write your muse the way you wanted (entire scenes you chose to omit, chapters you say never existed, things you assume were never said, etc.)?

                             OOC.      OH BOY DO I !  I think being STRICTLY canon is … honestly pretty boring, and in SOA’S case just plain offensive. Personally I find Kurt’s colorful language when it comes to minorities in the show downright disgusting, and due to being latina I refuse to write such offensive slurs also ? this is a PUBLIC platform, and I am in NO way going to condone a trope that’s been used for SO FUCKING LONG ( move on from offensive slurs 2k18 ).

                                 I also omit Jax shooting up Wendy which ? Was 100% unneeded, and a complete 180 to how he treated Wendy in season 1 ( I personally believed he loved Wendy & Kurt wasted an opportunity to show that there ARE in fact different kinds of love ). I also pretty much cut out Jax beating up Ima         to me ? it was plain disgusting, and I don’t personally condone that type of violence ( it again felt VERY OOC because of how he treated Lyla when she went through abuse as well ). I also don’t really think Clay & Jax EVER had a good relationship, and I remember reading in a comic someone showed me about Jax and his prospect years about how much Jax wanted Clay’s approval and I was like : nah he’s good without it. 

In all the twelve years that he’s owned her, Faith has been true to her name. A faithful motorcycle, she’s quite literally saved Job’s life on more occasions than he can count on both his hands and feet. The fact that she still runs is something of a miracle, for better or worse -- she isn’t as smooth as she used to be and so, when he feels her slowing down despite his fingers pressing hard on the gas handle, Job is not quite surprised as much as he is disheartened.

He pulls up off the road somewhere on Route 70 along the Arizona/New Mexico border and, unable to locate the problem with his own limited knowledge, stares helplessly at her dirt-covered chrome as he tries to figure out his next move. His brother Théo, a professional mechanic, would know what to do -- but he’s all the way up in Canada and barely knows how to operate a smartphone. He will not be able to help him at such a long distance. He has no idea how far the next town is (never has any idea -- figures he will just stumble by them as he goes) -- more importantly, even if he did, he has no fucking clue where the nearest autoshop is, or how long and how costly the repairs will be.

But Job believes in the good will of man -- someone will eventually stop and offer him a helping hand. Raggedy knapsack hanging off his shoulder, black motorcycle helmet in his hand, he stands at the edge of the highway; thumb held out and arm extended for someone -- anyone -- to stop.