fragmentsofxfaith

      In absolute rarity, Papillon had become the tourist, set within an unknown street and a crumbled map, a touch outdated. He did not have the money for anything cellular. With a brisk turn along the heel and furrowed brow, he eyed the safest looking civilian and approached with caution. "Vous êtes Américain, non?.." Exasperated with matters of self, Papillon bowed his head, gaze flicking up with sudden intrigue. A prominently scarred left hand raised as if the mind processed an attempt to display motion in sentence prior to the sentence itself. "You speak American.. English, yes?" Of course he was lost, commonly so and commonly tagging his name upon the nearest wall to leave a trail. Damned American directions and the stupid roadsigns and streets…