#sundryy

“SHE’S  supposed  to  be  fit  in  case  something  happens  to  me,  you  know.  She’s  my  therapy  dog.  Just  don’t  spoil  her  too  much.”  Leon,  with  arms  crossed,  gives  him  a disappointed  stare.  He  smiles  nonetheless,  beckoning  his  canid  companion  back  to  his  side.

      “So am I, but you let me eat junk food.”

He heaves a dramatic sigh and boxes up the treats, setting them aside.

      “Fan of the Mosin-Nagant, huh?” He juts his chin towards the massive rifle. “She’s a beaut --- all wooden-stock guns are. Handsome as fuck. More a fan of bullpup action myself, though.”

10: their fashion sense

Basically, ‘whatever-I-can-afford’-casual, which mostly consists of old jeans and T-shirts that often get worn or torn as he wears the same clothes for work he does anywhere else. A pair of very used Blundstones is pretty much his only pair of shoes. If it’s cold he’ll sport a leather jacket but otherwise, that’s it. He’ll wear your clothes if you let him (looking at you @neverstrays), though it’ll just be more of the same. Your shirts are just probably less hole-ridden than his.

21: how they react to pain

Pain is not something Job is very familiar with (well, a bit, but not really) and he will do pretty much whatever is in his power to avoid it - hell, it’s at least part, if not a major one, of why he’s on the run. He will also try to spare others of it, though he’d rarely use his powers to do so (though he has used them to heal others in the past).

25: why you enjoy them

I can’t remember the last time I wrote a “good” character. My main guy, Merc (on hiatus on @tointernalize), has been with me for the past five years and he is undoubtedly a bad person - and though I have dabbled in writing other characters, most of them didn’t last very long and were at best morally ambiguous. Selfish and cowardly, Job is still, hands down, a “good guy”. All he wants is to help others and to be loved, really (he also wishes God would leave him alone, but that’s a different matter and, anyway, not really up to him). I reallllyyy wanna get to explore in-depth relationships between himself and other muses so that he could let that side of him really shine.

      “How bad is she?” Back leaned against the wall of the autoshop, he watches the man he knows as Rusty tend to his Honda CL350 with what seems to be genuine concern. His following words sound almost pleading as he folds his knees under him and gets down on his haunches as to be at eye-level with the other. “Not total-loss, right?”

                   Star lingered in Goodneighbor a little longer than she usually did, caught up with a strange request from an even stranger man. It was nice to get out of her lab and back to her craft for a while. Folding up the odd outfit, crafted perfectly and heavily armored with copious amounts of ballistic weave, she placed a tiny bow on top. If her note was correct, the customer should arrive to pick up his armor soon.                     Sitting patiently at the bench just past Goodneighbor’s gates, Star inspected the package multiple times to ensure that there were no wrinkles or tears. Oh, what a nightmare that’d be for business! After about ten minutes, the doors creaked open and the ghoul’s head perked up. 

    “You ever get your hands on any Plato? If you laid the Socratic irony on any thicker you’d be drinking hemlock by noon.” This was delivered in just as flat of a deadpan as the first statement, but he couldn’t say they hadn’t been compliments - even he could never completely tell. He was fairly certain he liked Deacon - he worked his ass off for the safety of other people, often with complete disregard for his own life, and hell, he was pleasant enough to talk to - but some part of him (the second-hand, human part, he suspected) had never quite gotten over the fact that the guy was a con man down to his very bones who just happened to be using those skills to do good.

    For a cop, the contradiction was jarring. The old Nick would never have considered working with him professionally, no matter how good his intentions - and as always, he was left to figure out which of his antique principles were the most outdated.

    “Right, let’s hit the road. Don’t suppose I’ve gotta tell you to keep a low profile.” He locked the door to the agency behind him, sliding the key into an inner pocket beside his lighter. With the heel of his shoe he stepped down on one side of a loose bit of sheet metal in front of the door, buckling it slightly upward - even if someone managed to pick the lock, if it had been depressed by the time he came back, he’d know someone had been inside.

[ 𝟟 ] —- - Wolf eyed the stranger carefully through the red tinted lenses of his helmet and drew his Sequoia out, pointing it in their direction.