time bandit.

“have you been in this world long?” garcia hadn’t, but already, the man’s edginess about the bizarre world was wearing down, and he could take a breath, of sorts -- rittenhouse did not seem to be here, though that hardly meant much in the long run.

“i mean no ill will, but you are rather odd.” garcia remarks, arching a brow as he studied the other.

“careful.” garcia remarked, moving her out of the way, by grabbing her arm lightly, of where a brick was falling.

Marry wished she could say no and run on her way but she was extremely lost. “Y-Yes. They put me in this little house and I went to go find it but I had to go through a really scary district and some people yelled at me! I ran away and now I don’t know where I am!”

How she’d managed to say that in one breath and get through it before bursting into tears, who knew.

flynn blinks, taking in her words, he was used to the all-in-one-breath method of getting a thought out (quite often his daughter, when excited, he to be reminded to breathe). he hesitates, crouching to her level, “hey, now,” he said, voice soothing ad gentle, “no tears, no tears, we’ll get you back where you need to be, no problem.” he is calm, and he offers her a kind smile, and a handkerchief, “dry your eyes. where were you staying? do you know the name of the district?”

         —encased in drowsiness (frets all night even without outside disturbances, he does), he rubs his eyes tenderly, coequally slowing the development of periorbital dark circles and constructing a fleshy bulwark against the invasiveness of the world—relentlessly avoidant.

         Will’s hand shifts a tad, where he rubs his brows, then his forehead; as a journal is tossed haphazardly near his feet.

         —he’s treading a land never before imprinted by the foot of Grahams, to his awareness; but this, somehow, is the finest spectacle.

         “You are going to pick that up,” he states as more of a demand than an inquiry, “After all, you hold onto what you have; you do not give it up easily, even when… even when you know it is poisoning you.”

when the man speaks, after a few seconds, the voice is low, a definitive, though nondescript eastern european accent tracing his words, “you sound as if you speak from experience.” it is dry, but he does move himself to gather the journal, not one to do as other’s told, but wanting to cling to some part of what was normal -- and this place was not normal... even for a time traveler.

“are you lost, little girl?” flynn’s tone is gentle, and he glances down at her. he’s lost as well, but he’d learned early on with iris that children reacted better if you were confident, even if flynn felt far from that right now. he offers her a kind smile.