Post by Leon Silverblood on Apr 17, 2009 19:05:17 GMT -5
"I thought you had some new scars, Sarpek. That's just gross, though. Did you get any superpowers from it?? And Noah, for the last time, I'm NOT sleeping with you no matter how many times you tell me you won't give me the clap!" Leon almost falls off of his barstool laughing at his own joke.
Coming back to his feet slowly, he looked around, sober and somber. Taking a long drag off of the first decent smoke he's had in a year, Leon speaks, a rasp, a gravelly, sickening rasp picked up after too long in the streets. Too many months watching the quarantine guards in silence had almost taken his vocals. He hardly knew the language anymore, but he spoke still, with a voice that was accusing and disgusted, appealing and forlorn, old and alone as a 49er from the rush on Queen Califas' gold:
"Hey. I know I've been gone a damned long time, and maybe nobody gives a damn about an old deserter like me, but I'm back now, y'hear? I got news yesterday that the library has fallen. You know what I'm talkin' about. The QSG. Now I don't know about you runts, but I can read, and I'd like to keep readin'.
Jules Verne. Ray Bradbury. Oscar Wilde. Jack London. Robert Frost. The Marquis de Sade. These men gave me a place to hide when the zeds took my home and family. They're all the family I've got left now, and the Quartly Library is as much a home. So...I'm off to give what I've got left to give to make sure the worlds they gave me still have a home, and to make sure someone else can find them...
I don't know what you boys have been doin', what rules stand and what ones don't, anymore, since that no-kill zone fell. I just know there oughta be a place where a man can have a little peace, even a zed can have a little peace there, and me and my shotgun are gonna go make sure that anyone who has a problem with that ideal is gonna have a taste of peace themselves."
With a growl perforated by finality, Leon tosses aside the boards covering the old cellar and heads down, "66, 52".
Coming back to his feet slowly, he looked around, sober and somber. Taking a long drag off of the first decent smoke he's had in a year, Leon speaks, a rasp, a gravelly, sickening rasp picked up after too long in the streets. Too many months watching the quarantine guards in silence had almost taken his vocals. He hardly knew the language anymore, but he spoke still, with a voice that was accusing and disgusted, appealing and forlorn, old and alone as a 49er from the rush on Queen Califas' gold:
"Hey. I know I've been gone a damned long time, and maybe nobody gives a damn about an old deserter like me, but I'm back now, y'hear? I got news yesterday that the library has fallen. You know what I'm talkin' about. The QSG. Now I don't know about you runts, but I can read, and I'd like to keep readin'.
Jules Verne. Ray Bradbury. Oscar Wilde. Jack London. Robert Frost. The Marquis de Sade. These men gave me a place to hide when the zeds took my home and family. They're all the family I've got left now, and the Quartly Library is as much a home. So...I'm off to give what I've got left to give to make sure the worlds they gave me still have a home, and to make sure someone else can find them...
I don't know what you boys have been doin', what rules stand and what ones don't, anymore, since that no-kill zone fell. I just know there oughta be a place where a man can have a little peace, even a zed can have a little peace there, and me and my shotgun are gonna go make sure that anyone who has a problem with that ideal is gonna have a taste of peace themselves."
With a growl perforated by finality, Leon tosses aside the boards covering the old cellar and heads down, "66, 52".
