[ It's not the first time that Ephemera's come around the safehouse in some vague attempt to be helpful. He might not be very good at it, but he's been thinking about his family lately. About what Hunter would have done in this place, if their positions had been reversed. If Hunter hadn't gone insane before the end. Hunter died with the others and then CT went off and died alone, in the desert.
He would have been kind, Ephemera thinks. His brother would have been kind.
It doesn't come naturally to Ephemera. He has a tendency to say the wrong things, use the wrong tone. Or his scars freak people out.
He tries, though. He swings by and answers questions and sometimes he gets people groceries. Small things. Maybe they matter, maybe they don't, but it feels important to try. So he shows up just like all those times before, his hands still wrapped from his last bout at the club. He cleaned the blood off, but he's got a nasty cut digging into his face, right over his bad eye, and what feels like bruised ribs. Maybe a sprained wrist. The medic at the club patched him up just fine and told him to rest. Ephemera waved it off, said it would. And he will, later. Once he's finished his work.
He'll live, regardless, but it's got him in a twitchy mood. His bad eye's been bothering him, enough that he took the prosthetic out and slapped a bandage over it. An obvious weakness, something an enemy will take advantage of if they think to.
But he doesn't have any of those here. Or at least not right now.
He narrows his good eye at the voice, lifting his head. ]
The 26th.
[ Ephemera's dressed in loose, dark clothes. Easy to move in, easy to conceal weapons in. A leather jacket for makeshift armor. And he recognizes that stillness in other man. That hard look. Someone who's sizing up the moment like they're going to war. Like they're ready for it to turn vicious.
Just like him, once. Ephemera doesn't smile or bare his teeth. He watches the man carefully, his hands open and loose at his sides. ]
Safehouse
He would have been kind, Ephemera thinks. His brother would have been kind.
It doesn't come naturally to Ephemera. He has a tendency to say the wrong things, use the wrong tone. Or his scars freak people out.
He tries, though. He swings by and answers questions and sometimes he gets people groceries. Small things. Maybe they matter, maybe they don't, but it feels important to try. So he shows up just like all those times before, his hands still wrapped from his last bout at the club. He cleaned the blood off, but he's got a nasty cut digging into his face, right over his bad eye, and what feels like bruised ribs. Maybe a sprained wrist. The medic at the club patched him up just fine and told him to rest. Ephemera waved it off, said it would. And he will, later. Once he's finished his work.
He'll live, regardless, but it's got him in a twitchy mood. His bad eye's been bothering him, enough that he took the prosthetic out and slapped a bandage over it. An obvious weakness, something an enemy will take advantage of if they think to.
But he doesn't have any of those here. Or at least not right now.
He narrows his good eye at the voice, lifting his head. ]
The 26th.
[ Ephemera's dressed in loose, dark clothes. Easy to move in, easy to conceal weapons in. A leather jacket for makeshift armor. And he recognizes that stillness in other man. That hard look. Someone who's sizing up the moment like they're going to war. Like they're ready for it to turn vicious.
Just like him, once. Ephemera doesn't smile or bare his teeth. He watches the man carefully, his hands open and loose at his sides. ]
When the IDs come through.