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Ponyboy? Dally? Shoot, I-

I--

[Nervous shifting, followed by the sound of someone slapping down their pockets in search of cigarettes; eureka! Hiss of a match being struck, and shaky breathing.]

Ain't there supposed to be clouds here? Or... fire? Ain't I dead yet?

[ooc: Open for action by the fountain! And voice replies, too, but it's going to be a long while before Johnny figures out how to work a network device; I mean, the handheld calculator was first invented in 1967. Laptops, not so much.]

action;

Date: 2009-04-19 06:37 am (UTC)
From: [personal profile] hundredth
Before she can answer his question, the elevator dings and the doors slide open, but Hong Mei tugs the cigarette away, crushes it on top of a nearby trash can before guiding the both of them into the elevator. "We're not supposed to smoke indoors," she explains, peering up at a smoke detector in the elevator that blinks red, now and again. "Not in a public place, anyway, so the entrance, the elevator, the halls--can't smoke there, have to wait until we get into the room. It's bad for people's health. Or, well. Most people's health."

His tremors reach her hand and she runs hers comfortingly over his shoulder again, trying to ease the tension away.

"And what I mean is that people here are from different times. A lot of people are from the future, and some are from the past. Different times, different worlds... I guess in that way, this place acts a lot like an afterlife would. Heaven doesn't reject people just because they were from the sixties, right?"

She smirks, inwardly pleased at the actual response he gave.

"I'm from February 1967, myself. So we're year buddies."

action;

Date: 2009-04-20 03:29 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] thelastandleast.livejournal.com
Johnny blinks in surprise, but doesn't argue - it was almost down to the filter anyway, with the way he'd been puffing on it for the past couple of minutes. The teachers wouldn't allow students to smoke in school, that much he remembers, but with everywhere else he went no one seemed to take issue; he'd have to get used to that, too.

"Yeah," he agrees - it makes sense when she puts it that way, about the different decades. He relaxes just a little under her hand and pulls his hands back out of his pockets so he can fiddle with the lapels of his jacket; make sure they're flipped up. It doesn't look tuff the other way, alright?

Anyway, he grins a little, sheepishly. Her 1967 may not be familiar to him in any way, halfway across the globe, but it was something. "Shoot, it was just March, for me."

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Johnny Cade

April 2009

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