08: Voice/Spam: "Makes me sick, motherfucker, how far we done fell." -Bunk

[omar]

[Public, Voice]

[It's rare for Omar to say anything on the network at all, and rarer still for it to be anything of actual substance. In the wake of the port, though, he can't stay silent. The chatter on his comm is telling him that he was far from the worst offender there, but that doesn't matter: he broke his own rules, the code he's held to since he was just a boy, and that's more unforgivable than murder to him.]

I know we all done a thing or two down in that place, and I know most of us ain't none too proud of any of it.

[That doesn't mean apologizing is easy for him.]

If I... done wrong by you, you let me know. I'll see to making it right.

[Private to Bruce Wayne]

No hard feelings here, man. That were the right way to play it. [Similarly, this is more or less a "thank you".]

[Private to Castiel, after the above]

Little bird tell me you was real busy this port, Castiel.

[Spam for Anya]

[This is the one he remembers best, even though he's never met the girl in his right mind before. After Bruce and Selina's arrival, Omar got back into his note-taking habit -- jotting down addresses, habits, and so on on his shipmates -- and it's hardly any work at all to pick out the new door.

He leaves a note, the writing neat and even, steadier than he feels:] Someone once said to me that "A man's got to have a code." You don't know me, but hurting someone like yourself ain't in mine. Right mind or no right mind ain't no excuse, either.

Omar Little owe you big now. Cash it in quick.

[Spam for Leslie]

[Then there's the part only his warden knows. He doesn't want to talk about that at all, but he knows she will. It's not so much beating her to the punch as trying to nip it in the bud when he shows up at her door, jaw tight and eyes hard, with a homemade and rather makeshift bandage around one hand.]

Comments

Private; text

[fridgetothefire]

Could you meet me in one of the library reading rooms? I'd like to talk in person, I think. Perhaps the nook in the history section, the one with the green door, around 8, unless you have another preference.

Sincerely,
Anya

Private; text -- thank you for reminding me he WORKS THERE /o\

[omar]

Anya,

8 AM or PM? I'll be up in there tomorrow anyway. During business hours, so to speak.

Omar

Private; text -- lol I know how that goes. You're welcome.

[fridgetothefire]

I had PM in mind. I'll expect to see you then.

Sincerely,
Anya

Spam?

[omar]

[Normally, he'd choose another time for her -- he gets off work before 8, and he doesn't relish the idea of staying around longer than he needs to. Having a steady job is bad enough as it is. But right now, he's thinking that making demands isn't going to help him any, so in the end he sticks around after his shift ends, lounging in the reading room with a copy of The Giver. He's nearly finished when she arrives.]

yup!

[fridgetothefire]

[She arrives quietly, with small, precise steps, carrying herself steadily even though she's still a little weak from death tolling. After closing the door, she takes off her thin jacket and drapes it over a chair, the half-sleeves of her shirt revealing the thin red lines of healing stitches on her forearms, overlain on top of old, knotty burn scars. When she sits, it's not prim, exactly, but contained, on the edge of her chair, taking up as little space as possible. She smiles, a little shy but not afraid, and offers her hand. She's got a hint of an accent, vaguely European but hard to place.]

If we're starting over, then - hi. I'm Anya.

[omar]

[When in his right mind, Omar tends towards an odd mix of the gangster and the gentleman. He's slouched in the chair when she comes in, dressed entirely in old, dusty black, complete with a dorag tied around his head, the only exception the diamond studs in his ears; he's still badly scarred, and even ignoring the skewed line drawn down his face, there's something dangerous about him.

But he sets the book aside when he hears the door and stands to greet her, waiting politely until she sits before doing the same. His eyes take in the cuts, but he shows little reaction, save perhaps a faint tightening at the corner of his mouth. He shakes her hand genteelly as he sits.]

Omar Little, ma'am.

[fridgetothefire]

Anya, please, just - just Anya.

[She means it to sound modest, but there's an edge to it, a faintly lost air. She's never been the person one needed to respect, and she doesn't quite know how to respond to it.]

You're normal, aren't you? I mean, not normal, I don't really know what normal is even supposed to be like. But you're human.

[omar]

Fair sure no one ever described me that way before, but yes, I am. As much as anyone else from down the way, at least. [He sits back, eyes narrowed curiously.] Why you want to know that?

[fridgetothefire]

Just confirming it. People without extraordinary biological abilities are something of a rarity in my life.

Down the way, what does that mean? I'm sorry for my ignorance.

[omar]

[He misunderstands the question, but it's close enough; he's still not totally used to this thing where no one ever understands quite what he's saying.] In my case, that be West Baltimore. Ain't no one there but us humans and the rats.

[fridgetothefire]

It is America, after all.

[Something about it amuses her; vague early memories of scar propaganda about capitalism, compared to what she knows know. And what she doesn't.]

There's so much I don't know, about life here. Too much to be able to judge what I need, if I were to spend your favor as parsimoniously as I could.

But it would be unfair to make you wait on that, I think. Vindictive, in a way you have not earned.

[omar]

I'd appreciate it if you didn't, at that. [He's still polite, but there's a hint of an edge to it. Not nervous exactly... but concerned, perhaps.] Omar prefer to keep his checkbook balanced and all. Lotta things I'm pleased to have on my name, but ain't none of this one of them.

[fridgetothefire]

[She smiles, small and contained.]

I don't think anyone's ever been ashamed of hurting me before. It's kind of nice.

[She says it off-handedly; it's not a call for pity. She just genuinely finds it noteworthy.]

I grew up very...isolated. And I still am, to some extent, horrific way-stations on our celestial road notwithstanding. So this is what I want: tell me about Baltimore.

[omar]

[That's certainly not what he's expecting to hear. He raises a brow slowly.] Don't think you'd want to vacation there none.

[fridgetothefire]

I don't care. I'd spend the rest of my life in Antarctica if it meant - well.

[Getting away.]

I don't care if it's idyllic or hideous or anything in between. I just want to know about the world. So tell me - tell me what's real. For you.

[omar]

Anything in particular y'all care to know?

[fridgetothefire]

Just...

[she waves a hand]

Life. What's it like somewhere else? I'll ask questions when I know enough to ask. Oh, and you should probably mention what year it is, for you. I'm a bit behind the modal age, I think.

[omar]

2006. [He frowns thoughtfully. Where even to begin? Most people here don't really seem to get West Baltimore, the life he leads, and he has some doubts that this shy pretty white girl with -- apparently -- superpowers is going to be any more perceptive. He leans back and crosses one ankle over his knee, drumming his fingers thoughtfully for a moment.]

Suppose you should know it all start with the gangs. Somebody's people always running one neighborhood or another. Ain't like that out in the county, or everywhere in the city, but it surely is down where I'm talking about.

[fridgetothefire]

[2006 is Brave New World territory for her, though it seems normal enough on the Barge. She listens.]

How much power do they have?

[omar]

They got all they need. Every so often one get himself tore down-- [And here he looks a little smug, because who was the one who took down the Barksdale regime? You're welcome, Baltimore.] --but that just leave room for some other boy to rise up.

[fridgetothefire]

Mmm. I guess the question I mean was, how much do they use? What does a boy want - and what does he get if he wins?

[Her voice is less prim now, quiet and intense.]

[omar]

[He's not sure he's quite following; he frowns thoughtfully.] They get what they get. Money and power, them that wants it.

[fridgetothefire]

[She frowns, though it's more frustration with her own struggle to articulate what she wants to know than anything else.]

I grew up on...something like a military base. The men in charge, they decided where you could go, who you could talk to, anything, everything.

That's what I think, when I hear power, I think something authoritarian, and...and regimented. But that's not how you mean it, is it? Gangs. That's not official. Just...anyone dumb enough to be in the way dies, that kind of power?

[omar]

[His expression clears slightly, lips quirking -- not necessarily mocking, but amused.]

Naw, ma'am. It get real authoritarian out there. Ain't like an army: it's like kings. The king sit on his throne and takes his dues from the people, and they do everything he want. Down to the letter. 'Cause one day, might be them gets that bit closer to the throne, you hear?

[fridgetothefire]

Oh.

[She pulls her knees up to her chest and perches her chin on top of them. It's not a position of defensiveness, this time - it's relaxation, letting herself appear childlike and informal. She smiles.]

Yes, I hear.

[She understands that.]