Three Scenes starring Dillon Almeida
To celebrate the birthday of royali, it
is a gift from the magical Cubelet!
It's not very long,
not unlike this song,
but I very much hope you enjoy it!
--
I.
Diviner. Palmist. Peddler of lies.
Dillon had been called many things during his fortune-telling career, but they all meant the same thing: business was doing well. The more names people had, the more well known the practice, and the more marks there were. Dillon stood just out of the flow of the crowd, no sunshine in his pocket but a pouch in its place. He cupped one hand around his mouth and called into the throng.
"Read your palm!"
"Knowing the future makes today easier!"
"No one reads them better!"
Sure, he was bragging. Sure, palm-reading was telling people what they wanted to hear. But there was indeed an art to the matter. One had to know just what their customer was looking for in a reading, or else be vague enough to cover any angle. There were many times Dillon had failed, read a palm in exchange for naught, but those experiences trained him.
A young man crossed through the stream of people and stepped up to Dillon. He was dressed sharply and he moved with bravado - hell, one might even call it a swagger. That hit three checks: young, rich, and stupidly cocky. An excellent mark.
"No one reads 'em better, eh?" The man folded his arms and tilted his head, the image of disbelief.
Dillon didn't look him in the eye, but at his ear was close enough. He offered a small smile. "No one on the station, sir."
"Hm." The man narrowed his eyes and fished out a few notes of cash. He held them out and Dillon reached for them, but then he snatched them back. Dillon frowned, irritation rising, while the man just grinned and laughed.
"Not yet, kid," he said, clearly pleased. "First I gotta see if y'live up to your name. Then, we talk dough." He pocketed the bills and then held out his right hand.
Dillon's frown only deepened, but he took the man's palm. He ran his finger down the head line, the heart line, and the lifeline, all in turn. But what fortune to give to this man? A good one? A bad one? What would bring in the best haul...?
Dillon frowned, seemingly concerned, and then man matched his expression. With a small sigh, Dillon dropped the man's hand and the man pulled it back.
Folding his arms again, the man stared down at Dillon. "So?"
Dillon paused, looked away, then shrugged his shoulders meekly.
"You read my fortune, kid. Now tell me what it is."
"It's... a little unclear, but... what I could see didn't look good."
The man scoffed. "Yeah, right. You're just saying that."
Dillon shrugged again. "If you want to believe that, fine. If you want to risk your future."
Suddenly the man's air of confidence wavered. There were a few moments of indecision, and then he huffed, annoyed. "Just-- here." He fished out the same wad of cash and pushed it into Dillon's hands.
Old fishing adages still ran true: hook, line, and sinker.
II.
On the Reaper's Sunrise, Dillon did little more than work and sleep. He did walk, of course - oh, did he walk. The halls along the Reaper's Sunrise were long and twisted, and whomever designed this clearly did not have ease of navigation in mind. It was in this way that Dillon found himself quite lost. Here he was, only two days into his journey, and already things were unraveling. He wasn't panicked, not yet, but Dillon was well on his way. Still, every winding pathway had its end; it was only a matter of searching.
So, search he did. Dillon walked the near-labyrinthine corridors for ten minutes. Then another ten minutes. The thirty-minute-mark passed, and Dillon was still lost.
Such was his luck, he supposed.
At this point, though, he could hear voices. There were two of them, low, muffled, and definitely female. Dillon took a few hesitant steps and leaned close to the corner in the hopes of catching what they were saying. He couldn't be near the mess hall, but perhaps he could glean an indication of where he could be.
The tail end of something from the first woman was all Dillon caught: "... in two weeks."
"Two weeks?" Here, the second woman murmured something else, and then her voice raised again, "...not enough time!"
The first woman scoffed. "... 's all we have." There was another low murmur, then, "... 'sides, he can't figure it out. Too ... stupid."
"...too cocky..."
There was a chuckle from the first woman, and then Dillon heard steps approaching. He backpedaled and then tried to look casual - but really, was that possible? He was all startled looks and gangly limbs. The best he could hope for was looking innocent, but out here, no one was innocent.
The woman rounded the corner. She was short, with dark hair and dark skin, and as soon as she caught sight of Dillon she was very, very suspicious. She stepped into Dillon's personal space, looking up at him challengingly. Though he tried to look away in time, Dillon caught her eyes. They were an interesting contrast: light blue against her brown skin. Milliseconds after, Dillon's own eyes locked onto the floor.
"You want somethin', kid?"
"No, uh, sorry, ma'am," he mumbled.
The woman snorted and roughly brushed past Dillon, who started walking down the opposite hall.
In two weeks, she would die.
III.
The door to Mercedes' shop flew open, hinges shrieking, and Dillon rushed inside. He slammed the door shut and threw himself against it, fighting for breath.
"Dillon! What the fuck are you doing?!"
Dillon cringed. He may have avoided death and disaster minutes ago, but running home to Mercedes was like jumping into an incinerator.
Mercedes jumped down from a box and stalked up to Dillon. He began to edge around, but Mercedes stopped him with a kick in the shin.
"Ow!" He hopped on his good leg, hissing in pain. "Ow, ow..."
"Quit whining! You slam my door like that again, and you're paying for the damages!"
Dillon made no mention of the fact that Mercedes was his only source of income. She would just make him get a side job.
Huffing, Mercedes crossed her arms. "Now answer my question. What the fuck are you doing?"
"Merc, it was-- there were guys outside, and they had these really old guns. And they were firing shots."
Mercedes' anger was given up for a more serious attitude. "What did they look like?"
"Capes, goggles, weird boots..."
Then all that seriousness bled out of her. "Oh. Okay."
"You're... not worried?"
She smirked. "Dillon. Those guys? That's their hobby. You know, dressing up, doing re-enactments of stories."
Dillon frowned, confused. "...what?"
"Costumes. Those were beanbag shots, too. I sold some of those last month." Mercedes tapped her foot against the floor, giving Dillon a flat look. "If you want to freak out over nothing some more, do it quietly and while you're organizing."
His metaphorical ears drooping, Dillon looked to the ground and trudged into the back.
Mercedes watched him go, ignoring the jabs his kicked-puppy look inspired inside her.
is a gift from the magical Cubelet!
It's not very long,
not unlike this song,
but I very much hope you enjoy it!
--
I.
Diviner. Palmist. Peddler of lies.
Dillon had been called many things during his fortune-telling career, but they all meant the same thing: business was doing well. The more names people had, the more well known the practice, and the more marks there were. Dillon stood just out of the flow of the crowd, no sunshine in his pocket but a pouch in its place. He cupped one hand around his mouth and called into the throng.
"Read your palm!"
"Knowing the future makes today easier!"
"No one reads them better!"
Sure, he was bragging. Sure, palm-reading was telling people what they wanted to hear. But there was indeed an art to the matter. One had to know just what their customer was looking for in a reading, or else be vague enough to cover any angle. There were many times Dillon had failed, read a palm in exchange for naught, but those experiences trained him.
A young man crossed through the stream of people and stepped up to Dillon. He was dressed sharply and he moved with bravado - hell, one might even call it a swagger. That hit three checks: young, rich, and stupidly cocky. An excellent mark.
"No one reads 'em better, eh?" The man folded his arms and tilted his head, the image of disbelief.
Dillon didn't look him in the eye, but at his ear was close enough. He offered a small smile. "No one on the station, sir."
"Hm." The man narrowed his eyes and fished out a few notes of cash. He held them out and Dillon reached for them, but then he snatched them back. Dillon frowned, irritation rising, while the man just grinned and laughed.
"Not yet, kid," he said, clearly pleased. "First I gotta see if y'live up to your name. Then, we talk dough." He pocketed the bills and then held out his right hand.
Dillon's frown only deepened, but he took the man's palm. He ran his finger down the head line, the heart line, and the lifeline, all in turn. But what fortune to give to this man? A good one? A bad one? What would bring in the best haul...?
Dillon frowned, seemingly concerned, and then man matched his expression. With a small sigh, Dillon dropped the man's hand and the man pulled it back.
Folding his arms again, the man stared down at Dillon. "So?"
Dillon paused, looked away, then shrugged his shoulders meekly.
"You read my fortune, kid. Now tell me what it is."
"It's... a little unclear, but... what I could see didn't look good."
The man scoffed. "Yeah, right. You're just saying that."
Dillon shrugged again. "If you want to believe that, fine. If you want to risk your future."
Suddenly the man's air of confidence wavered. There were a few moments of indecision, and then he huffed, annoyed. "Just-- here." He fished out the same wad of cash and pushed it into Dillon's hands.
Old fishing adages still ran true: hook, line, and sinker.
II.
On the Reaper's Sunrise, Dillon did little more than work and sleep. He did walk, of course - oh, did he walk. The halls along the Reaper's Sunrise were long and twisted, and whomever designed this clearly did not have ease of navigation in mind. It was in this way that Dillon found himself quite lost. Here he was, only two days into his journey, and already things were unraveling. He wasn't panicked, not yet, but Dillon was well on his way. Still, every winding pathway had its end; it was only a matter of searching.
So, search he did. Dillon walked the near-labyrinthine corridors for ten minutes. Then another ten minutes. The thirty-minute-mark passed, and Dillon was still lost.
Such was his luck, he supposed.
At this point, though, he could hear voices. There were two of them, low, muffled, and definitely female. Dillon took a few hesitant steps and leaned close to the corner in the hopes of catching what they were saying. He couldn't be near the mess hall, but perhaps he could glean an indication of where he could be.
The tail end of something from the first woman was all Dillon caught: "... in two weeks."
"Two weeks?" Here, the second woman murmured something else, and then her voice raised again, "...not enough time!"
The first woman scoffed. "... 's all we have." There was another low murmur, then, "... 'sides, he can't figure it out. Too ... stupid."
"...too cocky..."
There was a chuckle from the first woman, and then Dillon heard steps approaching. He backpedaled and then tried to look casual - but really, was that possible? He was all startled looks and gangly limbs. The best he could hope for was looking innocent, but out here, no one was innocent.
The woman rounded the corner. She was short, with dark hair and dark skin, and as soon as she caught sight of Dillon she was very, very suspicious. She stepped into Dillon's personal space, looking up at him challengingly. Though he tried to look away in time, Dillon caught her eyes. They were an interesting contrast: light blue against her brown skin. Milliseconds after, Dillon's own eyes locked onto the floor.
"You want somethin', kid?"
"No, uh, sorry, ma'am," he mumbled.
The woman snorted and roughly brushed past Dillon, who started walking down the opposite hall.
In two weeks, she would die.
III.
The door to Mercedes' shop flew open, hinges shrieking, and Dillon rushed inside. He slammed the door shut and threw himself against it, fighting for breath.
"Dillon! What the fuck are you doing?!"
Dillon cringed. He may have avoided death and disaster minutes ago, but running home to Mercedes was like jumping into an incinerator.
Mercedes jumped down from a box and stalked up to Dillon. He began to edge around, but Mercedes stopped him with a kick in the shin.
"Ow!" He hopped on his good leg, hissing in pain. "Ow, ow..."
"Quit whining! You slam my door like that again, and you're paying for the damages!"
Dillon made no mention of the fact that Mercedes was his only source of income. She would just make him get a side job.
Huffing, Mercedes crossed her arms. "Now answer my question. What the fuck are you doing?"
"Merc, it was-- there were guys outside, and they had these really old guns. And they were firing shots."
Mercedes' anger was given up for a more serious attitude. "What did they look like?"
"Capes, goggles, weird boots..."
Then all that seriousness bled out of her. "Oh. Okay."
"You're... not worried?"
She smirked. "Dillon. Those guys? That's their hobby. You know, dressing up, doing re-enactments of stories."
Dillon frowned, confused. "...what?"
"Costumes. Those were beanbag shots, too. I sold some of those last month." Mercedes tapped her foot against the floor, giving Dillon a flat look. "If you want to freak out over nothing some more, do it quietly and while you're organizing."
His metaphorical ears drooping, Dillon looked to the ground and trudged into the back.
Mercedes watched him go, ignoring the jabs his kicked-puppy look inspired inside her.