one; Projecting confidence apparently comes easy. So, it seems, does flirting.
It’s how he makes his way through town with minimal disturbance to the public. A wink, a slow grin. Giving someone with particular interest a once-over in return. On the ones that don’t take to it, he uses humor. “Laundry day,” he says, or “The latest style.”
There’s always a desire to add from where, like the designation of place is vital for understanding the joke, but he can’t think of the where that he needs.
At least it’s warm enough out that he only feels a light chill from the breeze.
two; The instant after he hears the scream, Poe starts to move. Five running steps, a falter. Is no one else going to come?
He stares at the townspeople, instinct telling him to go, go, go, training (training?) telling him to take backup. “Well, what are you waiting for, a transmitted invitation? Let’s go!”
So persuasive.
wildcard/around town; There’s a motorcycle in his garage.
He doesn’t remember ever having flow— driven something like this before, but the controls are so simple a toddler could operate them. He’s out on the road in a trice, not even pausing to close the garage door before zipping toward the emptiest parts of town.
Faster. Faster. Faster. At first it’s great, it’s perfect, feeling the press of gravity and atmosphere. But there’s a limit to it. To the speed he can get up to on these narrow streets, the maneuverability of this low-tech speeder wannabe.
He swings sideways into a skidding, juddering halt, the stutter of tires on asphalt like putting pressure on a bruise.
Stillness. A crow over cries a warning or a curse and Poe looks up, momentarily hating the animal for reasons he doesn't fully understand.
Poe Dameron | Stah Wahs
Projecting confidence apparently comes easy. So, it seems, does flirting.
It’s how he makes his way through town with minimal disturbance to the public. A wink, a slow grin. Giving someone with particular interest a once-over in return. On the ones that don’t take to it, he uses humor. “Laundry day,” he says, or “The latest style.”
There’s always a desire to add from where, like the designation of place is vital for understanding the joke, but he can’t think of the where that he needs.
At least it’s warm enough out that he only feels a light chill from the breeze.
two;
The instant after he hears the scream, Poe starts to move. Five running steps, a falter. Is no one else going to come?
He stares at the townspeople, instinct telling him to go, go, go, training (training?) telling him to take backup. “Well, what are you waiting for, a transmitted invitation? Let’s go!”
So persuasive.
wildcard/around town;
There’s a motorcycle in his garage.
He doesn’t remember ever having flow— driven something like this before, but the controls are so simple a toddler could operate them. He’s out on the road in a trice, not even pausing to close the garage door before zipping toward the emptiest parts of town.
Faster. Faster. Faster. At first it’s great, it’s perfect, feeling the press of gravity and atmosphere. But there’s a limit to it. To the speed he can get up to on these narrow streets, the maneuverability of this low-tech speeder wannabe.
He swings sideways into a skidding, juddering halt, the stutter of tires on asphalt like putting pressure on a bruise.
Stillness. A crow over cries a warning or a curse and Poe looks up, momentarily hating the animal for reasons he doesn't fully understand.
"Same to you,” he says, under his breath.