18: Text/Spam: "I thought he did good."

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18: Text/Spam: "I thought he did good."

[Open spam, fuzzy time]

[In the days that follow the incident with Pietro, Omar... really doesn't change up much at all, actually, for someone as generally paranoid as he is. He tends to steer clear of his own cabin, but he already was doing that -- and to a watchful eye, he can be found across the hall at Ricki's more and more, anyway. He keeps his gun on him at all times, but that's really just good sense. He's a little more cautious for a bit, maybe, especially when he's around the inmate showers, and when he's in the mess hall he tends to stay towards the back, with a view of the door.

But the whole effect of his grand statement would be ruined if he'd started really hiding afterwards, so he doesn't. He goes right back to his favorite spot in the library, where he now spends his time digging through the foreign languages, and on the deck, where he goes to smoke like so many others do. He even starts going to the pub more often, though he never has more than one beer when he's there. He lapses a little at the gym, but he wanders into the chapel every so often.

Life, as always, goes on.]

[Open spam for the infirmary, this week]

[Despite Cambridge being his warden, Omar has no real plans to visit the infirmary any more than he already does, which is almost never. He turns up one day out of the blue, though, with a nasty cut down the side of his hand, bleeding right through the gauze already wrapped tight around it.

And then he turns up with another a few days later, a slice right across his forearm.

And then a third at the end of the week, by which point he just looks completely exasperated, although he hasn't yet offered up any information of his own accord.]

[Private to Anya]

Can we talk?

[Private to Lark]

Got a question for you.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I'm all ears.

Where you at?

Leaving the mess hall.

Want me to meet you somewhere?

You mind sticking around up there? Could do with a bite, anyway.

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[Should you wander into the part of the library where one finds French literature, Omar, you might bump into Peter Guillam.]

[French literature is not typically where he likes to spend his time, but he's in pursuit of something very specific at the moment, and having been thus far unable to find it he's going just about everywhere until he does. He turns the corner into the aisle, peering at the shelves and frowning, but he looks up and over when he spots Peter's movement out of the corner of his eye and lifts his brows.]

Evenin', Mister Guillam.

[The only reason Peter doesn't tell Omar to leave off the "Mister" is that through his ingrained patterns of thought, Omar has been grouped into the same mental category as Ricki; Ricki calls him "mister" and "sir", and so it's not strange to him that Omar does too. Not to mention that he defaults to the more formal address himself anyway, and there's more acquaintance required before Omar graduates from "Mr Little" to "Little" and thence to "Omar".

He looks up at the sound of Omar's voice and smiles in greeting.]

Evening, Mr Little. Looking for something?

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[The chapel is alien in many ways. Even the major religions represented - the ones, she assumes, common to the most worlds - aren't familiar. She's found her gods' shrines among dozens, but it's strange to go through the rituals of worship in here.

So she usually uses the shrine in her cabin, for day-to-day rites. The things she can do when there's no service, and no Honored Dedicate.

But the chapel itself is peaceful and calm. It resonates with her, and it's a pleasant, neutral place to come when she simply wants to sit, and think, and maybe ask her Goddess what she could've possibly been thinking with all this.

Since her trip to Vulcan, she has a lot of processing to do. So naturally, now would be the time she doesn't find the chapel empty.]

Ah, excuse me.

[She goes first to the Living Circle shrine, and lights candles for her gods]

[In his previous life on the Barge, Omar had come here once in a while. One Sunday a month as a rule, even if his usual companionship for those visits is long left behind back home, and every so often to talk to Castiel, the warden who had run the place back in the day. His visits have lapsed, but he's started to wander his way back recently. Not on Sundays, not yet. Just... visits.

It's not really very much like home; it's too multi-purpose, too non-denominational, too quiet for that. But like Rosethorn, he finds it calm and peaceful, and it's at least a little bit of something familiar. He wears one of his cross necklaces inside, and sometimes flips through one of the Bibles, but mostly he usually just takes a minute to himself to sit and think. He has a lot to think about, lately.

He's not deep enough in it that he startles at the sound of footsteps behind him. He turns around and glances at the door, nods when he sees who it is. Rosethorn is a mostly unknown but safe entity.]

Mornin', Warden.

[She waits to answer him until her silent greetings to her gods are finished. Her movements are both reverent and familiar, comfortable even with the slight tremor in her hands.

When she finishes, she turns back to him.]

Morning. It's Omar, isn't it?

[As if she missed that whole mess with him and the boy. But she doesn't know enough about it to comment.]

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