hastrustissues | (no subject)

They burn the stuffed animals - and it probably says something about Wichita that she's equal parts relieved and disturbed by the event, but she decides to attend, to make sure she watches as each carnival prize, all in varying stages of destruction, burn away as the bonfire rages on, button eyes and plastic melting and stuffing turning black under the flame before it too turns into ash. It's only a slightly comforting sight, and it's still serving to remind her that crazy shit like this happens all the time, without warning. Zell had mentioned the zombies arriving before, but somehow he'd been all too casual in his delivery, or at least more carefree about it than she thinks it deserves. How many people are ready for something like this if it happens again? she'd asked Columbus, wondering if any of the people she starts to care about will ever truly be prepared: Olive, Santana, Eduardo, Mark. They're all people she's starting to become closer to, and she blames herself for it, for letting each of them in long enough to start to care in the first place, because if something happens - God, this isn't how she's supposed to survive here. She isn't supposed to have to care about anyone else, to have to worry.

She makes sure to leave a note for Columbus this time (ever since the night she'd gone out for a run, she realized he'd almost started to think she had disappeared completely), but she only specifies as much as simply going for a walk, not really stopping to predict where she'll wind up. It ends up being the pier, on the western side of the island, the long one that stretches out over the water, and she walks to the very end, until she can sit down with her legs dangling over the side. She jams her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket, finds a joint in one, and lights up, giving herself ample time to inhale deeply, and keeps inhaling until the tension in her shoulders starts to ease.

The sound of footsteps behind her doesn't have her whirling around like she would be under normal, non-high circumstances, but she's still got the small pistol tucked into her waistband, if it turns out she needs to use it. She doesn't move to speak when the sound of footsteps stop and she senses someone standing over her, instead leaning back to brace her weight on one hand as the other lifts the joint to her lips.

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She raises a disbelieving eyebrow at his decisive categorizing, giving him another nudge. "You know, you might be one of the smartest people I know, but when it comes to dance fashions, you are so close-minded." A part of her can't believe they're even having this conversation - something so casual, almost so trivial. Six months ago, she might've talked about something like this to distract herself from a tense moment, to take her sister's mind off of being in a dangerous situation. Maybe. The reality is that it'd be pushing it a little bit, talking about dance.

"Jazz, ballet, tap, modern, interpretative, whatever. You can't just categorize ballet as frilly skirts and pointe shoes. I mean, obviously there's pointe shoes, but that takes someone with greater training than I've got," Wichita points out, shrugging. She's seen one or two girls doing just that at the studio, though she figures they were probably dancing long before the island plucked them up. "Besides, you don't see the guys wearing tutus."

"You have to realize that about eighty percent of the dance that I've been exposed to over the years is through Dance Dance Revolution. Or, well, that recent stint here with the internet also exposed me to Microsoft's Kinect, which seems pretty cool and has a better dance game, but they're still all games. So." Mark shrugs helplessly, a small smile on his lips as he tries to run through each one of the dances proposed by Wichita, finding that he doesn't have a mental image for each. "Interpretive dance makes even less sense to me. The point's to tell a story, but I don't really see how any other dance doesn't do the exact same. As far as I know, all ballets come with their own story."

He shrugs.

"It's just not a very intuitive naming system. Modern won't be modern in a few decades. Tap makes the most sense, but can't you also tap dance to jazz music?" He breaks into a brief laugh, amazed at the current topic of conversation— it's not one he might've had the patience for with anyone else.

"Nerd alert," Wichita counters, in a soft sing-song before flashing a quick grin in succession. She knows his recent exposure to the internet means he probably caught up on all kinds of new inventions, flashy upgrades or whatever else, but when she refers to him as such, there's no mean intent behind the words, just a complete and genuine disbelief that they're even having this kind of conversation right now. There is a part of her now, however small, that's been curious about expanding her knowledge to some of those other forms of dance since she joined the ballet class - her original intent was to improve on her overall clumsiness, for starters - but that's something that she might not ever voice to anyone until she's signing up for the classes in question.

"We're thinking way too much about this," she sighs, giving him another brief jostle with her elbow. "Point being: ballet is not tutu-exclusive. Mind blown yet?"

He's been called a nerd countless times in the past, even learned to accept it for the compliment that it holds, for the pride that he's allowed to have even in things like this, which so often come at the cost of being social. Of learning the norms. Of adhering to them. Even though his brand of nerd doesn't hold a regular schedule and instead spends all their time browsing the internet and inevitably improving upon their WPM, the way that Wichita jibes doesn't make it seem like a bad thing, nor does it threaten the way his chest seems to expand at the thought of all the thought and innovation between the walls in Palo Alto. Sometimes, Mark Zuckerberg likes who he is, and what he's done. It's not even necessarily a majority of the time, and especially not as of late, given all that's happened.

But he feels good today, and he knows that he can thank her for that.

"Mind totally blown," he nods in earnest. "It'll be tough to beat this particular revelation. You've outdone yourself."

She's momentarily relieved when he doesn't take offense to her words. In general, she's not overly concerned about whether ot not she offends someone, but over time, new exceptions to the unwritten rule have showed up, not the least of which is the guy sitting next to her. It's one of the reasons why she's out here in the first place, sucking down a joint and trying to calm her nerves - it's just further proof of the fact that she seems to care now if she hurts anyone, or if anyone winds up hurt even if she's not directly involved. The reality closes around her heart like a hand squeezing tight and she clears her throat quietly, forcing a faint smile.

"Well, feel free to come on over if you're ever in need of any future enlightenment," she replies, legs resuming their absent kicking. "Always happy to provide."