fatemarked | Video

[ Really, he looks like what he is - an eager nineteen year old, ready to save the world. He is wearing something odd, though: A black turtle neck made of some sort of stretch material, under his normal looking t-shirt.

Kevin's sitting at a desk in one of the libraries with the laptop he'd been given. He's not going to break it, don't worry. He knows how to take care of tech. Even if he wishes that this was X-Men issue, and not super secret government issue. Oh well, beggars can't be choosers. And right now? He's not even begging. ]

I don't suppose there's a metal workshop in this facility somewhere, is there?

[ Odd question from someone newly arrived. But he'd been given the spiel, and is quite happy with the way things are. Hell, maybe this'll be better than back home.

Besides, the X-Men teach an entire class on alternate universe adventures. This is not news to him. ]

I'd like something preferably set up for welding, or for auto repair. Either one works. Access to tools is a given, and heck, if there's need of a mechanic, I'll take a swing at it.

[ One gloved hand reaches up and brushes hair out of his face. ]

Also, need to talk to someone about getting special clothes, if that's at all possible.

[ With that he shuts off the feed. Because, that's all there needs to be said. ]

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[Max hasn't really touched the laptop since his arrival and the initial Don't Panic spiel, it being unfamiliar and unwieldy and seemingly unnecessary, as far as he's concerned. Oh, he's gotten the gist of it, how it works something like a cross between a television and phone all in one, but it's been so long since he's seen either of those things in use with any - any - sort of regularity (has he seen one since everything fell apart? he can't say - there are still radio broadcasts, mostly by random wastelanders seeking others, but they're rare) that it's just not something that has figured into his calculations since turning up like a snatched puppy.

But he's still being held here against his will, though no one's tried to kill him or use him as a blood bag or tried to steal what little has turned up with him, and he's simply been biding his time, waiting for an opportune moment to make a break for it, when he knows where he can make a break for.

Which is why he's here on this clunky hunk of heat-generating technology, chaffing at being confined, suspicious of even the water, preferring to conserve what's in his canteen (something years in parched, blasted wastelands have made easy to do) until he knows it's safe to drink, because it seems to be the best way to find out what's happening. And this, of course, is the one thing that catches his ear, because right now it's the one thing he cares about. Auto repair means cars. And cars mean there's a way out of this.]

You're a blackfinger. [His voice is rough - the kind of rough that signifies someone who speaks rarely - and that is most definitely an Australian accent. The way it's phrased could be either question or statement, so dealer's choice, because he follows it up with:]

So there are cars here.

[ Kevin's brown eyebrows end up in his hairline. He's used to people who speak rarely - living around Wolverine the last few years has inured him to that. But he can't place the accent except "not American". Oh well. ]

What's a black finger?

[ He's not sure whether to be insulted or not. He's going with not for right now. ]

And I'm assuming there's cars. There's a city. Gotta have transportation somehow.

[That's a surprise, at least for him. How long has it been since he's had to explain things the other way around? He's shifted so far into the way things have evolved, it takes him a moment to find the right word.]

A mechanic.

[But more importantly.]

So you don't know for sure.

[ Kevin frowns, brushing long hair out of his face again. He needs a haircut by any standard. But the back is short enough, it's just the top that needs trimmed. Let him get back into welding, it'll get short enough soon enough. ]

Not really. I can do some work, but most of it's simple stuff.

I'm more of a welder.

[ He's got a chance to work here without worrying about people bursting in on him. And maybe some new metal to work with. ]

It'd make sense. Super-secret government, gotta have transportation.

[He wants to say nothing ever makes sense, but wisely keeps his mouth shut. Better that way.

Instead:]

How good are you.

[ Kevin frowns. He's not real sure how to answer that. He's quiet for a moment as he ponders how to answer. ]

Good enough, I suppose? Haven't had a seam bust on me in a year or so. Usually only weld junk though. Nothing that's supposed to look pretty.

If you're looking for a metal shop, you're in luck. I'm in need of some extra hands.

I am looking for a metal shop. I generally just need some metal and a torch, but, what do you need help with?

You any good with robots?

Never really worked with any. But I pick up things quickly, and know my metal.

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video; srynotsry for the tl;dr

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