This is another Charlie prequel, set some time before 'Rosolare la Donna'.
Characters: F1Courier, Beatrix Russell Series: Standing Alone
"Honey, I'm home!"
"High-lo, Bea."
"Hello, Dutch."
"Hahlo."
Dutch scowls, letting out something unflattering in a mix of garbled Norwegian mixed with one or three of the romance languages after her second attempt at the greeting, and Bea grins. She's been teaching the tribal English for a month now, ever since they settled into the bunker the ghoul currently calls home, and while progress has been fast in retaining individual words, pronunciation and putting them together is moving like dried chicken shit on a hot tin roof. It's not the girl's fault; Bea's voice is just too raspy. If she doesn't do something soon, poor Dutch will end up with a speech impediment along with the hideous accent. Bea jiggles the box, which became her planned solution for this problem right after she had the good fortune to find it. "That's my girl Friday. Since you've been good, I picked you up something."
"Not Friday, Bea. Dutch."
"That's right, kitten, you went dutch with me on killing those bastards who had you. Now come get your present."
"Am present. Right heear, Bea." Dutch sidles closer, and peers into the box, which is filled with smaller, colourfully printed boxes. "Whaat?"
"I decided it was high time to introduce you to the wonders of the silver screen."
It's a hoot and a half to watch Dutch in front of the television; in front of any working modern convenience, really. She approaches it with a cross between fascination and outright aggression, and a very large stick. Literally. It's probably a testament to her stolid nature that it hasn't gone through anything yet, although now there's a fresh little mound of dirt out in the yard, and the alarm clock radio is suspiciously absent from her bedside table. Bea answers a few questions about what films are for, a few more about why people would be stupid enough to pay for stories since their elders should be telling them all for free, and leaves her to it.
The first thing Dutch pays attention to are the women in them, looking for something she can recognize in herself. They are pathetic things, for the most part; tied in too much cloth and screeching. The ones wearing next to nothing, however; they are bold, and fierce, and seem to like laying with men very much. It isn't hard for her to choose which sort she wants to emulate in the world outside.
The rest of the films are filled with tribes and armies, those like her and those who destroyed her, but in the middle, there are those that walk the nothing space of between. There are the riders, the rustlers, the scouts and the bandits. They are old and young, crippled and whole. Everyone likes them or not, clean-cut lines of behaviour, and they answer to no-one at all.
She particularly likes the ones with no name, and the ones in the black hats.
Dutch plays the films over and over again, until she can mimic every line of dialogue, until she knows what every word really means and how to use them outside of her obsessive parrotry. When her companion returns home again, she decides she is ready.
Dutch pokes her head out of the living room as soon as she hears the ghoulette come in. She calls out in a smooth, clear, and ridiculously twangy voice. "Bea! I need you to go into town for me!"
"Shit on toast, I turned you into the Duke." Bea claps a hand on her face. Dutch frowns.
Hat Trick - 1/2
Characters: F1Courier, Beatrix Russell
Series: Standing Alone
"Honey, I'm home!"
"High-lo, Bea."
"Hello, Dutch."
"Hahlo."
Dutch scowls, letting out something unflattering in a mix of garbled Norwegian mixed with one or three of the romance languages after her second attempt at the greeting, and Bea grins. She's been teaching the tribal English for a month now, ever since they settled into the bunker the ghoul currently calls home, and while progress has been fast in retaining individual words, pronunciation and putting them together is moving like dried chicken shit on a hot tin roof. It's not the girl's fault; Bea's voice is just too raspy. If she doesn't do something soon, poor Dutch will end up with a speech impediment along with the hideous accent. Bea jiggles the box, which became her planned solution for this problem right after she had the good fortune to find it. "That's my girl Friday. Since you've been good, I picked you up something."
"Not Friday, Bea. Dutch."
"That's right, kitten, you went dutch with me on killing those bastards who had you. Now come get your present."
"Am present. Right heear, Bea." Dutch sidles closer, and peers into the box, which is filled with smaller, colourfully printed boxes. "Whaat?"
"I decided it was high time to introduce you to the wonders of the silver screen."
It's a hoot and a half to watch Dutch in front of the television; in front of any working modern convenience, really. She approaches it with a cross between fascination and outright aggression, and a very large stick. Literally. It's probably a testament to her stolid nature that it hasn't gone through anything yet, although now there's a fresh little mound of dirt out in the yard, and the alarm clock radio is suspiciously absent from her bedside table. Bea answers a few questions about what films are for, a few more about why people would be stupid enough to pay for stories since their elders should be telling them all for free, and leaves her to it.
The first thing Dutch pays attention to are the women in them, looking for something she can recognize in herself. They are pathetic things, for the most part; tied in too much cloth and screeching. The ones wearing next to nothing, however; they are bold, and fierce, and seem to like laying with men very much. It isn't hard for her to choose which sort she wants to emulate in the world outside.
The rest of the films are filled with tribes and armies, those like her and those who destroyed her, but in the middle, there are those that walk the nothing space of between. There are the riders, the rustlers, the scouts and the bandits. They are old and young, crippled and whole. Everyone likes them or not, clean-cut lines of behaviour, and they answer to no-one at all.
She particularly likes the ones with no name, and the ones in the black hats.
Dutch plays the films over and over again, until she can mimic every line of dialogue, until she knows what every word really means and how to use them outside of her obsessive parrotry. When her companion returns home again, she decides she is ready.
Dutch pokes her head out of the living room as soon as she hears the ghoulette come in. She calls out in a smooth, clear, and ridiculously twangy voice. "Bea! I need you to go into town for me!"
"Shit on toast, I turned you into the Duke." Bea claps a hand on her face. Dutch frowns.
"No, Bea. Dutch. You goin' soft in the sun?"