When Chariot arrived, Kid Win stood, offered a hand. There was a delay before the kid shook it. He was lanky, with big ears and close shorn hair that made him look slightly goofy, but he had a wary look in his eye.
The PRT had to literally chase him down to get a word with him, so it’s not surprising that he’s a bit wary.
Exactly why he’s wary is a bit more questionable. Bad experiences with the PRT?
He wore a t-shirt and jeans that were stained with grease, had lots of little cuts and stains on his fingers, hands and forearms.
The calling cards of a mechanical worker.
Been there. Substandard tools, not enough parts. I can use that.
“Please sit,” Chariot’s mother said.
I mean, yeah, the best thing the Wards can offer to an up and coming tinker is more resources, right? Although there could be more the kid wants too.
Kid Win obliged. Chariot was the last to take a seat. Was he reluctant, something else?
“Chariot, is it?” Kid Win ventured. God, hope I don’t fuck this up.
Good luck, pal.
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