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[b][color=FFD700]Centurion Bolea, Luka Matthias, 3rd Cohort
June 21st
New Rome, Coliseum[/color][/b][/indent]
[color=FF6347]“Hey Lulu.”[/color]

[i]Lulu[/i]. If there was anyone who called Luka anything other than Bolea, Centurion, or a combination of the two, it was Noah, but that wasn’t at all why he knew it was her. No, it was her voice, that sing-song, that sway in the tone with the little smile of a nickname at the corners, that was how he knew it was her. A half-turn of the head, armor shifting with the movement, to see her walking up. A thin smile touched his lips at the sight.

He hadn’t connected to many people - for the most part, he’d only connected to those no longer in the Legion. Noah had been one of them, someone he’d talked to as she apprenticed alongside him during that year of pause. They were bittersweet memories, but the little moments where he had forgotten all the stress, all the worry, all the wonder at what might make him feel alive melted away…those were as pure as could be, as good as Luka could see. Those memories were nearly always with Noah. [i]The little things that kept one sane[/i], that’s how it had gone, as she walked up beside him. It was almost comical, in a way, considering how tall she was compared to him. No, it was comical.

[color=FF6347]“You holding up okay?”[/color]

[i]How are you[/i]. How was Bolea, that he’d gotten beaten by…the second-guesser, the door-maker, the boundryman. How was Bolea, mighty Bolea, that it had all gone to hell with the first fight he got to be in? Was that the question they were all asking? Was that the wonder they all had, and that some would be making those assumptions to their own? The wonder hit the Centurion quietly, though it still hit him. They would say that Luka was angry, or sad, or frustrated that he had lost with so little. They would say that he thought he could do better. [i]Fucking Steiner[/i]. Luka could already hear the bastard. They knew him well, though, because it was mostly all true no matter what he [i]should[/i] feel about it as a Centurion. Mercator had done well, and he should feel glad about that, but Luka had done poorly. He should have done better. He knew he should have.

A few breaths was all the length of the thought, though, as Luka pursed his lips and frowned just a bit. [color=FFD700]”He did well. I should have done better.”[/color] The frown continued as they walked along, the guy running one hand through his helmet-hair. He thought on it a bit more, just over it all. What if Luka [i]had[/i] won? Would him beating Mercator prove anything by that expected outcome, did idea that a Centurion would clearly always overcome the ranks beneath them simply because they were a Centurion hold any water? It didn’t seem to. It couldn’t. If it did, then the Centurion would continue on until old age overtook them, until they were dust and bone, and no young Legionnaire would show their skill well. No, it couldn’t. It was just…something that might happen every now and again in the whole of it. [color=FFD700]”If Legionnaires lost all the time, never winning, I think we’d need to redo our training. But I could have done better.”[/color] The words bit against him just a little bit though, even if he reasoned through the whole thing that it should be this way. Pride, pride, [i]pride[/i].

He swallowed, wanting to turn the conversation away quickly. [color=FFD700]”And you? Russo had to have been…interesting.”[/color]

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[b][color=93CB56]Michael “Mike” Withers
June 21st
New Rome, Forum[/color][/b][/indent]
[color=93CB56]”Look man - chili dogs are superior. It’s really just that simple.”[/color]

How do you have a conversation with a dog? Well, shit man, guess you just start talking and see if he wants to say something back. There was Mike, sat up on the little steps to...he looks up and around to see what the hell the place was. Warehouse? Storehouse? Somebody’s outhouse? Might be one of the above, though he could smell fermentation in the air from…something or another, wine, old school classic fish sauce, a bunch of things. But there was Mike, sat up on the little steps, chili dog in one hand, and a plate of chow on a plate with a little audience of friends.

Yeah, sure, said Pluto - Mickey’s dog, not the god - but he added that there was something great about just regular hot dogs with mustard and ketchup. Yeah, yeah, there was something good there, but Pluto hadn’t ever had a real chili dog. At least, that was the great thought. Mike combed through his beard as he thought through exactly how the heck he’d break off a piece from his own without the whole thing going to hell, eyes glancing up at a bit of movement in the corner of ‘em.

Herodotus - full name of Herodotus of San Francisco - looked on from one of the alcoves above. One of the strays - Mike didn’t normally use the term, since honestly that just sounded like they didn’t have a family and he knew for sure they did. ‘Free peoples’ sounds like he was quoting…fuck what [i]was[/i] that show…Conan? No. Not Conan. Anyways, ol Herry was a great lil guy. Big guy. He was a big guy. Cool big guy that Mike let crash on the couch for a while…still does, really. The Maine Coon looked down with that lazy little glance before making himself comfortable. How the hell did he get up there?

But Pluto said that there was something to it with rabbits. They’d gone and found rabbits before, and it had been a good time, but there had been something with the rabbits that had given him aches. Ah, that was never a good thing. Mike looked down to consider his chili dog again. [color=93CB56]”See, that’s not good. Can’t be eating bad rabbit. Hey, gimme a sec.”[/color] With that, he took the chili dog and tried to pinch off the end between thumb and forefinger, detonating chili over his shirt. 

[color=93CB56]”Fuck,”[/color] was the absentminded thing, as he leaned forward to let Pluto eat the pinched bit…as well as the chili off his hand. Man, that’s pretty good, said Pluto. Well. At least there was that. [color=93CB56]”I told you, man. Chili dogs [i]are[/i] great.”[/color]