El Taco Taco — Roleplayer Guild

Sadie listened to George intently. She didn’t miss the look the two boys shared, deeply uncomfortable and knowing, as if she was going to regret asking. How could knowing be bad? She tried to keep up with George’s stories, but the lack of details and names made it a bit tricky. The idea of dying, but not really, caught her interest. There were ghosts, but she had thought that death was still a forever thing. The curiosity gnawed at her brain. “Okay, but why?” She pressed. She felt a little guilty; George looked really uncomfortable. But she got the sense that she was missing an important detail and she couldn’t help herself. “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named,” Seine said quietly, “he didn’t like muggleborns. A lot of the older families agreed, said that muggleborns were stealing magic and destroying wizarding kind. They rounded up muggleborns as criminals. The lucky ones got sent to Azkaban.” She’d heard of that—her textbook had talked about the prison, about things called Dementors. The photograph had made her feel physically ill. It was a desolate place. “The lucky ones?” She asked cautiously, her heart fluttering. No one had ever said… it made sense, in an awful way. People were people, magic or not. She’d always been an avid lover of history, but it seemed that every corner of the planet was marked by genocide and scapegoats. “Yeah,” Seine didn’t elaborate further. He smiled at her tightly, clapping her shoulder. “Things are getting better, though. There’s been a lot of reform. You’re fine. We’ve got your back.” He looked at George, and Sadie caught the faintest nod, the glimmer of something like understanding. He’s a Nott, came to mind suddenly, and Sadie filled in the blanks. Had George’s family been a part of that, then? She glanced to the pale haired boy, before a little smile crossed her face. Her left hand squeezed the dark palm on her shoulder, her right found George’s palm and squeezed it tightly. “Thanks,” she said quietly, releasing the boys before they could complain. She tucked back into her breakfast, “So, I don’t know about you two, but I’m super stoked slash terrified about flying on Thursday. On one hand, flying, on the other; I’m already super clumsy on the ground. I’m pretty sure I’ll find a way to screw it all up.”

The little robot was gesticulating wildly, offering her an ECHO device. Maya had been about to take it when the crunch of footsteps told her she wasn’t alone. Her hand dropped to her side, grasping for her trust SMG—which was gone. Right. The train. She turned to take stock of the intruder. Her lips twitched into a frown. The intruder—which was, perhaps, the wrong word to use—was a child. Maya bristled at her own thoughts. The girl looked to be on the cusp of womanhood, but the siren knew better than most that childhoods were often fleeting. Her brow arched as she considered the redhead. She looked as cold as Maya felt. Colder, even, judging by the robotic arm and skirt. Although she couldn’t quite manage to phase lock, her tattoos at least kept her warm. “Another Vault Hunter!” The yellow robot chirped, launching into its introduction again. Maya nodded in wary greeting. “Hello,” she greeted, although her teeth chattered in the blistering wind. “I assume you were on the train as well, then.”

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Schist happens.

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