There's not much without a new belt. You got some zip ties or rope? Wait for everything to cool off, whatever the fuck it's doing. If you got something you can tug around the pulley to keep it steady. It's your best shot.
Then you gotta drive real fucking slow. And don't go anywhere else until I look at it.
[ Assume typos and pauses because this is hard to explain over text, but. Best he can do. ]
They've got some weird shit in the equipment closet. I'll see what I can find.
[ Like, the stuff that's utilised as quote-unquote improvised weaponry around here is, uh, downright alarming. But she appreciates the guidance, typos and all. ]
[ It's a handful of hours later when she replies. Enough time for the day to have fled; a warm and cloudy night taking its place, the sort where many Panorama citizens long to stir up trouble. ]
Back.
[ A moment or two later, he'll also receive an image file attachment. On it, a somewhat degraded picture of one of the nicer storefronts she's seen: Ink Tank, with a blue neon sign in the window and walk-ins welcome! painted on the glass in stylised lettering. It's been a bit since she's brought this up, and there always seems to be something else more important, but. It hasn't really left her head. It lingers, an itch that won't really be scratched away. And this one seems... safer, warmer. Cleaner, too. ]
Friday?
[ Of course, it won't happen as planned, if planned. By Friday, they'll be ankle deep in not-water and dreams. ]
[ And there's almost a reply, too: words she's turned over, again and again, trying to mould them into — something, anything. The cut wires between her brain and her vocal cords have infected her fingers, her texts, with the same malignancy. The same feebleness, like a coating of static. Mute, muter.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ She is, in fact, not bothering him, though. Not sure she ever would, really. ]
Alright. Should be fast. Pop the hood. You're gonna look for the belt near the engine. Passenger side.
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I thought 'belt' was just a name.
I didn't think they'd actually look like belts you wear.
[ This will, in no way, be the only semi-sequitur Amos is treated to on this journey. ]
What's next?
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Is it loose like it popped off, or is it shredded? If it's shredded you're fucked and you gotta wait for me to get over there.
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Neither.
It's melting.
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[ Face: see icon. ]
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Because Plan C is pushing it to the closest shop.
[ Come on, man. You were The Chosen One™. ]
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Then you gotta drive real fucking slow. And don't go anywhere else until I look at it.
[ Assume typos and pauses because this is hard to explain over text, but. Best he can do. ]
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[ Like, the stuff that's utilised as quote-unquote improvised weaponry around here is, uh, downright alarming. But she appreciates the guidance, typos and all. ]
Thanks.
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Tell me when you get back.
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Back.
[ A moment or two later, he'll also receive an image file attachment. On it, a somewhat degraded picture of one of the nicer storefronts she's seen: Ink Tank, with a blue neon sign in the window and walk-ins welcome! painted on the glass in stylised lettering. It's been a bit since she's brought this up, and there always seems to be something else more important, but. It hasn't really left her head. It lingers, an itch that won't really be scratched away. And this one seems... safer, warmer. Cleaner, too. ]
Friday?
[ Of course, it won't happen as planned, if planned. By Friday, they'll be ankle deep in not-water and dreams. ]
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[ Yes, he'll be there. Feels right, somehow, that she's not alone for it. ]
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In the end, she leaves it there. ]