<div class="floatright">(http://t0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSBadCQB7tH7yfWujsxz9qb8Xj3tkLgrm9Yg9Qp1SZLAqk7KOv3&amp;t=1)<strong><br/>Sara (http://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=150938.msg6869979#msg6869979)</strong><br/><strong>Location:</strong> On Dom's bus<br/><strong>Summary:</strong> Knocking on the Devil's door<br/>...with homework. <br/><strong>Tagged: </strong> Dom<br/><hr/></div>Dom was gone, and not a moment too soon. His words had reached her skeptic ears as those of a dangerously misinformed desert dweller with a highly debatable grasp on reality. There was more out there: decent men and women banding together, trying their damnedest to carve a life out the remnants of a once prosperous nation. It was no one's fault but his own if he was so consumed with shitting on their progress: stealing precious resources, raping and killing like a rabid dog, that he was blind to the alternatives out there. Like every raider, Dom was a taker. He couldn't understand what it was to build a damn thing. Sara seethed as she rocked to her feet, footfalls traveling heavily to her shirt. She'd put a week's supply of water on the odds he was raider born and raised.<br/><br/>His words cycled through her mind in an infuriating loop, becoming more laughable with every repetition. It was the weak that brought about an end to the old world? Sara scoffed at the notion as she claimed her shirt from the floor and pulled it over her head. Though the details of Doomsday were lost to rapidly deteriorating historic records, she was relatively certain it wasn't the weak who had built more then enough weaponry to destroy the world several times over before squaring off in a global-scale pissing match. Such was the inevitable fate of Empire<br/><br/>She was at the door when her swift, purposeful course came to an abrupt end, as surely as if she'd walked into an unseen wall barring her path. Not long before the bombs dropped there was a time where, after several pints, pub talk would turn to outlandish stories and moot hypotheticals. 'So... if you like were in a pub in 1920s Germany and there was like, young Hitler there, would you kill him before he'd committed any of his crimes?' And, undoubtedly, after several graphic stories about how badly the furhrer's body would be abused in the name of rerouting the course of history, some smug hipster would chime in with. 'Nah man, I'd talk to him. Try to change his mind.'<br/><br/>Sara was most reluctantly that smug hipster. Groaning, she brought her temple to rest against the threshold of the bus. If Dom wasn't just pushing about hot delusional air, if he actually intended to sweep across the wastes on a tide of blood and violence and she did nothing (even within the extremely limited scope of her powers) to curtail the damage, she'd never be able to forgive herself. Taking one last long glance out into the night, she returned to her bunk before her courage failed her. Her hands moved with decisive purpose through her book-pile. She sorted a stack that went from her waist, cradled in her arm, to being tucked under haer chin. Under her other arm, she slid a few choice maps. With her hands occupied as such, she had to knock at Dom's door with her hiking boot.