Owen is completely sick of this. It was one thing to be sent to an island, or to some isolated shit-hole of a city, but being stuck where they are now is beyond the pale. There's a lot of technology that Owen doesn't miss much-- he's never been a big fan of television, for starters-- but the prospect of being stuck on rations for years, of having to perpetually work at blending in seems exhausting.
Christ, he'll be lucky if he even makes it to the next millennium. He'll be in his eighties when that comes around, if they're stuck where they are that long.
Owen's trying to find a way to get a ration of meat without a ration book when the siren goes off. It's become a normal thing now, the sirens, and before he knows it, he's with the rest of the crowd, being herded down to a shelter. He's lost sight of Tosh and Jack. That is, until he hears the slur, sees the woman with the bottle.
"You might want to rethink that, sweetheart," Owen says, and he grabs her arm, fingers wrapping around her wrist as he stops her from doing whatever it was she had her mind set on doing.
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Christ, he'll be lucky if he even makes it to the next millennium. He'll be in his eighties when that comes around, if they're stuck where they are that long.
Owen's trying to find a way to get a ration of meat without a ration book when the siren goes off. It's become a normal thing now, the sirens, and before he knows it, he's with the rest of the crowd, being herded down to a shelter. He's lost sight of Tosh and Jack. That is, until he hears the slur, sees the woman with the bottle.
"You might want to rethink that, sweetheart," Owen says, and he grabs her arm, fingers wrapping around her wrist as he stops her from doing whatever it was she had her mind set on doing.