#d.threads

[containatrocity]

"Robin." It's an exasperated sigh, one the boy beside him mirrors.

"Daddy." He declares, grinning around a caramel apple he's bound to lose another tooth in. "I want... to go scare the people."

"...Empty your pockets, small fry."

"Why!?"

"'cause I know you got a knife in there and if you stab anybody that ain't me it's a felony. Turn 'em out, Babybird." Robin frowns, turning the pockets of his costume out and walking in a circle as Duck pats him down.

"Good boy. Go get 'em- stick close, okay? no further than the booths." He insists after him- his typically watchful eyes and ears tuned to the boy again. He looks good, healthy, happy, and as he knocks rhythmically on Claire's stall, it's with a warm smile only half-obscured by the mask of his costume. "Evenin', Mrs. Lovett." He greets. "Ya look great- keepin' busy?"

@ambercast

[containatrocity]

"Same soup, just reheated." Comes the response, gruff and low from just to her right. "But I went an' spoiled the end of my buddy's book he's been readin' in the station for the last two months, so he sent me out to find 'im a new one." A task easier said than done, as Rusty had probably gone through every book in the library at least once in the eleven years since the paradox- the one Duck had spoiled was one he'd got off a visitor- it just happened to be one he'd read during his time in Maine recovering, too. It's a moment, through the haze that's constantly clinging to him now, before he recognizes her properly. "Oh, Miss Torrance- sorry, a little slow on the uptake." She'd taught Wren in high school, after all- though he wasn't around the school for his oldest as much as he was for Robin now.

"Well hey, you can put that thought to the test- I need something to replace the novel I spoiled for Rust- Got anything that can keep the attention of a 30-somethin' possible disney princess?"

@huntsvillestarter / open to all

Beverly was stuck to say the very least. She thought that picking out something new to read would be a lot easier than this but perhaps a combination of the stressful new school year and just one too many choices had finally fried her mind. She felt odd. It wasn’t that she didn’t have anything on her list, (there was still years worth of ideas in an old work journal), it was more so trying to find something that was out of her comfort zone that was so troubling. Letting out a huff, she shuffled her sights to the next shelf of titles, skimming her fingers over the spines as she read them-- only to smile at the person who appeared beside her. 

“I swear, I could give a recommendation to anyone in town, but I can barely fathom finding something for myself... How are you fairing?”

[containatrocity]

It's not like Duck means to be... the way he is. It's the way he was raised, maybe, the nurture that exacerbated his nature into something... sharp. The drink makes it easier to bear- the failure, the being trapped like a rat in a cage. He's barely held together, physically and mentally, and as his leg tweaks again, he collapses into the snow and mud below him. "Son of a bitch." He winces, as bottles shatter and his flask skitters across cracked pavement, wreaths and small wooden carvings spilling behind them. "Uncle Sam, I'm gettin' real tired a' dealin' with the aftermath of your shit." He spits, trying to force himself back to his feet- only for his leg to give out beneath him again. He lays back in the melting snow, sighs, as the clouds above see fit to split and spill 'spring showers' against him. He pulls the radio from his hip.

"Hey... If... Man, if anybody's got the time in' em before curfew I... I could use a hand." He chirps into the speaker. "Can't get back up. Leg shit out on me. I'm out by the graveyard... least I'll make it easy on y'all if I'm out here past sundown." He sighs, laying back down and staring up at the sky. "Really it's up t' y'all... Could probably just lay here an' call it a good life, honestly. It's. close t' dusk anyway."

[containatrocity]

He's supposed to be in bed. That was the fact drilled into him, over and over and over again, by his children, and Lucy, and Claire, and Z, and the other rangers and his brothers- some of which were in just the same if not worse shape and still going about their business. He's supposed to be in bed. Laying around. Letting his knee recoup.

Sitting in one place makes him fucking insane.

So Mal Romero is not in bed, sat instead at the piano in his front room, bare chest bandaged in strips of white- the bloodstains finally fading from shirts worn over them- the extra laundry still not worth the option to wear one of his usual button-ups, absently plucking away at a piano piece more contemporary than the ones he'd been raised on. More somber than the jazz and country he'd played for Ophelia to sing along to at parties. It's enough to distract him, from the sound of the front door opening, from the footsteps approaching. "...so flood me like atlantic, bandage up the trenches..." He doesn't quite know the words, he doesn't have to. It's on the pause, between a breath, and a key, that he notices a shadow cast on white keys- turning perhaps a bit harder than he should and hissing in a short, pained breath.

"Fuck- Hey, Z. I um. Listen, I know I'm supposed to be in bed but I just..." He smacks fingers on the keys, discordant. "I need a break from taking a break."

@callofthxvoid

[containatrocity]

If it's a train station that manifests Z's thoughts, it's always been a wooded glen that Mal's called home. It's moments stood at a diverging path- sometimes the hunter, sometimes the quarry, and in happier times, he'd follow thoughts more noble- a sword instead of a bow or adrenaline- survival controlled the woods, monstrous things to eat or be eaten by and forks in the road. He knows an important fork when he sees one, and here, now, with Zarina holding his medicine out and questioning if she'd even be there, if he didn't need it, the road splits again. Each side obscured, no light, just tree-cover and uncertainty. She looks at him expectantly. He tries to focus himself through the haze in his mind. He's the prey now, the predator fast approaching, pick a side, pick a side- you can never go back, only forward. His mind stirs into motion, escape sought and grasped between panicked fingers, so the thought slips loose.

He takes the package. Only to sit it on the countertop a moment later, and push it away. "Yes. you would be." And now he has to try and verbalize emotions, and maybe he should have just let the mysterious predator that prowls his mind have a meal of him, instead. "Z, fucks sake." He sighs, leaning against the sink behind him. "I- Look, I've been a shit friend, and I know that, I... got busy. Tryin' to keep the town limpin' along the way I always do. I stretched myself too thin to do things for me, and I do it a lot." In his state now, it's Wren picking up his slack for things he'd overcommitted to- Neither of them had free time for weeks- that had been his fault. "With the outage, the orchard changing over for the season, hunting seasons shiftin'- needing to restock food and supplies we lost in the dark... I work myself to death t' keep myself from thinking about where I am." the admission slips out before he can stop it.

"And sometimes I just. Forget. that I've got people who want me around, genuinely. Not... Not just for sex, or fer stuff I'm willin' to do fer them." it's self-neglect expanding to infect others. "I'm sorry." He sighs, again. "That we've only... had deliveries to talk, okay? I... I know that... this, and my... current... situation. Make it look like I was... God, that I was full a' shit, this whole time but-" He frowns. "You're my best friend. I mean that. An' I've fucked things up with all my best friends... ever." He looks at Wren, sleeping in the next room. Thinks about Ophelia. Rusty. Jahi as a boy- his own brothers, all the same. He's failed them all, somehow. "I'm fine, for the next week." He insists, motioning to the package she'd brought along- He'd just have to ease up- mitigate pain that was physical- not mental- with what he had left. "I'll wake up Wren, we'll have breakfast, and you two can kick my ass at whatever board game you two think you can conspire against me at, or we'll watch shitty 80s movies and you two can make fun a' my childhood. You're here, and I'm tellin' you I don't need a delivery so."

He curses his clumsiness, inability to say what he needs to when it really matters- Had he been raised better, had he listened to Ophelia when she insisted it wasn't weakness to say instead of show- maybe he'd be better at all this. "I uh." just get out with it. don't ruin this too. "I do love ya, you know?" He insists. "You're one a' the few bright spots I've got in this shithole and... I'm real sorry I did what I always do and made you think I didn't. Hard to remember, sometimes, that it's hard for other people to see a willingness t' die for 'em, if push came to shove."

There were things that Zarina wanted to say to him. She wanted to tell him that there was nothing he could put her through that was worse than where she came from. She wanted to tell him that caring about him, even in the state that he was in now, even if he didn't care about himself, had been a better experience for her than the 27 years she had spent unable to care at all. She wanted to tell him that she had never had a best friend before and that she was bound to make mistakes because of that.

Instead, she watched Mal cook in silence, waiting patiently as train upon train ran through the station that was her mind without stopping or even slowing down. She was used to thinking quickly, too quickly to verbalise her thoughts in a manner that made them understandable to most other people, but feeling? She felt far too much now. How could she verbalise what she was feeling if she couldn't even make sense of it herself? Because on one hand, she was worried about him, and she had said as much—she had made her concern for both him and his kids clear. But on the other hand, she was also feeling equally hurt and neglected, with a lingering fear that the friendship she felt for him, the friendship that she valued so highly that she was willing to even have this conversation with him, might not be mutual.

Mal had been busy. She understood that, and she understood why—she was not selfish enough to think that her own needs outweighed the needs of the town at large, or whatever crisis he was currently going through. But it still hadn't felt great that the only time he had asked her to come over in the past weeks was because he needed something from her. And it didn't stop her from feeling like that was the only reason that she was here now. "Yeah, I'm young, but I went through more before I was eighteen than most people go through in a lifetime," Zarina replied at first, sliding off the kitchen island and looking him square in the eyes. "And I don't feel like I need to do anything. I know it's not my fault. I know it's not my responsibility. But I'm still going to help because we're best friends. Or at least you're my best friend."

She paused, silently stepping over to where she had left her bag and pulling out a neatly wrapped parcel, hands clutching the edge of the counter as she stared down at it. "Nobody would be better off if you didn't come home," she said quietly, before grabbing the package and swinging around to hand it to him. "I definitely wouldn't be. Does that even matter to you? Do you even care about me?" She held it out for him to take. "In fact, would I even be here if you didn't need me to deliver this to you?"

[containatrocity]

He knows better than most, that recovery is not linear- that the handholds on his wellness are eroded by trauma both physical and mental. That a trip up or a slip are to be expected. He just hoped that maybe the 'slip' could be something like the liquor again, or getting in another bar fight after spending the past several months a generally well-behaved family man who had dinners for friends and family and a DND group on thursdays. Yeah, he'd have gladly taken a backslide into shitty 20-something behavior over having to grapple tooth and nail with the way losing Brute hurt. His son was alive because his dog wasn't. It was a sentence that dug into him like claws. Mostly because he knew Robin knew that was the case.

The absence hadn't quite become normal yet. The house was too quiet, without Brute's feet on hardwood, or braying at the mere presence of a stranger nearby- maybe that's why, despite the fact he surely could have sent someone else out for animal control, a call about stray that perhaps even Fletcher could have been willing to bring in- he's crouched in the woods whistling softly to a frightened looking coonhound mutt. "C'mon then... I ain't gonna do nothin' to ya, but you been snipin' chickens for weeks now, and those're worth more'n gold around here these days... c'mere pup." He insists- the dog bolting back into the depths of the woods as a twig snaps behind Mal.

"God fuckin bless it." He grunts, pushing himself back to his feet and turning to face the offending party. "Ya fuckin' dumbass, I've been tryin' to get 'er to let me catch her fer an hour now!" He barks- then sighs. "Now I'm gonna hafta track 'er again- the fuck do you want?"

[containatrocity]

"Well. I mean I've been readin' most everythin' wrong in most every situation most 'a my life- 'Damn Mal how'd you land a lady like that', they'd said when me an' Oph got together. I didn't land shit. Ophelia grabbed me by th' scruff like a starved dog, took me home, an' I willingly went along fer th' ride. I coulda spent 4 more years completely missin' every signal she put off." He pauses, turning to start cracking eggs. "I am slowly bein' afflicted with the sneakin' suspicion I might be autistic- that's neither here nor there, point is, it'll feel like shit, you know? But it ain't your fault. Just like it ain't his." He's no chef, but the omelettes come out clean, and after a moment of consideration, he moves off to cube a couple potatoes, throwing them into the skillet to brown- home fries, most likely.

He pats her leg gently, green eyes soft despite her insistence it's not necessary. He gets it, if only from the other side of the coin. "Sometimes, it just ain't the right time, place, 'er person." He reasons. "And all things considered, Huntsville ain't ever really been the right place." He puts together their plates, sitting one down next to Claire with a slight hum. "You know. I joined up with the Marines to get my ass outta here? I uh. never heard about you... getting anywhere but within th' city limits. You deserved to, for what it's worth. Even if it was jus' for a little bit."

Claire glanced to the side, helping herself to a jacket that looked like one of his. She slipped it on, fitting it easily over her much smaller frame. Following him into the kitchen, she hopped up on the counter in order to keep herself from having to crane her neck back so far to look up at him.

She sighed softly at his statement about his family, beating around the bush about which member of that family they were talking about. “He doesn’t have feelings for me. I read everything wrong my whole life. It’s humiliating, but it’s not his fault. I know that. Doesn’t make it hurt any less. You’re sweet for sticking up for him, but it’s not necessary.”

[containatrocity]

"There are a thousand other things that need my attention today, and here I am, thumb up my ass, waiting for Hawthorne..." He knows better than to have these discussions at the diner anymore, and so, stood on the front step of his brother's home, he absently watches the joint between his fingers dwindle down, pinching the end out when the deadbolt shifts back. He pushes past his brother as the door opens, dropping himself down in a kitchen chair with a groan. "Well. I'm here." He declares, motioning to himself and leveling grey-green eyes on Hawk. "What was so important you needed me to come over when I'm still in the middle of getting the hunting seasons put around town? Oh, and I've got to mind the orchard, and clean my house-" All things he should have finished already- the opiates leave him hazy- slow him down.

He's high right now, eyes hazy as brows crease over them. "Matt in? Am I about to get ambushed about something for y'all's wedding I was supposed to get together? I done told ya I don't know the difference between eggshell and ivory, I ain't that kinda gay."

@ghostsbrokenbyfairytales

[containatrocity]

"Robin! Sit yer ass down." He's not even watching his son today, the elementary schooler instead zipping between the booths belonging to Wren and her bandmates 'helping' make sales in his own... special way. Duck settles back into his seat, as Robin plants himself at the side of G's booth obediently, Mal shaking his head and turning back to his own work before a familiar face passes by. "Well well, finally decided to grace us with your presence outside a' working hours?" He smiles, picking up the coffee mug beside himself smoothly. "How you keepin' on, Trick?"

Mal's been busy, and he'll never hold it against Tricky that they've not had the time to talk- between being back to work in his full capacity, the orchard in full swing of planting and flowering season and his alarmingly stable romantic life- he's been pretty happy to take the back seat to a lot of things- embrace the peace while he has it- and for Duck, that's being busy. But Tricky's still a brother in arms- a friend he's never once taken for granted. and it's always nice to catch up.

@backmaskcd

[ofblackxbirds]

𝕥𝕒𝕘 𝕕𝕦𝕞𝕡 .

✘ ‘ﾟ‣ { space saver } —  ❝ this is a template ❞

[containatrocity]

"You never woulda survived the club scene in the late 90s and early 2000s, an' I want ya to know that. I had friends I had t' basically empty a bottle a' gun oil on t' get them in their pants." He teases, laughing as Falco insists he'd probably give it a minute before coming after Duck for a cover up. "Ah, come on, you're not givin' yourself enough credit- any man'd be lucky t' have ya, Fal." He pats his shoulder fondly. "Huntsville's just got... a real limited datin' pool a' real repressed men in their 40s who ain't sure if the reason they're havin' pangs around a handsome fella is because there's sugar in their tank or if they're about t' keel over from a heart attack because they ain't been screened for a while." It's the best kindness he can offer- he's no stranger to that fear of being alone- falls into beds that leave him cold come morning to run away from it, if only for a moment. "And the Zombies never got you or Nicky, because I am clearly so good at Resident Evil that you two were never in any sorta danger. The hordes of the undead know when they're outclassed, baby brother."

He sighs, as the pat on the shoulder is returned, gray-green eyes casting to his feet. "Yeah. I know, It's.. hard to remember, is all. Spent this long tryin' to levy this shithole town on my back, I forget that the people in it are... the reason I'm doin' that in the first place and most everybody... doesn't wanna see me the way I've been. I'll try an' keep it in mind. Promise." Falco insists he'd vote for Phoenix, all things considered, and Duck shakes his head. "The fact he's a good man is enough to make me want them t' drop the whole idea. Jay needs him- Dodger needs him, and hell, maybe the town would do better with him but politics, anything in th' government, it eats ya. kills the good in a man for the sake of status quo. I'd hate t' see that happen to Nicky." He cracks a smirk, as Falco insists that Phoenix is the second handsomest of the lot of them. "Yeah, and to think, I got blown up an' you boys are still laggin' so far behind me that you're jockeyin' with him for second place. It's a'right though, that's my cross to bear." He hides the grin behind his arm, wiping his face with a sleeve.

"Yeah there's saying it's going to be snug, and then the reality of it actually being snug. Don't get me wrong hermano, I am most glad it kept you safe from machinery, but I'm coming out of this with my ass compressed to be flat, or my balls pushed up to my stomach." For the sake of one event in the costume he could cope, after all, Duck had put in a lot of effort to get this right for him. Falco managed a chuckle, "I'll give it an hour after they become assless chaps before I ask for the cape. Might be the only sure-fire way I can get a guys attention." He forced a second, less convincing chuckle this time, not wanting to dwell too much on his lack of a love life. At least the thought of Duck in the living room fighting off digital zombies was a welcome thought of distraction, even if that thought gave him the creeps, imagining those same pixelated faces covered in blood and zombie goop. "Scar a little? Try a lot? You know how often I was awake at night because of that shit? Or tried to sneak into bed with Phoenix but sleep against the wall so if they came after me in the night they'd get him first?"

Better than I have been was a more acceptable answer than Falco had been expecting. He'd heard the whispers of Duck going off the deep end, of Hawk approaching him for talks and Falco hadn't wanted to add on to all of that. So now, he placed a hand on Duck's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze and offered his brother a genuine smile. "Perhaps you are right, perhaps we are the zombies. But, I am in the official zombie hunter outfit. Zombie curer. Whatever. So...if you're feeling like a zombie...you can come to me you know?" He made sure to catch Duck's gaze, "I know I'm your little brother, and you're supposed to look after me, but we can do it the other way around. You know I'm always here for you." Falco gave a knowing shrug, "I'd vote for him. He somehow got the laziest man I have ever met to actually start doing things. Not even a swift kick to the side could get him to move normally. Phoenix got something about him, and he got the second most handsome face out of all of us, so that's a winner for most people."

[containatrocity]

"I'm headed t' the faire, daddy!" The Romero house had been alight with activity since early that morning, a blur of color, costumes, and energy as the denizens made haste to be prepared for the Renaissance Faire. It's Wren's voice carrying through the house that makes Mal appear again, his head sticking around the corner of his bedroom door, hands deftly working zippers and belts closed over a half-bared torso. "I'll see y'all there!"

"A'right darlin! Walk safe!" Duck insists, finishing up with his shirt, pulling the cape and armor on and into place over it, the hood tugged up over dark hair and the wicked visage of a wolf's skull grabbed from the dresser beside him. "Robin, buddy, you need help with anything?" He questions, stopping in the hallway until the young boy gives him a negative- that he's almost done, just finding the rest of his nerf darts. "Alright- remember, if you lose any a' them you're shit outta luck, kiddo." His next port of call is downstairs, towering frame appearing in the doorway of the bathroom- blacked out green eyes leveling on Z's gaze in the mirror. "And how're you comin' along there, darlin?"

@callofthxvoid

[containatrocity]

"I'm 41, not dead, come on, pitch like ya mean it, damn!" It's been a few hours of chatter and the tell-tale report of a metal bat against a baseball out back of the North ranger station, the staff clearly having decided on a slow day to blow off some steam with America's Pastime, the 'bases' on the ground a set of old almanacs they'd found waterlogged in the storage building a few hours earlier- Duck tapping the bat against the one at his feet. "Hey- Rain's comin' uh- 40 years ago- we should be prepared fer- RUSTY CHRISSAKE." He yanks to the side, the baseball screaming past him and into the glove of the ranger behind him. "Wait a minute!"

"YOU SAID TO PITCH LIKE I MEANT IT!" the other man reminds- reaching up to catch the ball- and at the least, waiting this time for Duck to ready up- the warden's swing catching the ball straight on- and sending it sailing well out of their makeshift diamond. "Well. you're goin' to get that one, Romero." Rusty informs, watching it vanish over the roof of the station proper- Duck already taking off after it.

He tracks it down, but not until it's rolled to a stop beside somebody uninvolved in their game, Duck twirling the bat once and flinging it up across his shoulders to rest his arms. "Hey- I didn't hit ya, did I?" He's not in his usual outfit, dark hair tucked under a baseball cap, chest bare under an unbuttoned jersey, 'Romero' emblazoned across the back over the number 13 and a pair of sweats that had certainly seen better days even today given the stains on gray fabric. "Cleared the whole damn station with that one- I'd say it's a personal best." He laughs. "But I can't take that as a win if I nailed ya with it."

[containatrocity]

"I'm already down to one actual kneecap, can I keep that one at least? I'll give you the titanium one they stuck in there after I got turned into man shrapnel." He motions to the leg on his burned side, watches as the ball sails into their shitty little 'outfield'- sending Rusty swearing and racing after it into the distance. "Not bad!" He barks with a laugh. "Anybody who's makin' Bitch Handle exercise gets a win in my book." His laughter is quickly cut off by the baseball sailing back toward him- bouncing off his shoulder. "Ow!"

"I'll kill you!" Shouted back, Duck waving him off as he sets up to pitch again. "Shame you're not going any further than that base though." He chuckles. "Get comfortable, you need water? A lawn chair?"

“hey, watch who you’re calling a shortstack. means i’m closer to your kneecaps to take ‘em out if you say the wrong thing.” kirby watched as one struck out and how he’d almost struck out rusty too but they were timing his throws in the process. sure he was fast but nothing they haven’t seen before. they rolled their eyes at him and flipped him the bird as they stepped up to the plate, grin on their face to show that it was all playful. swing and a miss on the first one, as they expected honestly. “yeah yeah! you got lucky on that one, throw another one already.” this one they were actually prepared for, timing it damn near perfectly and sending the ball straight for town with a cocky smirk on their face. “told you! don’t underestimate me.” kirby grinned as they jogged towards first.

[containatrocity]

"Well g'mornin, sunshine!" Duck greets, a familiar pair of dark braids enough to indicate he's opening the homestead door to Lucy- facing away, by the time he makes it downstairs. "I tell ya, upstairs bedroom and a bad knee ain't exactly the match you'd want 'em to be." 'Sunshine' has always been a little sarcastic, when it came to Lucy- but it was fond at it's core, he was fond of them, at his core- so when green eyes settle on a bruise, fresh, angry- his expression drops, darkens. "Well now." He knows what a punch looks like. "Who went an' gave ya that, darlin?" There's a venom in it-but he shakes it loose, for long enough to step aside, usher Lucy into the house. "Here, c'mon in, you'll catch yer death out here, Winter's gettin' vicious early." He can be vicious as the cold later. "It hurt?" He questions. "Right now, I mean, I know it definitely hurt when it happened."

@ambercast

[containatrocity]

"Ah, well- kinda like I stepped on a bomb, if we're bein' completely honest, but it didn't get my good looks or sense of humor, so all things considered, I'll take the pins an' bars in my leg as a trade off." He laughs, crossing his arms absently over his chest. "The fuckin' Westfall boy, Gabe? And that kid from LA. Blue? Navy? CYAN. Th' one who's done gone an' got Genesis pregnant- couple a' his friends too I think. Odd company, but she's... havin' her fun, and I taught 'er guitar for a reason, yanno? Somethin' to do with her time." She's nearly 20. that thought is a lot more striking to him than it should be. "And Robin's hobby is digging holes- The biting is just because he keeps gettin' worked up and then nobody's botherin' to talk him down. He's dealin' with it better though. He ain't gonna be... well. yours truly."

He nods, as Axel insists he's got the time, checks his watch again with a nod. "I'll drop by the house an' bring it 'round then, I'm night-watchin' tonight, so I ain't got shit to do." He rolls grey-green eyes as Axel insists of all people, he'd know he's good with his hands. "Nah, nah, I know you were good with your hands, when we was teenagers an' I was still doggedly clingin' to the closet. I ain't had a refresher in a couple decades, Coulda lost your touch, Ax." It's playful, as he pats himself down for the keys to the truck, satisfied once he finds them on his usual over-loaded keyring. "And I never woulda said miracle worker. But I'm never opposed t' being proven wrong."

"it feels shit from my side, so fuck knows how you must feel." ducks time in service had been tough, there was no doubt about that. axel wasn't blind, he noticed a few details. "she's in a band now? good for her. who the fucks the tin man and zombie kid? am i supposed to know that?" he chuckled "a kid's got to have a hobby, maybe robin's is biting" he shrugged with a smile. maybe the classmates deserved a biting.

"sure thing. i was only stripping down some cars for parts today anyway. bring her by when you've got a minute and i'll have a root around to see what i can do for you" he offered "tugging to the right could be a number of things but once i figure out what's going on with it, i'll have a better idea on fix time for you." the truck was old as shit but he could understand a preference of wanting to keep it around for as long as it would be willing to avoid the truck graveyard. "a miracle could be on the cards. stranger things have happened, this town proves that" he added. with mia's car donation he was confident he could pull parts if needed "please, you of all people should know that i'm that good with my hands"