[ What a kid. Gaelio looks back, inexpressive, but allowing another moment to pass in the mild night breeze, as if waiting for Dirk to reveal the joke. Another second and that similarly impassive face would crack, exposing the hollow center of that apparent sincerity.
It does not come, and Gaelio drops his eyes to the ground, musing, confronted with having to produce a skateboard. He's never seen one off the page or screen, never mind held one. Even the motorized and elaborate boards were considered far below a Seven Star's time, and his father had his limits in indulging commercial whims. It wouldn't do for an heir to be skating around; really, an impossible image.
Maybe his inexperience will assist, because his idea of it keeps vague and televised. A board, obviously, sort of rounded edges. Plain wood should do for "shitty," as though it might splinter, and some kind of wheels. Four, right? Sort of... there and there? With a motor in the back, beneath...
He puts out his hand, trying to convince himself of how it feels, and in nudging it, how the wheels would sound and turn. In trying, too, to push it out, to make the visual more convincing, he pushes the sound too, and not yet adept at separating sensations that blur so easily firsthand, even without touching it, Dirk might briefly feel rough wood beneath his fingertips.
But, yeah, as he stares at the empty space that fills with this contraption, it's definitely some ridiculous rich kid's loose idea of what a poor street punk might have hobbled together and fallen regularly off of. The motor rat tat tats and the wheels wobble, each a different size and color. Not yet looking up -- ]
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It does not come, and Gaelio drops his eyes to the ground, musing, confronted with having to produce a skateboard. He's never seen one off the page or screen, never mind held one. Even the motorized and elaborate boards were considered far below a Seven Star's time, and his father had his limits in indulging commercial whims. It wouldn't do for an heir to be skating around; really, an impossible image.
Maybe his inexperience will assist, because his idea of it keeps vague and televised. A board, obviously, sort of rounded edges. Plain wood should do for "shitty," as though it might splinter, and some kind of wheels. Four, right? Sort of... there and there? With a motor in the back, beneath...
He puts out his hand, trying to convince himself of how it feels, and in nudging it, how the wheels would sound and turn. In trying, too, to push it out, to make the visual more convincing, he pushes the sound too, and not yet adept at separating sensations that blur so easily firsthand, even without touching it, Dirk might briefly feel rough wood beneath his fingertips.
But, yeah, as he stares at the empty space that fills with this contraption, it's definitely some ridiculous rich kid's loose idea of what a poor street punk might have hobbled together and fallen regularly off of. The motor rat tat tats and the wheels wobble, each a different size and color. Not yet looking up -- ]
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