Recognizing that she had her thumb out again, Rose's hand pats against her side, trying to hook or dip into the pocket or belt loop on the kinds of clothing she normally manifests for herself, finding nothing but slick green silk. Of course, she doesn't know just how those fashions went after she died, but certainly in 1952 no one put pockets on a prom dress.
Rose blinks wide eyes at Ray, falling back into the long-practiced persona of a young woman more hopeful than anything. Certainly not annoyed with herself and the situation. "Oh, I don't know! I've been walking for hours and I don't know how far it is to the next town! Absol is a dear but is just as clueless as I am."
She can't tell now if Ray's a real, living person, but if she could she'd register some disappointment; people don't shrug out of flightsuits to lend to hitchhikers. Not that that's a concern. This place seems to have lent her life without having to borrow it from kind strangers. The patch doesn't worry her too much. When she has this semblance of life there's very little anywhere that can tell she's dead.
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Rose blinks wide eyes at Ray, falling back into the long-practiced persona of a young woman more hopeful than anything. Certainly not annoyed with herself and the situation. "Oh, I don't know! I've been walking for hours and I don't know how far it is to the next town! Absol is a dear but is just as clueless as I am."
She can't tell now if Ray's a real, living person, but if she could she'd register some disappointment; people don't shrug out of flightsuits to lend to hitchhikers. Not that that's a concern. This place seems to have lent her life without having to borrow it from kind strangers. The patch doesn't worry her too much. When she has this semblance of life there's very little anywhere that can tell she's dead.