Mr. Q, the communal character.

"Later Sam." Joe managed between now unclenched teeth. Trying to get in a better mood, he waved to Quincy in the breakroom and headed out to the lobby to get some fresh air. He was a bit surprised when he heard Quincy's voice calling from behind him as he reached the other side of the lobby.

Joe turned to see Quincy pulling through the staff door. His mushroom top hair lead the way for his body of interminable ancestry. Joe best guess was middle eastern, but it had always seemed wrong with that full English tilt following every word. "Wait up Joe. I need to ask you something." came Quincy's oddly paired British accent. Quincy had a hobbled gait from the thigh high orthopedics and crutches he always wore. As if that weren't enough his blue eyes denied any doubt of at least one European ancestor.

"Quincy, I'm going outside for a bit. You want to walk and talk?" Joe started moving towards the door not waiting for a reply.

"Sure thing buddy." Quincy vaulted across the floor in a surprisingly short amount of time. Joe held the door for him as they hit the cool air whipping outside the factory.

When she got to work, Nikki saw a new guy standing up front talking to Emilie, another supervisor that only worked on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Thankful to get a break from Kevin, she clocked in and moved towards the registers. "Hey Em!" She greeted pleasantly before smiling at the new guy. "Hi! My name is Nikki. Are you new?" Giving the thirty something year old man her sweetest grin, she looked him over. Blue eyes, afro, Lion King tattoo on his arm, just shy of being covered by the uniform shirt... what the hell? Was this guy insane?
"'allo pre'y lady... 'm Quinn, I am." His British accent grated on her nerves and she shivered a little.
"Nice to meet you. What's that tattoo on your arm?" She had to be nice. She did. That was the mantra in her head. If she wasn't nice, they could report her to the manager... Scrunching up her nose a little, she could almost smell the rotten horse poop here in the middle of the store.
"'e's Scar from Lion King..." The accent wasn't quite as bad now but it was still strange to hear it in the middle of the countryside of Missouri. "''s when 'e has Simba hangin' over the fire, it is." He pushed up his sleeve so everyone could get a better look.
"How... nice. Em, I'm going to go work in frozen today until we need to open another register." Her supervisor nodded and Nikki took off like a bat outta hell. Poor Emilie... she was going to be stuck that weird Quinn guy all day.

The familiar clerk behind the counter gave her a smile upon recognition, “Ah, Miss Mig,” he greeted her.
“Mr Q, we meet again,” she nodded.
“And what, may I ask, are you about?” his sharp blue eyes already reading her every intent.
Mig scrunched up her right eye and stared him down –it was her polite way of saying, ‘None of your business.’ Usually she let him get away with his incessant curiosity, something about that accent seemed so proper, so professional… and that disarming smile… but tonight she was planning on tearing down some walls. Well, at the very least, poking some holes in them –and it wasn’t the sort of thing you shared with your friendly, neighborhood gas station attendant.
He was keeping his penetrating gaze on her though, and least it wear her down she shrugged,
“I aim to misbehave…” she smirked and hoped it was enough.
His grin tightened imperceptibly, he said, “I was not referring to your current intentions,” He indicated the calendar hanging next to the, ‘Born before or on this date,’ sign.
“Merely that this day is generally reserved for spending time with family.”
“Oh, that,” she waved it off, “my family doesn’t really celebrate Christian holidays so much,” leaning closer, conspiratorially, she whispered, “they haven’t been the nicest folks to us, and we hold grudges forever…”
Mr Q raised his eyebrows at this, “An opportunity to spend time with your family, no matter the reason, should not be missed.”
“Dad’s back in Nebraska, and he wasn’t exactly in favor of me leaving…” she did not particularly want to talk about this. Changing the subject, “So why aren’t you at home with your family?”
The corners of his mouth dipped ever so slightly. He self-consciously ran a hand through his curly afro, “They took Nigel last week. Apparently it is a felony in this state to own a monkey.”
“Oh no, he was so cute,” now she felt bad for bringing it up.
“I plan to fight them, however,” he quickly pushed up his sleeves, proving he was not adverse to a fight, and incidentally showing off a large tattoo on his forearm. Her attention caught for a moment, she read the inscription, ‘Who Dares Wins’ under a winged dagger.
He noted her gaze and said, “Ah, from my old service days before my accident,” he thus indicated his legs.
As she watched, he pulled up his pant leg. The ‘boots’ he always wore extended at least as far up as he was able to reveal. He dropped his pants back into place and tapped his leg mid-thigh.
“Gone up to here,” he said with little concern.
Mig could not really be blamed for asking, “What happened?”
Still grinning, he shook his head, “Temporary bout of heroism, but I am much better now.”
“Who were you fighting..?” she was trying to remember wars from the last twenty years or so.
“Myself, mostly.”
Though his smile never faded, she got just the tiniest hint that he no longer wanted to pursue this line of thought. In an attempt to muddle the conversation further she returned to the earlier topic, “My dad is full blood Omaha –after my mom died, there was no reason for him to celebrate Christmas.”
“You are Native American?” he studied her features more closely.
Mig shrugged, “I’m half Indian, anyway. Mom was as white as the snows,” she smirked, “I’m sure that’s why dad went for her, despite his very verbal white-hating ways –that lure of the exotic…”
Mr Q cleared his throat, “That will be quite enough. I will not listen to you disrespect your parents in my store.”
At a loss for a moment, she blinked several times before responding, “I guess that did sound bad. I wasn’t really intending to disrespect them, that’s just how we’ve always masked ourselves…”
“Well I am not the one to apologize to, and I may have been abrupt in my judgment.” He motioned her closer, “I am half Indian as well, so we share something in common if only in name and not ancestry.”
Mig had never pegged him as being from Indian. Perhaps it was an over-sensitivity to assuming a gas station attendant was from ‘X handful of stereotypes.’ Maybe it was the accent –though she had heard Indians with British accents before… they had been a colony, right? Most likely though, it was the blue eyes and afro.
Mr Q laughed then and, hitching up his belt, said, “The sheer randomness of life. Do you know, I believe we have learned more about one another in the last fifteen minutes than in the four years you have been coming into my store.”
Mig smiled as she grabbed several items off of the shelves. “But isn’t that always how it goes? You never can be sure of what tomorrow will bring –or even the next minute…” She frowned, “Do you have peanut M&M’s?”
“Red M&M’s only,” he called to her.
“Peanut butter will have to do,” she picked up an over-sized red bag containing enough peanut butter M&M’s to feed a small country.
Mig finally decided she had enough junk food after her second trip to the counter. She nervously kept adding items, seeming to put off the actual purchase. Mr Q had seen this behavior more times than he could remember. His smile deepened as she had finally run out of delaying purchases.
She pulled three random DVDs from the five dollar bargain bin and placed them atop the obscenely large pile. Ever so casually, she let her eyes drift over the ‘behind the counter’ items. Her eyes working back and forth, searching, but trying ever so hard to appear casual.
Mr Q watched her wordlessly. She would build up the courage to purchase what she was too embarrassed to ask for on her own. If he tried to hurry her or show any sign of impatience, she would lose her nerve and bolt.
“Oh,” she said as if it had just occurred to her, “I should probably get some of those…” she waved to a vaguely, specific area behind the counter.
He could easily guess what she wanted from the general area indicated. Only there was a slight problem. There were brand issues to consider, as well as various styles offered.
Clearing his throat in what he hoped was a soothing, fatherly manner, “Do you have a preference..?” he asked.
Her blush shone through her dark complexion and her eyes popped wide, “Scratch-offs,” she nearly shouted, “just some one dollar ones… what, I don’t care which ones…”
He watched her shift nervously from foot to foot for a moment. He sighed, “I used to play the lottery,” he pulled off three random tickets from the display that was just above and to the left of what she had really wanted to buy.
“What?” she was distracted by her own thoughts.
“I used to play the lottery, you know,” he repeated, “Only, I kept loosing the wonky things.”
“Oh, right,” she smiled politely.

"...We have a shapeshifter that can go down into the village when we need more things, too.”

“So you steal it?” she accused.

“If we have to,” was Alex’s nonchalant reply. “We sell things we make when we can. Quinn, the shapeshifter, is great at accents. His Naian is flawless, and he even knows the common words and swears – though, who doesn’t know the Naian swears?” She chuckled offhandedly, but Briala remained tense and distrusting. It was in her nature to hate mutants, even if she was one. “Mr. Q, that’s what we all call him, goes down to the towns or even up to North City and pretends to be a merchant. If we have any leftover produce, we’ll sell that, but mostly we sell the meat we hunt.”

“Come on,” Alex commanded, leading Briala down a long series of tunnels, the fire floating above and around them. Just when Briala’s suspicious nature made her begin to seriously fear they had lured her here to kill her, Alex announced, “Here we are!” and they burst into a large antechamber. “Mr. Q, you’re back already!”

Briala stepped around Alex to see the famous Mr. Q that Alex had told her about earlier. He was tall, with bronzed skin and bright eyes of an unnaturally blue color. Atop his head was a fluffy brown afro. All-in-all, it was a very odd combination. He had an easy grin on his face, she noticed a tattoo on his right arm but in the dim light couldn’t make it out, and sitting next to the rickety, hand-made chair he’d just been using in front of a warm fire that had no logs or kindling beneath it was a little brown monkey. He had a long tail and fluffy fur and the little girl in Briala instantly gushed at how adorable he was. He had on thick leather pants like the kind a soldier might wear in this cold, not dissimilar from her own, and she could see from the outline that his stiff leather boots went all the way up onto his thighs. She’d only seen that a few times before, on a couple of the pirates they’d convicted in the past that were on their way to be executed. She’d heard a rumor that they made it easier to keep their footing on the ships, stiffening and strengthening their legs, though she imagined they made it harder to be agile in sword fights. Perhaps in the icy mountains they helped Mr. Q keep from slipping on the ice. He wore a fisherman’s belt and loose white shirt. She guessed the man had been posing as a fisherman in his latest adventure to the villages, though how the monkey helped that façade was beyond her.

“Miss Alex, how was your little adventure?” he greeted warmly, hugging her loosely. Briala couldn’t help but instantly like him, despite his strange appearance.

“Entertaining,” she replied with a chuckle. “And yours?”

“Spectacularly educational,” was his report. Then he switched into the accent of the fishermen of Lucopul as he said, “Well, hello there, dear girl. You must be Miss Briala.” His full attention was on her as he gave his easy, lazy grin and shook her hand. “I am Quinn Bailey, but everyone just calls me Mr. Q.”

Her cheeks turned a little red. The charismatic presence of this man was intimidating. “It’s nice to meet you,” she mumbled. Then she cleared her throat, trying to regain some composure. “Is that your, uh, monkey?”

His accent returned to its normal infliction. “Yes, his name is Jabber. I got him off a merchant from Malundor. He’s quite friendly. You can pet him if you’d like.” Mr. Q snapped his fingers and called, “Jab! Here!” The monkey rushed over and shimmied up his master’s side to rest on his shoulder. “Good boy. Jabber, meet Briala. Shake her hand, Jab.” Briala reached up tentatively and took the monkey’s outstretched hand. She shook it and he made a happy-sounding noise, causing Briala to giggle a little. “He likes you,” Mr. Q told her.

“I like him.” Briala pet Jabber for a moment before Alex shifted slightly and their attention returned to her. When she turned her head to look at Alex, she remembered again how tired she was and yawned.

“Bedtime for you, Monroe.” She met Mr. Q’s odd blue eyes. “Mr. Q, do you wanna talk tonight or in the morning?”

“I’ll be up for a while, Miss Alex, but you should probably sleep, or at the very least go see your husband.”

“I met him at the entrance.”

“That’s not what I mean. You know how he hates when you’re gone without him. Spend some time with him before you sleep. I can wait til morning. You didn’t expect me back til then anyway.” He waved them away with his hands. “It was nice meeting you, Miss Briala. Now shoo, both of you. It’s late.”

He continued to walk and he came across a strange man carrying a bag of red M&M’s. He was an unusual man with an afro and a tattoo, he also smelled of an unconvicted felon on the run. He began to come up to Trenton in his thigh-high boots, his blue eyes piercieng even to the depths of the soul. He began to speak in what Trenton thought was a british accent.
“Good day, sir.” He said with his perpetual grin, “Have you seen my lottery ticket? I think I have won but I cannot seem to find it anywhere?”
“Oh, uh, no sir, I have not.” Trenton replied, looking curiously at the leash the man held, “Whats that for?”
“Oh, this?” Said the man holding up the leash, “it is for my pet monkey. He must have run off somewhere…”
“I see… would you like help looking for him? Maybe he has the lottery ticket too?”
“Oh no, that is fine. I will just call him, MONK! Quintin wants you! Come here before I spank you with my belt!” said the man, “I am Quintin by the way.”
“Oh I see.” Trenton responded concerened for the man’s well being, “Sir, it was nice meeting you, would you like me to drive you to a shelter or something?”
“Oh no, that’s fine. You are a respectable young man.” Quintin said as he stuck out his hand to shake Trentons.

John leaned into the glass door with "Police" posted on it in black letter stickers. The wind hit him when he was outside, and he pulled his coat shut and raised his shoulders against the chill. Yes, it was certainly fall now. He lamented the lost summer as he walked toward his car, which was halfway across the parking lot. John glanced around and caught a glimpse of a man standing at the edge of the parking lot, leaning against the police station wall, staring at him. John looked toward him again and focused on him.
He was wearing a black leather jacket, but there were no buckles or decals or anything that would indicate he was in a gang. His hair was the huge, curly kind that was almost an afro, light brown. It could have been blond. The sun was glaring against the concrete police station's wall and it was difficult to be certain of any minute detail on the man. The headache didn't help, either. The man slowly raised a cigarette to his mouth and blew a cloud of smoke, looking away from John.
John was almost to his car, and he looked back to it. He realized he had been staring. Well, staring back. John pulled his keys out of his pocket and clicked the auto unlock button. He heard the locks go up as he reached for the door handle. He glanced up to where the staring man had been standing. He was gone. John got inside his car and took a deep breath. It was just the scare with the Russian making him jittery. That made sense, and John nodded as he turned the key. He would be over it soon.