Don't believe in no-win scenarios

Getting a bit of fresh air is good for JIm anyway, and he looks a little less miserable as they stroll toward a busier part of the Nexus. The commercial district is a mecca of all types of wares and services, shops upon shops lining the street and every kind of food you can imagine (plus ten kinds you couldn't until just now) sold in little corner cafes and diners.

Sure there's a scrap shop selling auto parts Furiosa will recognize, but there's also stores like the one they pass where a tiny man seems to be intent on building and selling as many ludicrous inventions as possible--including a nuclear powered toaster. Jim takes this in stride, stopping to chuckle at something every so often while they go.

Eventually Jim will lead Furiosa into a room so white she'd think she wa dead. The Print Station from an office supply store is only happy enough to accept the data off of Jim's PADD (and somehow convert the data into something they recognize, Jim doesn't think too hard about that) and cheerfully tell him he'll have his manuscript ready in an hour or so.

"Welp. Looks like we've got about an hour to kill. Let's see if we can find some gardening supplies. And possibly a solar powered moisture farm starter kit. Since Furiosa's world is quite lacking in water.

New York circa 2013 isn't such a bad place, Jim has decided. There's so much to take in and watch that he's certain he could be kept busy for months on end just trying to learn everything he could. Clint had explained currency to him today--Jim knew what it was, just not how it all divvied up. He'd done a bit of research on a clunky old machine Clint had told him the name of and Jim had subsequently forgotten. Some kind of ancient PADD device on an obsolete web browser.

Some girl had shown up hassling Clint about something or another a while ago, and the archer had assured Jim he wouldn't be gone long and left. She was too young for Jim to pay much attention to, and Clint didn't need Jim tagging along for every babysitting job he ended up getting drug off to. Or it was a neighbor asking him about a leak in their ceiling, in which case Jim was just a jerk.

Wooden stairs creaked in protest when Jim finally left the apartment building, being careful to lock up with the spare key he'd gotten from Clint that was stowed safely in the pocket of his purple sweatshirt he was borrowing. Eggs again for the third day in a row didn't seem appealing, and Clint had given him a bit of money, so Jim is heading down to the corner to grab a bite of whatever awesome smelling food was being sold by the vendor he'd been watching from the window for three days now.

"Bro, look! At the corner by the falafel stand bro!"

There, at the corner, was a scruffy short haired blond in a purple sweatshirt and sweatpants, fumbling in his pocket for the correct change to pay for his order. Truly, an easier target would never happen. He didn't even look like he'd had his morning coffee yet. (Jim hadn't). The next thing Jim knows, his delicious smelling food is strewn on the street as a couple thugs in tracksuits drag Jim off into an alley trying to beat the shit out of him.

"What the hell?!" That was his breakfast, assholes!