Franky stood patiently at the docks, his shadow etched against the backdrop, his silhouette illuminated from a freshly restored oil lamp. His tousled, spiky white hair unkempt from the day's activities, danced lightly in the wind, occasionally obscuring his deep-set, contemplative eyes.
He leaned against the dock's metal railing, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the cool, rusting surface as he looked out over the waters. The city's bell tower loomed behind him, its clock ticking methodically, marking the passage of time with an almost hypnotic regularity.
His eyes, while often drifting to the horizon, frequently darted towards the onyx black waters, expecting to see a ticket to his victory or demise sailing in for pickup. Every now and then, he would delve his watch out from his pocket, checking for the time, a flicker of impatience crossing his face before he pocketed it again with a resigned sigh. He was waiting, and the wait felt endless.
In this distantly chattering, elevated platform, Franky waited. The anticipation of the schooner's arrival seemed to hang in the air, intermingling with the whispers of the wind and the distant clatter of the ambience scattered around. The docks, a place of escape and expectation, framed this moment of stillness.
He had a love-hate relationship with being isolated in his lonesome, the stillness of this smog-filled city emphasizing the mental suffocation. On one hand, there were no annoying presences looming over his business whilst trying to nose into his personal life. On the other hand, some company wouldn't be too bad, though he'd rather get shot by a double barreled gun to the cranium than admit to his longing.
"Hey!" A thin, borderline anxious voice had called out from behind the white-haired man, popping his bubble of deep thought. "Are you waiting for uh, y'know..?"
"If you're talkin' about the schooner in comin', yeah. No need to hold your tongue." Franky grumbled, showing clear distaste in who was supposed to be one of his teammates. It was clear he was the cowardly type, no doubt.
"My apologies... We just can't have any nosy-Nancies meddlin' in to our conversation and hearin' about our mission." It was clear he was trying to joke around to break some ice and diminish the thick tension, but it was clear Franky wasn't in the laughing mood, or just chose to cut their awkward conversation short.
"Alright," he sucked in a breath, now thinking before speaking, "My name's Emmett! What's yours stranger?"
"Keep it as Stranger, I don't wanna affiliate with the likes of you." Another dry response, any friendly tone was left dried out like the desert of his hometown, their interaction just as bleak as the possibilities of any semblance to companionship.
Emmett stared blankly at the cranky man, failing to believe his sheer unfriendliness, as if his bitterness consumed him whole. He figured that most who did their grueling job would be smothered by negative thoughts and traumatic stories, too fantastical to share with yet another stranger, as their tales would be labeled as a mere hoax.
His case must've been no different, but the time he had spent aimlessly researching for the impossible must have drove poor Emmett to borderline insanity. This expedition was set to be his life's work, or at least that was what he chose to believe.
As Emmett contemplated the motives of the man before him, his gaze fixed firmly on his demeanor. The grumpy stranger stood with a sullen expression, but he did not seem hostile. He merely emanated apathy, and an air of annoyance at the other man's presence. But deep down, a flicker of curiosity was still present.
"Why're you starin' at me like an idiot?" He eventually growled, breaking the silence between them.
"Just gettin' a good look of ya." Emmett replied casually with a hint of curiosity, his gaze not shifting from the white-haired man.
