[Santo - The Beach]
[master post]
You have to walk down a ramp to get to the sand. The ramp stretches over sand dunes, with sea oats dotting them, blowing in the near-constant breeze. On the same level as the ramp: a boardwalk, dotted with places to get sketchy-looking fried food, to try your luck at a number of games of chance, to watch performers, to ride roller coasters of the future!!!!
When you walk down the ramp, it's all white sand and blue water. Down about half a mile is a pier that juts out several hundred feet.
It's a nice beach. Not too crowded.
You have to walk down a ramp to get to the sand. The ramp stretches over sand dunes, with sea oats dotting them, blowing in the near-constant breeze. On the same level as the ramp: a boardwalk, dotted with places to get sketchy-looking fried food, to try your luck at a number of games of chance, to watch performers, to ride roller coasters of the future!!!!
When you walk down the ramp, it's all white sand and blue water. Down about half a mile is a pier that juts out several hundred feet.
It's a nice beach. Not too crowded.
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Snuffle. Snufflsnufflesnuffle.
The alien unintentetnionally rises back up into a bipedal position (the better to scent the air, nose pointed firmly at one of the stalls along the boardwalk.
"Oooh." And without further warning he's scampering purposefully forward.
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When she does, though--
She's hurrying.
(She promised Mal she'd chaperone. Make sure things went smooth. Make sure Stitch didn't create any incidents.
The irony of this was lost on no one.)
"Stitch--"
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He pauses in his advance to glance over his shoulder inquisitively. Blame her tone. Slightly worried tone's coming from friends are a good way to get his attention.
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"In the social ramifications."
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"Bark bark bark!" Stitch states to the tourist.
See?
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River's face is briefly, if eloquently, dubious. "I'm here," she says. "Too."
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Or, you know.
Chaperoning.
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Blink.
And then there's a hesitant slightly confused nod. A
handforepaw is waved vaugley at the ramp. It could almost be interpreted as an 'after you' gesture. Which is rediculous because dogs don't think that way.She wants to go first? Okay...
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But the general impression seems to be: ...okay! That'll do. Sure?
She heads up the ramp, anyway, one hand dangling towards Stitch as if to hold hands. Not that this is possible with a quadrupedal theoretically-dog, but perhaps it's the thought that counts.
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The snuffling recommences for a few moments before he tugs urgetly at the hem of River's dress and points at a nearby stall.
"Eh! Eh! Eh!"
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"Okay," River says happily, and lets herself be steered into line.
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It appears for all the world as if someone has coated the carcass of a large gecko in batter, fried it up and stuck it on a short wooden skewer.
Interesting...
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Sadly, River does not buy Stitch a Crispy Citrus Gecko. Because she's mean. "Ice cream," she says instead, pointing in the vague direction of a row of battered blobs-on-skewers in the freezer section.
Beat.
"And one for my dog."
...Uh says the shopkeeper's face, especially after he gets a look at that 'dog.' But, hey, she's the paying customer; with a shrug, he immerses two ice cream skewers in the hot oil.
"Unusual breed you got there," he tries, and holds out his hand for the money.
"Yep," River says cheerfully.
Beat.
Beat.
Oh yeah, her expression says, and she belatedly hands over a few credits. One too many, but the man's honest enough to give it back. (River blinks at the coin as if she'd hadn't held it just three seconds ago.)
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Mommy, a little boy whispers, that dog has hands!
His mother nods tolerantly without looking over.
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And then starts to giggle.
The shopkeeper, having mercifully missed this interlude while he was turning the ice cream skewers, fishes them out of the oil now and sets them to drain for a minute.
"Here y'go, fū rén."
River accepts both skewers happily.
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Stitch receives his skewer happily and makes short, sloppy work of the first mouth sized blob. Very short work. Ow.
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She does get ice cream dripping down her chin, though. Oops.
She doesn't seem too concerned.
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Wait for it.
Waaaaiiiit for it.
Oh, there's the comprehension. She scrubs at her chin with the back of a hand, getting some off and smearing the rest around, and giggles. "You're a hypocrite."
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...
He shrugs. And clears the majority of it off his lower jaw with a long sloppy sweep of his tongue. The ice cream on his finger is consumed shortly thereafter.
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At the dignity of that, of course.
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