The corners of her mouth turned upwards with a soft, humorous scoff, "Only because they're a fairly new set," she answered, shaking her head once, "haven't had time to earn their trade stains just yet," she joked back. It was an accurate on, though. Most of her field clothes were stained with everything from ink to blood. That was just the nature of the beast down here. She certainly couldn't afford to replace every garment that was soiled permanently. So as long as a good, quick boil would sanitize them, they stayed.
With the mention of fishing wire she arched her brow a bit, "Really?" she asked as she glanced down at her bag, "How much do you want?"
@Minty
"I really did," Danica nodded in agreement, giving the other woman a wry smile, "or a series of numbers. It started as a small hole and well..." she motioned at the now gaping tear being held together by her palm.
She shifted the bag a bit to keep the contents from spilling through, "How much should it cost?" she asked. Bartering was a natural part of life in the metro - but honestly, Danica had enough sentimental attachment to this silly bag to pay extra. It was a gift from an old mentor and had served as a faithful utility through many a harrowing circumstance, "I have supplies that may be useful to pad the bullets."
@Minty
Ever since the Reich attack on Oberon the station had been in a flux of ordered chaos. Most of the original inhabitants had fled, while the Reich had soon found themself unable to hold the line. They had fallen back, though not far.
Danica was there for humanitarian aid - if that even meant anything these days. She was tired and cradling a messenger bag to her chest just to keep the contents from spilling through a tear near the bottom. Occasionally something still slipped through. She would pause and tiredly kneel to retrieve it while trying not to lose anything else.
"Clothing all you do?" Danica asked in that tired, blunt way as she neared the woman advertising. She shifted her arms enough to show the torn bag.
@Minty
Arms folded neatly behind her, one leg propped against the pillar with her spine lazily curved. It was a stance that warded off any chances of being mistaken for inattentive, but allowed her to not appear too keen at the prospect of working.
Every second soul that brushed past her little corner could’ve benefited from a resewn hem or split elbow. ‘I can fix that for you,’ few stopped; some slowed in consideration, but seemed content too maintain a far from uncommon, disheveled appearance.
Nothing came free here. They assumed correctly she couldn’t afford to provide any act of charity.
The small piece of tarpaulin above her had long since gotten the same treatment. It served its purpose; kept most of the dust from coating her desk, but was hardly a selling point. Ironically, her own items were often the last to be repaired.
Yulia had crudely patched it many months ago, but it was the small spindle off mustard thread in her coat pocket that would give it new life. Her fingers absentmindedly threaded the needle; the tips of her digits long ago rendered immune to the small pricks of the needle. Sometimes, it was the only way she knew the cold hadn’t sawn them off entirely.
Slowly but surely, a roughly embroider star appeared on the scrap piece of cotton. She had aspirations of a whole, faux ceiling of them above her ramshackle little booth. Alas, workable, colored thread was far from a necessity.
Like company, glimpses of the real sky and any cuisine beyond canned food, her newfound hobby took a backseat. Even in a bustling alley, there was something lonely about continuously threading for no real purpose.
‘Clothing repair,’ she shouted, her sales pitches becoming quieter and all the more sporadic as she grew fatigued.