sometimes i get nervous when i see an open door

[egodefence]

Who: Gaius Baltar and You!
What: He's taking it well.
Where: Either in Mog Hill or not very far from it.
When: Coardi morning. Or, you know, whenever.
Notes: I'd like to get him around about so if this first set up is tagged into, shout at me if you'd like to do things and I can set up a thread!
Warnings: Crying, mainly.

The appeal of an open sky had long since lost its shine after the first few months on solid ground.

But this is different. A functional city, new faces that glance by him without recognition. Animals, economy, the simple sight of a carriage wheel trundling over wet cobblestone. The weather is warm and dry. Standing on the curb a stone's throw from the edge of the Valhalla Inn is Gaius Baltar, who -- while not the most poetic of human beings -- is in awe. Awe in the traditional sense, the kind that is on the verge of teary-eyed terror. It hadn't even occurred to him to do anything with his CiD than check it -- its content was, of course, a lie, and he'd spent the next few hours of his imprisonment in the green tiled room simply curled up in crustaceous defensiveness in the corner and waiting to see what the Cylons would do next.

He has some things in his hand. A cardboard box with some sort of branding is held loosely at his side, and the infamous brochure clutched in his other fist, significantly crumpled. Both of these things are ignored after having been obsessed over prior to now as he regards the street without any idea of what to do.

But he starts walking.

And eventually sits down when he's put a little distance between where he began and now without any real clear idea of where he is, just that there was an empty bench and now it is his. The brochure is folded with slightly trembling fingers and pocketed in the inner of his jacket, before he sets the box in his lap, opens it, and extracts one dark coloured cigarette. Gaius, dressed as he is in his slightly unwashed business suit, his glasses sitting low on his nose and hair in worried, greasy tangles, realises he doesn't have a lighter on him.

"Oh gods," is pure, exasperated despair, landing his face in his hands.

Comments

[toooldforlosing]

Raylan's on patrol - plainclothes, though he has a small badge - and slows as he passes the man on the park bench. They get the new arrivals a lot in Mog Hill, and he has a bit of the look. Even if he's not new, he's clearly not quite well.

"Excuse me, sir. You okay?" he asks, polite and with the small hint of holler twang he never quite scrubbed out of his accent. He'd be very easy to underestimate, but he's dealt with enough desperate men in his life that very little this one could do would take him by surprise.

[lupa]

Oh, he's new.

The green tiled room smells a certain way, and so do the wider sprawling districts of Baedal itself; he has too much of the former without quite as much of the latter. GG can smell him, too (human) and pick out the recent route he's taken- wandering and indirect, like he's not thinking, just moving. He's alone, new, and it's dark out.

None of this is conscious; it's instinctual and instantaneous, and it's to do with a natural aptitude for seeking out prey. She has a sense for weakened quarry. She could, after all, snap his neck right now. She won't, but she could, she sees no point being squeamish about that. She won't, but someone else might.

"Hey. You. You." Who else? There's no one else here. "It's dark and you don't know where you are. Did you think this through?" she says, without any real question mark in her voice.

(Being somewhat sternly harangued by a strange, unnervingly tall French-Canadian woman all in black and white is always a reassuring experience).