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Who: Fauxlivia Dunham and ~~the Goddamned Batman~~ Bruce or Tom or whatever.
What: Firsthand proof that the militia can be assholes.
Where: Bonetown near Mogg Hill.
When: Backdated to last week-ish. /vaguehands
Warnings: None as of yet.

Word of mouth has alerted Olivia to the fact that a bakery just outside Mogg Hill makes a lemon loaf that is supposedly just like Starbucks. Over There, she'd enjoyed breakfast pastries and coffee from the chain, so this tip seems worth following up for a little taste of something like home.

Stepping inside out of the chill, 'Liv takes her hands out of her jacket pockets and rubs them together to bring feeling back into her fingers, eyeing the offerings on display in their glass cases in the front of the store.

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It's probably presumptuous on Olivia's part to believe she has any right to investigate anything in this place. It's an instinct now. One that's more difficult to ignore than it is to indulge.

That he doesn't try to evade her does cause her to falter for a moment before deciding to continue her approach - though she stops some arm's length behind him. "You were waiting for this," she assesses. Whatever it is that's happening (she can see it's an altercation of some sort - but her question is the motivation), this man knew it was coming.

He likes that she doesn't try to pretend like she wasn't following him. Maybe later she'll turn out to be to arrogant for him to deal with, but for now, it's a behavior tick he likes. Bruce doesn't look at her yet, still watching the shop across the way, buzzing with uniformed Militia members.

"This happens all the time."

"But you knew it was going to happen here." Olivia watches his back for a moment, reading his posture, before letting her own gaze track to the clamour across the way. "It could have happened anywhere, but you were prepared for it."

Her lips draw thin, anger written in the lines of her face and in the tension in her shoulders. "This is wrong."

He doesn't bother denying it; there are a thousand reasons why he could have known, from inside information to being a precog. It doesn't matter. Bruce would be irritated, but being observed by someone who is equally appalled by this display isn't anything that's going to disrupt his plans. In the shop across from them, a Militia agent overturns a table, shouting at a worker, backing them into a corner. No one touches another being, no one is struck, but the intimidation tactics are clear. Faces peer out of windows of other stores, anxious.

"Do you know how the Militia was formed? All those years ago, when the city government first came together."

That he doesn't explain himself is only mildly annoying to Olivia. Everything has an explanation, but she's used to not always receiving them. She can form her own conclusions easily enough anyway. When he poses his question, she eyes him again for a moment before stepping forward somewhat cautiously. Though she's unarmed, she's not defenseless. Not so long as she stays alert.

"I don't."

"No one does."

There is nothing outwardly threatening about Bruce - in fact, besides his attentive demeanor, there's nothing that suggests he could even be dangerous. He's dressed modestly, and his jacket covers up his physique, and while he's tallish and not bad-looking, he's otherwise pretty unremarkable. He's also not anyone who looks like he might be new to the city; he's never been seen (nor heard) on the cohort network. Just some guy.

Across the street, something glass breaks, shattering on the floor.

"That includes you?"

It's not really a question. Breaking glass draws her focus sharper, green eyes growing wider before narrowing again. Even the most unassuming of people can be a threat. Olivia doesn't take anything for granted - not back home, and not here. "What are they looking for? Are they even looking for anything?" She's not at all unfamiliar with the concept of intimidation for intimidation's sake. She forces herself to take a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

"They filed their property tax payment wrong," he says, mild. Which is true; in reality they're suffering, business isn't doing well, keeping up with mail and getting bills and signed forms back on time has fallen through the cracks. It shouldn't have been a big deal, but they just happened to pull the wrong random card in the great lottery wheel of life. The Militia needs to make a point, periodically, and punishing people severely for minor infractions prevents even major ones from happening. At least, that's the theory.

"Some of those men weren't born here."

What makes a person turn like this?

Bruce shifts his weight, turning finally and glancing at her; his body language makes it look like he's about to start walking back down the alley again. What timing - one of the Militia agents turns and starts staring at them. Conversationally: "I'd get ready to run."

If she weren't schooling her features into such careful neutrality, Olivia's lips would part, and she would turn to gaze with equal parts incredulity and disgust. But instead she continues staring ahead. She doesn't ask are you serious, because she knows that he is.

"And that's enough," she surmises, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.

When he begins to shift his weight, she takes it as a signal even before he announces it, though she wastes seconds looking for whatever prompted this movement. Not that it takes her long to spot that they've been spotted, though she pretends not to have noticed. Her response is equally casual as she begins to turn back down the alley.

"Yeah, I was getting that impression."

Bruce continues to move, organic, like it's a coincidence that he chose that moment to begin to leave. He listens, wondering if the agent that was eyeballing them will let them go, or follow. For a moment there's nothing, and then the distant sound of footsteps coming their way.

Welp.

"Can you get over that wall?" At the end of the alley. It's brick, ten feet high; looks like there's another alley running west behind it. But it's the exit - going back into the coffee shop means they'll just get attention drawn there.

Olivia kind of darts a glance out of the corner of her eye, even though she knows she won't spot anyone in her periphery. Not unless they've suddenly teleported alongside them. Thankfully, that doesn't seem to be in the bag of tricks today.

She judges the distance to the wall, the momentum she'll need to carry herself up and over. She frowns thoughtfully. "Yeah, that's doable." Like they're talking about something much simpler. Taking in a deep breath, she glances to her partner-in-circumstance. "On your mark."

"Yep."

And he's off - Bruce moves from a walk to a sprint easily, almost without need of a transition, and is up and over the wall alarmingly fast. He pauses perched on the top to make sure his new temporary accomplice gets over - if she needs a hand she's getting hauled in one hell of a hurry, though, because the Militia agent is at the mouth of the alley and yelling, "HEY!"

And Olivia is right on his heels. Not quite as fast, but she can hold her own. While she doesn't have much trouble vaulting herself up to scale the wall, she doesn't hesitate to grab for the offered hand to help give her the extra boost she needs to make it over before they're caught up to.

The tumble to the other side is an awkward one, but she lands like someone who's done this before, rolling to her feet in an instant. "Go! You lead, I'll follow." She's more than willing to bet that he's got the layout of these alleyways memorised.

That's good enough for him, because Bruce isn't interested in getting busted - or even shaken down. His work ID would probably be enough to get them released with just a side-eye, but he doesn't want to be on the radar at all. He bolts down the next alley, and then into the back of a print shop, weaving through piles of stock and then a few startled employees, too quick to be stopped fully, and then out through the front door, across the street, and down another alley that opens up into a much busier street, full of horses and carriages.

Without looking, he checks and listens, and surmises that their agent friend never actually went all the way over the wall. Good.

Getting busted is definitely not on Olivia's agenda for today. She doesn't utter any apologies as she darts through the print shop, nearly knocking over an employee who moved to stare after Bruce at one point, but she doesn't miss a beat. Emerging through the front of the shop behind the man, she pushes at the door in an effort to shut it behind them and impede any pursuit - be it from militia or angry manager.

As they make their way down the street, decidedly more sedate than moments ago, the auburn-headed woman takes a moment to catch her breath before turning to look at Bruce. "So. You make a habit of this sort of activity, then? S'a good work-out."

Bruce falls in step beside her easily, and for all the world looks like he's always been walking calmly along this road. No one around them seems to notice them being out of place.

He glances over at her, and there's a glimmer of something like wry amusement in his expression before he looks past her, ever-watchful even in repose. "I try not to. But it's healthier than having conversations with the Militia."

'Conversations', sure.

Fingers rake through her hair in an effort to tame it down - if it even needs it. Though Olivia glances in a shop window as they walk past it, it isn't to examine her own image, but rather to try and spot anyone taking an interest in the pair of them through that reflection.

"If that's what happens for a little misfiling, I'd hate to see what happens when the Militia actually wants to talk." She can imagine it ends in busted noses and broken teeth. "Do I get to know your name?"

"Do you want it?"

It's only slightly a teasing question. Some people wouldn't; some people would prefer to remain as detached as possible, after something like that. Bruce doesn't really care, because he's not going to give her his real name anyway, and Tom can afford some eccentricities. She is interesting, though, throwing herself right along with whatever the hell he's doing.

"I don't ask questions I don't want answers to. Olivia Dunham." See? She even took the first leap. And it's her real name. Possibly a combination of stupid, trusting, or brazen, but she seems to be aware of that if the way she smirks and shrugs is any indication.

"Your turn."

"Tom."

And that's all she's getting - not that he's shunning her his made-up last name, even on his Baedal tax forms it really is just Tom. There are so many cultures here, no one's ever asked him if it's more than that, so he's never supplied anything more.

"You seem bored."

"Do I? Not bored so much as... unsurprised." Olivia casually glances over her shoulder, before turning back to ask, "Is that sad? Sure, I didn't wake up this morning expecting a chase," or to be chased, as the case may be, "but I never discount it as a possibility."

She doesn't begrudge him the truncated name, whether any of it is withheld or made up. "So, Tom... What were you hoping to do back there? Besides observe everything that's wrong with police states."

Bruce shoots her a look, not glancing fully, just enough to carry the glimmer of his amusement - he didn't mean just now, Olivia, he means in general. How antsy do you have to be to end up leaping over a wall with a stranger?

"Just watching."

And believe it or not, that isn't an obfuscated lie.

Maybe she'd rather not tempt fate by suggesting she's bored in general. That tends to be the time where things get decidedly not boring.

Oh, like this day is turning out. ...Maybe it's a little too late for not tempting fate.

"You don't strike my as someone who sticks to the sidelines in observation," Olivia comments with a raised brow. "Maybe that's why I'm bored." All observation and no action makes Agent Dunham a dull girl.

"How do I strike you?"

He's very adept at getting away, Olivia, maybe that's his specialty; observation and reconnaissance without getting caught. He could be a spy. He could be a journalist. He could be a weirdo who's graduated from staring out his apartment window. The possibilities are truly endless.

"Like someone who prefers action to inaction." She glances at him out of the corner of her eye. "Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong, but watching stuff like that unfold all the time, on purpose? It gets depressing fast. Anyone who truly cares about monitoring and documenting that sort of injustice either walks away because they care too much, or they find a way to do something about it."

"Even if that means enlisting others." She's so casual about it, it's almost as if any implication was unintentional. Almost. If he's just into recon, Olivia certainly doesn't think he's on his own.

"You are bored."

Neither confirmation nor denial, but Olivia is being a little pushy - on the one hand, Bruce doesn't blame her, but on the other, he's not going to reward somebody prying at him with anything besides letting it deflect off.

"I think your projecting a little, too. What were you at home? Fed?"

"Guilty as charged." Flippant. She means about being bored. But probably a little bit about the projecting, and definitely about being a fed. Sort of. "Department of Defense. The FBI was done away with before my time."

Not that she hasn't worked that job, too. The miracles of parallel universes and selves. She doesn't bother to ask what he used to do back home. Judging from his responses so far, she doesn't think she'd get an answer.

"Do you think we've lost 'em?" While she thinks it sure seems that way, she has no experience with how dogged the militia here can be.

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