(no subject)

[alan_shore]

Who: Alan Shore and some brave souls
What: A day in the life.
Where: Everywhere. (The El, Flyside, Aspic, the locale of your choice.)
When: Sukkardi
Notes: Format essentially stolen from Samm. Except for the part where I can't get that box thing to work.
Warnings: Smugness. Legalese. Gratuitous discussion of pie, probably.

Tag into one of the threads below or devise a scenario of your choosing.

Comments

The El

[alan_shore]

Morning finds Alan on a train headed north, the dress and conduct of his fellow passengers gradually shifting toward sedate and professional as they near Coin's End Crossing. Alan himself, never much for mornings (to say nothing of public transportation), is absorbed in the sheaf of documents he balances on one knee and grappling with the challenge of producing anything akin to legible notes as the train dips and swerves. He'll disembark, papers tucked securely into his briefcase and a gash of ink along his left index finger, at the Hog Leaving station, intent on locating a cup of coffee.

A shop, Flyside

[alan_shore]

Few shops in Flyside maintain regular hours—the shopkeepers, many of them inventors, seem compelled to invent their own from day to day. If one's able to forgive the occasional frustration (and Alan is), it's rather charming, this practice of conducting business as the mood strikes. As though commerce should be as much a matter of inspiration as anything else.

At this particular hour of this particular afternoon, this particular shop—it sits comfortably on a somewhat secluded corner, two narrow windows peering out at the street—is open, and a table laden with curiosities (from brain-teasing puzzles to discarded prototypes to things that are just plain broken—good luck telling the difference) has been set outside to lure in or, barring that, confound passers-by. No bell jangles to announce Alan's entrance; instead, a mechanical insect takes to the air and loops once around his head. Ducking (a habit he can't quite shake), Alan calls out a hello and doesn't hesitate to begin browsing. The shop's owner is, if not a friend, an esteemed acquaintance and lively conversationalist.

A bar, Aspic

[alan_shore]

It snows that evening, a handful of flakes—gone almost before they hit the ground—flung over the city. It's certainly not enough to deter a displaced Bostonian and his relatively new winter coat from venturing through the streets and to one of his preferred haunts. The bar's called Touché (the name, naturally, is what first drew him to it), and it boasts some halfway decent single malts. Occasionally, when one of the bazaar's vendors finds themselves with a surplus of goods, it serves as a late-auction house.

Alan takes a seat at the bar and starts off with a beer—dark, and, as tends to be the case in Baedal, with a flavor he can't quite pin down.

Whatever, Wherever your little heart desires

[alan_shore]

[ooc: Go crazy! Alan gets around--I can work with pretty much anything.]