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Who: Barbara and Wolfgang
What: Barbara tracks down one of the victims in the first leaked Militia tape to have a chat.
Where: Badside!
When: Now!
Warnings: Probable discussion of police brutality.

Barbara isn't quite sure about this plan, and she has the long trek from Brock Marsh to Badside to brood on it.

It wasn't incredibly difficult to identify Wolfgang, or to pinpoint his living arrangements when she did. She might not have the resources she did, but that's what she does. Analysis, research, patience – she still has all of that at her disposal.

She's been sitting on the information for a while now. She didn't want to intrude on his recovery from the Militia's brutality; she probably wouldn't now, if the new broadcasts hadn't gone out. But she needs every scrap of intel she can get. Besides, she might be able to do him some good.

Or I might get nothing, and push him into a downward spiral.

She's working with unknown factors here; she's never met Wolfgang before, she doesn't know how he's handling this, she doesn't know how he'll react to her. She hates leaving so much to chance.

But as she steadily closes the distance, she becomes more and more certain that this is something she needs to do, if just from one survivor to another. So she doesn't hesitate at the inn's entrance. She doesn't rush down the halls, but she doesn't delay either.

She does stop, for a moment, at his door, gazing at it pensively before knocking.

She hopes he likes the tea and cookies.

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Wolfgang freezes at the knock, immediately wracking his brain -- did he pay this week already, fuck, does he have any money left, he swore he did -- and then mentally chastises himself for being ridiculous, of course he did, it's Shundi, and anyway the manager wouldn't bother knocking. He'd just burst in, effectively scaring the crap out of him, and yell at him. While not exactly ethical, it is certainly efficient; everyone here pays on time.

Security in the knowledge that he's not about to have all his fingers broken -- or abducted by his new "buddies," since they're all hungover -- is what gets him to the door instead of trying to escape out the (barred) window. He opens it, pauses, glances down, and smiles politely -- oh, okay. Some woman he doesn't recognise is infinitely preferably to all other potential options.

"Hello," he says, sounding a little unsure.

Barbara smiles up at him, and she knows her own uncertainty is clear. This part is most decidedly not what she does; at home, she would have sent Dinah, maybe Ted.

She could have sent Steph, really. But she wouldn't have been able to monitor the conversation, or see his expressions.

So here she is, a tin of cookies and a thermos of hot tea set precariously on her lap. On the bright side, they obscure the weapons.

"Hey. I've been doing some investigation into this part of town, I thought I might interview some of the tenants here." The lie isn't meant for him, not really; you never know who's listening.

Cue immediate internal panic at the word investigation, which manifests physically by a sudden tension in his face and shoulders. He's thinking oh fuck, where'd I put my pills, shit I already got busted for this once, but she doesn't look like a cop -- Not that that means anything, but then again, the police here aren't exactly known for their subtlety. Not in areas like this, anyway, it would be different if this were, say, Skulkford.

She's not a cop. He's just being paranoid. He tells himself that over and over in the hope that eventually he will believe it. (Maybe that tactic will spontaneously start working when it never has before?)

After a pause, he steps back. "Um, sure. Would you like to come in?"

Barbara offers a smile she hopes is reassuring. "I would, thanks." She glances behind her as she goes in; it's entirely automatic at this point, really.

She doesn't speak again until the door shuts, and when she does, her voice is soft.

"All right, that's not why I'm here. Sorry for lying, but, well. Paranoia doesn't mean no one is listening, right?" She holds up the tin, which is decorated with little snowflakes. "These are for you, by the way. Chocolate chip, home-made." Even a pale imitation of Alfred's recipe is sure to be good, she figures.

Inside is a cramped room with a bed, a dresser, and not much else, the kind of hole-in-the-wall that comes cheap and probably infested with vermin. Thankfully not currently visible, but he definitely hears them at night. Little buggers.

It does have one good thing going for it: the walls aren't very thin.

It looks like he's been here a while judging by the boxes he's clearly living out of that hold stuff one would keep in a more permanent residence -- little homey knick-knacks. He starts to apologise for the mess and then stops himself, because... actually it's about as tidy as he can keep it and also, who cares.

Instead he looks thoroughly bewildered after shutting the door. "I'm sorry, I don't understand." Why she's here, what she wants. He's not exactly the type of person people drop in to make social calls.

Bewilderment is one of the lesser reactions she was prepared for. It's far better than being kicked out a few moments in.

"I'm actually investigating the Militia." Her voice remains very soft, and very calm. "I don't like people who abuse their power."

Wolfgang goes awfully white, which is a feat since he was pretty pale to begin with, and glances out the window for reasons he is not exactly sure of. It's sort of an oh god, escape impulse at this point. He can feel the encroaching knife-edge of panic he always feels when this comes up, anymore, and pushes it down as much as he can.

His tone is carefully neutral. "I don't -- I can't help you."

Her gaze, her tone, is gentle; sincerely sympathetic. "I'm not here to force you. But I saw you on the transmission, and I thought you might want to help."

She glances down for a moment, brow furrowing, before meeting his eyes again. "It can help, knowing you've made a difference. Knowing you still can."

"I can't --"

He has to turn away, his arms crossed over his chest like that will somehow help contain whatever he's feeling -- which is a lot right now. His hands still shake when he remembers it and he breaks out in cold sweats, still panics and can't breathe when he's cornered. None of that is acceptable right now. It is very important to him that he stay in control of himself for a number of reasons, not all of which have to do with his shitty self-esteem; especially in front of a stranger, he needs to keep it together.

But she used the right word.

"Help with what?"

It's a cliché, to say her heart aches, but it's the best description she can think of, and for a moment she regrets coming here. But her chest is burning with anger, too; Wolfgang isn't the only person suffering this way, and he won't be the last.

"I'm part of a group of people - we're working together to counter the militia, as much as we can." Barbara shakes her head. "I don't know if we can take them down, I can't promise anyone that. But we can make them hurt. We can protect the people they like to target."

There's nothing pretty about his bitter laugh. Wolfgang rubs his hands over his face before turning towards the dresser and the various crap piled on top of it; his hand hovers over the half-empty bottle of wine before he decides fuck it and goes for the hard liquor. "Sorry," he says after unscrewing it and taking a too-large swallow. Why he needs so much around is not as much of a mystery as it should be.

Still holding it, he sits down on the bed -- it's the only place to sit -- with his elbows resting on his knees, putting them at eye level. He takes a couple deep breaths and steadies himself.

"I'm assuming you know the only way to do that is turn the entire city upside-down." And that not everyone would be grateful for that kind of disruption of their safe, peaceful, comfortable lives.

"Don't be," she says quietly. It still grates at her, to see people turn to alcohol - but it's a personal ache, nothing she needs to share. She might have done it herself, if not for her memories.

"I do, and I know not everyone will thank us for it." She shakes her head. "But we can't leave things as they are. They'll only get worse."

She considers, for a moment, fingers rubbing errant circles on her leg straps. "Have you seen any of the newer transmissions?"

He shudders visibly, takes another drink. He doesn't even need to answer out loud after that, but -- "Yes. They have been making the rounds, out here."

He wishes he hadn't -- it feels like prying into other people's trauma, violating them further by witnessing it without their consent. But wouldn't it be worse if nobody knew? He isn't sure.

Wolfgang rubs a hand over his eyes like that will help block it out. "I don't remember much," he says. "I'm sorry. I -- I hit my head pretty hard." Yes... he hit it. Against a baton. A dozen times.

"Does that help?" she whispers. It's not a professional question, and she regrets it immediately.

She remembers every moment, every last damning detail, and she always will.

Barbara shakes her head, sharp and quick. "Sorry. It - it's okay, anything you remember might help."

He gives a wry little smile as he looks at the bottle. "No." Hope springs eternal, however.

Wolfgang is quiet for a long time, his head bowed like he's thinking hard about this. He knows he shouldn't talk about this, that if it gets back to him he could very well get in trouble for it ... but he's angry. Not just on his own behalf -- although a little of that, which he has every right to be -- but for the people there less equipped to deal with that kind of assault. Young people, teenagers, the elderly, all civilians. The women in the broadcasts he still wishes he hadn't seen, those poor haunted souls in the Spatters. The children who were present. Most weren't hurt ... physically. God only knows if they'll ever get over the trauma from just having been there to witness it.

That's what gets him talking.

"Stelanmancy is expensive, did you know that?" That's a rhetorical question, he goes on -- "Especially when you have to import something monthly, weekly. There are... certain places you could go to get things cheaper. They don't like that, the government, I mean. They like to know what's coming in to the city. Especially if it is -- drugs. Medicine." He clears his throat; she doesn't need to know why he was there specifically. "But it's not only for that, I think most people there had nothing to do with anything illegal. Anyway. They came in and fired shots first. Said to get down. Someone screamed, I don't know... I think they -- I think they killed a woman... No one knows what happened to her. I was in and out by then. I woke up in a cell somewhere. They played good cop, bad cop for a while, wanted names, said they were cracking down on illegal importing. I had none to give that they didn't already have. They kept me six days anyway."

His hands are shaking. "I found out later they arrested others. I don't know who. I don't know what happened to them. I think some of them never came out."

He shakes his head. "It's not really about stopping importing. If they wanted, they could have handled it quietly. They wanted people to see it. I think maybe they allowed it to be broadcast, but I don't know." Another shake of his head, "I don't know."

Barbara listens intently. She won't need to take notes, as long as she listens.

It's not easy to hear, it never is, but it's not unexpected. She's seen how police states work, from a distance; shooting first and asking later, using the veneer of legitimate investigation to harass and intimidate, sweeping brutal mistakes beneath tapestries of red tape, using peoples' needs and addictions and connections against them.

When he finishes she leans forward, just slightly. Her voice is still quiet, but intent. "Thank you." She'll need to ask more questions, but he's given her so much already, and he didn't have to.

"Mm." He takes a last drink before setting the bottle down -- he's not trying to get drunk, just a little numb. He wishes it were more of a relief to have said that out loud instead of just screaming it in his head, but it isn't. He feels guilt and shame and this tight, anxious knot in his stomach, and that's all.

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