multiversallogs | (no subject)

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.

Threaded | Flat

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.