multiversallogs | men murdered themselves into this democracy

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men murdered themselves into this democracy

Who: ~~Bruce Wayne~~ Tom and Kalinda Sharma.
What: An interrupted mugging. And more.
Where: Syriac Well, near Stoneshell.
When: Tonightish.
Warnings: Violence.

The roads linking Stoneshell to civilization have become familiar to Bruce of late, in particular a twenty-four-hour coffee shop whose courtyard is constantly overgrown with grass and ivy, laced in fairy lights. It's quaint, hovering between rural and classic, though he doesn't often stay for very long; the people who frequent and operate it are polite, good, and if he stays still for any extended amount of time they start trying to engage him in conversation and, well. He's walking down the street into Syriac Well, now, gauging the temperature of whatever it is the barista made him. (Salted something? He always lets them pick.) It's innocently near-deserted at this hour, in an already sleepy corner of town. And then - something.

Most people would have missed it: a seemingly-average looking man hopping up on the sidewalk to pace a young woman, arm around her shoulder. They turn into a side-alley, her coat covers any body language cues that might be sent out. On the surface it looks fine, but Bruce couldn't not notice the way she flinched when she was first touched, the way the man's outside arm and shoulder twisted forward out of view, like he was holding something against her.

Maybe it's nothing.

Bruce sets his coffee cup down on top of a metal trash can near the entrance to the alley, almost an afterthought, as he walks over, following the would-be couple.

At first no one notices him; they're halfway down the alley (that lets out on the other side to another sedate, equally empty street) and he's got her up against a wall, wooden cross held to her throat. Her face is twisted in horror, red eyes half-shut, trying to struggle away. Bruce's expression doesn't change, but something like a wry, disgusted smile twists in him as he steps forward; what bold timing.

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She's still feeling out the politics of the city, figuring out which districts value which sorts of citizens and which get swept under the rug. It's the Militia and the way it tries to hold the city in its grip that keeps her from truly trusting any part of the system.

"I was," she confirms, but doesn't elaborate. This time, she does make eye contact. Though her lips don't curve upward, she still looks like she's smiling. Like it's some secret between the two of them and conveyed only by a look.

Women who look like that - look at him like that - are a bad idea. Just about always.

Bruce meets her gaze, and his eyebrows go up, just a little, both intrigued and - challenging? Daring? He turns, walking backwards for a few paces as he veers in the direction he needs to go in, hands still in his pockets.

"Coffee?"

He tossed his, you see; the chill in the air wrecked it, as he was watching her beat the hell out of that guy.

And she'd be the first to tell him she's likely to be no exception to this rule.

Then she'd posit that he doesn't care whether or not she does turn out to be trouble. She stops and tips her head to the left, then right, back and forth one more time as she seems to consider his query.

"Why not?"

She could use some caffeine to substitute for the ebbing adrenaline rush anyway.

If she wasn't trouble he wouldn't ask; it's a vicious cycle.

He pauses (like he did in the alley, he doesn't ever seem to stop, he just waits here and there) so that she can meander over this way if she so desires - mysterious, potentially dangerous stranger that he is, he's not about to rudely attempt to lead her away ten paces apart. The look he gives her is appraising, but not critical. There's probably something wrong with a guy who decides what she did back there is eye-catching*.

"Tom."

* Intellectually stimulating.

Heels sound on pavement as she does move to catch up with him. This time, she does smile with her mouth as well as her eyes. He did watch her beat the hell out of that guy and didn't go running in the other direction, or try to stop her. He condoned it. It should be a red flag, and it is, but it's also like a merit badge.

"Kalinda."

His smile is faint, but present in his eyes. It looks like there's a little rust on it still, someone either not used to showing that kind of emotion at all - or merely showing it genuinely. When she paces him he nods, which passes for a 'nice to meet you' in stoicese. He leads him northeast, towards the bridge to Echomire, and the little shops that little the area before it becomes deserted on the other side of the river.

"Nice handiwork."

That she doesn't grin about. She's not a total psychopath. But she does incline her head graciously. "Thanks. I don't make a habit of it." In case he was curious. "Sometimes... you just do what you have to do." Many women would have tried pepper spray, if they attempted to do anything at all. Kalinda also carries a gun, which maybe argues that she's capable of showing restraint. She didn't kill the bastard, after all.

"I don't like to see people picked on." Not unless she's doing the picking. That's different. And usually deserved. There's a saying about flies and honey.

"Timing plays into it," he says, and it might be an agreement or an observation. Maybe it's nice handiwork because she did what she did when she did it; maybe Bruce is just insane. (Well, that's subjective, no matter what.)

"The city's been restless."

Why was in in that alley, anyway? Rubbernecking? Or was he about to step in, if Kalinda wasn't there? A mystery.

She vocalises that she agrees with both statements with a quiet mm. The question of why he was there has crossed her mind. Mostly she worries he might be an investigator for someone else, out to see how much she knows about her current case, but not terribly much. It's just in the top five list for Worst Case Scenario.

"Militia only makes things worse. More tense." Her tone turns wry. "The cost of keeping the peace, I suppose." She doesn't suppose. She doesn't condone. But she also can't be sure of who she's really talking to. Also on the top five list.

Not too many people creep around in the middle of the night searching through quiet streets; Bruce wonders about her, because she doesn't seem like she was up to anything malicious, but she doesn't seem like one of the self-styled vigilantes, either. There's an awareness to him, but it's hard to assign a particular emotion to it.

"Do you find it peaceful?" He sounds wry. Either he doesn't expect her to say she does, or he doesn't care that she might find fault in his mild objection to the suggestion that the Militia is doing its job.

There's no moment of touché or similar. Kalinda only lifts her brows and tucks her chin in toward her chest. "Not especially." There's no objection, because she agrees, when the meagre lip service is taken off the table. She doesn't ask if that's why he wanders around after dark. He hasn't pried into her movements, so she returns that favour. "A lack of peace is usual a symptom of a police state." As opposed to a police state being the treatment of said symptom. It can be somewhat cyclical, supposedly.

The reality of Bruce's nocturnal wanderings is less mysterious and more lamely scandalous; he's walking back from his - well, he's walking about from Seoraj's, because work and obligations and a hundred other things exist, and he personally disdains the el train and doesn't mind the cold night air.

(That's the story tonight, anyway.)

"Well, they never start to control crime. They start to control everything."

Which, given there's no need to control everything in Baedal - the fog does it for them - makes the Militia a particular case.

"You're interested in local politics?"

Lame scandal is still scandal. Someone will find it interesting. Maybe even Kalinda. But maybe not. She lifts her head again, adjusting the hang of her duffel absently, though not self-consciously or anxiously. "I think when you settle somewhere new, it's a good idea to be aware of local politics. It's like figuring out what the native customs are."

"You've got your work cut out for you, here." Native customs in a world made up of other worlds.

The coffee shop is rustic, eclectic, and extremely mom-and-pop even for Baedal standards. (Chains are rare, and nearly everything is a small business, but some are mo off the beaten path than others.) He holds the door open for Kalinda (it jingles) and the barista greets them cheerfully, her pink skin flushing in a neon glow when she speaks.

"So I've noticed." Kalinda nods her head graciously, stepping through the held-open door past Bruce and into the shop. She's been here long enough that she doesn't even blink at the barista's interesting colouration. She's nothing if not quick to adapt.

"Nice place." And she means it. It's got character, which she definitely appreciates. "You come here often?" She procures her CiD again, so she can check in on Tableau. She's helping Angela test. Don't judge, Bruce.

Hey, he's just happy Angela's got her feet under her after the mugging. If someone's beta testing her app, that's fantastic. He glances at what she's doing, but doesn't comment. Maybe if Kalinda squints, she might notice Bruce almost smiles.

"I've been in before, but I'm an annoyingly unloyal customer everywhere." Sometimes despite that, people remember him - it's either the cheekbones or the occasionally unnerving demeanor. Who knows.

He orders 'coffee' and the barista giggles. Sigh, this dance again.

Venue checked into and review pending. She doesn't squint, but she catches that almost-smile all the same. She also attributes the notion of being an unloyal customer to a desire to avoid having a predictable routine. Call it a hunch. "They say variety is the spice of life."

She orders chai.

Bruce ends up with black coffee and cream, and he pays for both of their drinks (because he asked) and then gestures at Kalinda, positing an inquiry as to where she'd like to sit without words. Outside, someone zooms by in quite a hurry on horseback. Maybe the deputy finally picked up his phone.

Wooden chairs and benches are littered with multicolored pillows, the windows strung with beads. It would be annoyingly colorful if the intent seemed to be perkiness versus care. He doesn't mind it.

A table is chosen in a corner that's not so much quiet as it is more or less out of view of the windows. She'd normally like to watch out of them, but considering what she's been up to tonight, it's not surprising she'd want to avoid being seen. She slides her bag under her chair before taking her seat.

She crosses one knee-high boot-clad leg over the other and stirs the cloud of milk in her tea. "This was a good idea," she commends.

He raises his cup (which totally has some real kind of concoction in it, honest) in a friendly almost-salute. "There's something to be said for unique moments." Slightly wry, because every heartbeat in Baedal is unique for the abductees. But there's something to be said for the details of this moment, too.

"You adapt well." What a weird fucking compliment, Tom.

Fucking weird, but appreciated for what it is all the same. A compliment. "Thanks. So do you." That's partially an assumption on her part, but he also hasn't batted an eye at anything. She feels it's an assumption that's reasonably safe. Kalinda mimics the salute before she takes a testing sip and nods approvingly.

"What are your plans for the rest of your evening?"

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men murdered themselves into this democracy

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