You can have my girl, but don't touch my hat [OPEN]

[toooldforlosing]

Who: Raylan Givens AND YOU
What: Out and about! Let me know where you're running into him.
Where: Mog Hill, mainly, and the environs.
When: All day Coardi
Notes: Despite his inner rage, he'll be friendly and polite enough to new (and old) acquaintances. Feel free to assume he's doing any of the things mentioned below, but if you want him for other plots, just hit me by PM or on plurk (prettiestwhistles)
Warnings: None for now

Raylan is angry. There are some who might argue Baedal has nothing to do with that, but it's different here than it was at home. He's a prisoner, even if his prison is city-sized. Even if he's free to run every morning (like he does) and go to the bar every night (...which he usually does too, though more for eavesdropping and brooding than to get properly drunk). Working for the sheriff feels like collusion, but at least Norrington hasn't asked him to do anything he can't do, so far.

The militia's broadcast had turned his stomach, but he doesn't know whose brain to put a bullet into for that. A criminal, even a band of criminals... you can fight that, he thinks. A corrupt government that rules by martial law - that's something else again.

So he gets up, goes for a run, works his beat, goes shopping for goddamn groceries, spends his evenings in bars, and bites down on how much this place rubs him wrong.

He thinks he'd best not get questioned by the militia again, because he doesn't know if he'll be able to keep his mouth shut. But even those who don't know him well might be able to identify a man with an itchy trigger finger.

Comments

@ Mog Hill

[controlledvariable]

Steph has been going for early morning runs as well, dressed in black compression tights and tank top, cheap sneakers, and a purple hoodie against the morning chill. Running alone can be kind of boring, even when she's got a lot on her mind, so when she sees someone else she picks up the pace until she falls into step next to him.

"Mind some company?"

[toooldforlosing]

He smiles a little, glancing over. "Nah. Free road anyway, right? Though, uh, I should warn you that I'm not the best at small talk." He can be charming enough, when he wants, but he runs out of pointless things to talk about without an objective.

At least he knows it?

[controlledvariable]

"Small talk's hard when you're running, don't worry about it." Steph's pretty decent at small talk, but she mostly just joined him for the simple company, and to help motivate herself.

"How good are you?" She might ask for a race, depending on his answer.

[toooldforlosing]

"Not awful, used to be better," he replies, amused. He's got a competitive streak though, and seems to guess where she's going with that.

[controlledvariable]

"You know Queequeg's?" It's a little under a mile away from where they are now, and if Raylan is up for it, Steph's definitely going to suggest a race.

[toooldforlosing]

He smiles, crookedly. "I think I remember the straightest path there, yeah."

[controlledvariable]

"Last one there buys the coffee?" She's already picked up her pace a little, ready to start actually racing.

[gotbottle]

Rachel remembers the days when she used to be really engaged with the rest of the cohort, sometimes with the city at large. That was back when the cohort was smaller, before she got so tired, before the place started feeling like it weighed on her. She never made a conscious decision to withdraw, it just sort of happened over time.

But that video of the militia raid shocked her back into awareness, and into the need to take action. She's been out leafleting on behalf of the People's Independence Front, for lack of any better way to take action. Maybe she'll think of something better, soon.

She's covered most of Mog Hill this evening, and her hands are empty and she wants to get out of the cold for a while. She steps into a bar and heads straight to the bartender; a minute's quiet negotiation and she comes away with her drink of choice, served in the style she prefers (namely, a whisky sour, but in a pint glass, because fuck pussyfooting around with little glasses when she wants to drink, seriously).

She turns away, scanning the room for a quiet corner where she can sit, get this drink down, and warm up a little. She spies an all-too-familiar hat at a corner table, and she smiles, heading over.

"What's a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?"

[toooldforlosing]

He glances up with a grin. "Looking for trouble, what else?" He gestures for her to sit. "Besides, I don't live far from here, so I can always stumble home without much to-do."

[gotbottle]

"See, that's what I need to do," she says as she takes the offered seat, nodding her thanks. "Find places within stumbling distance from home instead of always drinking wherever I happen to be. I'd say you're a sensible man but I'm pretty sure there's a rule against bringing good sense into a bar, didn't we agree?"

[toooldforlosing]

"Honestly, I give you more credit for observation than calling me sensible," he says with a laugh. "What brings you out here, if not the fine alcohol?"

[gotbottle]

"Well, maybe you just have sensible moments."

She shrugs, taking a sip of her drink. "Trouble, kinda," she goes on. "I was passing out leaflets for the political party. Didn't really have anything better to do with myself right now and I didn't much feel like sitting at home and, like, trying to sleep and failing. Thought maybe the air and the chance to feel like I was accomplishing something might help."

[toooldforlosing]

"Did it?" He doesn't expect a real answer, though he wouldn't turn one away if she gives it.

INT. Mog Hill grocery store - evening

[charismatic]

Will's right – his shoulders are sore from yesterday's shenanigans, but he figures it won't take too long to recondition himself if he keeps taking jobs like this out at the Lot. It's apparently difficult enough to find people both willing to test drive prototypes and able to... not die in the process that he's already got a few more lined up. He can't imagine any of them will handle as smoothly as the machines he's used to, so his arms and joints will just have to adjust. If he can fit in enough enough jobs, he should have enough to put down a deposit somewhere when his Inn voucher runs out at the end of the week.

By the time he's heading back to the Inn this evening, he's sore all over, hungry, but still too high on the adrenaline rush to be tired. So he swings by a grocery store for some apples to keep in his room – he doubts he'll ever get tired of the taste of fresh fruit; it's still something of a revelation every time, even after all these years – but it turns out that he doesn't recognize half the fruit available. Well then. “Any recommendations?” he asks the first person who stops next to him. He's getting pretty used to this accosting strangers thing.

[toooldforlosing]

Raylan smiles at that - his own reaction hadn't been so different. He points to a bin. "Those are sort of like oranges, if your imagination's any good. And those," he indicates a long green fruit, shaped like a scimitar, "are sort of not entirely unlike pears."

Ruefully, he adds, "Nothing here'll poison you, though, probably, so you can always do what I did and just work from trial and error."

[charismatic]

Will shakes his head, reaching out to take one each of the indicated fruits. “I'll have to, probably. I was just getting used to real fruit.” That's probably not quite true – he's had half his life to get used to it, now, but it still seems new.

[toooldforlosing]

"Well, I guess it's real enough, it's just bizarre." He wants to ask why regular fruit would be so unusual, but doesn't; city rules are what they are, and everyone needs privacy (or at least the illusion) until they volunteer to give it up.

"This stuff taste fine, but banana splits are hard to come by."

[charismatic]

Will grabs a couple more random things, shaking his head. Aside from the weirdness of not recognizing everything he's eating, switching back to real food from space rations has been a tiny shock in the overall process of trying to adjust to... everything. “No ice cream?” he asks.

[toooldforlosing]

"Easier to find ice cream than bananas, weirdly enough." Enough ex-pats with a taste for the former, Raylan guesses. "I mean, I'm not willing to swear it's made with all the same ingredients you'd expect, but..."

[alan_shore]

It's in the aftermath of a party, a work function attended at the behest of a grateful client, that Alan makes the spur-of-the-moment decision to duck into a bar instead of enduring the rattling progress of the train.

Mog Hill has its virtues, this Alan acknowledges readily enough, and he shares none of them. His suit, his glibness, the easy insincerity of his smile--they tend to meet with mistrust here. So it's with no expectation of blending in that he approaches the bar and, flashing that smile like a magician showing off a coin before it vanishes, says, "Your least terrible scotch, if you please."

[toooldforlosing]

Raylan laughs, audibly. "Ain't that the most honest order I've heard all night." He's nursing a bourbon in the corner.

[alan_shore]

"Likely the most honest thing I've said as well," Alan cheerily admits. Although he evinces none of Raylan's amusement, the bartender nevertheless presents Alan with what passes for scotch in what passes for a clean glass. Drink now in hand, Alan turns to make a meandering study of the man in the corner.

"Well, howdy." It's a sarcastic greeting, to be sure, but not in a way that's mean-spirited--he doesn't, for instance, stoop so low as to affect an accent.

[toooldforlosing]

He touches the brim of his hat, wry. "How's the least terrible scotch?"

[alan_shore]

It doesn't stick around long, his grin--like someone bursting through a door only to discover themselves in the wrong house--but for its brief duration it's unabashedly delighted.

Resuming his habitual mien (that of mild, detached amusement), and at the stranger's prompting, Alan attends to his scotch. With all apparent seriousness, he turns the glass in a slow circle, observing the play of the liquid against the sides. He lifts the scotch to his nose, inhales deeply and with an air of rumination.

Finally, he sips.

"I find it difficult to believe," he says, allowing himself a grimace and choosing his words as deliberately as he'd sampled the liquor, "there could be anything worse than this."

[toooldforlosing]

Raylan laughs. "Mister, if Baedal's taught me anything, it's that my conviction that anything can always be worse is well-founded. Goes for places, and goes for whiskey."