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?"