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?"

[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?"

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]

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?

[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."

[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."

[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.

[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.

[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]

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

[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?"

[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."

[controlledvariable]

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

[toooldforlosing]

"Sounds fair. On three?" It will totally serve him right if she just takes off.

[controlledvariable]

Steph believes in fair play, so she wno't just take off. "One. Two. Three."

And then she takes off, not speeding up too much because they've got a fair distance to go and she doesn't want to wear herself out too soon.

[toooldforlosing]

Raylan picks up his own pace as well. His job keeps him in shape, but he's not as young as he once was, and he's not going to underestimate her as a competitor.

He does, it must be observed, have a competitive streak.

As they get closer, he pushes a bit harder, trying to put some distance between them if he can.

[controlledvariable]

Steph is still young, and she trains almost every day because she needs to keep fit as Batgirl, so she might have an edge on Raylan.

When he starts pulling away she smirks, letting him have the distance until they're only a block away. Then she breaks into a sprint, doing the last part of the run as fast as she can. If she gets to the front of Queequeg's before him, she's gonna be smug.

[toooldforlosing]

It's closer that an observer might have guessed, but she does beat him by a small margin. (Or maybe he lets her win, for chivalry's sake. He can tell himself that.)

"Could stand to train a little harder, I guess," he says, as they stop.

[controlledvariable]

"Maybe," She's breathing hard, she possibly pushed herself harder than she should have, considering it's just a friendly race, "You're quick, though. Do you just do it for fun?"

[toooldforlosing]

He shrugs, as they catch their breath. "I like it well enough, but. Need to stay in shape for work too. You?"

[controlledvariable]

"Been running since I was a kid," Which could mean any number of things, really, "What sorta job needs you to stay in shape?"

[toooldforlosing]

He smiles at her first comment - he can relate to that. On more than one level.

"US Marshal, back home."

[controlledvariable]

"That would require a lot of running, I imagine," She looks a little wary for a moment - she's never trusted law enforcement - but it doesn't last, "You haven't taken up a job in the same field while you're here?"