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.

[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."