Mayday! Mayday! The ship is slowly sinking

[crawfordstone]

WHO: Crawford + You
WHERE: Around Nonah
WHEN: January 5th-7th-ish
WHAT: Crawford has just arrived and wants to make his displeasure known. Specifically by trying to forget everything via intoxication or head injury
WARNINGS: Violence, alcohol/drug use, lots of swearing. Permission post though the heavy stuff is unlikely to come up just yet.


Nonah #001 (Closed to residents/visitors)

Getting dropped somewhere with nothing but the clothes on his back and a folder of information he hadn't bothered to read wasn't exactly what one might call a warm welcome. Crawford wasn't exactly ready to call the place home. Far from it. But he needed somewhere to clean himself up. Well, as cleaned up as someone like him would get. He had a split lip and a few other scrapes. He'd learned the hard way to not fight back against people who were "just trying to help."

Without paying punch attention to whether or not other people were around, he started crashing around. Slamming doors open until he found the bathroom. He didn't bother looking for anything like first aid, just turned on the water and tried rinsing some of the old blood off his face.

Around Nonah

Settling in wasn't Crawford's plan. But he couldn't go running off immediately. Those assholes at his debriefing had tried to impress upon him that this was not his world. They hadn't done a very good job of that, but the tech being used everywhere kind of did that job. At least enough to make him hesitate on trying to run. But he never did well spinning his wheels.

Wandering the streets, he paused, fishing in his pocket for something. He pulled out a small orange pill bottle, that he held aloft toward a street lamp. Half full. He was going to have to find a new source, eventually. If he believed what they said about this place. Tucking the bottle away, he traded it for a cigarette and lighter. Resting the stick between his lips, he lit it while scanning the street ahead of him. There was something he could replenish much sooner, unless this world was completely backwards.

He found it rather quickly. Some weird, scummy dive bar that boasted itself as some sort of genuine British pub. Either the England of this world had fallen to some manner of apocalypse, or scummy dive bars were the same in every world. As long as they had whiskey, he didn't really care which one it was.

Nonah Bus Depot

After a few days, he couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't convince himself this was a different world. It just wasn't something he could wrap his head around. At first, he just tried to call people back home. He couldn't figure out his weird communicator device enough to make an outgoing call, so he managed to find a payphone. Every number he tried went nowhere. Most of them went nowhere, resulting in an irritating tone that told him the number didn't exist. One of them did end up somewhere, but it was so ridiculous he thought his friend was playing a joke, but it just resulted in yelling at a poor employee of an adult goods store.

Finding his way to the bus station, he just bought a ticket home. Or at least the closest approximation he could find. He got into a furious argument with the clerk over the name of the station he was going to, but in the end he got his ticket. He was getting out of there, one way or another.

There was a two hour wait before the bus arrived, but he wasn't going to wander away. He planted himself in one of the uncomfortable seats, scrubbing hands through his hair, trying to not let things eat him alive from the inside. For days he'd been pushing it down, but it was getting harder to contain it all. He would go weeks without seeing his brother. But this? This was different. Because at least then he knew his brother could find him. He was always available, if anything came up. But here? Donavin couldn't reach him. What would happen if Donavin went searching for him and he wasn't there? He didn't want to think of what his brother would do. But right now all he could do was wait.

Comments

[dreadinquisitor]

There was someone around. Maxwell was coming and going from down the street, packing up his few belongings to move the things he needed and at least prepare the things he'd want to take him later when Poe's base was ready. He was packing up his archery supplies when the slamming started.

His head came up, eyebrows jumping just as another shook the wall that met the hallway and a framed star chart toppled from the wall.

Frowning, he headed in the direction of the noise.

"What in Andraste's left- Hans?" He rounded the corner, coming up on the open bathroom and stopped. Definitely not Hans. He raised an eyebrow. "Hello?"

[crawfordstone]

Crawford froze, a wad of damp toilet paper halfway to his lip. He stared at the man behind him, through the mirror, poised between attacking and making a break for it. This wasn't his place, not as far as he felt at least. If it was, he'd punch the guy without a second thought. But not feeling like it was his, there was an immediate urge to run like he'd been caught breaking in.

After a breath, some semblance of logic settled in and he returned to the task of cleaning his face.

"Who the fuck're you?" he growled, instead of taking any action.

[dreadinquisitor]

Blue eyes drop to the split lip, taken in the other bruises, then lift again.

"Maxwell, I live here." Still, technically. "You are?"

[crawfordstone]

Eyes narrowed on the man's reflection, suspicion evident. After inspecting the damp tissue, Crawford threw it away and reached for more.

"What's it matter?" he growled. Ever the friendly sort.

[dreadinquisitor]

Charmer, wasn't he?

Still, Maxwell lets it slide for the moment, undecided yet if it's a surly personality by nature or by the design of those cuts and bruises.

"Because presumably you're not moving in here so 'The Man in the Bathroom' won't always apply?" he replied calmly. "Not to mention how awkward it would be."

Around Nonah - Dive Bar

[drivesadesk]

Nonah was warmer than, say, New York in the winter time, but it was still colder than Jonathan would like, so when he found himself in that particular city one evening, he decided to stop in a pub and get a few drinks before heading the rest of the way to the porter to send him back to Heropa. He got a weird look when he ordered some kind of fruity cocktail, but the bartender still made it for him, and he found himself sitting at the bar next to a very grumpy looking redhead.

Jonathan smiled.

"Wow. You look like you're in a bad mood. Did you just have like...the worst day ever?"

[crawfordstone]

Whatever the weather, Crawford always wore the same thing. A ratty old hoodie and jeans. Rain, snow, blistering heat. It didn't matter, he never changed. His only nod to accommodating the wither weather was a pair of well-worn fingerless gloves. Meaning they were frayed at the edges and could use a good washing.

Hearing the question, Crawford's only response seemed to be downing the rest of his own drink and slamming the glass back to the bar. He didn't give a damn about the fruity drink, other than a spark of irritation. It wasn't that the drink was "girly" but complicated. A drink shouldn't have eight different shots and three mixers, damn it.

Only after scrubbing the back of his hand over his lips did he address the man beside him. "If you wanna talk, go find some other victim."

[drivesadesk]

Jonathan liked overly complicated drinks. He took his coffee the same way, usually ordering drinks with excessively long names.

"Victim? Wow, that's a little dramatic, don't you think?"

Not really. Jonathan knew damn well humans didn't like an overly cheerful person bugging them when they were in a bad mood. And yet...

[crawfordstone]

And Crawford would be hard pressed to not trip him and spill his stupid fancy coffee all over everything. Because people who did that held up the line when all he wanted was something plain, black and hot. Just like fancy drinks held up the bartender. Especially when he was that bartender. But the nice thing about his place? He could kick people out if he wanted to. Too bad this wasn't his.

"No."

While he waited for the bartender to get his refill, he fished a cigarette out of his pocket. He didn't light it, though. He just twisted it between his fingers, staring at it, wondering what the laws were like around here. Back home, technically they weren't supposed to smoke inside. But that didn't stop a lot of places. Was it worth testing it without asking?

[drivesadesk]

If someone was going to say anything to make Crawford stop smoking, it would have to be the bartender, because Jonathan wasn't going to.

"Dude, you really should relax. You're out at the bar, people all around, it's a place to socialize, have fun. Not get all tense the second anyone comes over to say 'hi'."

[exceptionalthief]

It wasn't as though Hans was unused to roommates—between boarding schools, then university, then taking up with a group of far-left militant terrorists who by necessity lived in secret, sometimes crowded circumstances, and now this whole situation, the periods in his life when he hadn't any at all were a lot less numerous than the times he had.

When he'd first arrived, Nonah #001 had been entirely vacant aside from himself and had stayed that way for several months; an ideal situation he'd been sorry to see change. Shadow Moon and Maxwell had been relatively inoffensive, but even so, he hadn't cried any tears over their respective disappearances, and when the creepy little girl had vanished as well, he'd definitely felt relieved.

Wait, strike that—Max was back, wasn't he? For a while anyway, according to the text Hans had received... and that's undoubtedly him currently making all the noise while Hans is trying to sleep. Which is a bit of an unusual way for Max to behave, prompting Hans to get out of bed, unable to resist investigating the ruckus.

Only thing is... that's definitely not Maxwell. Hans stands in the doorway, staring for a moment as he takes in the appearance of the stranger, who looks as though he got the worst of a drunken brawl.

"What in the bloody hell is going on?" he asks abruptly, his accent German, despite the very British expression.

[crawfordstone]

There was something in that tone that made Crawford freeze completely. For a brief moment, his eyes widened, wiping out the stern and angry expression aimed at his own reflection. A couple heartbeats stretched into what seemed like minutes as panic started to creep in at the edges of everything. There wasn't anything rational about it. Just the collision of being in a strange place that he felt he wasn't supposed to be in, being caught while making a mess, and undercurrent of those words. Sheer instinct had him bracing for a blow that never came.

In reality, it was a few seconds before rationality shut that reaction down. To hide the aftershocks, he flicked the damp tissue he'd been using at the trash and reached for a few more squares.

"What's it fucking look like?" he growled, proving his lack of fear more to himself than the man behind him. His own accent was heavy, gruff, and very New York.

99.9% of his icons are him in a suit

[exceptionalthief]

If Hans had already been thinking this was a case of illegal entry of some sort, the deer-in-the-headlights look didn't do a lot to dispel that notion. His logical mind had already progressed a little beyond that however, at least in a subconscious way. What kind of idiot broke into an occupied house and did his best to alert all the inhabitants to that fact?

This kind, apparently, a smaller voice inside him whispers. He snorts a little, which works as a response to the man's explanation as well. "How about if we skip the guessing games and you just tell me?"

[crawfordstone]

With the moment of shock passed, he felt a growing need to bury it. Prove he wasn't scared of this guy, prove to himself that he was stronger than a moment of fear. Sure, he could be nice. Offer up the fact that he'd been dropped off by some government goons. Show his key and file as proof. But why do that when he could piss this guy off and prove he wasn't afraid?

"How about you fuck the hell off?"

His eyebrows lifted briefly, before he returned to dabbing at his swollen lip. The bleeding seemed to have stopped, at least.

[exceptionalthief]

Let's be real, out of the two of them standing there right now, Hans is probably not the most intimidating-looking person; dressed in a t-shirt and canvas pants, barefoot, hair a bit mussed from sleep. But while he hadn't taken the time to dress more imposingly, he had managed to come prepared for an altercation nonetheless, namely, taking the precaution of sliding a small semi-automatic into his pants pocket before leaving his room. Time to strengthen his position, he thinks.

He unceremoniously pulls the gun out, pointing it in Crawford's direction.

"I've got a better idea—how about if you do?"

Bus Depot

[tenofswords]

The Gray Man needed to buy a car already. Since he wasn't making hit man money anymore, he needed to budget his money more than before. Taking the bus was cheaper. Buying a car would make it easier to see the kids in De Chima.

Once he bought his ticket, he sat down on the bench, a few seats away from a rather grumpy looking fellow. He was glad he brought a book. A nice, paperback poetry book. Mr. Gray started reading, occasionally glancing at the large redhead. Mostly because that hair was eye-catching.

[crawfordstone]

More than once, Crawford caught the man staring at him. He was used to it, for the most part. What he'd discovered was that it was mostly people trying to figure out why he looked familiar. The reasons were numerous. Usually a blurry drunken night where he'd poured their drinks. Or he'd broken part of their face. Or for some, they'd seen his photo in the paper, years ago, in association with his bastard of a step father. None of these were reasons to try to chat with him in public, honestly.

But here, in this city? No one should know him. Different world or not, he was too far from home. So the guy that kept glancing at him could really only mean one thing. Usually it came with terms like "wary" or "keeping an eye on." And right now it was rubbing against his last, frayed nerve.

The next time he caught the man staring at him, he barked "You fucking want something or what?" in that thick, Manhattan punch to his words.

[tenofswords]

The Gray Man lowered his book to give the man a stoic glance. He should have known the man would notice eventually, given that it was just the two of them and there wasn't a lot of movement around here to catch the eyes and provide distraction. Therefor, of course he would notice the occasional glance.

He had also developed a bit of a habit of watching people, being that it was part of his former job. "No. It's a habit I've yet to shake."

[crawfordstone]

"Then I suggest you get to shaking or I'll shake it for you!"

With a huff, Crawford dug in his pockets. The big, glaring, white and red signs around reminded him that he couldn't smoke if he wanted to wait for his bus inside. Instead, he pulled out what he was told was a communicator. It looked like a piece of junk to him. But that might be because the buttons were a bit too small for his fingers.

[tenofswords]

"Not very polite, are we?"

The Gray Man's tone was observational, perhaps with just the barest hint of a chide. Mostly, he was simply stating it like one stated a fact. The other gentleman simply wasn't very polite.

"My apologies." The Gray Man, however, was a polite man. His eyes went back to his book. He had lost his place.

around nonah/dive bar

[knaval]

Hey!

[riptide is not talking to crawford, but he hops up on the stool next to him.]

Can I get a... [he looks around, points at crawford.] ...whatever he's having!

[crawfordstone]

[ Crawford jerks to the side as if he needed to avoid some incoming assault when Riptide jumped up beside him.

Eyeing the guy with a sneer, he turned his attention to the bartender. ]

How 'bout you give him a virgin vodka tonic?

[knaval]

That's funny. I know what that means, asshole!

[he huffs.]

Alright, forget it. Whiskey, please.

[crawfordstone]

[ His eyes narrow at the punk next to him. He doubts this kid can handle straight whiskey. ]

Prove it.

[knaval]

It means with no alcohol. What's your problem?

[unfortunately for crawford, riptide is an alien that's been drinking what amounts to battery acid to survive for three million years. his taste buds are kinda shot regardless. he throws it back like water, only shaking his head a little.]