(open) ▶ we got new players in town

[schrader]

WHO: Hank Schrader, Jesse Pinkman, Rustin Cohle, and YOU.
WHERE: Around Cape Canaveral, then Heropa's police precinct, apartments, restaurants, and bars. Run into him anywhere, I'm flexible!
WHEN: November 16-22
WHAT: Maiming meth heads and making cliché X-Men jokes. In other words: he's settling in, okay?
WARNINGS: Mention of drug use, violence, and lots of F-bombs.

cape canaveral;

[ He's only just recently arrived, and it doesn't matter that he's been given a clean suit. Doesn't matter that it's a beautiful day. Doesn't matter that he's got an iced coffee just sitting there melting, or that he's probably getting a sunburn on his head that'll make him sorry. Doesn't matter what's good, or what's bad, because none of it is home. That puts it on a level with words he doesn't know. Florida doesn't even sum it up, and that's pretty bad on it's own.

Despite sitting out in the sun in his wheelchair, he's not lounging. He's not sitting like a guy would on a park bench, but instead like anyone might at an office desk. He isn't looking around with a casual front, although there is a newspaper. It's just a crumpled mess on the sidewalk beside him, the bullshit inside only further proof that none of this can be real. But even if it might feel like a dream, he isn't treating it like one. He's looking at everyone like they're a potential enemy (they are), and coming to terms with the realization he may not see his wife for a long time. That's the entire reason he had to leave the building in the first place: making too big of a scene over Marie's whereabouts. The jags thought he'd just cooperate because he can't walk on his own? He can still fire a gun.

Sucking air in through his teeth, he scratches angrily at the spot on his wrist they chose to violate, even if the tattoo isn't visible right now. He doesn't even want to think about what other Frankenstein crap they tried on him. His file wasn't reassuring. Working for the government doesn't entail this level of BS, that much he knows, no matter what Hollywood likes to dazzle laymen with. It's left him completely stuck on how to proceed.

Just when he'd finally had his motivation jump-started again, with Marie's tentative smile still alive in his memory and the Los Pollos logo sitting right in front of him, he's suddenly in the land of nod and unicorns, except these unicorns are just people with super powers. Supposedly. His inner child can't even get any enjoyment out of the prospects, not with everything he is invested in the life he had.

Fuck 'em. This isn't his government. Is it? Fuck. What he wouldn't give for a cigar and his wife's nagging opinions. ]

heropa;

[ So this is a world where the Jetsons didn't quite lie. It's not quite sci-fi, but it borders close enough to almost distract Hank from the gravity of this fuckfest. Almost. Hovering cars don't make him any more pleased to be shipped here, like some recruit in the 60's. Except he's supposed to believe this is still America. Well, fuck, okay then.

The only proper way to cope with that realization is collect as many books as he can on the subject...and drink. Drink a lot. While most of it will no doubt be at the apartment with a pile of texts, he'll still be frequenting bars and cheap diners a couple nights this week. He needs to see the kind of people that live here, anyway, and feel out new connections. It may be difficult when he practically radiates indignation, lurking by a corner table in his wheelchair, but it's hard to be friendly when so far you've only had possible enemies to meet.

He will be checking out the local precinct in the day, even if he's not ready to sign on for any work. As a fed, he isn't thrilled at the idea of working alongside city cops, especially as a Goddamn dispatch. He doesn't even get a proper badge. In reality (ACTUAL reality), he shouldn't give a single fuck about that, if he's to continue along the mindset that none of this is his, anyway; But it's hard to shake stereotypes and expectations, and somehow this seems even worse than a suspension. There's a mutual respect he'll offer street cops, with his history, but that doesn't make him want his old job back any less. Being a desk jockey and listening to panicked people all day? Thanks, no. He'll do nearly anything to change it.

Enough that his mind occasionally drifts back to that fairy godmother move Pinkman pulled on him. It had offered something like...hope. But hope from the enemy? He'd sooner deal with a physical therapist again than owe Pinkman his entire livelihood. He's no fucking Cinderella.

Tiana all the way. ]

Comments

▶ pinkman

[schrader]

[ CONTINUED FROM this brewing shit storm. ]

Hey!

[ He'd already given Jesse warning, hadn't he? He sure fucking did, so it's not his fault if he reacts to the perceived threat like any good cop would: with earthbending.

Wait, yes? Yes, that's definitely the ground right beneath them shifting when he jerks to knock Jesse's hand away and punch him down, but there's a multitude of shocking factors that stop Hank from landing a direct hit. One: the ground just moved and his wheelchair's breaks are off. Two: he doesn't want to get into a fist fight like a punk. Three: the ground moved. Four: That sure is a small chunk of sidewalk knocking right against the kid for him.

Five: he thought he just felt something, and it's not the wonder and awe at his own power, but the alienation from his own constant pain that he suddenly feels from Jesse's power.

And then there's that split-second fear he just killed the kid. No matter what a fucktard Pinkman is, Hank doesn't want him dead, and he certainly didn't consciously just do that. He may have read the file, but he hadn't fucking believed it, fuck!

FUCK THERE ARE PEOPLE AROUND. ]

[hostage]

[As if it wasn't bad enough that Jesse just gave himself a minor spinal injury to prove a point. Suddenly there's a chunk of concrete swiping him out of nowhere and he goes down, flat on his face. He stood no chance against that mineral rock.

But he's not dead. Or even unconscious. He's a little more durable than that these days. Once that initial disorientation passes and he realizes he's on the ground now, he picks his head up off the sidewalk and spits out a mouthful of blood. There's another wisecrack about assault on the tip of his tongue, but he can't talk anymore. Mission accomplished, Hank.]

[schrader]

[ Fuck. Jesse shouldn't be conscious, he knows that. It happened fast, but he knows that.

How did he fucking do that? There is a chunk of concrete missing from right behind Jesse, now cracked beside the bloodied shitstain of a junkie. ]

Shit, kid don't move.

[ Why the fuck did you touch me?! he wants to yell at him, but that's no longer the point. Hank hadn't even been attacked. He's fucked up and it hasn't even been a week. Leave it to him to already be pulling out his communicator to get ready to...call for an ambulance. Good job with dispatch here, Hank, you are ahead of the game! ]

[shittybirthday]

[ As much as the superpower shit breaks Joel's brain if he thinks too hard about it, he's finally, after about six, maybe seven months of living in this place, finally begun to just accept that it's a thing here. He doesn't get it, doesn't understand it, doesn't like it, but next to the world he comes from, he'd rather bizarre superpowers he doesn't understand than Clickers any goddamn day.

And so, when he's heading back to his and Ellie's apartment after walking her to work (partly just to spend time with her, mostly because he's still paranoid something bad might happen - it's hard to shake old survival instincts and habits), he would have deliberately turned a blind eye to the rumble in the ground and the sudden chunk of cement that comes ripping from out of the ground if he hadn't have recognised the person whom the chunk of cement goes slamming down on.

And look, as much as Jesse pisses Joel off, he's dealt with far worse assholes. There's something about the stupid goddamn kid that has had Joel kinda getting a little protective towards. Maybe it's the fact that Jesse is his boss and Joel looks out for him for his own interest. Maybe it's because Ellie annoyingly likes him so much, and so Joel feels compelled to bother just to appease Ellie. Maybe it's because the kid really is just a dumb, lost kid.

Whatever the reason, Joel's eyes widen at the scene that unfolds ahead of him, and without another moment's hesitation, he picks up his pace, all broad shoulders and menacingly tight jaw and an effortlessly threatening stride.

Jesse will be fine. He recovered from that savage beating he got from that Ward asshole just fine. A chunk of cement landing on him is probably nothing next to that. He's got his eyes trained on the guy in the wheelchair, anyway. While Jesse is lying sprawled on the ground with blood dripping from his mouth, Joel steps right past him, dashes an arm out towards the crippled guy, and snatches the front of his shirt in his rough, broad hand. His other hand is making a grab for the guy's communicator, ready to wrestle it out of his hand.

Is Joel enough of an asshole to haul a crippled guy out of his wheelchair and toss him onto the ground? Yeah, probably. He doesn't, though. Not yet, anyway. ]

You wanna explain to me what the hell you think you're doin'?

[hostage]

[Oh. Oh no. That's Joel.

Jesse's partially relieved, because he's pretty sure Schrader was about to call the authorities or some shit and that's the last thing Jesse needs, honestly. Even an ambulance is more of a hassle than he really wants to deal with.

But this is Joel, which means the chances of this escalating to murder just jumped by... a lot.]

Nnn...

[God, fuck. Something's wrong with his throat. He can't raise his voice, so he stretches out his arm to slap at Joel's ankle. No. Bad Joel. Don't break the cop.]

▶ cohle

[schrader]

[ Right to the point, ain't he? Eh, Hank can respect it. It makes him sit up straighter.

Is there actually a simple answer for that, given his suspension and then disability status? Fuck it. ]

ASAC Schrader, of the Albuquerque DEA. Just Hank's fine. And you, cowboy?

alright alright alright

[deduct]

[he knew he smelled cop on him.]

Homicide detective Rustin Cohle, Louisiana State Police. [and, just to mimic hank's little introduction:] Call me Rust.

They got me as a detective here, too. Major Crimes.

[whatever that means for them, anyway. maybe there's a serial killer on the loose.]

a bar :')

[dog_eat_dog]

Several days into her stay in Heropa, Tess is finally getting on her feet, and for the first time in as many days she feels like she's getting comfortable in her old element. Legally-run dive bars aren't necessarily the most familiar territory, but they're as close as she'll get, and Tess feels most at home around seedy people. When you spend as much time as she has with criminals, dealers, junkies, smugglers and otherwise distasteful people as she does, you acquire a certain comfort around people who frequent dive bars rather than the after-six martini bars.

Tess has that comfort in spades, and that's why she's flitting between groups of people, striking up conversation, introducing herself in a nonchalant but friendly way. People should know her. It's habit to be relatively known. Most people are friendly back, too. People in dive bars don't judge as much, either: Tess fits right in with her scars and her messily-cut hair and slightly ill-fitting clothes and bandaging peeking out just beyond the neckline of her shirt. Anywhere else, she looks like she crawled out of an AA meeting in the shittiest part of town.

But that guy in the corner gets her interest most. The guy looks like a dog at the end of a chain, seething and bitter about being tied to a stake. People like that usually want something, and Tess likes knowing what people want. After all, supplying what people want is her market.

So she approaches him.

"You don't look like you're having a good time for someone drinking as much as you have."

[schrader]

Hank is most definitely having trouble getting......back on his feet. In all the ways, not just as a terrible cosmic joke.

For now he's just keeping it to beer, as he's not so fed up that he's willing to get pissed in front of a bunch of strangers who could be dangerous without mutant powers. He already saw how those can get carried away, and it never takes very long for Hank's mind to wander back to that most epic of fuck-ups. So yes, maybe he's keeping away the whisky and tequila, but the number of beer bottles cluttering the side of the table is not slight.

The woman approaching him throws him all the more off, especially in his broody state. His first guess would be a hooker, but she's the worst fucking hooker ever by the looks of her get-up. If she's just hitting on him, well...he's not stupid enough to suspect that, either, really. He's a creepy guy in a wheelchair, and his wedding ring's clearly visible for anybody who gets close, even in this shitty lighting.

Sitting up a little straighter at the presence of a lady, he gives her a once-over that seems to still leave his judgement undetermined. But he can vaguely remember seeing her around the bar talking to other people. Friendly, but not annoying and shrill like those green recruits with their brand new IDs still in paper.

"Must be 'cause they can't brew worth a damn here. Don't tell me you're having a blowout over this piss water?"

[dog_eat_dog]

"It's not up to my standards," Tess says, which isn't exactly a lie, even if she's drank much worse too often to claim those standards are based on any good taste. Rather, her standards are based on how much she can sell it for, and to the right buyer, lousy beer is still beer.

She slides into a seat in the nearest chair, which she drags a little closer.

"I used to work in distribution. Unfortunately for you, plenty of people will pay good money for piss-water. It's far easier to sell than most."

[schrader]

That gets him to watch her a lot more closely. Distribution can mean so many things, and she's acting awfully smooth. Some habits are hard for him to shake, even if he needs only a minute of hard thinking to remind himself he no longer works for the DEA. Would he even give enough of a fuck to do anything, anyway?

For now he'll assume she dabbles in nothing stronger than moonshine, because he's too damn tired and upset by the week to focus that much on doing a job that's no longer his. Fuck 'em is a remarkably soothing mantra, when mixed with terrible beer at least. It helps the bitterness stew, really.

"Yeah well, I got my standards. Not enough to go completely dry, I guess, huh. Shouldn't talk. What's your trade now, ya don't mind my asking?"

[dog_eat_dog]

Now she has his attention. Tess smiles.

"I'm taking some time off while I'm down here in Florida," she says. That's more or less true, too. "What do you do?"

[heropa police precinct]

[acrobrat]

[It's a slow day at the police precinct, and Anita is seated at a desk, her feet plunked on it while no one is looking, and her arms crossed over her chest. She's contemplating making up an excuse to get out early when she notices a guy checking out the place. From how he's checking out the place, he's either 100% new or looking for a job.]

...Hey. Looking for somethin'? [She swings her feet down from the table and stares at him.

Yes, she seems a bit too young to be working at the precinct. In fact, she is 13.]

[schrader]

[ That gets a passing look. A kid being here, Hank can only assume she's a cop's kid or a delinquent in for loitering, because otherwise she doesn't look dangerous enough to squish a fly.

He'll offer her an awkward, half-cocked grin. He doesn't get any jollies out of being mean to kids, even when he's busy. ]

No offense, missie, but I'm sure you ain't it.

[acrobrat]

[She stands up - and she stands at only less than 5 feet in height, emphasizing how much of a kid she is. And actually, she IS dangerous as long as there is paper within arm's reach. Thankfully she's only dangerous when the situation calls for it.]

Okay, then what is it? A job?

[schrader]

[ He tries not to look as deadpan as he feels about a kid asking him these questions, but he'll just assume she's the daughter of a cop, or some wandering brat whose daddy got stuck in the drunk tank.

Whose desk actually is that, anyway? ]

Nothing that interests you, kid. Isn't there some place a bit less, uh...cop-like for you to play?

[acrobrat]

[She frowns, placing her hands on her hips.]

Who said I'm playing? I work here.

police department

[112ounces]

Carl is taking a stab at using the police department. Granted he's more than ninety percent sure his dad isn't here. But he doesn't want to go to school and there's nothing else he can do. Sitting down at watch TV is something he can do, but he doesn't really want to do that either.

But at least he manages to clean up and get some fresh, clean clothes for once. His hair looks like it needs a serious comb over, but that's a typical boy thing.

He walks up to a guy who looks like a desk clerk. "Hi. Is this where you can find other imPorts, like me? I need to find someone."

[schrader]

Just when he thinks he's done for the day with this horse shit, in walks a kid of all things. A kid strolling into a precinct without any guardian is only noteworthy right now because he's become acutely aware of the differences one can assume while here: that being that people shouldn't be expected to be brought with their families, and they shouldn't be expected to be safe from supervillains.

This is...not his job, if he can even claim to work his job yet, but he's filled out enough paperwork to at least be in the system. He's about to tell the boy to head down that hall, check the chick with the--, but aw damn, what else has he honestly got to do at this moment? Even the hat makes him nostalgic. Anything that reminds him of home, at this point...

"Wouldn't call it the imPort lost and found, kid, but sure I'll see if I can help ya. Who're you looking for?"

[112ounces]

Carl honestly didn't think his hat would attach such attention. The symbolism of the hat became lost to him over the years until it simply became his hat, with the simple knowledge it was Dad's hat.

The idea of using it to his advantage simply didn't occur to him.

"Well, I was told to go to the police to find people. I'm looking for Rick Grimes, my dad. He used to be a cop, so I was thinking he might have a job here."

[schrader]

Hank can't say he's heard of the name so far, and he's already looked to find out what other imPorts could be cops, but he by no means thinks he couldn't have missed it. He hasn't been here that long at all. With a shrug and a nod, he points towards a nearby bench.

"Park it there for a minute and pull out your Gameboy, and I'll go have a chat to see where he is."

He can ask someone else who knows the system to check more thoroughly if the imPort's Registered anywhere, which is something Hank will get better at in time. If it's the kid's dad, then it's worth checking out.

Too bad he doesn't have better news to bring back.

cheap diner

[selfequipped]

[There is a long list of things that Kate Bishop enjoys eating: pancakes, waffles, breakfast food, bacon, burgers, and a few other things in-between. Oh, she definitely appreciates the great joy of greasy French fries. But the important part is that if it's on a diner menu, she's probably a fan of it in some way. Or at least, if it's on a diner menu and it's considered "difficult to fuck up," she's a fan of it. That narrows the list sometimes. Some diners try to expand on what they do well.

But the point is, she's in a diner tonight for a reason, with a giant burger, fries, and some obliterated appetizer in front of her (the appetizer was probably cheese sticks). She's also drinking a soda absently while she reads over some files. They're mismatched pieces of information, and from the way she's not protecting them, it largely means the information is available to anyone.

She's content to stick with this when a certain man enters and moves to a corner in the restaurant that isn't too far from where she's seated (having preferred to be not quite as close to the entrance herself). It's at that point that she starts staring. What becomes immediately apparent is that it's either Hank Schrader, or the guy who plays Hank Schrader in some other role (and coincidentally also ended up in a wheelchair). Either way, a few thoughts immediately occur to her: the fact that she currently has that meth in her possession because of her own investigation, that she needs to really talk to Jesse Pinkman, and right now, the time table on that just sped up. By a lot. Like a lot a lot.

If that's him. If that's who anyone has to worry about.

Kate knows that if it's Hank, staring at him openly is going to draw his attention, so she pulls herself out of her booth and decides to approach him, a smile on her face.] Hey there, I'm Kate, I can't help but notice that you have to be an imPort, right? Trust me, I've got a sixth sense for this. [Which, given their superpowers that they have, makes it all the more likely.] So, well, hello! [Again. Kate isn't a naturally awkward person. But she feels awkward now.]

[schrader]

[ It definitely doesn't take him long to feel eyes on him once he's ordered his milkshake and fries, but at this point Hank is more likely to duck away from gazes than confront them. Rather than be suspicious, he feels more like everyone should be watching him now. What he did to Pinkman is prime YouTube material if not lawsuit material, so when a young lady approached him and immediately spouts off about imPorts, he has to resist the urge to openly cringe.

Is this a set-up? Did Pinkman send her? Is she an operative to lecture him on how to handle bystanders? Whatever it is, he doesn't look thrilled to see her, but manners and the balance of probability leave him giving her at least one chance.

This has not been his week, though. ]

...Not a reporter, are ya? I've got nothin' to say if so.

[selfequipped]

I'm a detective, actually. PI, so it's mostly the small time stuff that people laugh about, but I've got a couple of bigger leads. [She mentally debates pointing out one of those leads, but it's not so much a lead as "I know everything about Jesse's operation back home, so I can probably draw the right conclusions here." Besides, the reason she hasn't acted yet is to keep Jesse from being buried by the weight of his poor decisions, but now it's looking like she might need to make him think twice about how he's handled that in the past.

Well, here she is now. If he's Hank, she needs to find out soon.]

But that's not why I'm saying hi. It's mostly a good Samaritan thing. I haven't seen your face before, but that sense told me what I needed to introduce myself. [Kate has a feeling he can read between the lines of obvious bullshit. But she's trying. She's chipper, anyway. At least she doesn't seem like the type to normally run with Jesse Pinkman.] Or I guess you could say it makes sure I'm a busy body. [Right. Chipper. Keep it up, Kate.]

[schrader]

[ Detective? Well, PIs aren't exactly his thing, but it's a heck of a lot better than a reporter.

...Depending. She could still have been sent by someone, but if so, saying she's a detective is fucking stupid. She seems more awkward than coy. It's enough for him to offer a more lenient grunt as he nods to the seat across from him. If she wants something police-related, she must have already found his name at the precinct, but she might be disappointed by his current status.

"Sense", what the fuck ever, honey. ]

Well...Kate, nice to meet ya. I'm Hank. But I really wasn't...lookin' for good Samaritans. [ Not trying to be an ass here, but he's naturally defensive over being mistaken for helpless or lost.

And if it's a new lure for street walkers and peddlers, he is definitely noping out. ]