Hank Schrader (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
schrader) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
maskormenacelogs2014-11-17 08:14 pm
schrader) wrote in maskormenacelogs2014-11-17 08:14 pm
(open) ▶ we got new players in town
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.
heropa;
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. ]
no subject
This really wasn't what Joel signed up for when he first agreed to be Jesse's drug mule. Last thing he ever expected was to find himself having to carry Jesse in his arms not once but twice, with the kid bleeding everywhere. Probably about time he demanded a goddamn pay rise.
And Christ. Last thing he wants to do is tell this Schrader guy his name - but like Joel had said, nobody is a no-name in this place. It wouldn't take Schrader too much effort to find out who he is. ]
Joel. And one of the hospitals in-- [ a grunt as he shifts Jesse's weight in his arms again ] De Chima.
[ Joel doesn't know what any of those hospitals are called. Just knows there's a bunch of them there. And as much as Joel would really love to stand chatting with Schrader (i.e., no, he doesn't), he gladly takes the dismissal as an opportunity to get going.
Off he goes, hurrying pretty quickly down the street. Gotta get off the streets before they really do start attracting unwanted attention. He cuts off to the right and heads into a small alley that leads between buildings and past dumpsters, and it's when he's certain he's out of sight of Schrader that Joel growls a little breathlessly between clenched teeth: ]
Jesus, I swear to God, kid--
no subject
He's grateful when they reach that alley. Maybe that means they can stop for a second.]
I didn't think he'd throw the whole damn sidewalk at me, okay.
no subject
And so, he's got Jesse pressed up against the wall, his hands gripping onto Jesse's shirt in tight fists, while he catches his breath and gives his arms a rest, and Joel has a mighty annoyed look on his face as he peers at Jesse. ]
You gonna tell me who that asshole is?
[ Because from the way Jesse was talking to him, it sure sounded to Joel like Jesse knows him. ]
no subject
He's... this fed. From back home. Don't - Don't freak out or anything, okay? He doesn't really know anything. He's just been chasing me forever.
no subject
So, you're tellin' me we're gonna have that guy chasin' our asses here 'cause of you?
no subject
If you want out, man, just say it. You got money now. And I don't need you.
[...He says as he is not even physically capable of standing on his own two feet.]
no subject
He's a lot less gentler this time, if he was even 'gentle' to begin with: he picks Jesse up like a rag doll and tosses him over his right shoulder, and starts charging as fast as he can down the alleyway. He's almost at his place.
The fact that he's done this instead of answering Jesse speaks volumes of what his answer is: he doesn't want out, and he knows Jesse needs him. ]