(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

[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.

[112ounces]

Carl looks at the bench, then back at to Hank. Obviously, Carl doesn't have a Gameboy, so he just sits down, hands on his knees, looking around at the room. His eyes are squinting, as though his eyes were not used to the florescence light of the ceiling.

This is only half true. The thing that brought him in this - this world, gave him a little gift, a little modification with his eyes. He can see things further away, and with more clarity. He can see an officer with coffee stains on his uniform, on the other side of the room, flipping through papers, which contain words like 'second indictment' 'aggravated assault' and 'Hornet'.

Carl couldn't help but have a small, grim smile. If only he had these eyes back home. He would have made a safe shot between the Governor's eyes. He looks back at Hank as he does his job, noting Carl can even count the threads on Hank's shirt this far away. He rubs at his eyes, trying to show he's not trying to stare.