dualislogs | i wanna hold ‘em like they do in texas, please

Entry tags:

i wanna hold ‘em like they do in texas, please

WHO: Open to all Dualizens
WHAT: Your regularly scheduled NAPs event for the month
WHERE: The brand-new Theronia Casino
WHEN: Dec. 7-10
WARNINGS: Please use these if applicable!

Look at all of these bright, shining new faces! There’s even a few less bright, less shining faces - maybe even a few folks without faces - but hey, this city welcomes all types. Chances are, if you’ve just arrived, you're seeing some pretty crazy things, unless you're used to an eye-blinding amount of neon, robots, weird-ass technology, magic, and an omnipresent police force...and hey, if you are, congrats, you're gonna settle in just fine! But for the rest of you, the Head knows this is gonna be pretty overwhelming, right?

Well, since your quaint individual processing units are probably having a hard time, why not link up with another one? By which the Head means...

Hello, new citizens of Dualis,
and welcome to your monthly Network Adjacency Protocol~!

NAPs are a monthly community networking event similar to the Earth concept of speed dating. Two citizens (new arrivals and old hands alike) are placed at a table together with a handy cue card of queries to help break the proverbial ice. Ask (possibly invasive) personal questions and receive results - or ignore the card and yeet yourself straight into a brand new friendship, whatever works! But don't be too shy - you've only got ten minutes together, and if you just sit in silence for the whole ten, the Network Admins are likely to come supervise and try to repair the uplink through a mild shock to the ol' central nervous system. You might find yourself saying all sorts of unintended facts about yourself if that happens...probably better to just make friends, right? Who doesn’t like friends?!

The weather outside is … not frightful, but this month’s event is still being held in a cozy indoor environment. Welcome to the newly-opened Theronia Casino, a 12-story building that boasts amazing buffets and dozens of different types of gambling on each floor. Enjoy a rousing game of blackjack, poker, or tall card with your friends! Try your luck at roulette, get a group together for dice games, or maybe meet some new faces over a round of mahjong. If there’s another type of gambling game local to your home world, chances are good it’ll have a table on one of the casino floors. Types of cuisine vary from floor to floor, but kosher, vegan, and allergen-free offerings are always available no matter where you choose to dine.

As a special bonus, all NAPs attendees receive free entry into the weekly Go Fish Tournament. Daily finalists win a prize of 1000 duos and advance to the championship game next month. Play your heart out, and remember - anything’s competitive if you try hard enough!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

See? It was totally worth practically burning his fingerprints off rescuing the damn thing. It's a statement piece. You don't get nice shirt with something that makes you look like you're good with numbers!

His grin softens into something a little more natural, brows losing that sad little uptick he usually struggles to get rid of. "Great meeting you, too." His right hand has already swung over for a customary shake. It's a big, gorilla looking thing, with a spiderweb of scarring threaded beneath the knuckle hair.

"Harry Du Bois," he adds, before nodding back at Hank's shirt appreciatively. "I should take notes."

He's not wrong there. "Hank Anderson," Hank introduces curtly, giving his hand a firm shake and smiling tightly. The stress from his own expression eases up because, well, at least he can still meet some new people at these damn things.

He returns to his whiskey.

"So I take it you're one of the Head's most recent fucking inductees, huh? So where are you from?"

Your average sort of introductory conversation that doesn't come with token flash cards and bland introduction by fire. Who would have thought?

Harry holds off from replying just long enough to pick up his own glass, giving a quick nod of thanks to the bartender before his eyes move back to Hank. "Revachol," he says, really leaning into the odd French twist in his accent. "It's a city in La Caillou, on the Insulinde isola." A beat, as he studies Hank's expression, seemingly looking for a flash of recognition. "A world called Elysium," he adds, apparently not finding it. "Nobody I've spoken to so far has heard of it, so..."

Don't worry about it? No, it's more of a sad acknowledgement, really.

"Apparently they ran out of twenty-year old sambo experts to abduct and decided to move onto moribund detectives." He clicks his tongue, firing a single finger gun into the air.

"That might change." He doesn't know if Harry would want it too, though. Most people in their right mind wouldn't; even though he greatly appreciated Connor being around.

He folds his arms on the bar.

"Hey, I've been around longer than most people in our building, and I'm a detective. The fuckin' Head decided to go back to standard in our case. I'm from Detroit, on a world called 'Earth.' Save a few fuckin' planetary and state divisions between." This shit is always weird to explain.

"All that sounds Quebecer as fuck though."

The revelation that the man in front of him is a detective... doesn't remotely surprise Harry, now that he thinks about it. There's something in Hank's weary, coiled energy that brings Jean Vicquemare to mind. Like Hank's this close to calling him Shitkid.

ESPIRT DE CORPS — It's more than that. This guy may as well have RCM tattooed to his forehead.

He gives a little huff of air through his nose rather than actually laughing, but the corners of his eyes have crinkled all the same.

"Glad I've got a prototype to fail to live up to." Dry. So dry in fact, that he chases that with the Pale-Aged vodka he's been putting off until now. The exquisite burn of it sliding down his throat is almost enough to melt the shame taking root in the pit of his stomach.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — It's enough, brother. Seven days in the desert, and you're finally home.

"How long is long?" he asks, voice sounding tight as he sets the glass back down. A small gesture and a tap-tap on the rim, and suddenly he's waiting for round two. "You nearing that magic year point yet?"

"Over six months now." But there's something behind those words. It's not an anticipation, waiting for release from his servitude. But rather a dread, like he's got more obligation ahead of him.

Nothing he can talk about here, though. He was willing to hypothesize at public events before, but now that he has a more solid idea? He knows better than to talk while they're being monitored.

"I wanted to try out a cop job here when I came in, and I fuckin' hated being at the shit bottom of the payscale again. Started out as a traffic cop. Not that I can blame them, but Jesus it was a swing backwards."

Well... That's odd. Even in permanently off-duty vodka-cop mode, Harry can tell there's a lot left unsaid there. Somewhere in the back of his head, he adds 'Ask around about the year thing' onto his to-do list.

"First mistake right there," he says, waving a finger at Hank. "Back home you'd be looking at Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor Harrier Du Bois of the Revachol Citizen's Militia." You better believe he just spread his arms wide, head tilting down in a theatrical bow. "Here?" He brings his arms back in and drops a hand down to his pants pocket. A moment later, a gaudy ID card is slapped onto the bar.

"Harry the Zoo-man!"

ENCYCLOPEDIA — Zoologist. You're killing me, Harry.

Edited 2019-12-11 01:20 (UTC)

"Zoo-man?"

Hank reaches out for the card because he can't stop himself at all. He has to look and be sure. Zoologist. Suddenly that grizzled old bear's face breaks into a smile 'cause he can't help himself. It's great.

"Take it you don't have a zooman degree back home? Get out of here!" He snorts.

"At least you might get to pet something big and fucked up, right?" Hank's a pet owner. Animals are a good time. It's not a bad job.

"Zoo-man." The phrase is parroted back instantly. Almost forcefully, like saying it again makes it more legitimate somehow.

It's fair to say Harry might not have been the best candidate for a traffic cop, given that the last motor carriage he personally drove is currently still sat sticking half-way out of the Martinaise sea ice. Still, despite jokingly telling Lena he was considering quitting the RCM for a career in cryptozoology, the posting has come... somewhat as a surprise.

He shrugs, giving Hank a goofy (embarrassed) smile right back. "Pretty sure I don't have a degree in anything, but that ain't ever stopped me before." Should he mention the phasmid? He wants to mention the phasmid. He'll allude to it, at least. (That'll open future opportunities to mention the phasmid.) "I helped some scientists with a little field work recently, so... I'm guessing that must've paid dividends."

"Besides—" a hopeful raise of his eyebrows "—speaking of dividends, any job title that ends in 'logist' has gotta pay more than copwork, right?"

This is clearly a man who hasn't sat and studied the going rate for an anything in Dualis. That bleach smell may as well be the smell of blissful ignorance.

Edited 2019-12-13 01:04 (UTC)

"I'd use hazard pay as an excuse but there's not been a reason to fucking get it. The SWAT gear is collecting dust because they rely on the iterations to do everything." And sure, even with the certainty they're being listened to, he'll say that. He still would rather have people deal with half the problems that the enforcer bots do.

But, who the fuck knows, maybe Harry here ended up with the most shit job one could imagine when it comes to safety standards.

"Maybe you could look and see what's native, huh? I've been having a hell of a lot of trouble figuring out what's supposed to have been around before the plague happened. There's been a lot of historical cleansing."

"And don't worry, for the most part we get paid the same shit standard. Communism at its best with just that shit hint of capitalistic flair." Hank makes a smidge of room between his fingers, not even pretending not to be a cynic about that. "You don't like the job? Any other job will pay the same."

He takes a much more measured sip of the newly materialized second round of vodka, swallowing it down alongside the urge to immediately chase the words 'communism' and 'capitalistic' like a rabid dog. The burst of rhetoric can wait. Historical cleansing, though? He's definitely getting curious now. Hank is clearly a guy who knows things, whether or not he's actually willing to share with the class.

"Honestly? I figured by zoologist they meant jumped up zookeeper, but, uh..." Harry peers down at the card, ignoring the ugly photo and focusing in on the rest of it. He hums, thoughtful. "If it's less cleaning up elephant shit, and more heading out there and investigating?" Another little smile, this one directly aimed at Hank. "Let's just say I'll take whatever bullshit pay-packet they call normal here. Can't be worse than anything the RCM ever handed over."

A fella can pray, anyway. The giddy excitement (and crushing disappointment) he'd felt running around and checking those phasmid traps with Kim is something he can't really put into words. It's detective work without the bloated corpse hanging from the tree outside. If Hank's right, well...

"Next one's on me," he says softly.

HANK🠵

WARM

"Four hundred a month, no matter what. I started out as a traffic cop. About four months in I got a promotion to detective. First thing they did was put me on a drug case, too. Turns out that dealers are few and far between so cops that know how to deal with the worst of them are even fewer. And Detroit is kind of a rough city- one where the unemployment is insane. I cleaned up the major drug distributors a few years back, so this should be a walk in the park."

But he nods to Harry as he offers the drink. "Thanks." And he rushes through his whiskey just to take advantage of it, calling a 'make it a double' down the bar to the bartender.

"If you get fuckin' board brushing unicorns, I've actually got permission to deputize some people. So all I'd have to do is go with a small interview. You'd get some extra pay for it. The PD is compensating."

Okay, so assuming Interisolary Reál and Duos are directly comparable, four hundred a month absolutely equates to less than his unimpressive RCM salary. That's... not great. The word 'fuck' might have even left his mouth were it not for another louder, angrier one projecting itself straight into his mangled brain:

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Drugs?

He does his damnedest to ignore it, trying to focus on what Hank is actually saying instead. "Deputizing, huh?" A beat, before his eyebrows rise and fall in an approximation of a facial shrug. "Why not?"

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — He said DRUGS, brother! That he's cleaning up the whole damn shop! I bet this fucker could hook you up with something universe altering. Go on. Ask him about it. Needle. Poke the fuckin' bear!

It's with some effort that he calmly retrieves the green ape pen from his other trouser pocket, and reaches for a coaster to scribble his details on. With a final slash of the pen, he underlines it all and pushes it toward Hank. "Gimme a call when you want that interview." The 'when I'm not drinking' is left unsaid.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — HARRISTER!

He retrieves his glass and works his face into something like casual curiosity. "So, uh... Mister Big-Drug-Bust, huh? There's gotta be more to that story."

"Well, at least everything's pretty affordable beyond that. Back home you want a vehicle and it's gonna take you years of investment, not just a few months of work. Here you could probably get somethin' pretty good for about uhhhh 1200 Duos or so? Somthing in that range?"

Hank mentally calculates over his next glass of whiskey, still pleased that he can do math. Next thing he knows, though, Harry's offering him a card with his info on it. "Right uh, my username on the network is just 'dpdhank', no spaces. Didn't feel like being fucking inventive, you know?" Expecially since he foolishly thought he'd only be here for a year and then be heading back.

"But yeah, I'll hook you up. I'd rather have some real people than some tase-happy robots. Like fuckin' frat boys on a Saturday, these fuckin' things are. No goddamn self-control," just threat detection. They lay far too many people out on their ass.

"Right, so... Yeah, that happened like, ten years ago? At least the biggest one. We did this big multi-department joint job. Figured out that there were a lot of different dealers trafficking it in from different states, and they were using some big-name motor companies to do it. They were taking kickbacks because fuckin' public transit was necessary and cars weren't selling as well as they were before.

"So we used a lotta people posing as poor buyers, stationed some guys around disguised as homeless guys, casually switched around a few drivers at checkpoints. Next thing you knew we had most of the producers shut down at their state sources. And boy, did I fuckin' love shoving it in the faces of a few politicians when they got to learn that it was their scumbag citizens taking advantage of citizens in my city."

The pride ebbs away to something more somber. "People losing jobs, families, having a lot on their mind, fuckin'... hate to see how people take advantage of that." And that new glass is emptied. Can he afford to muscle through another? You know what, sure. He's stuck at this fuckin' event. Might as well make the most of it.

If Harry could buy a Coupris Kineema for a neat 1200, Jean's wall of vitriol against him might have been a little... excessive, maybe. As it stands, he's pretty sure his joy-ride off the canal cost his station closer to 45,000. A figure so astronomical that he feels an automatic tightening in his chest at the mere memory of it.

So yeah, maybe he'll leave the exchange rate debate for another time — one where he's not busy taking a dip into oblivion station.

It strikes him (as Hank begins spinning his tale) just how different Detroit and Revachol appear to be on a real fundamental level. The idea of departments working together, rather than against one another, for one — that's pretty remarkable. That they'd be able to shove anything into the face of the moralist politicians? Oh, but it's a pretty picture.

He finishes his vodka with an obligatory grimace and sets the glass back to the counter. Draws a hand over that massive 'tache of his like he's trying to smooth it down. He can't fail to notice just how quickly Hank's double has disappeared, too. What's the phrase? Misery loves company? Yeah. If Harry's found another buddy-buddy — another in the fraternity of drunks he's apparently forever a member of — then he's duty bound to try and take that friend with him.

The hand that reaches over to pat Hank's shoulder almost acts as a distraction from the other, which is busy signalling the bartender back over to the two empty glasses.

"History's full of big guys taking a shit on the little ones," he agrees, breaking that shoulder-pat-athon with a quick squeeze. "Sounds like we could use a few guys like you over in Jamrock. Me, uh... me and my partner, Kim, we did a little side-investigation into the drug trade over at the docks. The second we realized it was coming in on the trucks was the second our superiors decided we weren't investigating it anymore." The look he gives Hank communicates a level of weariness no words could.

"What's the deal with possession over here? You guys meant to be shaking down every hobo, or what?"

It hadn't been that hard, but it hadn't been easy, either. Hank found an uphill battle in demanding department cooperation. He's pretty sure the Feds wouldn't have given him the time of day, no matter how successful he was.

God, in retrospect? Punching Perkins felt so damn good.

"Yeah, I think every history is like that. At least in the people I've talked to, here." He listens to Harry's story, about the hints of corruption that were so damn pervasive. He'd struggled against that his whole career. Well, up until the point he crumbled, and gave up on life.

"Rules here are pretty light for possession. A lotta stuff is available for prescription. Goes with the mods. In fact, most of the crime around here is from smuggling. But the punishments for havin' shit are usually like... fuckin' community service? But then they can get really bad for people that do the really violent shit. They don't even do jail time, they start wiping memories."

That's still so fucked up. The thing is, it even happens to long term citizens? Not just the new guys. Like the Head needs to keep its people perfected.

He's pretty damn grateful for that next drink now.

"The reason that this woman here is such a big deal is she's actually fuckin' killing people. Like, leaving fucked up tortured bodies. Having a hell of a time finding her, too." He reaches for the new glass.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — So, what he's saying is you're still fine kneeling at the alter of amphetamines. Just do it behind closed doors. Worst case, community service, and community service is basically your calling, Harry-boy. You do it already!

Those words raking their slimy fingers into his brain don't stop him from hearing the rest of what Hank's saying. In fact, it's Hank's next words that leave him looking unsettled, suddenly. They wipe memories? What kind of sci-fi punishment is that? And... God, what even is there to steal at this point?

HALF LIGHT — Everything that's left. All the scraps. One more round and you're nothing. You're "Don't Call Abigail."

COMPOSURE — Your knee's going. Keep bouncing it like that and he'll know. Just breathe. Take another drink.

Harry, too, reaches for his fresh glass. A few seconds ago, he'd have left it there, gestating a while — given himself a chance to feel that haze of drunkenness before he committed to vaulting over the edge. Too bad: now he's getting fucked.

The bit about the woman barely registers. He's thrown Hank a sidelong glance. His brows are up suddenly, like he's both concerned and listening... but he's not. He's too busy thinking about how desperately he doesn't want to be here right now. He's thinking about Kim, Jean, the deserter... her, even.

All he manages is a short (and hopefully believably sympathetic) hum.

He sees that twitching leg, but who wouldn't be nerve-wracked after hearing that the fuckin' city might wipe a memory. He can see he's an alcoholic (not just through detective work, he's at a point in his life he can smell his own). Though really all it takes is subversion to earn that punishment at the moment.

He'll have to explain eventually. About the moronic fucking Heart. The Heart that made piss poor decisions and now the Head is paranoid as fuck and looking for any hint of danger against it. Shit also lingering in the back of his head.

But hell, don't want to scare the new guy right out of the gate. But yeah, this would make even a seasoned cop nervous. He would know.

"On the plus side, the wierd fuckin' food at the carts is the fuckin' best? Like you wouldn't expect some of this shit to taste good? But they're actually great."

Oh, yeah. Harry's feeling nervous, alright. Nervous enough that when Hank changes the subject, his reply is nothing short of prickly.

"Well, shit! If the food's great!"

It just hangs there for a moment, and he lets it, returning to the vodka and letting that anchor him for the duration of a mouthful. And then his eyebrows pinch together. And he's glancing across at Hank again. He might compare himself to a cockatoo (a fuckupatoo, to be precise), but right now whatever face he's making is a lot closer to guilty dog than parrot.

"It's a lot to take in," he offers in lieu of an apology. "You're, uh..." Hm. He'll try again. "What gets a guy like you going? Y'know, besides food-carts, detecting and this here—" he gestures about himself "—grand ol' church of Ultraliberal sin?"

Hank doesn't seem offended, he just snorts, because what the fuck is good about being a giant AIs labrat?

"Well, fortunately minor gambling here is legal. So that's a high point. Whiskey-" he raises his glass. "It does the trick. ...I read but most of the books are shit." Libraries have been severely editted of anything subversive, and Hank's favorite classic lit is always the slightly problematic kind.

"I like music." But he won't talk about the speakeasies he goes to just to hear a live band here.

"Shoot the shit with people. Spend time with my partner. That kinda thing."

There's a decent list of potential conversation avenues there, yeah, but one stands above the rest like a goddamn titan.

"Music," Harry repeats, the corners of his mouth ticking up again. "I'd just bought me a boom-box before I woke up here. A Harmon Wowshi?" Because Hank definitely knows what that is. "It was a little banged up, but man... sit her up on your shoulder and that baby could blast!" He takes another sip of vodka, shaking his head like another cop might over a fallen colleague. "In all his grand fucking wisdom, the Head settled on not bringing her with me."

Not that he's bitter or anything.

"...So, what exactly does a guy like you listen to?" Because he sees the shirt, pal.

"Well when I'm at work, I like metal. It fuckin' keeps me awake when I need to be on my toes and I need background music. I like jazz at home. It helps me cool down. I don't know, I like a lot of situationally appropriate shit. I can't even say I hate fuckin' pop. I go to a football game? Watch a halftime show? A live action performance can fuckin' rev you up like anything."

He does hate songs repeated too damn often on the radio.

"God, we don't even have boom boxes anymore. Everything is fuckin' microsized. Which helps when you're on the job and need something in your pocket. But I went out of my way to get an old record player for my house.

"Especially when companies started replacing digital music with new fuckin' 'fixed' versions? Best when I had hard copies."

Excuse Hank, he can infinitely find *something* to bitch about.

Harry tries to keep up, he really does, but by the time Hank's on digital music, Harry's busy taking the world's slowest, thinnest sip, eyebrows drawn up, the rest of his face decidedly neutral.

"I'll be honest," he says after a moment. "I got maybe twenty percent of that."

Even without the thick layer of amnesia coating his mind, Hank's references would likely sail straight over his head. Not that the detective in him's unwilling to try to puzzle them out, of course, but Detroit is sounding less and less like Revachol by the second. "I dunno if metal is... what... anodic rock? Like, uh, rock is proto metal?" Because, you know, etymologically speaking, he can totally see the relation. "But me, I'm more of a disco guy." He gestures to himself as if that should be totally apparent in his look.

It's a half-truth, really. He absolutely loves his sad, reactionary rock music, too.

He forgets, sometimes, the drastic disparity between worlds. But the declaration of his love of disco suddenly makes him look at Harry in a new light, and Hank breaks into another smile. He's like the 'hero' cop in a revenge flick. Like the man should be introduced with him overlaid on a faded yellow and pink background of neat disco lines, and riding around in a Dodge Charger.

"I heard some decent disco." He throws out there, chuckling.

"Man, okay. Your turn. You tell me a good cop story from back home. You got a partner? A task force?"

Oh, fuck. Oh, man, Hank knows disco?!

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — You know what this means, Harrister. This means disco transcends Elysium. Hell, it means it transcends universes, baby! And maybe Hank ain't ever swooned over Guillaume le Million (or his fantastic ass), but think about the reels-upon-reels of Detroit disco tapes he's probably got stashed away! Ask about it immediately.

VOLITION — Or you could calm down for half a second? He put disco and decent in the same sentence. That doesn't scream a fellow holdover.

He takes a moment to attempt to school his expression into something other than beaming idiot. "We're gonna circle back to the disco," he says, sounding resolutely serious. "But sure, first off, tales from the precinct." And with that he tips his head back and finishes the rest of the vodka. Sets the glass down again as he winces through the aftertaste, and turns on his stool to better face Hank.

DRAMA — With feeling, my liege. Your audience awaits.

"Somewhere in Jamrock, Captain Pryce sits with a ledger open on his desk. Rows and rows of names and faces stare up at him, but it's the Major Crimes Unit he's busy staring back at. At the top of that, just a little under yours truly, you got Satellite-Officer Jean Vicquemare—" He sits up, adopting a rigidly straight posture, and gestures up to his face. "Acne-scars, loyalty and a real fucking mean sense of humour." A faint smile. "My old partner. Professional babysitter to all of this," he says, nodding down at himself, slouching again.

"Now, going back a few months, me and Jean worked a number of exciting cases. Together and apart. You wanna hear about: One..." he holds a finger up, "Something sexy and mysterious. Two?" Up goes the second finger. "An unsolvable crime that turned out to be very solvable... or Three?" The third finger joins the party. "Something a little mysterious, but definitely not sexy?"

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject