dualislogs | GOTTA CATCH (EM) ALL

[It was already dark when Harry stepped out from the gates of the Dualis Central Zoo to begin that daily end-of-shift hike back towards the dorms. It was darker still when the usual creeping voice slid its fingers across his skull, suggesting a quick detour. A very predictable detour — it's one he makes every other day, after all.

Somehow, though — be it from his volition kicking in just in time, or the vague pang of loneliness that comes with a silent stomp home — he reaches for his phone, instead. Stares at it with a kind of guilty contemplation. He had promised, right?

Which is how he finds himself marching the backstreets of the city with Tidus in tow, head twitching this way and that while he... fails to actually locate the pawn-shop.]

Guy's kinda like, uh... half-cat, I guess? [A beat. Maybe that's not a cool thing to say.] It's so close. Trust me.

[He'd seem a lot more confident if it weren't for the way his eyes are raking each shop sign and window, desperate for some familiar landmark.]

Any second now.

[And then he does that thing again. You know, that thing where he just suddenly stops what's practically a jog by freezing and locking his knees in place. It can't be good for his joints.]

Isolated Pawn!

[He practically crows it, thoroughly delighted with himself.]

[ What was he expecting to find?

Tidus knows where his mind had been when Harry first brought up the pawn shop: Home, a place a million miles nowhere away. Somewhere that no longer existed, and he wasn't so distracted by the clutter that made Harry's space his -- nicotine smell and all -- to make that mistake a second time.

But his mind still went to the rest of the world, the parts of it that did exist, and what would some shop in Dualis have of any of that? Tidus is half-listening to anything that Harry's been saying, nothing about it really needing an answer, but better attention with a slightly slacking pace never may have saved him from being Jamrock'd.

That is, slapping into Harry's back with his stop so abrupt, Tidus's delaying magic should take some classes from the guy.

His back more a wall than jello, Tidus bounces out of it more by his feet, his nose disgruntled and Tidus rubbing it after the fact. Looking at Harry with a dazed, ] Huh? [ then seeing the shop in question.

The announcement is more extravagant than the shop front itself, but that's not important. Tidus comes up beside Harry, not sure what the nerves in him are: anticipation? worry? Some strange desire to leave? But he ignores it for a put on, halfhearted cheer. ]

We might be able to find more of your music anyway, right?

[ If nothing else. ]

[There's a quiet huff as Tidus rams into his back, but the staggered stance Harry's legs froze into saves him from having to do anything more than cast a concerned glance over his shoulder.

PAIN THRESHOLD — I got this. Doesn't even hurt!

It slightly hurt, but hell if it's enough to knock the proverbial wind from his sails. This whole outing falls under the banner of him helping out — doing something good for someone other than himself. At least in his eyes, anyway, which is why Tidus's comment throws him a little.]

If he's got some Sylvia Trainor hidden away in there, maybe I got a reason to haggle, but, uh... [He smiles (not unkindly).] Last I checked, we didn't come here 'cause I needed to expand my library.

[With a nod of his chin over towards the sickly neon glow of the window:]

What are you hoping to find?

[ Despite his own question, he thinks at first Sylvia Trainor to be some kind of funny tech, then realises it to be a name right around the question gets turned back on him.

Tidus's mouth opens for an answer he isn't ready to give. Closes, and starts again with a small huff. ]

I... don't know, [ he admits, head bobbing slightly. ] There's... music spheres in Spira, I guess. Those might be nice. [ Would they? He isn't so sure. ] Maybe they have some spheres of blitzball games. I can finally show people what I mean.

[ Which actually would be be, despite his earlier uncertainty if he ever wants to see anything from Spira at all anywhere in the city. But his doubts are low. It's hard to make real in his mind. ]

[There it is - the sphere thing again. He doesn't know if that's some kind of generic term, or if Tidus is referring to those physical memories he mentioned, but... Hm. If he was, why not just look for however that shit came up originally? Surely they had some kind of tech there before Sin stepped in.

And now he's thinking about it, what would a sphere even look like? He realizes he's been imagining little floating disco balls this whole time, which seems a little ridiculous. He should check. Later, though. Once they're actually inside and not stood there like a couple of plums.]

Hey, if you go in with an open mind, you won't be disappointed. And maybe they don't have anything this time, but, uh... I mean, we can always ask. You never know what a place like this has stored under the desk.

[With that, he swings his arm up, giving his hand a little flourish in the direction of the door.]

After you, kiddo.

[ He gives a hummed aye-aye from behind his mouth, a tip of his head to go with it, and Tidus goes for the door with no added optimism about this search despite Harry's encouragement, but only in the inside -- he's not going to be a downer on the out. Especially since Harry took the time to bring him out here in the first place, on his request.

Still, regardless, the shop itself is a sight to behold, packed with all sorts of stock that has Tidus bewildered as soon as he enters the shop. Stopping maybe too close to the entrance, but thinking to move away before too long, his eyes not sure on where exactly to look first.

Well. There is the massive skull of some creature taking up a decent chunk of a wall that he's going to point to. ]

What was that thing?

[ And was it real? ]

Not totally sure. I have it written down somewhere.

[Isolated Pawn has a varied stock of many things that might be of interest to the discerining customer, offering a wide variety of collectibles, antiques, media, and tech. They even stock the rare unusual item that wouldn't be available to the average customer. (And yes, they are owned by a cat person, but she isn't in every day.) Duke remains behind the counter, serving whatever customers come through the shop and hoping someone either buys or sells something.]

Welcome back. [He nods at the repeat customer, then looks to Tidus.] Anything you're looking for?

[Harry's eyes lock onto the skull the second Tidus points it out. It's an eye-sore, and no doubt completely unaffordable for a guy like him, but it's—

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — A badass skull for a badass cop. The missing puzzle-piece in your life. An antidote to fragility.

He catches Duke's welcome in time to nod back (just two cool guys, nodding) and notice the man's alone this time. No sign of the cat. Which is devastating, considering the solid two minutes he spent describing this place absolutely had that as the exciting apex to it all. Now it's just a pawn-shop with a long-faced guy.

Not that he's ugly, but—

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — Buy the damn skull, it's powerful!

He still hasn't answered, has he?]

Spheres, right? [He's glancing over at Tidus, both hands spread in front of him as he mimes... a ball.] Sports spheres?

[He's helping.]

[ The owner of that response is a lot less furry than described, and a lot less blue than Tidus might've been expecting, but the more human-shaped guy isn't disappointing or anything beyond a small surprise for Tidus to hear with the skull staring death from the hollow of its eye sockets.

He looks away from it to Duke, then to Harry at his (actually helpful!) answer. ]

Uh... yeah! [ He'll bring his hands up in a round shape, but much flatter: his middle fingers and thumbs meeting each other in a more disc-representing shape. ] They're like bands of gold. And there's a blue...thingy in the middle. Energy? They pop out into spheres if there's visual in them, or they stay flat if they're audio.

[ ...Is this normal to ask for? He can't help but feel like he's speaking another language, frowning uncomfortably. Asking uncomfortably, or at least hesitantly: ]

...Is most of this stuff really from other worlds?

[ Maybe he's getting the wrong impression here. It'd be so easy to believe. ]

[There was a point during the evening where Harry lost track. Of multiple things, actually. Of how much he'd drunk already, of how long he's been sat there, perched on a bar-stool... even of who he was talking to. All he knows, is at some point, something was said, and now he's in the middle of what constitutes a very impassioned rant.

Despite the stumbling and the slurring crawling over his words, muddling them, he has every intention of finishing it.]

S'like... the most basic sporting principal.

[He pauses just long enough to drain the beer bottle he was enthusiastically gesticulating with. Rather than putting it down again, he uses it to point directly at the poor recipient of his current diatribe. A glare follows the shaky line of it, like he really wants whatever point he's making to stick.]

Contact Mike, he, uh, he rose from the slums of Saint-Batiste — [An upswing of the bottle, like it's a little plane] — straight to the top of the boxing world. Guy overcame adversity — [A firm tap on the bar with his free hand. Physical punctuation.] — Poverty. [Another loud tap.] And, uh... [He hesitates (like he's maybe struggling coming up with something for that rule of three) before ending with a strong:] And serious brain trauma.

So, what I'm saying is...

[Fuck, what is he saying? Why's he talking about Mike again? Did they bring him up?

RHETORIC — Who knows? Mystery of the century! Let's just end strong and with confidence, okay?

Harry takes a deep, steadying breath and leans forward, expression locking down into something serious.]

The real fight... is for the right attitude.

[Ever since the island, Harry's been having that dream again — the one everyone warned him about. That one. It's not every night and it isn't the same every time, either, but it's clear now it's not a simple case of drowning it away. He's stuck revisiting that loop again and again, a skipping record with half the details still missing, and he has to learn to live with it.

And most days, he does. He wakes up seven thirty sharp (as he always does) and he drags himself out of those sweat-soaked sheets. The infernal engine roars on.

Only this time, it's not seven thirty. This time, it's barely morning. And rather than the bathroom, or the kitchen, he finds himself padding out of his room and making the slow ascent to the roof. The option is actually there now that the wound on his leg could be classified as a bullet scar, instead.

He takes a long drag from his cigarette and sets his elbow against the edge of the balcony, shoulders drooping downwards like the rest of his rapidly aging visage. He had the decency to drag a pair of pants on, and the coat wrapped around his torso is stopping the wind biting too badly, but... well, it's bracing up here, if nothing else. He can see the scope of the city.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — The Night Canvas, sprawling.

God, but he can be a pretentious prick.

PERCEPTION — Footsteps. A faint rattle and a click.

Harry rubs the back of his head, glancing over towards the door. He stares for a moment, before giving something between a wave and a salute.]

Don't mind me.

[Reaching into his coat pocket for a moment, he finds the crumpled cigarette packet he'd only just set back there. He holds it out. Rucks his eyebrows up while a white cloud of smoke disappears into his mouth.]

[Connor wasn't coming out onto the roof, he was about to go back inside. And not from having been stood out here - he's just climbed up, having jumped onto the side of the building from a tree and scrambled his way up.

He makes his own fun.

If not for the greeting, he might have ignored Harry, figuring the guy didn't come up here looking to be social - but, now that he's got an excuse to speak, he lets the door drift shut and comes over.

He's dressed for exercise out in the cold - beanie, thick track pants, a hoodie - but he's clearly not affected by it at all. He might as well be out here in the middle of summer.]

Didn't mean to disturb you.

Aren't you cold?

[A grunt and a quick, dismissive wave — you're not disturbing me — before he re-pockets the Astras and draws that coat a little tighter. One hand is hooked at the inside of an elbow, arms forming a kind of L shape. The cigarette hovers by his mouth.]

Getting there.

[He says it with a grin that's just the right side of wry.]

I didn't realize you were up here.

[Not that it's a tiny roof - it's not hard to fade into the background in the dead of night - but he still feels like he missed a trick.]

We, uh... [He takes another drag as he stares at Connor for a brief moment. There's a flicker of something, then:] We spoke before, right?

[It was doubt. He wants to say it with confidence, but without the glare of the light at Connor's temple, and without... anything more than muddy recollection, he's left turning it into a question.]

I wasn't - I just got here. [He nods over at the side of the building.] Climbed up.

What is it they say? 'Wonders of technology'? [He grins. Last time Harry saw him, he was barely walking around on crutches. His miraculous recovery isn't really a technological miracle - just a plain old miracle by any metric - but being able to scale a building is an impressive feat even if you didn't get shot clean through the leg a mere couple months ago.

He steps up next to Harry, folding his arms in unconscious sympathy; it'd have to be a solid 30 degrees colder before Connor would start having trouble. Celcius.]

We did. You were pretty drunk. [He's not judging - and he pulls up his beanie and indicates his temple. Bare.] But I had an LED light here last time you saw me. And crutches.

[And he didn't have the small diamond ring on his left hand last time either.]

No kidding. [He peers over the edge of the roof. A tiny smile pulls at one edge of his mouth, and he suddenly finds himself thinking of Tiago.] Like a spider. Pretty sure if I tried the same, I'd be a smear on the street right about — [he uses the end of his cigarette to point down to a strip of pavement lit by a lamp far below them] — there.

[And he doesn't doubt him, either. Not after having seen what people like Drifter and Arkady can do. It does kind of put a dampener on his own recovery efforts though. A bit of light jogging and the ability to climb a few flights of stairs without bleeding through his pants? Apparently not all that impressive!

With the drunk comment, Harry's smile winces into something rueful. As if to mask it, he takes a long, slow pull, eyes only flicking across at the mention of the LED.

And what do you know: Connor's telling the truth. Harry's neck twists more, body leaning as he turns enough to get a proper look at that now clear spot. It must be a mind-fuck, based on the way he stares dumbly for a moment, lips pressing together.]

Just like that. [A soft huff.] Shit, man. I wouldn't even know you were— [He seems to catch himself before he can say something overtly stupid. Only, his mouth is still hanging open, and now there are creases lining his forehead.

He clears his throat.]

Hey, listen... [He takes a deep breath. Then, on the exhale:] Sorry if I, uh... I don't know. If I said or did anything I shouldn't have said or done, you know? [A beat.] Before. When I was drunk.

[He doesn't remember anything particularly devastating, but there's a point where the memory just cuts off, and from what he knows of his own history, it's probably better to get the apology in now.]

[Connor grins crookedly.] You wouldn't be stupid enough to try. I'm made of plastic and metal, I can do stupid things without worrying too much about it.

[Fun things are often a bit stupid. He's OK with it.]

Don't worry, I don't think you did. You were a friendly drunk. [Connor's difficult to offend at the best of times, so even if Harry was a belligerent drunk, it would have mostly washed over Connor.] And you're right, I was built to look exactly like a human. I was a prototype, so my designers went all out.

They still put the LED on me, so it was made so they could take it off if they needed me to look like I was organic.

[He's aware of how terrible the way he was treated is, but also sometimes not entirely aware of the emotional response other people will have to it. So he just puts it all out there.]

GOTTA CATCH (EM) ALL

PAWN STARS | Tidus and Duke

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The Litany of Contact Mike | OTA, in some bar some evening

Rooftop refuge | OTA

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