(no subject)

[sociallychallenged]

WHO: Hank Anderson | NPCs | Open
WHAT: A hunt for information and a desire for good whiskey. People can also find him at the boardwalk or drinking at the bar.
WHERE: A speakeasy on the boardwalk
WHEN: Towards the end of July
WARNINGS: 🎜🎝 Hank's mouth needs washing out with soap. Suicidal tendencies.

Hank usually tries to tie up his hair while he's at work. He's still not cut it. It's a holdover from years of depression. He didn't fucking feel like cutting his hair so other than some beard maintenance he just let that mane happen, and mentally he's still not found the place to chop it all off. Now he just keeps it in a half-ass high ponytail with half of it hanging out while he's on the job, like a heavyset loose samurai. Now he's just got it down, looking like his usual casually sloppy shaggy dog self in a bold shirt and a well-worn jacket. At least he looks like he belongs in a bar drinking.

The boardwalk is only mildly busy. It's a weeknight, people are off work, the food is cheap but everything isn't lit up like a James Cameron daydream quite yet. Give it a half-hour. There are rows of little restaurants and game booths and a few hole-in-the-wall establishments down little turn off side-streets. The places for grown-ups to go while the kids play.

That's when Hank first finds a bar that he's heard a couple of claims about. Maybe bullshit; a couple of the other bars he's also checked out have been bullshit. But fuck it, another place to get whiskey, right?

Another holdover from three years of depression.

The old detective (former detective, maybe future one) settles himself at a distant side seat on the bar, somewhere where he can see whatever the live stage performance is when it starts while he tends to a neat whiskey.

He draws the attention of a scaled woman next to him as he downs his glass without so much as a flinch and pushes it forward for a refill. No sign of the notorious whiskey face. He's scalded that reaction right out of his throat. He might as well have a fuckin' booze callous the way this nigh on toxic shit doesn't phase him.

Comments

[skyward_eyes]

Alcohol. It's a double-bladed sword. On one hand, it numbs the body and mind so well, to wash away the problems. On the other, he knows how bad he got with it after... well, he doesn't want to think about it.

So why a bar? Why somewhere with booze and all the smells and noises? To prove to himself he doesn't need it. To distract himself. And for the music.

When the man sits beside him, he thinks the guy is familiar, but doesn't bother looking up from his soda. Coke, they called it. Well, he isn't going to argue.

[sociallychallenged]

Hank looks over at Nido, noting that he's going for the soda rather than anything harder, like most of the patrons. That's fine. If anything, sitting by Hank should remind Nida exactly why he doesnot need the stuff.

Wait.

He starts to open his mouth, clamp it shut. Opens it again. Bites lower lip. Well... the guy watched him turn loose that hooligan. He can turn him in for worse than just showing up in what he could easily claim was the wrong place for a drink.

"Hey, I remember you." Hank finally says. "I'm off my high horse at the moment and would rather stay down here. Designated driver or makin' wise life choices?"

[skyward_eyes]

Remember him? Nida turns his attention to Hank and tries to figure out just who the man is. He's met so many different people, especially thanks to his work. But the 'high horse' gets the point through. Right, the cop. Designated dr... oh right. The sober person for a party of drinkers. Huh. Strange that he isn't used to that term. Perhaps he should become suck.

"It was... Hank, right? Let's go with trying not to repeat previous bad choices. More than a few. Which means it's probably far too soon for me to be in a bar."

Two months sober. Well... He can definitely trot out the exact number of days, but he isn't going to.

[sociallychallenged]

"Eh, well. If you say it's a bit early but keep in mind the soda's cheaper than the booze. Means you can get something decent tomorrow while I'm eatin' egg salad sandwiches from a convenience store."

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before the next drink.

"Not that I'm any good with advice on that kinda thing." He gestures. But... it's not so bad. It's drinking with people. It's not drinking at home alone. That alone is a step up.

[skyward_eyes]

"I save money by letting my brother cook for us. I help pay for groceries of course."

And yeah, he knows better than to touch the stuff. Seifer would, without hesitation, deck him if he came home with booze on his breath. Which makes sense, because he was one of the ones who had to deal with Nida when he'd fallen to thee bottle. Which was sad, he was pretty sure that Bull's beer operation hadn't even been all that good.

"So, Hank," he says with a tone that says 'cop', "what are you doing here?"

I wish my email would decide what damn folder it wanted to put stuff in

[sociallychallenged]

"Needed decent music." He nods to the stage, waiting for real noise that's not just what the more generic local fare typically is. All lyrically safe. "Needed something to drink." He holds up the whiskey.

Because he wants more than just answers to this case. He wants to solve this bombing, but he misses sitting in bars because that was the only socialization that he really got for a long time. It's not really making friends, but it's being around people. That's... well, it's something. Even if it's scraping the bottom of the barrel.

"I miss sports, too. Just fuckin' bars with big screens and games going on while you drink. Haven't seen anything really worth watching around here."

[skyward_eyes]

Sports? Nida just gives a brief smile to Hank, as if he agreed with the comment. The thing, though, is that Nida never got into sports back home. Instead he's left thinking about the idea of music. Of alcohol. Yeah, no, he's just looking for the noise.

"Well, let me buy you a refill, if nothing else. For letting me go do what I needed to, helping that girl."

He bought her a doll later. The mother had been thankful.

[uprisenheart]

The stage show isn't much - a slightly raised platform, a few not-too-bright lights, a stool, a microphone, and a younger woman playing an acoustic guitar while she sings an old favorite tune. She's dressed plainly, dark jeans and a plain black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, worn black boots and choppy black hair. She's also pretty damn good at this music, well practiced on the guitar and a voice like what you might imagine coming from Tom Waits if he were a woman. Maybe the kind of voice and stage presence that would land an indie record contract in Seattle or Denver back in early years of the twenty-first century. Hank's wandered in at the end of her set; she finishes her last song and smiles at the scattered applause, thanks the audience for their time and encourages them to order another drink and tip their bartender well.

The lights on the stage dim as the ambient background music returns, some weird combination of industrial and jazz, and the woman quickly packs up her guitar and exits the stage, winding her way through the tables to take the empty seat on the other side of Hank at the bar. She glances over at the bartender refilling his glass and nods in approval.

"You got good taste," she says, and asks the bartender for one of the same. She doesn't immediately knock her glass all the way back, but like Hank, there's no pulled face at the taste or burn of the alcohol when she takes a drink.

"I don't remember seein' you here before," she says, again addressing Hank. "New to town, or did you lose a bet?"

[sociallychallenged]

Hank's more inclined to appreciate the more indie tunes. He's always had a rocky relationship with popular music, the particular love of four chords and a beat that sort of swallows into a marching pattern that one can mistake for rhythm if they don't know better. To a person who has never heard Electro Swing for dance or neo-soul it's easy to be bought (but he'd absolutely give Lady Gaga some credit).

She does great for the little bit he hears her play, and is a little surprised when she comes over to join him.

"A little bit of new to town with a heavy dose of being unable to find any sort of good music. I've been trolling through a lot of the secondhand shops. I used to work while listening to metal, used to relax to jazz, everything here's just meant to be fuckin' catchy."

At least what he's found.

"We don't really have cash for guitar cases in this neck of the woods so let me cover your next drink for you, huh? Sound fair. You did good up there."

[uprisenheart]

“Metal and jazz?” She raises an eyebrow but keeps the smile, amused rather than judging. “That’s a pretty wide range. Can’t say I’ve listened to much of either, but I hear ya on the secondhand shops. Makes me miss the record stores back home - what’s left of ‘em anyway, which isn’t much.”

The woman swivels to the side to face Hank and leans against the bar with bent elbow and her head propped by her hand. “Well, aren’t you a sweetheart,” she says to the offer of a drink. “But you should keep your money - I actually get the employee discount here. Most nights, I’m back there,” she says, gesturing to behind the bar, “but Rick lets me play sometimes on my nights off.”

She sits up straight and extends her hand out to Hank, an offer to shake. “I’m Nick, by the way. Figured I should introduce myself proper if - I’m just guessing - you’re gonna be comin’ back.”

[sociallychallenged]

"Both really pour out emotion. Just emotions at the opposite end of the spectrum. And depending on what year you're from? ...Yeah. In 2038 Detroit they're like fuckin' unicorns."

"I guess it's good to get a night off from the occasional drunken story, huh? Yeah, I'm Hank." He shakes her hand firmly, but not so firmly that it seems like he's trying to make a point. The guy is just big and sturdy, and has big hands to go with that.

[uprisenheart]

“Good to meet you, Hank. And I think you can say that about most kinds of music,” she says, and takes a sip of her drink. “You get a really great song and it’s just like - pure emotion. Makes you really feel alive, y’know?” Her piercing blue eyes light up as she talks about music, certainly something she’s passionate about. “I think I’d literally die if I had to live in a world without music - which I’m sure prob’ly exists somewhere, I just don’t ever wanna visit.”

Nick pulls a pack of cigarettes and a cheap disposable lighter from her front shirt pocket. “You mind?” she asks Hank, just to be polite. “This is one of the only places I’ve found in this town where you can still smoke inside.”

Whatever his answer, she’s not as surprised as some might be to hear the year he was taken from. “Let’s see ... last time I was home, I think it was 2017? Few years behind you. Never been to Detroit, but it was on a list of possible relocation places.” She lightly taps a fingernail against her glass, expression shifting to thoughtful for a moment.

“So what’s Detroit like in 2038? Did everything go all Blade Runner?”

[sociallychallenged]

"We got android drama but we don't have flying cars. Lose some, lose some, am I right?"

He's warmed to the androids. But not the fucking drama.

He doesn't argue with the cigarette, though it feels like an eternity since he saw someone do something other than vape, and even that's fading away. Most marijuana users have converted to edibles. So it's a bit of a blast from the past, but he doesn't even cough like a real trooper.

Possibly because cops, during training, have to take mace to their own face so they know how to handle it in the event of an accident. After that he assumes he can handle anything.

"I already told someone I'd give them a word if I found anything good out there. I can always stop in again and let you know, too. How long have you been here?"

[merged]

Teenagers shouldn't drink. Heather could remember when her dad caught her drinking his vodka. She'd been doing it for months by then, sneaking just enough that maybe he wouldn't notice. He'd been so furious. He'd yelled. It wasn't the first time she'd done something stupid, it wouldn't be the last, but it left an impression on her. Teenagers shouldn't drink but, most of all, Sharon da Silva shouldn't drink.

But here she was, a short glass of rye whiskey sat in front of her, hardly touched. It burns her mouth and her throat; it makes her chest feel like it's on fire and the way it settles in her stomach is almost nauseating but, still, she drinks it. Dad isn't here, The Order isn't here, and, more importantly, Sharon da Silva isn't here.

Heather, she thinks, can drink.

She only spots Hank after he's sat down at the bar and ordered. She waffles on getting up from her seat. He might be busy. He's probably busy. Hank comes off as the kind of man who works and never really stops. She takes a drink and shudders lightly at the burn before she slides from her booth and takes a seat next to him, not bothering to ask.

Why would she?

"You come here often?" She jokes, the smile she gives him wry and not at all flirtatious. She doesn't want to bother him but she doesn't not want to bother him, either.

[sociallychallenged]

His reason for not working is often drinking, but like many cops his time off work is often spent thinking about work. It was easier when he had a family. When he didn't? It was thinking about work and thinking about loss. And it was that weight that withered his happiness away.

Right now, at least, thinking about work is a little more proactive, and his brows climb when Heather sits by him. He snorts lightly against his glass before the next drink. "First time. Didn't know you made a habit of it."

He doesn't call her out on drinking, though. This is a big fucking city with a lot of people from different time periods. Most countries in the world set their drinking age as eighteen or nineteen. The actual American drinking age of twenty-one is a holdover from prohibition, as are its location dependent blue laws, and he knows that.

"Come in for the live stage material too? Because you shouldn't drink whiskey like I drink whiskey. You're too young to waste your time like that. Buy their smooth stuff."

[merged]

"I'm cheap," Heather admits with a ducked head and lopsided grin, entirely unbothered by such a fact. She takes a sip from her glass and her nose crinkles at the sting. It tasted as cheap as it had cost but it doesn't bother her—she hasn't really developed any taste for alcohol. It's not like she drinks at work and it's not like she goes out often beyond that; she's still testing her newfound freedom and its an anxiety inducing endeavor,"and it's my first time dropping in, actually."

"I've never seen a live show before and I figured, fuck, why not?"

Even though a part of her head screams at her. How can she go out and enjoy herself while Christopher suffers? She takes another drink and it burns a little less this time. She just has to drown out the guilt.

She watches Hank a moment and then, curiously,"So, why don't you drink their smoother stuff?"

[sociallychallenged]

"You get used to cheap if you drink often enough. Which, sadly, I do." He lifts his glass. "I'm gonna hope that this is an occasional thing, and you won't get used to cheap, and can actually continue to savor and appreciate the good stuff."

Then he knits up his brow. "Never. So that's another thing you weren't able to do, with the crazy cult fucks chasin' you around?"

He pauses, and then pats over his own heart.

"Best thing about 'em is even on small stages, you can feel the music in your chest. Right here. Literally, the beat right in your bones." Speakers. Good instruments. You can feel music.

[merged]

His first words seem to have some impact on her because she frowns, gaze on her drink. It's not like she's a drunk. It's not like she even likes it all that much. There's something uncomfortable when she drinks too much, something about the hazy memory and lack of conscious control that keeps her from making it a habit. But the more she does drink, the easier it gets.

Maybe she should be more careful. God damn it.

"Whatever you think teenagers grow up doing, I didn't do any of it." She shrugs like it's something that doesn't bother her deep down. It does. Of course it does. No concerts, no homecomings, no parties. No friends. No clubs. No jobs. A part of her yearns for that normal but she's come to terms with it; hell, it's probably kept her safe for years.

"I'm guessing you've been to a lot of concerts?" The way he talks, it sounds like it's something he's got some passion for.

[sociallychallenged]

"Eh, I used to get out more in general. Sports games. Concerts. Bar nights with friends. That kinda thing."

It wasn't the depression that cut him off, though. It was trying to miserably hold onto a bad marriage. Not an abusive, painful one. Those happen, yes, but that wasn't his. It was just bad, a mistake, and just enough stress that he couldn't focus on his friendships.

Certainly not as bad as a stalky cult.

"Look, if you want my average bullshit adult advice, which I'm gonna give whether you want it or not because I'm a cop," and he was the sort of cop that ran D.A.R.E. programs, "you should use every opportunity you can here to live. Just make sure to surround yourself with people who will respect you. You don't want to be going through those sensitive bullshit teenage discoveries with people that can take advantage of that."

[silentnarration]

After an entire month of settling in and learning to cope with friends, strangers, and a rather insidious yet mundane job, the marker tag event that's going on is a breath of fresh air. Which is why Squall is strolling down the boardwalk while clutching his marker, his other hand scrubbing uselessly at the new blue mark he received. Why does everyone aim for the face? He has a few glow in the dark ones across his nose and forehead as well. Those are older.

He's dressed down to just a dark gray form-fitting futuristic-looking long-sleeved shirt and dark leather pants, having had to slowly add to his barren wardrobe.

He stops fussing over his face just as he sees Hank and after a moment's thought, tucks his marker away and approaches.

"Hey..."

[sociallychallenged]

He catches sight of him just in time to see him tuck away his marker and thinks a quick "thank god". Though it does occur to him, also, there was a long period of his life where he very much would have enjoyed that.

But damn. Looks like that kid lost in some of the worst ways.

"Did they have to aim for the face?" he asks first. Which is not quite the best hello. But at least he sympathizes with the swipes he's suffered.

[silentnarration]

Hank doesn't strike him as someone who'd enjoy this sort of thing. And Squall just finds it awkward to mess with someone that old. He doesn't want to be responsible if Hank sprains something.

He looks a little sour at that and gives his cheek another swipe of his hand.

"I got them back for it," he says instead. It's the fun part of this. It's a free-for-all. "Are you playing?"

[sociallychallenged]

Hank isn't as frail as one would suppose. He'd gladly pick someone up and slam them into things. But he's not fast, that's true. He's no longer svelte in any capacity (not that he ever was, really, permanently of a Viking build) and he's got a lot of extra weight now he has to ship around.

His own damn fault, he knows it.

"Nah. They caught me a while too late. Is anyone technically winning? Or is it the one coming out looking the least like a zebra?"

[silentnarration]

Sorry, Hank. At 17, adults Hank's age are just... old. Squall looks miffed as he considers the question. He forgot to look at the prize rules. Just the rules of engagement.

"I think so." He runs a hand through his hair awkwardly. "I don't care about the prize anyway."

[sociallychallenged]

"Well, it looks like you're having fun. Never saw a person covered in marker that wasn't a result of someone's good time." That's a lie. But you know what? Professional capacities aside, it might as well be true.

"They treating you any better at work?"

The place with uncanny amount of censorship. It grates on him.