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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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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..."

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.

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?"

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?"

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."

"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.

"I guess..."

Fun? He hasn't really thought about it but he is having fun. Maybe the first time he's done something like this without any heavy stakes involved, except his own pride. He looks off to the side as that thought flusters him for a moment. He scratches at his chin, distracted enough that the question about his work place doesn't sour his mood too much.

"Not really, but my contract's ending soon." And he'll be free. Thank Hyne. (That's what he thinks anyway.)

"Short contract. Temp work?"

Some people really got stuck with the short end of the stick. He was lucky for his training. A lot of people are kind of getting shat on.

At least he's getting out.

"What's the matter? You don't look so sure you're having a good time now." Which isn't exactly the issue. But he just noticed that expression shift.

He nods. "A trial period for a month. We decide if I stay on after." He's going to look into other jobs and hopefully not get tied down this time.

He folds his arms and frowns a little at the call-out. He doesn't react all that much normally. He gets told a lot that no one knows what he's thinking, so to have an adult notice his shift in expression is... weird.

He shakes his head.

"I don't usually play, that's all."

Oh, right. That child soldier stuff. It occurs to him only then how little in the way of 'fun' Squall must have been lacking.

"What color marker do you have so I can have a pretty good guess who you hit later? I can quietly root you on." He says encouragingly. He's already wondering the basics. Did they have any sports back where Squall is from? Did he ever learn any?

He's sure the other students in Garden have their own way of having fun. No less screwed over by military training but Squall is a rank of his own when it comes to antisocial behavior.

He blinks at the angle Hank takes, surprised. He had expected a lecture or some kind of empty encouragement.

"Yellow glitter," he answers. He's tagged a fair number of people already. Maybe Hank would come across one or two. "It's... not a big deal."

"Anything that's fun usually isn't a big deal. Once it starts being a big deal it sucks the fun out of it." Sure someone might consider some big championship sports thing fun, but he guarantees they probably had more fun dicking around with friends where no one would pass judgment.

"Yellow glitter, huh? Well I won't miss anyone tagged with that." It's a color that stands out.

"Better watch your back, though. I've seen plenty of people armed to the hilt with markers."

Squall nods. That makes sense. He started this cause Seifer tagged him first and it just escalated from there. He didn't even think about how dumb of a game it is. It's kind of refreshing.

At the warning though, his expression shifts to a more self-assured one with a barely there smirk

"I'm not worried. Unless they have training, I'll hear them coming." A pause and a hesitant but curious, "what... do you do for fun at your age?"

"Jesus, how old do you think I am?"

He boggles lightly. But, hey, he has kind of not given a fuck about his waistline in a while. Mourning can do that to you.

"Look, as of about three or four years ago I was still playing baseball and shit. The only reason I don't now is uh... Yeah, I don't really have fun anymore." Outside of music. But he doesn't make music, he just listens to it as he finds it. "But when I did? It was usually playing sports. Or cards, I liked cards. And sometimes I collected stuff."

"50?" The way Squall phrases it definitely takes the tone of a kid who thinks that's really old and qualifies Hank as old and boring now. Sorry.

And while the mention of sports is intriguing, it's the part about cards that gets Squall to perk up. It's a more obvious shift in his expression. Wider eyes, a slight lean forward, an almost hopeful look.

"What kind of cards? Do you know Triple Triad?"

"For the record, fifty isn't that old. We can still do the same shit younger people do, just with a shittier back. When you get thirty some you'll start figuring that out."

It's true. mid-thirties are a hell of a transition point. But, moving on.

"I play poker and rummy. Never heard of triple triad." His brow knits up over the question. The fuck is triple triad. "I probably could learn. Even old people could learn. I promise that even in my decrepit state of being I can manage.

Sounds fake, Hank. Squall looks dubious but nods. It's sad to consider but he hasn't thought of growing old. Thirty sounds like some unachievable number.

He shoots Hank an odd look at the continued remarks about age. Did he... poke at a sore spot? He pulls out his carefully stored (and only) deck of Triple Triad cards from his back pocket and removes the cards from the slim case. He fans out the cards. They're about the size of regular cards with pictures of odd-looking monsters on the face. Four numbers are in the top left corner.

"I can teach you. It has a competitive element and different rules by region. It lets people win cards from one another."

Maybe he's been wanting to actually live his life rather than just end it and consider the best of it done. Maybe his age makes a huge argument towards just giving the hell up. It's a rough mindset to escape. He's not yet.

He's reminded of being a teenager and fuckin' playing Pokemon with his friends. He remembers little of it, except that he sold his cards to afford a date. It was a short lived hobby and a huge loss, as he came to find out how much some of those early edition cards came to be worth.

"Yeah, sure, you can teach me." He'll figure it out. "But maybe you should wash your face first so you don't get flyby attacks during a game."

That'd be distracting as hell, and Hank's at least fair in that he wouldn't take advantage of someone distracted, even at his magnificent disadvantage of not knowing what the fuck he's doing.

Squall wouldn't really understand unfortunately. But maybe they can connect through this. He rubs at his cheek again, reminded of the new marks.

"It's not going to come off for a few weeks." An annoying catch but not world-ending. "We could look for a safe zone." There has to be one around here, right? He tucks the cards away again for now. It's evident they're precious to him. "There might be a cafe like that."

"Yeah, sure. I could use a sit-down, anyway. Fuckin' turning up a whole lotta nothin'."

He generally gestures to a place that's serving something like chicken. He's assuming it's chicken, or at least some artificial meat that nearly approximates it while deep-fried. "Come on. I'll at least get you somethin' to eat."

As long as it's edible, Squall's not complaining. He's a little surprised Hank is offering to buy. Then again Hank has been confusing him for a while now, by virtue of being different from the adults in his life.

"Uh, sure." He'll pick one of the boneless finger foods so he won't make too much of a mess. He refuses to dirty the cards. Once they're settled in at a table, he places his deck on the table and starts to sort out some cards, idly thinking about how to start off a beginner.

"What were you looking for?"

Luckily Hank's gotten himself a sandwich. Not too messy, so long as it doesn't fall apart. He settles down across from Squall as he arranges his deck, crunching into a bite. It actually takes him a bit to chew and swallow before he responds.

"Trying to figure out who the heart is. And when I figure out who the heart is, I want to figure out who set that bomb.

"And maybe the truth about this 'wake up' business."

He shrugs lightly, taking a sip of cheap fountain drink. It's bright orange in color.

"I don't know yet if they're all behind it, if it's a big group, if it's a small group, if everyone was on board. If one or two people were. Even if they should be brought in immediately when apparently even raggin' on your fuckin' boss gets you censored." Terrorism deserves a hell of a punishment. But it deserves a punishment chosen by a just legal system. Not a giant head. He'd like to at least see that they're... he doesn't know. "I just don't want to see some Big Brother bullshit going down- meaning brainwashing on top of a surveillance state."

Squall makes sure to wipe his fingers clean on a napkin before he arranges the cards. He arranges five low-level monster cards for each of them, placing them face up to each of their left sides of the imaginary board. He looks around, finds straws and starts setting up a 3x3 grid on the table.

He looks up at 'brainwashing' with a grim expression.

"I don't think they should be taken to the authorities." But he's immensely distrustful of the city. Brainwashing just seems like a logical next step. "Did you learn anything so far?"

With the setup complete, he resumes eating for a moment.

"Yeah, well... Since I like being a cop? Don't tell them I said that. Having some pretty liberal thoughts about perps really helped me out in Detroit but I don't think I'll be forgiven for saying shit like that, here."

But. "Alright, you said you were lookin' for opposing groups, right? Heart's been around for a while, and what happened in the park wasn't their first bombing. They hit up some train stations and left some fliers around. 'Wake up', on 'em, like with their other stuff. They might have been around before that."

He'll let him know more later, as he can.

"If you find out something about 'em, let me know. I'll play ball and do the same for you."

He looks down at the cards.

"Alright, so what do I do first?"

A nod. Squall isn't about to tell. He can see the value of having Hank around as a cop here. There's no ruling out it could be a trap either but it's still too early to call that.

"Don't risk your job if you can help it. It sounds like the Heart is trying to get people to look for them." Which he can't really blame them with how much surveillance there seems to be. "You'll know if I have something." He doesn't yet. Oddly enough, he feels like he can trust Hank enough to work with him.

He wipes his hands clean again and starts to explain the rules. The four numbers on the top left corresponds to each side of the card and are called ranks. They go from 1 to 9 with the highest rank being A. The symbol on the top right represents an element but he's disregarding that for now. The point of the game is to capture as many cards on the board as possible. When cards are next to each other, the card with the highest rank captures the other. He lines up two cards side by side as an example.

"We take turns placing a card. There are regional rules but we'll stick to Open, which means we can see each other's cards and plan our strategy. The winner can get one, some, or all of the loser's cards depending on the trade rules. That doesn't matter here though."