gunsforhire | LOG: Anywhere you go, there you are

Entry tags:

LOG: Anywhere you go, there you are

Who: Anyone who's out and about town
What: Mingling
Where: The business district and casino
When: A fairly normal day
Warnings: Please warn as needed

It's a rare day, one with clear skies and empty air, and everyone seems to be out and about, shopping and stopping in to various places of entertainment to make the most of it. Some people are even seen without their helmets, a risky behavior but one which they chose take the luxury of indulging in.

Today's curious though, for it's the day that Jimmy settles his newest acquisition into a basement room of the casino. The Transponser, a teleportation device, left to malfunction until the inventor who sold it to him can be located again, for yes, he's made himself scarce after this deception. Apparently getting money for his work was more attractive than perfecting the technology behind it.

In any case, it's a day for socializing and getting to know friends better and meet neighbors.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Dexter Grif has achieved a good mood thanks to the wonder of air conditioning and the promise of cookies. He's even whistle a little tune, oblivious to the curses being hurled against him.

At least until he notices York.]

What?

For a moment, York says nothing. Had the man not spotted him, he would have slipped over and stolen a pack of cookies straight from him. But that's no longer an option. Probably.

'You took all the cookies,' he says, putting all the dejection he feels into his voice and pouting behind his helmet.

"Yeah, I did," Grif replies, flatly. There's not even a hint of an apology. And don't you pout at him either. First come first serve, dude.

"Why, did you want some?"

'Yeah, I want some! I dragged my ass to the store on a rare day off and all my favorite cookies are taken!' He looks at the cookies, trying to work out what the chances are of snatch a packet or two if this guy decides to be a dick and not give him any.

There is a part of Grif that wants to say that he dragged himself in from the middle of freaking no where for these cookies, but at the same time, he can understand the frustration. They are good cookies.

Good in the sense that they have no nutritional value whatsoever, which is Grif's favorite kind.

He considers for a moment, before holding out a package.

"Fine, you can have one. I'm getting some for my friends as well."

That is a bold faced lie though. The most Simmons and Donut will see is the wrapper.

York takes the packet and immediately drops it into his basket before the guy can change his mind. One packet. The other For Hires aren't getting any. Cookies, that is.

'Thanks man,' he says, three parts genuine, one part sarcastic. 'So generous. What's your name?'

There's a part of Grif that's reluctant to say as he sizes the guy up. But at the same time, thanks to his business he does have a bit of a reputation.

"It's Grif. Why? Who are you?"

Grif, huh? York files the name away for later reference. Of course, it might be completely insignificant, but it's usually a good idea to know anyway.

'York,' he names himself, holding out his free hand.

Grif shakes his hand briefly. He feels like he should know that name, but it's not ringing a bell. Still, the guy seems okay. He at least has good taste in cookies.

"So, you from around here?"

He probably is but Grif's out of questions.

Guy's got a good shake, however brief, and York wonders what Grif is like under the helmet and tubbiness.

'Yeah, lived on Adaptive my whole life,' he replies. 'Assuming you're at least used to this place if you're asking that question and daring to take all the good cookies.'

"Been here a few years, yeah," Grif replied. A few years that feel like a lifetime, much to his chagrin. He's still not even sure how he wound up on Red Team, or why he stays.

"Cheaper living here than on Earth."

'You came from Earth?' That's unusual. Most Earthers are picky about the plague clouds around Adaptive and pick other, less deadly colonies. 'How was the older Mother planet when you left? At least you're right about it being cheaper here, so we've got that going for us.'

"Fine, at least when I left. I mean, usual crises and all that but, you know, that was a few years back. I dunno about now."

He doesn't have a lot of need to contact Earth, having his only sister here and no way to contact his mother.

York nods, one hand reaching up with the intention of carding through his hair, only for him to remember that he's still got his helmet on.

'I've never been, myself,' he says. 'Always wondered what it's like to live in a place where helmets aren't necessary.'

"It's nice," Grif replies. He's gotten used to the helmet thing, but he's not fond of it. "At least, where I was. Hawaii."

He's gotten used to the helmet, but he's not fond it. Never mind that his helmet is probably gross with the abuse he puts it through (eating, smoking, god knows what else).

"I'd like to be able to breath fresh air again, one of these days."

'Sounds great.' York has no idea where Hawaii is. He knows the basic geography of Earth, could name the continents and recognise the planet if you gave him a picture with different planets on, but that's as far as his knowledge goes.

'You and me both. I've often wondered what it's like to not have to worry about a death cloud coming down at any moment.

"Tell me about it. I'm not used to living with air locks."

Granted he lives in a lousy part of town so the air locks are something they have to repair on a frequent basis. That could explain some of the annoyance.

'I can imagine they'd take some getting used to,' he agrees. Having lived on Adaptive his whole life, he's grown up with air locks. He wonders what it's like to not have to rely on them, to be able to leave the doors and windows open on a hot day.

"You have no idea. Sucks when one of them sticks. Literally."

And both ways to. Sometimes the door will stay closed or it'll stick halfway. They really need to fix it properly.

'It shouldn't be sticking, that's a sign of either an old system or a bad grade one. Get that fixed as soon as you can, if you can.'

Wouldn't want it to suddenly break down, especially in the middle of a storm.

"Knowing Sarge it's probably both," Grif says, and there's an eyeroll behind the visor.

"We should probably just get a new one."

'Sarge your friend? Leader? Yes, definitely get a new one, that one sounds dangerous.'

"Leader. In the loosest sense of the word. He's a senile old man."

That Grif for some reason seems bound to follow. He still has yet to figure out how that happened. It just did.

York chuckles at that.

'I get the sense you don't particularly get on?' he guesses.

"That's one way to put it," Grif sighs, "and that would be an understatement."

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