2020-09-12 - Just Gonna Keep On Walking

There's a house on Oak that's been boarded up for months. Burned down quite a while back and it's probably not structurally sound, but that hasn't stopped teenagers from rampaging through it occasionally and littering the place with syringes, and it sure as fuck hasn't stopped Javier de la Vega from making good use of it as a makeshift foxhole this morning. The sun's not yet up, and it's mostly early morning keeners out for a jog that occasionally filter past as he finishes cleaning up from.. whatever the hell he's been doing.

He's hunkered down behind one half boarded-up window while he dismantles a Barrett M82 with military precision. The charging handle and bolt carrier group are already gone, and he's onto the spring and buffer, big hands working surprisingly fast; dark eyes circumnavigating the windows and blown-out doors every so often as he goes.

The very off-duty cop wears no badge or service pistol, or anything resembling a uniform today. Instead, a faded black tee shirt, dark cargo pants, a ball cap turned backwards (presumably to make firing easier), shoddily laced boots.. and black gloves on his hands.

Ravn Abildgaard is no jogger; if somebody was to solicit his opinion on jogging it'd probably lead to a handful of observations of a dry nature about people who clearly indulge in next level masochism -- not only do they make themselves miserable, they make sure to spend a small fortune on doing it wearing the right expensive sportswear. He's got asthma. He's biased.

What he is, though, is someone who often wanders around town for no particular reason at all, and often at odd hours. He likes the solitude, and he likes to watch people without necessarily having to engage with them. This whole Swedish chef mix-up has complicated matters somewhat for him, and thus it's no big surprise that he's taken to wandering before a certain breed of newshound falls out of bed and drives down from Seattle. His walks lead him anywhere in town, with no particular pattern or purpose -- one day wandering out among the fancy condos and little mansions on the Bay, roaming around the A-frames of the outskirts the next. There's no particular place he needs to get to, and so, he doesn't.

The burned-down house is new. Not to Gray Harbor, but to the Dane; he pauses outside and looks at it with some vague interest, the kind that generally leads to the conclusion that Americans are, you know, a bit nuts. Just leaving a house like that? Why is no one restoring it, moving into it again, rebuilding?

America has too much space.

Ruiz stills at a sound, completely throttling all motion and narrowing his eyes slightly in the manner of a stalking cat in long grass. Was that..? He's nearly about to return to his work, but paranoia has him unfurling his mind, extending it outward like ferned fractals unbuttoning upon an infinite plain. And what they find, of course, is quite interesting. Some vermin hiding in the dank corners of the burned out house, those don't interest him. A girl walking her dog across the street. And a mind he's very, very passingly familiar with, not one hundred feet away, just.. standing there, like the very last interloper he expected.

Tonguetip skimming his teeth, the cop shoves his scope into the bag with the rest of the gun's parts, hoists the strap onto his shoulder, and pushes to his feet slowly. Ravn can probably see about half of his bulky, silhouetted form in the doorway as he rises. And then more of it, when he angles in closer, removing his glasses as he approaches, dangling them by the arm. Yes, he apparently wears glasses on occasion. "Hola," he greets brusquely, without smiling. "What the fuck do you want?"

The Dane doesn't startle; he's got a solid spatial awareness and on some level his mind was aware that something was nearby. It's just that something was probably a raccoon, or a stray dog, or somebody's cat, or -- well, probably not the bloody chief of police. Ravn's internal top ten creatures I expect to encounter playing trash panda in the suburbs list does not include chiefs of police. On some level, his general idea of how all things American work still has de la Vega camped out behind a fancy office desk, yelling at people about taking their badges.

He straightens up at being addressed and offers a small wave. "Uh. Nothing, sorry. I was just out walking. Didn't see you there, chief."

One of these days, Ravn might update that entry in his internal rolodex filed under Police, Chief of to incorporate, found where you least expect him. That day, however, might not be today.

Another amusing fact, of course, is that when Ravn straightens up to his full height, and is faced with the acting Chief at his full height.. well, Ravn fairly towers over the man. The surly Mexican is built like a hunting cat; for speed over short distances, and for taking down recalcitrant prey quickly and effectively. He's muscular here and there, lean elsewhere, but stands a couple of inches under six foot, and tend to get by on sheer force of presence alone.

"Right." The corners of his eyes crease slightly; it could be termed a smile, if one's feeling charitable. He prowls in closer. "I agree. Abildgaard, right?" His fairly heavy accent mangles the guy's name pretty badly. "I think it's better if you didn't see me, yeah?"

A flash of something deer-in-headlights speeds across Ravn's face; the kind of expression that even the humblest traffic cop is likely recognise -- some people -- even if they happen to be law abiding citizens who absolutely support the cub scouts and look twice before crossing the road -- are equipped with a permanent bad conscience around law enforcement. They're the kind of people who will look at a patrol officer like they just committed triple homicide when all they actually did was step out on the road before the yellow light had finished switching to green. Ravn is clearly one of those people, all sorts of horrible scenarios flashing through his mind -- including the one where everything explodes in a shoot-out Hollywood style in about -- two seconds.

His lips form a little 'o'. "Blind as a bat, me. Going to have to see someone about getting prescription glasses. Just going to keep on walking, am I?"

Maybe today is an absolutely fantastic day to go look at Addington House, or who knows? Shopping. In Seattle. Yes. Sounds good.

Another step closer. De la Vega's glasses are folded deliberately, and tucked into a pocket of his bag, dark eyes only briefly diverted from the man in front of him. When they return to Ravn, he's perhaps two feet away. One and a half. Just on the very, bleeding edge of his personal space. Close enough to make the edges of some tattooed script visible under the neckline of the cop's tee shirt that typically isn't. Either one of them could stumble, and they'd be in kissing distance.

"Si, esa podrķa ser una buena idea," he rumbles, low-voiced. Still no sign of a smile. Still no sign of anything at all resembling pleasantry. Instead, he reaches for what looks like the sidearm holstered at his hip.. but turns out to be his wallet. His wallet, shoved into his pants pocket. And tugs out a business card. On it, Captain J. R. de la Vega, GHPD. It's scissored between two gloved fingers, and held out to Ravn. "I think it would be best. For you to keep walking. And if you have any questions, you call me, yeah?" The card is waggled.

A card passes from one gloved hand to another. Ravn doesn't need to understand Spanish to understand the intent behind those words. He nods mutely and pockets it then backs off. He's the taller man, but on the sliding scale of boy scout to making de la Vega shake in his boots -- he's not even on the scale. Another few steps gets him out of the personal bubble of the police chief, and then he turns to do exactly what he was told. Keep on walking. Nothing to see here.

Is it rude to just turn and walk away from somebody? No doubt.

Does he want to be there when whatever manure is about to hit the fan, actually hits the fan? Absolutely not. That's the thing with police encountered in the real world, as opposed to the silver screen: They're usually doing something that you're very glad somebody is doing, and that that somebody isn't you. The last thing they want is some nosy bystander deciding that he's clever. And anyone who's worked as a carnie and confidence artist at some point in their life knows that you don't bloody well mouth off to 'em. Just walk away.

Bloody hell, that man is intense.