Hiro Hamada (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bigdamnhiro) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
san_fransokyo2015-01-28 11:26 pm
bigdamnhiro) wrote in san_fransokyo2015-01-28 11:26 pm
Entry tags:
I've got a dark alley and a bad idea
[Hiro's really, actually sneaking into a bar called the Mean-Eyed Cat. The irony doesn't escape him.
He could be at home, at The Lucky Cat, but no. Mean-Eyed Cat it is.
That he even manages to sneak in behind a couple of conversationalists in ill-fitting suits is dumb luck; it's freezing out (it's snowing, it hasn't snowed in years), business is slow, whatever bouncer should be watching the door is hanging out at the counter instead where he doesn't have to deal with the drafts from the door. That he makes it to the other opposite end of the taproom and into the back hall before the bartender manages to mutter a hey wait is because he's small and knows how to duck behind obstacles and look inconspicuous.
Nobody comes after him, so that's a plus. He pauses at a corridor corner to get a good look around and listen to the noise, see if he can get some kind of direction.
He has a small port of Baymax's scanner, but it doesn't have the power to give him more than a general location. From there it was always going to take his own resourcefulness to find the guy. But he's definitely in this building - Hiro asked around, got some incredulous talk about the old-timer, yōkai, guy with the metal creepies, doesn't talk much, at that one bar down the street - stuff like that.
There's a couple of empty rooms - couches and televisions and darts, chipped paint and cracked baseboards, low hanging ceiling bulbs and so much dust and secondhand smoke he fights off a coughing fit - and then there's one with voices, near the back. He peers through the cracked door and finds who he's looking for, skulking on a couch in the back. Between the two of them, though, there's a couple of thugs playing pool and talking shit at each other.
Okay. He was sort of hoping Callaghan would be alone.
He tightens his grip on the folded duster tucked under his arm and stuffs the other in his pocket, fingers tightening around the solid metal object inside. And then he shoulders his way through the door.]
Hey. Delivery for the guy with the metal creepies.
He could be at home, at The Lucky Cat, but no. Mean-Eyed Cat it is.
That he even manages to sneak in behind a couple of conversationalists in ill-fitting suits is dumb luck; it's freezing out (it's snowing, it hasn't snowed in years), business is slow, whatever bouncer should be watching the door is hanging out at the counter instead where he doesn't have to deal with the drafts from the door. That he makes it to the other opposite end of the taproom and into the back hall before the bartender manages to mutter a hey wait is because he's small and knows how to duck behind obstacles and look inconspicuous.
Nobody comes after him, so that's a plus. He pauses at a corridor corner to get a good look around and listen to the noise, see if he can get some kind of direction.
He has a small port of Baymax's scanner, but it doesn't have the power to give him more than a general location. From there it was always going to take his own resourcefulness to find the guy. But he's definitely in this building - Hiro asked around, got some incredulous talk about the old-timer, yōkai, guy with the metal creepies, doesn't talk much, at that one bar down the street - stuff like that.
There's a couple of empty rooms - couches and televisions and darts, chipped paint and cracked baseboards, low hanging ceiling bulbs and so much dust and secondhand smoke he fights off a coughing fit - and then there's one with voices, near the back. He peers through the cracked door and finds who he's looking for, skulking on a couch in the back. Between the two of them, though, there's a couple of thugs playing pool and talking shit at each other.
Okay. He was sort of hoping Callaghan would be alone.
He tightens his grip on the folded duster tucked under his arm and stuffs the other in his pocket, fingers tightening around the solid metal object inside. And then he shoulders his way through the door.]
Hey. Delivery for the guy with the metal creepies.