riverviewlogs | (no subject)

who: open!
what: a bunch of old soldiers hanging out
when: 3/22
where: the riverview bar and grill
warnings: none yet, will add as necessary

[The Riverview Bar and Grill is a pretty typical-looking bar-slash-restaurant. Sam's spoken with the owners about having a gathering here, and he's there early to push several tables into position so everybody can sit around and chat (though if anyone wants to break into small groups or be less socially inclined, there are still some smaller tables in the vicinity, or there's always the bar itself). A local sports match is showing on the tvs, of course, and there's a pool table, foosball, darts, and even a pinball machine tucked away in one corner for entertainment purposes.

Sam himself spots one round for the group, several pitchers of cold beer on the table once they're all gathered. After that, it's every man for himself - and, of course, the menu has all sorts of appetizers available, from everyone's favorite bar nachos to hot wings to...well, whatever Riverview offers in terms of specialties.]

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"Less talking. More playing." That should answer Finn's question. John's hunching down over the machine, with that same look in his eyes he gets when setting charges on a door. Half excitement, half intent to destroy. No chill.

"I'll go easy on you. Promise." A grin that's more than a little wolfish, showing a cut of teeth. They both know John doesn't know how to go easy. There's no one in RR-1 who does. They're a team that goes all in, at full tilt. That's why they do what they do. Crazy jobs no one else wants to. Because there's no one better suited to the task than a bunch of crazies.

"Loser types up the winner's reports for a week."

Edited 2018-04-15 01:24 (UTC)

Maybe one day Finn will be immature enough to just start sticking his tongue out at people. Today is not that day. His interest is still immediately apparent. Does he have an issue with doing paperwork? Not generally. But it makes things-- well, interesting.

"Nice thought." Nice joke. If John actually followed through on it, Finn's pretty sure it would mean one of them was dying. Which is one of the things he knows for sure that he likes about John, at least. "Think I'll pick it up faster if you're not making any noble sacrifices for me. We'll see what happens."

Time to figure out if this is more or less complicated than the gunner controls in a TIE fighter, he guesses? His initial assumption is that it's more complicated, but he thinks that about a lot of things when he hasn't had to figure them out before.

"I'm not kidding." He gives Finn a look, serious with a touch of sly. The John special.

"About the paperwork, I mean. We both know I won't go easy on you." He grabs a ball from beneath his goal, holding it above the table.

"You've got ten seconds to figure it out and mount defense." John knows Finn will. The kid isn't just smart, he's close to brilliant. A sharp mind, excellent marksman and stellar soldier. Whatever Kool-Aid the First Order serves their kids, he can't deny it works on some level.

Their loss, his gain.

"One."

He wants to be mildly offended for some reason. He really can't make himself be offended for any reason. It's a challenge, and it's an interesting one, and it's relatively low-stakes compared to a lot of the other things he's had to pick up on the fly. Literally, in some notable cases.

Finn just ends up sharply pleased.

He doesn't hate paperwork, strictly speaking. This is more about the principle.

He looks down. Gives one of his lines a sharp twist and a push, pulls a face-- like it somehow passed muster, compared to his other numerous foosball handle pulling experiences that don't exist. Looks back up with slightly narrowed eyes.

"Sounds fair to me."

One ball, two goals. John's red, he's blue. Four handles to worry about. Being on the defensive isn't ideal long-term, but holding the line means more time to figure out flipping the situation.

Could be... fun.

"Two." John can see the way Finn's eyes scan over everything. Surveying the table like a battlefield. He likes that. Likes that his people are good, intelligent people, who try hard to everything they do. John's people are nothing short of excellent.

He grins, wide again, and drops the ball.

"Three!" Then his hands are on the grips, quickly spinning his foremost offensive lines to try and catch the ball before Finn does and lock it between two of his guys, so he can line up a shot.

You could play this like two normal people, spraying and praying, but they're not normal people, and this isn't just a game. It's a challenge. There's no point in playing if they're not really testing each other's skills. Otherwise, it's just a waste of time.

So much for ten. Finn can't say he's surprised.

Three seconds is longer than people think, though, as long as someone actually uses them. Especially when everything to take stock of is standing perfectly still.

John goes on the offensive; Finn doesn't know him through and through, but he's worked with him long enough to know that, given good options on either end of the scale, John would usually rather strike first than be boxed in.

Finn, keeping his own focus towards his back lines, doesn't mind waiting it out this time. It's no way to win, but it buys time for getting the hang of things and thinking them out. If he can block the shot and fire back, which he aims to do, all the better.

"Decent strategy." John sees you Finn. He figured it was this most, waiting it out, or the other. Balls to the wall, as the kids say. Finn's both the most cautious and impulsive person John knows.

He takes the shot. That's John. Offense is the best defense.

"C'mon, Finn. On your feet. All of them." He spins one of his rows in a childish taunt. Also John. It's just usually directed at the enemy. Not that he doesn't love delicately ribbing his ~~ducklings~~ team.

The sound Finn instinctively makes is not so much a scoff as it is a pff. Between most of the people he hangs around here, challenges and weird taunts are the name of the game.

"That get you what you want much?"

Allow him to answer his own question: it apparently does, because he sure is shuffling some hand placement to try to line up a shot of his own.

"Yeah, actually."

John squints, staring down the field. His eyes flick up from the table to Finn's face, then back again. He's gotten to know Finn's tics, which means Finn's gotten to know his.

Relationships are funny like that. Just one of many reasons John wanted to pick and lead his own crew instead of cycling through whoever was available. The weapon you know, that you're familiar with, and know the ins and outs of, will always be most dangerous.

"Are you gonna take a shot, or are you waiting for me to die of old age? I've heard worse tactics."

Rude.

Finn doesn't put much on the odds of old age taking out anyone in this room, but he gets the sentiment.

"Doesn't surprise me to hear that." And coming from the guy whose bold strategy two times over was to run towards Rey while dramatically throwing his gun to the ground, that means something.

He takes his shot. Nothing especially fancy or tricky to it.

John blocks the shot, but just barely. Two quick flips of his wrist he can't pretend were leisure. Finn is fast, but more than that, he's got an eye for this sort of thing. He'd be a good sniper, if John thought that was something he was interested in doing. He doesn't. Finn's never struck him as someone who would take pride in counting headshots. He fights by necessity. In defense.

That's what John likes about him. The world doesn't need another weapon.

"C'mon. You can do better than that."