walk_ins | [Santo - The Beach]

[Santo - The Beach]

[master post]

You have to walk down a ramp to get to the sand. The ramp stretches over sand dunes, with sea oats dotting them, blowing in the near-constant breeze. On the same level as the ramp: a boardwalk, dotted with places to get sketchy-looking fried food, to try your luck at a number of games of chance, to watch performers, to ride roller coasters of the future!!!!

When you walk down the ramp, it's all white sand and blue water. Down about half a mile is a pier that juts out several hundred feet.

It's a nice beach. Not too crowded.

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"A road, you mean."

He shakes his head. "I don't know. I could call up a local road map, if you're that interested."

"Not unless there's a place to rent a car."

Simon gets a sidelong look -- or what's probably a sidelong look, considering Charlie's sunglasses. "Or a flying car."

"There should be. I know Santo relies heavily on its public transit system, but there must be some commercially available private vehicles."

A beat.

"Though I'm afraid I'm not qualified to teach you how to operate one."

"That's okay." Charlie doesn't seem too bothered. If anything, he's more cheerful than before. "Maybe flying cars will happen next year. Where I'm from. I can wait."

Simon can't remember when the aircar was invented, but he's not about to confirm or deny this in any case.

"Everyone from Earth -- from around your time -- always seems interested in the flying cars," he says instead.

"Well, yeah," Charlie says, surprised. "It's a flying car."

He smiles. "Enough said, I guess."

There are benches along the boardwalk; they're passing one now. An old man in sandals and a violently colorful shirt, the kind Wash favors, is sitting there throwing bits of rice cake to the seagulls.

"I get why people want to come here for vacations." Charlie watches a seagull arc across the boardwalk and head for the sand. "And it's a lot of people. Really a lot. But I gotta wonder -- does anybody actually live here? They have to, right?"

"Well, there needs to be enough of a population living here to provide services to the tourists, or the world wouldn't be viable. I don't have any idea what their emigration statistics are like, though -- being born here doesn't necessarily mean you decide to stay here."

"If you get a choice in it."

He's still watching the seagull. "L.A. is like this. In parts. Sometimes getting away from it won't work. That's the thing about being a cop. Anything you want to find out about a good side to a city you have to find when you're off-duty. Because that's not your job. Not really. The PR department might say it is but it isn't."

"The PR department?" he asks.

A seagull flaps down onto the boardwalk a few feet in front of them, and eyes them beadily before stalking out of their path.

"Public relations. They're into acronyms. That's why they gave themselves one."

"Ah. And in the interests of public relations, they'd prefer policemen to be familiar with their city's good side?"

"Nah." He watches another seagull. "They want to make sure the public thinks the LAPD is on their side. There've been problems with that in the past. Pretty big ones."

"I see."

A slight shadow passes over Simon's face.

"I can see how that ... could be a problem."

"Yeah." Something in Charlie's voice has darkened. "You're telling me."

"I haven't thought much about what it must be like from the cop's point of view. I've had ..."

A pause.

"Some unpleasant experiences."

"Yeah?"

Simon Tam doesn't ping as a con. And Charlie Crews can tell. Usually.

He takes off his sunglasses and stows them in a pocket, expression set. "Me too.

"From the other perspective. The non-cop one."

Simon pauses, and looks at Charlie.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. You're not a con, though. I would have picked up on it. I think. Unless they do it different here. They might. I mean, if there's flying cars there are other different things. And languages. It's like L.A., but it's not. Not exactly. It's like everything's just a little off. So I guess that could be off too."

His speech has sped up, just a little. Noticeable, but apparently not to Charlie.

He's looking out at the ocean.

"No," Simon answers, hoping he's understood the term correctly, "I'm not a con."

Beat.

"I spent some time as a wanted fugitive, though."

"Yeah?" Simon gets half a sidelong look. "Not any more?"

"No," he agrees with a small smile, "not anymore. Or I wouldn't be out here in public."

Unconsciously, he turns his face toward the sun as he speaks.

"The matter finally came to a public hearing, and ... the charges were dropped. Both the completely fraudulent ones and the ones that weren't what they looked like."

"A public hearing with you present?"

That's generally how it works. Generally. At least where he comes from. This is a different system, he tells himself. Different.

"Yes," he says. "They'd ... finally caught up with us, some days before. But somebody leaked news of our capture, and certain groups made a rather loud outcry, and they were pretty much forced into the public hearing."

Otherwise we'd have just disappeared, he doesn't say. It's far too nice a day to think about that.

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