💣 AT or AROUND 540 KARLOFF COURT ( for ELLIE + neighbors, feel free to engage with whichever part of the prompt! )

[ Suffice it to say it's Goddamn alarming to wake up the way Ray Gillette woke up on December 1st, in a strange house, a strange bed -- definitely not where he went to sleep last night(?) -- sharing a room (though thankfully not a bed) with a strange girl who barely looks old enough to drink legally. So startling is that fact it actually causes him to whimper out loud with surprise, unable to clamp the sound back behind his hand because, his right hand? Yeah, it's not there.

Which is a whole separate kettle of fish. Ray's had his bionic hand for 5 or so years now, he barely remembers what it felt like for his arm to simply stop at the wrist, but it feels pretty damn shitty. His legs, too, throb will a dull yet numb sort of ache, something he hasn't felt since long before he regained his ability to walk again.

He can move them, though, bend them at the knee and flex his toes, so that's something, but putting weight on them isn't effortless, if the way he crumples to the ground upon getting out of bed is any indication.

After a long time spent miserably investigating his body in the bathroom mirror, Ray will strap on the prosthetic hand hanging off his bedpost and limp around to investigate the house with quiet mounting alarm, eventually making it downstairs where he halfheartedly throws together some breakfast (the stress make him hungry, okay?), and eventually steps outside to collect the paper and goggle with still mounting horror at the suburban sprawl around him. Did he die and become a Stepford Wife or something? ]

Hey! [ He clutches his robe closed with his good hand and waves the other to get a neighbor or passerby's attention. ] Do you live around here?!

[ Ray naturally can't help but follow the crowds, curious to investigate whatever it is they're gathering for, which-- okay, he can appreciate the HHA's adorable looking rep, but the rest he only pays as much attention to as he needs, listening for any significant name drops or information that helps him understand more about where he is (and, ideally, why and how he's there).

... But no, the Mayor's speech, while certainly informative on some level, doesn't do much to tell Ray anything new. He remains fidgety from the cold and simple irritation, growing increasingly restless, but the sight of the massive lit up tree admittedly tamps down the worst of his sour mood. ]

Oh, wow-- [ God, he's a sucker for holiday festivities. Although... ] Wait, it isn't even a real tree?

[ Hard to tell at first, but upon closer look it's definitely aluminum. He wrinkles his nose, suddenly reconsidering his initial reflex to line up and buy his own-- if not for his wooden hand and leg braces he might consider taking it upon himself to go cut down his own, but unfortunately there's no possible way he could 1) wield an axe effectively, or 2) get the damn thing home, even if he did somehow chop it down.

Ray sighs, muttering to his neighbor: ]

Damn things are just tacky, don't you think?

[ The door Ray had been trying to walk through was, funnily (and perhaps luckily) enough, his own front door, meaning that once he steps out into the surprisingly out-of-place winter wonderland he is at least not dressed completely inappropriately; the weather isn't as cold as what he's used to, at least, though a scarf and sweater isn't quite robust enough against the sudden frigid chill of snow. Heaps of the stuff. ]

Oh, you have got to be kidding me.

[ But the charm of the quaint little village isn't lost on him, as much as he hates to admit it while everything else is still a big ol' fat question mark. He wanders past the ice skaters with a wistful look on his face, limping with his cane too obviously to go out onto the ice and join them, but even having only one good hand he can at least make a fancy garland or gingerbread house or two (join him, why don't you!), pick up some ornaments and candy canes, enjoy the refreshments, hot chocolate and mulled wine.

(Oh, right, and drop in a letter to Santa. Please, he cannot deal with all strangeness unarmed.) (No pun intended.)

Overall not the worst way to spend a winter's day, even if Ray feels moderately ashamed of enjoying himself so frivolously under the circumstances. What else can he do, though, but keep exploring until some answers begin to fall out...? ]

[ Similarly, Ray feels guilty (but only a little) about looking forward to the Mayor's gala, but he tries to take comfort in the fact that there's really no alternative here-- he can investigate and also have a good time, or he can be a miserable, humorless bastard about the whole thing. Frankly, if there's anything being a spy for a shitty, shitty agency has taught Raymond Gillette, it's that if you can afford to enjoy yourself a little during a mission, then why the fuck wouldn't you?

Exactly.

That said, he hadn't been counting on the dress code. Red or green makes for an absolutely hideous suit. Bell-hop chic, if you will. He selects the most tasteful outfit he can find among the HHA loaners and prepares himself to grin and bear it for the evening, wandering off to take full advantage of the refreshments and try (unsuccessfully) to see what the policemen are guarding.

As he sips on punch, Ray can't help but wrinkle his nose at the weird display the Mayor puts on in his Santa suit, but comments: ]

Wait, is this really a dry event? Did no one think to sneak in a flask?

[ He didn't, but only because he assumed there'd be champagne or something...... God, now he's going to have to track down Archer or something if he wants any booze while he's here, which is just great. Ray contemplates his options while he angrily crunches down on a pickle.

But otherwise he'll mingle as inconspicuously as he can, starting up conversation -- compliments of attire, wry commentary about the evening or even month so far, casual small talk that won't necessarily give him away as probing -- when he can to see if it yields anything interesting, though as the evening goes on the veneer of subtlety might slip more and more. ]