"Don't start with that modesty crap, alright?" Hank issued a derisive snort. "Markus was about to have his ass handed to him on a platter. Showing up with reinforcements played a bigger part in turning things around than you're giving it credit for." President Warren's change of heart certainly helped. But Hank's years on the force put him in contact with more than a few dirty cops. Men like Gavin, whose prejudices took control over their actions.
News footage had shown that Markus and his ragtag resistance were surrounded. It was all well and good that they broke out into a special episode of Glee. Hank didn't doubt there was a soldier among them whose finger itched to take the shot in spite of orders to stand down. Neither did he doubt they could've gotten away with it. Servicemen were given a badge of heroism by default. To question it was to put your own patriotism under the microscope.
So, yeah, Markus had won over the people like so many bright revolutionaries before him. That didn't make him bulletproof. Given his natural pessimism, Hank could imagine many scenarios where violence came out on top. Connor's arrival with at least half a million friends in tow was more than enough to cool the jets of a trigger-happy hothead.
Putting up both hands in a disarming gesture, he conceded, "I can't tell you what to do anymore. All I'm saying is, you should think about rubbing elbows with andr -- with your peers. It's like when a kid goes off to college. Being on your own is scary at first, but then you smoke a blunt and set a couple of hot plates on fire by accident. Experiences like that help build character. You shouldn't pass 'em up just to sit with me and listen to my arteries harden." That was it for the day. Hank's Pez dispenser of pseudo-fatherly advice had run out.
Flopping onto the couch, he let his eyes close. Ten fingers laced over his beer gut; his feet propped on the coffee table. Hank's socks had long since ceased being white, having adopted a dingy gray color instead. His right big toe peeked out of a considerable hole. The portrait of class and sophistication, he was not. "I'll tell you something else that's going on our to-do list," he yawned. "We're getting you some clothes that don't glow in the dark. And a tattoo. Hell, a red Sharpie would suffice. Somethin' I can mark you with just in case you've got any more evil twin brothers running around. I don't have the patience for another game of Trivial Pursuit."