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[Some fifty years down the road]

Will's house in ^0 is small but well-appointed, close to the subway.

He looks relaxed, settled in an armchair with a book, but there's a subtle tension in him. Waiting for a contract to start is never comfortable.

Aug. 8th, 2008

[ooc: Pertinent backstory.]

Will likes Valhalla's Cafe, in Caret One. It's a nice little place, in one of the nicer areas, and the coffee's excellent. He's enough of a regular there by now that he's got his "own" table, and he's on at least nodding acquaintance with other regulars.

Some of the regulars, on the other hand, avoid him; he tends to carry some of that indefinable air contractors pick up after a few contracts, along with a very un-contractor-like wariness. The combination can be unsettling.

Well. That combination, and his tendency to get picked up off the street by Chainsaw. That has a way of making people nervous, too.

It's been a few weeks since the torturer last paid a visit, which means Will is starting to look over his shoulder more often.
Eden is doing what she does best: running away from her problems. Not facing her future.

Today, this involves playing darts while drunk in ^1's favourite bar, Barrel's. The patrons have learned to stay out of her way.

"Shit," she says, after a particularly bad throw that bounces off the wall instead of sticking in the dart board.

She swears it moved.
A few days ago, Eden came to Eights' house unannounced, and Sylar thought she was Jasmine. His frankly shameful reaction has been preying on his mind ever since.

So today, he's going to talk to Eight-Hour.
[ ooc: tinytimed to, oh, say, a century ago. ]

So it's Simon's first time judging, and he's understandably nervous.

Not that he's going to show it, of course. He slaps his hand against the flat white wall as if he's done this a thousand times before rather than only in training simulations. (And can it go right first time, pls and thnx? If there is never a repeat of the freshman Quicksand Incident then it will be too soon.)
It's almost the end of Simon's shift. On the other hand, it's only Diana who tends to take that as an excuse to raft out to the deep end of crazy, so when he opens up the little window to take a look at who's beyond it's not with any particular wish that she suffer horrifically for the crime of making him do his job.

Always willing to keep an open mind, is our Simon. Especially for a woman with cheekbones like that.

Anyway. Monologue at him, and make it quick; he's finally managed to land a date after this with that hot guide in the glasses.
It's an hour to the end of her shift and she has things she'd rather be doing.

A few more judgings, that's all. Let's see about this one--

Hand to the wall, eyes closed. What's his story?
Anne woke up to find a diary entry.

She didn't believe a word of it until she stepped outside and saw night flash into sunless day without warning, in a matter of startling seconds.

Then she went for a walk. A very long walk. Right about now, she's wandering at the edge of the suburbs, looking like she's on the verge of tears but not quite managing to make that leap. Or maybe she's managing to hold them in. Hell, she doesn't know. She doesn't know what the hell to do.
Simon is on his rounds today. He puts a hand to the blank white wall, desiring to see through it without any particular enthusiasm, and the little oval window opens obligingly.

Through it, he can see a figure floating peacefully, eyes closed and arms folded like a mummy's. Funny fingers. Disappointingly androgynous. (What? Not like anyone calls him out on his habit of ogling the dearly departed. Nothing else offers itself to brighten his day, and it doesn't count as necrophilia if he's dead too.)

Anyway. Life story.
Diana is having a bad day.

Not that she ever has any other kind of day.

Another window, another hovering figure, another hand to the flat wall as she searches through another life.