Never expect to be sure
Den Varlis is conducting a social experiment.
He’s been in Chicago for several months now, moving quietly and studying the terrain, keeping in touch with the O through various private third and fourth parties. He never was one to reveal himself before the opportune moment. Or at least before knowing what hellish tide he was about to leap into.
At the moment, however, he’s sitting outside of a coffee shop (not the coffee shop--it’s too much of a curiosity, too dangerous, too notable for someone like him), reading the paper. Next to his paper cup (black, medium, extra hot--he takes his time, and lukewarm coffee is disgusting) there is a finger.
It’s a prosthetic finger, yes.
But it certainly looks real.
He’s been in Chicago for several months now, moving quietly and studying the terrain, keeping in touch with the O through various private third and fourth parties. He never was one to reveal himself before the opportune moment. Or at least before knowing what hellish tide he was about to leap into.
At the moment, however, he’s sitting outside of a coffee shop (not the coffee shop--it’s too much of a curiosity, too dangerous, too notable for someone like him), reading the paper. Next to his paper cup (black, medium, extra hot--he takes his time, and lukewarm coffee is disgusting) there is a finger.
It’s a prosthetic finger, yes.
But it certainly looks real.