I get by with a little help...
It's Friday evening in Chicago, and people all over the city are looking for a bit of a challenge, or at least something to occupy their time for a while.
Ananya Chinnamalai strides down the front steps of the Field Museum, her high heels clicking on the marble steps. She mutters as she tugs at a dangling diamond earring, readjusting it and making sure her hair isn't caught up in it. There's a black-tie fundraiser going on inside, and she'd turned up, dressed to the nines, hoping to use the opportunity to find a new mark. Sadly, no one there was quite lively enough for her. She's a bit disappointed and hoping to find some way to salvage her evening.
Bruce Wayne is up on the roof of the Conrad, with a lot of cable, some contraption that may or may not pass as a grappling gun, and some crazy ideas about testing it. He's dressed all in black and he solemnly swears he is up to no good. Or something like that.
Dylan Hayes stands on a sidewalk along Wabash Avenue, hands on his hips, a mild scowl creasing his features. He is apparently addressing thin air--
"Come on now! You gotta get used to the idea of me turning up to check on you, you understand? It's part of my job!"
--and passersby may be forgiven for thinking the poor man's lost his mind. Because, really, why would anyone think this gentleman might be trying to address a cat?
...A cat he currently can't find. He's just momentarily lost track, he's sure...
Jack Malone sits at one of the outdoor tables at the Coffee Shop, scowling at the day's paper as if that shit has personally insulted him, his mother, and his tie, all in one go.
(It's okay. This is almost his default state of being. Really.)
Peter Petrelli is floating face-down in Lake Michigan, just off Navy Pier. The narration washes its hands of this one.
Rafi Navarro is in his botanica, which is going to close within the hour. He's just finished up with a customer, and is tidying up behind the counter in anticipation of closing up.
And Rachel Conway is once again at the Luna Bar, though this time she had the good sense to get a couch as soon as she got in, rather than stumbling to one later on. Not that she has any plans to get completely wasted again tonight, but you know what they say about the best plans, men, mice, and getting laid. Or however that shit goes; she doesn't really care to recall it at the moment as she's busy lining up her first shot of tequila for the night.
...It's been two and a half weeks since she pitched her meds into a trash can on the street. She just needs a little something to take the edge off, for now.
Ananya Chinnamalai strides down the front steps of the Field Museum, her high heels clicking on the marble steps. She mutters as she tugs at a dangling diamond earring, readjusting it and making sure her hair isn't caught up in it. There's a black-tie fundraiser going on inside, and she'd turned up, dressed to the nines, hoping to use the opportunity to find a new mark. Sadly, no one there was quite lively enough for her. She's a bit disappointed and hoping to find some way to salvage her evening.
Bruce Wayne is up on the roof of the Conrad, with a lot of cable, some contraption that may or may not pass as a grappling gun, and some crazy ideas about testing it. He's dressed all in black and he solemnly swears he is up to no good. Or something like that.
Dylan Hayes stands on a sidewalk along Wabash Avenue, hands on his hips, a mild scowl creasing his features. He is apparently addressing thin air--
"Come on now! You gotta get used to the idea of me turning up to check on you, you understand? It's part of my job!"
--and passersby may be forgiven for thinking the poor man's lost his mind. Because, really, why would anyone think this gentleman might be trying to address a cat?
...A cat he currently can't find. He's just momentarily lost track, he's sure...
Jack Malone sits at one of the outdoor tables at the Coffee Shop, scowling at the day's paper as if that shit has personally insulted him, his mother, and his tie, all in one go.
(It's okay. This is almost his default state of being. Really.)
Peter Petrelli is floating face-down in Lake Michigan, just off Navy Pier. The narration washes its hands of this one.
Rafi Navarro is in his botanica, which is going to close within the hour. He's just finished up with a customer, and is tidying up behind the counter in anticipation of closing up.
And Rachel Conway is once again at the Luna Bar, though this time she had the good sense to get a couch as soon as she got in, rather than stumbling to one later on. Not that she has any plans to get completely wasted again tonight, but you know what they say about the best plans, men, mice, and getting laid. Or however that shit goes; she doesn't really care to recall it at the moment as she's busy lining up her first shot of tequila for the night.
...It's been two and a half weeks since she pitched her meds into a trash can on the street. She just needs a little something to take the edge off, for now.