You know they put a man on the moon simply to prove that we all need a place to go
It's been a fairly quiet Black Friday in Chicago, at least for a select few.
Chance Adams hasn't been out in quite some time, and she's enjoying the brisk Chicago air. She's at Grant Park at the moment, smiling to herself as she watches the kids play. She misses her family a little, sure, and she sure as hell didn't eat any turkey yesterday, but... it's okay. It's going to be good, she just has a feeling. She's thinking right now, but she's disturbable, mostly.
Gladys is sitting in the common room of the basement in the Conrad Hotel, packing up boxes of cookies and other tasty baked treats to send out to, well... just about anyone. She's got the phone book out and is peering at it as she writes addresses in her large cursive script. Anyone can come help her with that one! She loves people.
Mike McGill is just walking the streets, thinking. He wouldn't normally be doing much for Thanksgiving anyway, but this year he doesn't even have to sit in his office and wait for a crazy phone call from his father, or pretend to be waiting for a phone call. He pushes through the crowds of people coming home from their shopping, apologizing with each step, and wishing desperately that he could just find the right person who would hire him, so he could be working. It was enough to know that he could get work if he just waited, even if it meant it would go horribly in the end, but now... now he doesn't have that. So what next? (Next hopefully someone distracts him from his thoughts.)
Scout is also on the streets, darting in between people with a giant grin on her face. She had her Thanksgiving dinner, sure, but it wasn't turkey. Someone's going to invariably ask what is that she's got all over her face. (Well, then again, you never know. This is Chicago.)
Trinity McFasater is down at the Pier, sitting and drinking like she do. Another holiday with no one to love her. She misses everyone--all of her old boyfriends, even the ones that hit her. Possibly she's half-howling at the moon as it rises over the water--she's a little drunk now, after all.
And finally, Michael Vaughn is sitting quietly at the bar in the Luna, drinking a beer and thinking to himself. 38 years. He's been alive for 38 years, and he's been in Chicago for over one full year. Last year he had a guardian angel, Sydney had just come back into his life, and this year... he stalled again.
So he scrawls himself a little note in his journal, and sits back for another drink. Happy birthday, Vaughn.
Chance Adams hasn't been out in quite some time, and she's enjoying the brisk Chicago air. She's at Grant Park at the moment, smiling to herself as she watches the kids play. She misses her family a little, sure, and she sure as hell didn't eat any turkey yesterday, but... it's okay. It's going to be good, she just has a feeling. She's thinking right now, but she's disturbable, mostly.
Gladys is sitting in the common room of the basement in the Conrad Hotel, packing up boxes of cookies and other tasty baked treats to send out to, well... just about anyone. She's got the phone book out and is peering at it as she writes addresses in her large cursive script. Anyone can come help her with that one! She loves people.
Mike McGill is just walking the streets, thinking. He wouldn't normally be doing much for Thanksgiving anyway, but this year he doesn't even have to sit in his office and wait for a crazy phone call from his father, or pretend to be waiting for a phone call. He pushes through the crowds of people coming home from their shopping, apologizing with each step, and wishing desperately that he could just find the right person who would hire him, so he could be working. It was enough to know that he could get work if he just waited, even if it meant it would go horribly in the end, but now... now he doesn't have that. So what next? (Next hopefully someone distracts him from his thoughts.)
Scout is also on the streets, darting in between people with a giant grin on her face. She had her Thanksgiving dinner, sure, but it wasn't turkey. Someone's going to invariably ask what is that she's got all over her face. (Well, then again, you never know. This is Chicago.)
Trinity McFasater is down at the Pier, sitting and drinking like she do. Another holiday with no one to love her. She misses everyone--all of her old boyfriends, even the ones that hit her. Possibly she's half-howling at the moon as it rises over the water--she's a little drunk now, after all.
And finally, Michael Vaughn is sitting quietly at the bar in the Luna, drinking a beer and thinking to himself. 38 years. He's been alive for 38 years, and he's been in Chicago for over one full year. Last year he had a guardian angel, Sydney had just come back into his life, and this year... he stalled again.
So he scrawls himself a little note in his journal, and sits back for another drink. Happy birthday, Vaughn.