(Untitled)

[2020sight]

There's a nice little park on 57th Street -- fountain in the middle, baseball diamond nearby. It's busy in the summers, with students and tourists and kids on the playground.

It's November now, though, and getting chilly, and the only person in the park is a figure on a bench feeding the pigeons, long legs stretched in front of him.

He's not exactly

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[notboundnow]

There are such things in Chicago as wind advisories. When those blasts off the lake come whipping past at your back, you don't need extra impetus to keep your head down, huddle into your jacket and just keep moving.

Prometheus has never liked to half-ass anything, though. And it's not like he hasn't been giving himself plenty to think about. He's tired and ragged, even for him. It doesn't make him any more prone to pay attention to things he's walking past.

Hell, it's not like he really has anything he couldn't take on here, right?

[2020sight]

A chunk of bread hits him in the back of the head.

[notboundnow]

"Shit!"

Lucky his hair is so thick, or he'd have felt that fucker harder.

He turns around, clutching at the affronted section of his head.

"What the hell was--"

Whoa.

That wasn't what he was expecting at all.

[2020sight]

"Honestly, since when are you that unobservant?"

Epimetheus looks up at his brother and presses a hand -- the one not holding half a loaf of bread -- to his heart.

"That hurts, man."