[centre] [color=00a651][h3]~Reginald Wagner~[/h3][/color] A squeak proceeded the good Dr. Archer into the dark office. Wagner had the lights turned off and the blinds pulled, a fiend of the night trapped, desperately trying to avoid the burning sun and its tendrils of pain. He had just finished his third drink, and placed the small glass on his desk, not a hint of surprise touching his face. He met Dr. Archer’s disapproving look with a mischievous grin. Busted. [color=00a651]“Well, how do you like that? Hemingway enjoys a drink or two before noon, and he’s celebrated by millions. Reginald Wagner has a shot, and all he’s treated to is the disappointed scorn of his oldest and closest beloved colleague.”[/color] He ended with a humorless laugh, his gaze lingering on the old man’s for just a moment before dropping to the glass. He was quiet for a moment, his smile fading to pure defeat. [color=00a651]“I suppose the cat’s out of the bag, then. You’ve caught me at my worst, my friend. I suppose I must seem quite the cliche. Oh, what is it that Poe was oft to say about the monkey on his back? ‘I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and…”[/color] A dread of some strange impending doom. Wagner left the last bit out, trailing off into silence. Although drawn to the dramatic from time to time, Reginald did consider Dr. Archer a friend. He respected the man, both as a physicist and as an educator, and saw him as a mentor of sorts, what with his having been with the Academy a bit longer than the futureseer. But that look… Damn that look. Damn the scorn. Damn the fool that dare question I. Who can understand the burden placed upon these tired shoulders? He cursed to see all. Why if one wanted to ease that, to experience a bit of relief, than who can truly deny him that? No. No, those were not his thoughts. The alcohol was already spreading it’s poison to his mind. How queer... he had expected the warm embrace of numb stupidity, but not this quickly. Then it dawned on him that he had yet to eat that day. He had been awoken by a sudden vision...which lead into another. It truly had been an eventful morning already. Wagner rose to his feet and crossed to the window with all of the stability and confidence of a man ten years his junior and three shots less drunk. He split the blinds and gazed at the platform below, covered in bright, young faces. Silence hung for a moment more. Then he broke it. [color=00a651]“She’s down there, is she not? Your granddaughter, I mean...?”[/color] Wagner didn’t wait for an answer. Of course she was. He had seen her plainly enough to know. He was heading down a trail that he would normally never pursue. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe another force, but Wagner had to talk. Those eyes, those goddamn accusing eyes...He felt as if he had no other choice than explain himself. He almost did. But something stopped him. Ask Wagner a thousand times and he’d still swear that he didn’t know what stopped him. The urge just vanished. Completely. The man turned, leaning back on the windowsill. Another smile split his lips. [color=00a651]“Oh never mind. Where are my manners? By all means, Doctor, do come in. Might I offer you a drink?”[/color] The thin man offered one hand to the glass upon his desk. Tired, bloodshot eyes met Isaac’s. His grin did not meet his eyes. ___________________________________________________________________________ [h3][color=fdc68a]~Graham Turner~[/color][/h3] “Me name’s Scorpio. Scorpio McRae, but ye can call me Scor if ye like.” Graham liked the guy already. His accent was just awesome. Or maybe he himself was the one with the accent now? Where even was this school? Was he still in America? ...Did it matter? What could he do even if he did know? Flap his arms and fly home, guided by nothing more than the North Star and his own intuition? Graham mentally shrugged. Gone was that question and all that which it meant. Now he was just focused on the people at hand. He took a bit of a survey. Aspen looked a bit worn out. But she seemed nice. And she moved things with her mind. Always a plus. Well…[i]always[/i] might be pushing it a bit. An hour ago and he wouldn’t even believe what he was thinking at the moment. But encountering Eldritch Horrors did do a pretty good job at broadening one’s mind. Scor was...Scottish? No, that sounded a bit more...Irish? Do Irish people have an accent? Suddenly, Graham’s lack of knowledge on world culture hit him. He’d ask Scor sometime. Preferably somewhere more private, that way he could minimize the number of people calling him out for being a dumbass. Alexis seemed...oddly interested in the VP. He was definitely picking up some harsh vibes emanating from her. Did she know the woman? Well, why else would she have that look. You don’t just have that deep a dislike for someone without having met them. Add another thing to the list of questions. Kitty was, well, in her own little world. She seemed content with just playing with her hair. He couldn’t blame her. Most everyone silenced after what’s-her-name showed up. The tension was getting to him. Cheol looked a bit pained. He uh, well, poor kid had a perfect( i.e. horrible) angle with which to catch the flash. Not cool, Big Mama. Don’t pick on Cheol. Well, maybe it wasn’t picking on, persay, but it was close enough. Tony, the line-cutting, sticker-hijacking scumlord, looked like he had been around the block a few times if ya catch my drift. Maybe he knew what they needed to do? After all, the adults seemed pretty distracted amongst themselves. Wait. More important questions. Where the hell was he going to sleep?! They weren’t going to force them all on the train everyday...would they?!! [color=fdc68a]“Toooony, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal.”[/color] Graham started, turning to the human swiss army knife. [color=fdc68a]“What’s the uh...whole sleeping situation around these parts? Do we just pick a bush? Or are we all in a big ol’ room, Full Metal Jacket style? If we need tents, I think I’m shit outta luck. Actually, if we need anything, I’m shit outta luck.”[/color] He cut himself off after noticing he was starting to ramble. And just slinging curse words. Rude, dude, don’t be crude. Hey Jude, you like a prude? I’m in the mood, then she cooed. Graham blinked. Weird time for one of Mama Turner’s favorite phrases to hit his mind. [/centre]