The news is terrible. No matter what time you check in on it, they always seem to find a way to show you the most gruesome things while they subliminally influence you. The Grayshire bombing was a prime example of this. The reporters throwing around words like "Tragedy" and "Horrific" while they use contrasting words in the same report, like "American" and "Rejoice". It all to confusing, yet all to familiar. They convince you to feel a certain way, and have a certain outlook on things. This kind of power is easily looked over by the public. It's part of the reason why people look down on the survivors, pity them. resent them. "How could they do this?" Elijah questioned, speaking to himself as he stood up from the couch in his living room. "Th-Th-These news reports...Terrorists attacked us, how are we the bad guys?" He was starting to get a little to heated, nothing good was going to come of it. 

Elijah took a deep breath and closed his eyes,"I guess they're just doing their job..." He whispered, reasoning with himself as if he needed to say it out loud to have any affect. Elijah opened his eyes again, and the site of his crummy apartment engulfed him. He hated it here. The carpet had stains that looked older than he was and the awkward green color made the carpet look like it was molding. The walls were no better. The "white" walls were dingy and stained by the numerous amount of occupants who smoked here. Elijah felt sick to his stomach; he needed some air.

The walk through the apartment was like walking through a motel 6, afraid to touch the walls in case he happened to feel something wet. He made it to the roof and opened the door, the fresh air hit him like a freight train. He looked out to the city wide eyed, taking in all the lights and noises of New York City. The big apple seemed quieter this particular night, it was a foreign feeling to Elijah. A feeling that he hadn't felt since the bombing, the strange chill up his spine was enough of a motivator to change the silence. He perched his lips as he began to whistle, his power made the whistle extremely high pitched, to high to be heard by a human. The dogs in his neighborhood heard his whistle and responded with their own voices, all joining the unorthodox symphony that somehow delighted Elijah. All the dogs were barking now, making this quiet night less so. He stood there, in the midst of the barking; Elijah may very well have found his "Happy place", a place needed in times like these.