Busy evening at the diner.

Friday nights often find Miss Kristopher Hekas at Monroe’s. She has picked a booth in the corner of the diner, by the window, from which she can not only see the entire restaurant, but outside as well. And Monroe’s on a Friday night is an excellent spot to simply sit and watch.

Especially on Friday nights like this one. Kittio has already had a few, and by a few one doesn’t mean soft drinks or fries, although a cup of one and a plate of the other sits before her now. The room swims pleasantly, just enough to have sparked a warmth behind her eyes and an interesting wobble to the occupants of the other tables. Teenagers on dates, families on outings, the occasional neighborhood old-folk and jaded punk or three, out for some eats before a night on the town.

Kits had brought a little notebook and a pen, hoping to get some work done (drawing from the crowd and its rosy glow), but has gotten sidetracked and is currently absorbed in doodling a caricature of a stout, elderly, red-faced sort of fellow sitting several tables away.

A single enters. A single man enters. Alone. Conspicuous. Not really but he feels that way.

He tries to crush a clipboard against his thigh. The thigh is covered by black slacks, pressed a little clumsily. For a shirt, a neat polo tucked in completely for a full view of a brown leather belt. The polo's breast pocket bears a pair of reading glasses and a gold-coloured name pin. It read in the quintessential professionalism, "Hello, my name is Theodore". How may I help you?" He shifts as the clip begins to dig into the flesh beneath the pant leg.

A brief sojourn to a table. Seemed longer than it was. This is his first time.

He quickly dons the glasses to read the menu above the bar as a boy whose acne had seen lesser days walks up.

"Can I get you something?"

In a voice that has said such a phrase too many times thus far.

He who seems to be Theodore looks perplexed for a moment and then orders a cinnamon bun. The boy monkeys the expression.

"The only ones we have will be from this morning, Sir."

He cautions. The one labeled Theodore waves a large hand,

"That is fine."

His accent is terrible. And the fact that it is authentic is even worse. The boy concedes and disappears around the counter. The single man single-handedly puts his clipboard on the table and promptly forgets it. He begins, instead, to cast his attention to the patrons in the diner. In doing so, he makes notes of each person.

Elderly couple. Probably mother and father's age. That girl is hoping she won't go to her own home tonight. That young man is awaiting a call from his chop shop. Another girl, alone, not touching her order.

He trains his multi-coloured eyes (focusing over the tops of the glasses) on Kristopher and allows them to linger.

Oh, the crackling electricity of heightened awareness, tempered by alcohol and an empty stomach (it needn't be, there's food right there but it seems so far away, and anyway she's forgotten it's there) and buzzed back up by the rain-spotted sizzle of the feeling of eyes. Scritch, scritch, scritch, says the pen.

This was something she'd inherited from her mother, she supposed. Moira always seemed to know what was going on. Always. Too bad Kittio couldn't hear through walls the way Moira seemed to be able to. Scritch scritch scritch scritch.

She glances up, face obscured by the craze of chestnut-colored hair untill she pushes it out of the way, very nearly literally. Strange face, dark smudgy eyes, like charcoal rimmed with more charcoal, look blankly for the other set.

Oh, there he is. A brief moment of surprise- why, there's a mind behind those eyes. What on earth is someone with any brains at all doing in this place?

Kristopher conveniently disregards the fact that she's there too.

He was spotted. Revert back to inattention lest he be maced under the pretense of foreign stalker.

He forces his gaze to the clipboard and sighs. Forms. Forms and recommendations. He would have to complete these and put them in the box the next morning so people could have their longer black extension cords or increased shipment of button batteries.

He had to look away lest he become hypnotized by the product numbers.

The boy returned with the requested bun. The one called Theodore accepts it with a grateful nod and begins to pluck the outermost ring delicately. It was very sticky and less pliable. It was, indeed, from the morning batch. This was not going to be satisfying in itself he could tell. He summoned his teenage employee.

"Could I have a small coffee as well?"

The boy is fortunate to discern "small coffee" and confirms this with a nod before shuffling off.

The one labeled Theodore munches the slightly hardened pastry and resumes what he hopes is an increased subtle watch over the gathered populace. Especially the girl without an apparent appetite.

This one does look familiar, too.

What was it Moira'd said? Precognition? Remembering things before they happened (scritch, scritch)? She glances blankly down at the food in front of her- the fries have gone cold and the ice in the soda has no doubt melted, so she decides to continue ignoring it and instead turns back to the doodle.

Eh. Never mind, it's long since done, and no good anyway. She scratches it out absent-mindedly (scritch scritch scritch scritch), and glances back up. Not that the scene has changed since the last time she checked- oh- two or three minutes ago.

The slow electric crackle amps up several notches until she's sure that other people have noticed the blue sparking off her fingertips and through her hair. Remember? She can remember- something- a nagging deja vu, or perhaps deja fuck (a feeling of "I have screwed this up before"). She is sitting on the ground, leaning against someone's long knees. TV is on, blaring BUY BUY BUY and she raises an arm and levels a finger at it, pulls back an imaginary finger and says, "Bang." The TV turns off, and he gives her an odd look.

But of course all anybody else can see is a sullen-looking young woman scritching away at a notebook, and a brief shiver runs over her and then it's over.

And gone. Perhaps it was a dream she'd had at some point. What was it? Something about television and carpeting? She glances briefly back to "Theodore". What was it again?

They met eyes.

The one called Theodore could not say that he felt any tingles or sparks, but he could clearly see her eyes on his own. He felt somewhat embarrassed and more than a little shocked she had percieved his glances so quickly. Or it seemed quickly to him.

He did not register the arrival of his black coffee until the smells and steam had floated in a halo around his head. It awoke his sense again. He faced the steaming cup and added two packets of the regular sugar and two the tiny cream cartons.

Then he was on the move.

He took the coffee in order to avoid appearing threatening. Can't do much with a hot beverage in his hand. He rose and strode slowly across the tile floor to the edge of the girl's table.

".. What are you drawing?"

Him and his curiosity. It never occured to him some people might not be as open as he was.

Kristopher looks up at him, uncomprehending for a moment, then glances down at the pen in her hand, which is still scritching away.

"Oh. Well. It -was- that guy over there." A nod indicates the large ruddy man, who is currently laughing uproariously at something. Her voice is low, thoughtful, a little gravelly. She blinks at the drawing, and the pen slows- ever... so... gradually... to.. a.. stop, rather like a clockwork toy winding down.

"Now it seems to be some sort of..." She tilts her head to one side slightly. "Demon bunny rat. Thing. Er." She looks back up at "Theodore", looking faintly puzzled.


Not much for social graces, this one.

A brief cock of his chin and he locates the former subject. A tiny nod, the coffee steams.

Her finished product almost made him smile. His lips twitched upward but he was careful about not showing too much emotion lest is radiate off as being..well.. creepy.

"And how does that differ from what you began with?"

It is a joke. A test-the-waters-joke. What makes her laugh because he's interested in her. Not in that way. In a way that denies you perfectly good food. Or a perfectly stale bun, in either case. If she was appalled by the slight insult in his follow-up query, he would have to change his tone. If she laughed, he could begin to map out her personality. At the very least he outward one.

Well then.

Kristopher doesn't laugh outright, but the corners of her mouth twitch upwards and her eyes, much more expressive than the rest of her, are definitely smiling.

"Oh," she says thoughtfully, giving the red-faced man (who has calmed down somewhat, or at least enough to tuck into his food again) a calculating look. "Not much, I suppose. I think he makes rather a good demon bunny rat thing, don't you?"

The water is a brackish, but no sharks yet.

"Yes... very adequately.."

He chuckled and turned his attention back solely onto Kris.

"Do you come here often?"

It sounded so cliche, but he quickly summoned a follow-up to save himself.

"I.. just need to know the hours..."

He rakes a finger through his waving hair and shuffles for a moment. He longed to take a drink of coffee, but maintained a thought on the risk of spilling it and therefore resigned from the task.

"Fridays, mostly around now," she says, a thoughtful note tugging in her voice.

She glances back up at him (the thoughtful note now visible in her eyes- old eyes, surprisingly so). "I think they're open pretty much twenty-four seven, but i've never bothered finding out."

"Fridays..."

He nods a little and passes the coffee cup from left hand to right hand.

"Well.. thank you.."

Shuffle, Shuffle. He began to turn,

"Well.. thank you.. It was.. nice talking.."

That was so. Lame. Square. Weak. Whatever word they were using that year.

"Hey. Hey, Theodore."

What? Oh. The nametag.

"Hey, it's... no, actually, never mind, I have no idea what time it is- what time is it, anyway?- but it's too early. Let's go somewhere."

If that wasn't a shot in the dark, not to mention extremely random, Kristopher doesn't know what is. Also where they'd go. But that can be changed.

He stopped and turned. Slowly.

"It's..uh.. Fyodor.. I'm off the job.."

And he removes the nametag, slipping it into his pocket.

"Fyodor Chernyshev... It's my birth name.. when I came to this country they changed it."

He does not try to sound too resentful.

"Er time..."

His eyes search the diner until resting upon a clock.

"It's 6:34... Go? Okay... where do you want to go? I've got nowhere to be tomorrow."

He shrugs, easily accepting, glad to not be alone.

"Oh, yeah? Fyodor." She pronounces it perfectly, and flashes a grin.

"Where're you from? Good old Immigration Offices- they do that sort of thing, y'know. Oh- there's the clock, been wondering where it was. I'm Kristopher Hekas. I was almost hoping you'd have some ideas- but I suppose we'll just find out where we're going when we get there."

He returns the smile.

"Feodosia; it's a relatively well-known city.. in the Ukraine. I lived there.. a little more than half my life."

He began to walk toward the door but not before paying. One bun and one small coffee. A bit of a waste as he did not finish either (the coffee found itself back with the neglected bun) but Fyodor rarely dwelt on such considered small things. His walk was slow to allow Kristopher to catch or keep up with him.

"It's nice to meet you, Kristopher. As for ideas, I'm empty but open to anything. We could grab a movie or something, but I have no idea what's playing."