One of those missing two had tripped himself in a panic when his sulking was interrupted by a strange rendition of [i]Good Morning, America[/i], as broadcasted by a nearby digital advert, a few blocks off from our protag trio. Someone had spiked the volume (when did billboards get the aux cord?) up enough that Clem could hear its annoyingly perky hosts from across the street. What was with this neighborhood? He folded his arms and quirked an eyebrow, swaying to look at the couple from his spot on the concrete where he'd fallen as if they could see his attitude through the screen.

Annoyance morphed into confusion as their report progressed, and then a sickly low feeling when he saw his own face (it wasn't even a nice picture, in his opinion). 

"New arrivals"? Had he been kidnapped and taken to some freaky hippie-psycho socialist community? But--that was a guy from the end of the 21[sup]st[/sup] century? Aw, [i]no way in hell[/i]. He had to be dreaming. Or dead. Maybe this was heaven?

Cue vaguely hysterical laughter. Clem slumped into the back of the park bench, smacking the base of his skull into it methodically.