[color=f7941d][h2]Douglas Song[/h2][/color][color=f7941d][h3]Best 8 Motel[/h3][/color]
Having wisely spent his time in the depths of his meditation, the man had begun to piece together the evidence of all he had bore witness to. The two criminals in black, punctuated by masks, one of who appeared to teleport were known to him, though at first in the conscious, waking, thinking world he had forgotten just who they were; there had been words, rumors of two such men and how their strange doings were never quite explained. This was clear now, at least to Song, for he recognized they together, or in some fashion, had the means to move themselves through apportation and cloud minds, befuddling those who lacked inner focus and bodily discipline. Such talents so explained their mysterious ways and how they always seemed to slip away in what little was known about them.

What came next while Song sat idle before his table, a small cup of steaming tea filling the air with its floral scent, was that they were still quite men. Fragile, feeble, fallible, still very human despite their own superhuman talents. One of them had some sort of illness or malady that caused seizures while the other seemed not to suffer the same outcome, but could only move or react so fast. They were still people in the end, not something entirely inhuman or incomprehensible. This thought was mulled over further by Song who, with both hands upon the ceramic cup, drank quietly once before returning it to the table drenched in shadows. The darkness of the room relaxed the body, allowing the mind to wander after all.

So their motives were, or so Song reasoned, comprehensible and rational. They methodically acted when they entered the broadcasting station and then so thereafter when their broadcast played, especially after the contents proposed. Men, animals, cages, supposedly - like a public service announcement. But who to? Clearly the city itself was in play, but why? Was it for them or those that would see it and know? This Song would not reconcile with himself, but it could be brought together in time. They had some sort of bond, between their dress and that they were willing to defend one another, that they had some sort of message they wished to convey for all from them both... at least in part.

Motion after motion did the serene man ponder these things until he finished his drink, hours later. Now it was time to rest, to sleep, to recollect his mind and body and repeat this pattern of insight once more, after collecting information in the night to come.