[centre] [img]https://i.imgur.com/czPip88.png[/img]

[b]New York; one day before the Hounds attack

Bronx - Dreaming Whisky apartments[/b][/centre]

[color=#9f7d2e][i]Far from home,[/i][/color] whispered the spider, [color=#9f7d2e][i]none of the beds in this city are familiar, are they? Even after two months.[/i][/color]

... How could he answer that? A simple 'no' wouldn't suffice.

[color=#9f7d2e][i]"I could afford something better,"[/i][/color] he whispered back, and imperceptibly the golden spider shook its head.

[color=#9f7d2e][i]Selfish stupidity is not your nature, Mansa. I know that. You know that.[/i][/color]

Of course he nodded along, the darkness cool and relaxing. In the weeks since his escape to the Bronx, he'd been spending a lot of time sleeping, thinking. Lying low gave him that opportunity, at least, but the aching in his bones was continuous.

This particular apartment had been 'home' for five weeks now, and mainly he had been keeping an eye on the British news. His own headlines had dropped, of course, though the theories on conspiracy sites were rampant.

"Protests in Parliament, 2 dead." they read now, the latest in a more brutal crackdown.

"Metas are human too," read one of the protestor's signs in the video, a black clad police officer striking the woman almost as soon as she stepped forward.

[color=#9f7d2e][i]"Was it right to escape?"[/i][/color] he asked the spider, [color=#9f7d2e][i]"Shouldn't I be there to help?"[/i][/color]

[color=#9f7d2e][i]Your path is your own, Mansa, but your purpose is clear. If the world's wounds are better healed here, that is your choice... and you cannot heal anything from within a prison cell.[/i][/color]

A murmur, a gentle pain in his chest, and the silence of his dreams starts to give way to the sights and smells and noises of the big city - the universals of trash and smog and fast cars, of grey upon grey.

[color=#9f7d2e][i]But right now your path is hunger for... food, correct? That sandwich place, uh...[/i][/color]

[color=#9f7d2e][i]"Lil Pickles,"[/i][/color]

[color=#9f7d2e][i]Yes, that one. We enjoyed that one, right?[/i][/color]

[color=#9f7d2e][i]"Right, yeah..."[/i][/color]

He rose up, bed still unmade, and placed the thin spectacles onto his nose, the soft yellow metal narrowing into the ridges of his nose from a lifetime of short-sightedness. He dressed in familiar attire, the universal attire of a man blending in - old (but not filthy) jeans and red t-shirt, a cheap and padded dark blue coat, a simple blue cap on his head, the brim just long enough to obscure his eyes without seeming suspicious.

But as he made his way from the apartment, door locked tight behind him, unseen eyes turned to glance at the radio in their hands.

"Target is on the move. Appears to be heading for his usual spot."

"Good to hear, you know what to do."

...

[centre][b]Lil Pickles[/b][/centre]

A humble sandwich joint, little known to most save those on the local few blocks, Lil Pickles had become a popular hotspot for those at the bottom of the Bronx.

The slightly smudged glass door, covered in cheaply printed or decade old adverts gave way to the humble tinkle of a doorbell as Everett pushed it open. He got a few glances here or there from patrons who had been eating there for years, and the black haired cutie - Aiko? Hikari? he wondered - behind the counter looked up from her phone to give him a warm smile. Though, something was... off.

[color=#9f7d2e][i]What is it?[/i][/color]

But the unease quickly passed.

Her smile had quickly become a familiar comfort so far from home. It wasn't a forced smile, the fixed and practised smile of corporate staff, but the subtle and good-natured welcome of someone who genuinely liked to see people's faces, whether familiar or not.

"Hey, Eddie, how're ya? You want the usual?"

He couldn't help but nervously smile at her greeting. Sure enough, she'd remembered the name he'd given her and had already picked up on his tea drinking habits, but for the life of him he couldn't seem to remember the specifics of anything she gave him.

[color=#9f7d2e]"Yeah, uh, yes please, chamomile and a cheese toastie-"[/color]

He caught himself mid-sentence, but too late all the same.

"-you mean a grilled cheese 'n' onions?" she smirked.

With silent resignation he just nodded, hands opened and palms against the counter as he took a seat by the bar. He reached into his wallet and pulled out a 10 dollar note - the usual for the usual.

"HEY BENNY," she shouted over her shoulder to the kitchen beyond, "GRILLED CHEESE AND ONIONS FOR EDDIE THE BRIT!"

"OKAY!" he shouted back.

He twiddled his thumbs, glancing over to the newspaper on the counter, and it occurred to him that it was a different sort of "bad news" to what he'd been reading online from British sources. Less "the government is turning into a dictatorship" and more "city life sucks and people are scared of metas; in related news, hell is still hot and pigs still don't fly".

"Sooo," she said, the familiar, comforting smell of cheap instant tea starting to waft as she poured in the water, "Still outta luck on the job front? 'Spensive and risky movin' so far with still nothin' for it."

He gave a small smile.

[color=#9f7d2e][i]The irony kills me. I'm actually going to die.[/i][/color]

[color=#9f7d2e]"Well, you know. The land of opportunity, some times you've just got to go with it. Sometimes there's not much to stay for, you know? Double or nothing."[/color]

She nodded.

"Dad was just the same - there's a guts to it, I respect that."

[color=#9f7d2e][i]What was her dad's name? She's told you before.[/i][/color]

"But you know," she whispered, leaning in a little as she pushed the tea over to him, "I don't blame you." 

Her voice was barely perceptible, and the hair on his back went dead straight.

"Your name isn't Eddie, is it? And I know why you've still got enough money to live here when you haven't had a job yet."

She backed off a little, smirking as he gave her the weakest, palest grin he could muster, his hunger suddenly replaced by a sinking feeling. This was further worsened when the guy next to him at the counter nudged up to him with the barrel of a handgun buried in his coat.

"You're really bad at keeping a low profile, you know that? Mansa, right?"