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[b]The Sociology Corridor, Evergreen Grammar School
Friday Morning[/b]

Of course, he’s still standing stock-still in the middle of a corridor in the minutes between lessons; said corridor is very busy.  It is perhaps inevitable that, at that moment, one element of that business takes the form of an unstoppable force.

At this moment, Alistair is distinctly not an immovable object.

Sent sprawling, he’s barely in time with his arms to stop his head from hitting the polished stone floor; no sooner has that happened than he freezes, his eyes widening as some great thing – a fist – stops centimetres before his face.  Said fist withdraws, opening to become an up-helping hand.  “Oi, babyface, I nearly socked you for a moment for bumping into me, so watch where you're going!”

Now, Alistair these days is not a person frequently found in the moment, always casting his thoughts backwards to mine the past for ideas or extrapolating towards the future to test them.  What time he spends in the present is, in general, in service to these, listlessness conserving energy for his higher functions.  This, though?  The potent combination of reaction to perceived danger and utter confusion as to both the chain of events that has brought him to this point and what exactly this person is doing now throws him rudely out of listlessness and back towards currency.

Even so, his head is still a touch hazy, instinctually accepting the hand up.  Things did happen rather quickly.  Alistair shakes it, working to clear his mind, before examining the person standing before him.  [color=0072bc][i]A little shorter but looks about my age, mid-length sand-blond hair…[/i][/color]  The boy’s appearance is tinged with familiarity but nothing more than that.  [color=0072bc][i]Probably a year above or below.[/i][/color]

For a moment, he grapples with what to say next; the other participant in the conversation, however, examining him curiously, jumps in first.  “Why weren't you paying attention anyway? Something weighing down your mind?”

[color=0072bc][i]Oh, no, just grappling with how to avoid potentially triggering a societal backlash against any efforts meant to advance a given socio-political cause!  Nothing major![/i]  “Sorry, just…  Just working through something.”[/color]  Perhaps realising that the person in front of him – who, he notes, seems unusually highly strung (if the fist didn’t support that conclusion already) – won’t accept this as a complete answer, he continues: [color=0072bc]“I’ve been stuck with something of a…  An ideological dilemma over the past few years.”[/color]  He breathes, offering a sad, quiet smile.  [color=0072bc]“Sorry it got in your way.”  [i]Also, [/i]please[i] don’t almost punch me again…

Wait, no.  That would mean – [/i][/color]

He’s already talking.  “Anyway, my name is Mikhail. Mikhail Chekhov. If you want to make it up to me, go buy me some... Pie. Not rubharb, that sh - stuff is gross.”

[color=0072bc][i]That’s ‘rhubarb’, right?  That accent sounds eastern European…  And haven’t I heard the name ‘Mikhail Chekhov’ before – wasn’t there a rumour or something…[/i][/color]  Alistair considers for a moment, then dismisses the idea.  [color=0072bc][i]Don’t know.  Probably just passed someone in the hall talking – subconscious.[/i]  “Alistair – Parton.    I, ah…”[/color]  He bites his lip, edging away as it gradually dawns on him that he’s talking to a complete stranger who [i]nearly punched him in the face[/i].  [color=0072bc]“I don’t really know any good bakeries.  Walk mostly in parks.”[/color]  Alistair glances behind him.  [color=0072bc]“And I need to – sorry, I think I’m already late – ah – bye.”[/color]

Away he skitters.