#timeapoortenant

Another day, another fruitless search for leads on a job. Isfet knew it’d be slow going right now, the weather being what it was - more people staying home, plus the folks that were out and about were bundled up to the point of being unrecognizable. Oh well. He always kept a small backlog of intel he could feed Tenzin when times were slow, just as a buffer. Still didn’t like wasting his time like this though.

Not that he’d be doing anything better with that time. Either working some shitty shelf-stocking shift or wasting time scrolling through fumblr or fritter.

Maybe tonight he’d just people-watch. He didn’t feel much like trying to socialize, even if it might lead to new opportunities, but he didn’t like the idea of being alone with his thoughts either. So he set up the easiest distraction he had, here in his car: music.

He flipped down the passenger side visor and tapped at the little CD holder until something caught his eye. Hmm, Just Push Play... that’d do it. He slid it out and into the player. Temptation was to turn it up loud, but he didn’t want any sort of attention, so he let it hover at just above ambient for now.

Russell's van had been acting up.

Nothing too bad, but enough that if it wasn't the holiday season he would have gotten it looked at sooner. But, from what he knew of this old thing, it'd get him through a week or so just fine.

Except, it didn't. Apparently the engine was overheating, and he only just noticed in time to pull over to the side of the road before the damn thing started really smoking. Ah, shoot. Shoot shoot shoot.

Lane paced her kitchen, waiting for Wilmore to arrive. She’d had... three cups of coffee already. Perhaps calling them three poor decisions was more accurate; her nerves were shot at the prospect of this meeting.

She would have to tell him how she knew. She hadn’t yet revealed that to anyone who couldn’t already tell something was different about her. Was it judgement she feared? Judgement of her past self? Judgement of her species?

Both, she decided. Lane admired Wilmore. Not the Traveller, although they--she did, as well-- but Lane. The starry eyed stare she’d given him at the party for his talk of labor movement involvement had been hers alone, this time, while Lane the Traveller rode the wave.

google says :

This one at first glance doesn’t seem too special. It’s a lined journal, the kind you can buy in Target that’s nicer than a composition notebook but not by much. However, the inside is filled with writings about his memories of Manifold, little drawings and diagrams, and an account of the coming of the entity. There’s also a kind of old Christmas card in a little envelope. It reads: “Kind of heavy for a Christmas present, but a little bird told me you collect this kind of thing. I have another copy at home I made this one from, so don’t worry if you spill coffee on it or anything, haha. Merry Christmas Noemi.”

Noemi handles the journal with her usual care, even with Wil's assurance. She flips through the pages, skimming a few lines and looking at some of the diagrams, her eyes widening as she understands what this is.

She thanks Wilmore, stumbling over her words trying to explain how much it means to her that he's entrusting her with this.

If they keep at it tomorrow night I’d knock on the door and tell em they’re being too fuckin loud. Except maybe be nice about it I guess