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evilbeejSandboxness. Weird sandboxness.
The 30th Century. It's the bright, shining future that visionaries have dreamed of for longer than recorded history - diversity, a just government, tolerance, an end to plague and repression and war--
--at least on the surface, which is more than most civilisations seem to manage. Underneath all the brilliance, of course, people are always people: greedy and selfish and isolationist and xenophobic, stupid and egocentric, power-hungry and dispassionate. Upholding the brilliance, however, is the symbol designed to bring the United Planets together in unity and respect, while keeping justice and peace in place - the Legion of Super-Heroes, an organisation of super-powered teenagers charged with honoring the legacy of the larger-than-life heroes of the past.
On a sunny day in the teeming coastal centre of Metropolis, Cosmic Boy, founding member and former leader of the Legion, soars through the air, darting around traffic and flashing past windows at high speeds -- he's on his way to the spaceport, after having taken the weekend off in order to spend time with his family back home on the planet Braal.
He never gets there.
*KSZZATSCH!!*
A foggy, lightly misting evening in Beacon Harbor -- the air, already smelling vaguely of ozone due to the precipitation, suddenly burns and is charged with the scent, the electric blue light of a portal opening sideways above a grimy, sodden street. A figure barrels through it, lets out a startled yelp, and crashes unceremoniously into a pile of wet cardboard left at the curb in front of a bookstore.
Fate's a bitch. Destiny's worse. 'What Should Be' and 'What Is' have found their differences so appalling, they no longer speak to one another. They're all laughing, however, at how precious the moments are when things come together.
In another when, another where, a man who's 23 going on 40 stares at a 19 going on 19 girl who's startled the hell out of him with her entrance. His vivid blue eyes are intense, and she's captivated, summoning more courage than she's sure she has. She peels off one glove, then the other; they hit the floor, and he continues to stare. Leaning in, leaning on the couch where he sits, she reaches to brush a stray lock of black from a pale forehead.
She never gets there.
*BZZZEEOOOORNNN*
A portal opens nearly atop the other and deposits its catch next to the first. Bootless, gloveless, flailing and swearing violently, a figure lands partly on the curb, partly in a puddle of cold, dirty water. One hand slaps uselessly against a piece of wet cardboard as the scent of ozone dissipates and dark eyes begin to clear.
He's getting slapped at. Unsteadily, Cos starts picking himself up, bits of mashed wet cardboard making this a slippery ordeal. As he does so, he's talking -- apologetically, confusedly, concernedly -- and either Cat got hit on the head really hard when she hit the pavement, or he's /not/ speaking English. Nice voice, though. A hand's extended, and the arm it's attached to is connected to a worried face. A worried and /disturbingly/ familiar face. Just, uh. Clean-shaven and well-groomed.
Scrambling back, bewildered and sore, Cat tries to stand, without the aid of the stranger (don't touch me) even though there's something about him that sings familiar. "Wh-what, no, wait. Stop... stop it," she tells him, looking around, struggling to gain equilibrium. She was just in the flat. She was just /there/. And this place isn't anything she recognizes.
This is just about the polar opposite of the environment that the Legionnaire was just in -- but he's good at polarity. Especially when there's a priority higher than his own sensibilities, such as a possibly injured civilian. Who, um. Isn't speaking "--Interlac. Not to state the obvious or anything. English, is it?" he's asking almost absently, fiddling with what's apparently an earpiece after Cat refuses the hand up. "Sorry. Are you all right?" Jarringly bright summer-blue eyes are looking for Cat's, partially shaded by a shock of glossy black hair fallen across his forehead.
"Oh... /fuck/," she breathes, stumbling forward, a hand reaching out. She'll try to brush it out of his face, like she would have, to the one that was with her seconds ago, lifetimes ago. "...You're not... you're not you, not the you not... not... are you?" Her heart is in her throat as her skin pales out, the world whining, slightly with her distress. "...Wis... Wisdom?" Dark eyes meet his--they were always searching for blue, to find them in this fashion burns, bleeds, frightens.
She can; Cos doesn't move away, doesn't step back - instead, he reflexively reaches to catch her if she stumbles too heavily, if she falls. If she doesn't, the hands - gloved - remain outstretched preemptively anyway. But his hair, yes, it can be brushed from his eyes easily. A furrow creases his brow. "I haven't got much," he says, half joking, half apologetic. "I don't even know where I am. I must've knocked you over, coming out of that gateway like that - did you hit your head?"
"N-no," she says, stepping back, her voice cracking as she turns, looking around, a sick fear and helpless rage rising in her throat. "/No/," she pleads. Thin, ungloved hands curl into fists tight enough to leave half-moons welling blood in her palms. Her wide eyes show the evidence of a concussion as she lashes out, destroying the store-front windows nearest her. They buckle, shiver and simply... explode. I hope you stay, Cat. When we get all this sorted, I really really hope you stay.
Instantaneous reaction: throwing up a magnetic shield, diving for Cat herself, apparently trying to tackle her out of the way of flying shards of glass, *not landing*, /not falling/..."Hang on!" The guy's voice. That's *glass*, it's non-ferrous, it's non-magnetic; he was close enough to it. Got to be some awful cuts. He must be what, seventeen? Eighteen? Nineteen? No more than twenty. His voice - he didn't start of speaking English, but now he is, and it's got the faintest touch of the accent that Cat would expect it to have. "Hang on, don't panic, for /grife's/ sake don't panic--" He thinks they're being /attacked/.
A cry of fear and desperation -- Cat doesn't sob, but she attempts to pull back and away, staggering as he knocks hr clear of the glass. "M'not panicking," she whispers, curling up. "Not panicking," she pleads. The /world/ hums, strained and straining, and Cat peeks up at Cos, dark eyes seeking blue. It's not you. But it's almost you. So young. "Kitty, where are you?" she pleads, under her breath. "You said I could stay," she begs. "You wanted me to stay." Looking around from her tiny little pillbug perch, Cat shivers. I want to go /home/. Where my /family/ is.
Cos, up in the air, looking down at Cat, blue eyes wide and worried. He looks up, over his shoulder; his eyes scan the rooftops, the windows. Who shot at us? Who? And then he's holding his hands out, encouraging, gaze locked on Cat. "It's all right, it's going to be all right. I don't know where we are, but I'm with the Legion. Let me take you to higher ground. I promise I won't drop you. Come on, then--"
Cat stares at the reaching hands. Gloved hands. And then she looks at her own. Ungloved. "You're not him," she says softly. "But you look like him," she adds. "What Legion?" she wonders, not quite able to bring herself to reach for him in return. "God, you almost sound..." Like him. I don't understand. Shifting to stand, finally, Cat wraps her arms around herself and looks around -- seemingly unafraid of whatever 'shot at them'. "Not in Kansas," she whispers, and then continues to eye Cos warily. She wants to stare at him, the only reminder, the only familiar looking thing besides her own self. But at the same time... it's not him.
"Come /on/," pleads the boy - the young man - male of indeterminate youthful age. It's hard to say. He alights, every motion reserved, every muscle tense. "Off the /street/. I don't know what you're talking about, but we're sitting ducks out here and you can explain to me when we're safer. All right?" In desperation to get her to move, he starts coming toward her again, hands still out. If you won't let me pick you up, and you keep backing away from me, maybe you'll back into a sprocking /alley/ at least.
"Don't /touch/ me," Cat finally demands, sounding pained as she backs up a step, her hands lifting, palms out, blocking, shaking. "Please don't touch me--it'll be worse than windows, next time," she tells him, swallowing roughly. She's certain that soon, the stinging in her eyes will mean tears -- she doesn't want that, but she can't yet figure out what to /do/.
His hands drop and he visibly relaxes. "Oh. Oh, that was /you/? All right -- still got to get out of here; someone'll have noticed the breaking sounds." Cos /also/ doesn't come any closer. "Plus it's cold, and it's raining. We're going to get sick, out like this." He's trying to use the 'reason' tack. "Please? I won't touch you. I just--" There's a pause, something clicks in his recollection. "You came through. You don't -- you don't know where we are, either."
"Not a fucking /CLUE/," Cat says, turning her face up to the rain. I haven't felt rain since... maybe when Wisdom walked me home. Or maybe when I puddlesplashed with Kitty. A thousand years ago. Or was it when he came to find me, after the phonecall? I don't remember. "Maybe we should find a newsstand," she says, settling comfortably into shock.
"Or a public comm terminal," replies Cos dubiously, hooking fingerless-gloved hands into his utility belt. "Something--" Long pause.
A car drives by, splashing right through a puddle at the curb.
Staring, Cos takes a much closer look at their surroundings instead of occupying himself trying to find movement, glints of weapon sights, people, danger -- he finally blinks. "Oh, bloody /nass/. Right. Lay on, MacGuff. My English is terrible."
God, the sound of his voice, the blue of his eyes. It /stings/. Nodding, Cat moves to shove hands into shallow, tight pockets. Shivering, she trudges along with, and glances back long enough to eye Cos and his outfit. Later, when she's not thinking too hard about how much this sucks, she'll get a giggle out of the idea of Pete as a Trekkie. "Your English is fine," she says, not quite snarking. Newsstand, paper machine, convenience store -- anything.
"No, I'm cheating," confesses Cos, matching pace with Cat, walking alongside. "Translator. I *can* speak English, but not well, and I can barely read it." His outfit doesn't actually look much at all like a Star Trek one, not even the Next Generation -- it's just the right colours, and it's fairly science fictionny. Maybe it's a Star Trek ripoff costume. "The Legion's a...an organization of super-powered individuals, where I come from. We've got government support, but we're autonomous. Mostly disaster-response work." Little pause, glance over. "By the way -- you can call me Cos."
"Huh," Cat says, nodding, listening, but still dazed. "Cos," she says, nodding. "M'Cat," she offers. Somehow, she manages not to roll her eyes at 'super-powered individuals'. Somehow. "Wish I could say it's a pleasure. Meetin y's fine. Wishin it weren't /here/, though," she notes. Quick steps, long legs, cold feet, slapping the wet ground, socked feet splashing through cold, dirty puddles.
It's still better than 'superheroic teens'. Or 'super-powered teens from outer space'. "Cat. Yeah, I - ditto. Me too." Cos looks away from Cat, up the street a ways. There's a blue newspaper machine up ahead, at the street corner; he unhooks one hand and gestures. "That what you're looking for? I'm guessing this is the 20th century. I mean, from the cars."
"Y--yeah," Cat says, eyeing Cos. "What one were you from?" she wonders, frowning as she moves to shove a couple coins into the slots and try to snag herself a paper. It suddenly occurs to her that she might not be in the same 'time' as the one she left, either. Everything looks... mostly the same, time-wise. What she can think to question, at any rate.
"Thirtieth," says Cos shortly, finally just shoving his hands in his pockets. "Does that tell us what city we're in? It ought to, right?" She's speaking English; she, at least, has to be from Earth. This isn't necessarily Earth, but it sprocking well looks like it. "As well as the date, I mean."
"I'm looking," Cat says, scanning the paper. September 3rd. 2003. "Twenty-first century," Cat mumbles. "We're... in someplace called 'Beacon Harbor'," she says softly, and struggles to scan the headlines. "And... according to where I left... I've gone back in time, five months or so."
"Beacon Harbor, Beacon Harbor," muses Cos, wheeling off absently, coming to rest seconds later leaning against a lamp-post. He's frowning, and his hands are still in his pockets. "Presumably coastal, then; most likely North American. Probably northern, given the distribution of harbors requiring notable beacons." There's a pause, blue eyes seek dark again. "Unless you've heard of the place. Have you?"
"Haven't," Cat says, turning to look at Cos. Vulnerable. Broken. Trying to hold it all back, hold it all in. "I gotta find..." Pause. "Public phone." Dark eyes will hold to blue for a bit; the world is a cruel place, and the familiarity is both amazing and wrenching.
"All right," responds Cos quietly, shoving back off the lamp-post, watching Cat. His expression's serious, intent. Hands stay in pockets. "I've got to find Superman - but it can wait. Do you want me to fly you? Can do it without touching. Faster searching, less puddles." It's an offer given in a businesslike tone, matter-of-fact and not likely to be crushed or anything if refused.
"Yeah, sure," Cat says, tearing her expression away from staring at Cos. I can't look at you. I can't look. It's you, but it isn't. I don't understand. And now I'm somewhere far away, far /back/ and this isn't where I came from, and it isn't where I was and what if I can't go home? What if I find you again /here/ and then I go somewhere /else/? "Faster's good."
It's like levitation, only not. It's like telekinesis, only not. What it *is* is Cos first lifting Cat carefully off the ground, and then himself. Not touching - he promised. It's a strange sensation, and very slightly dizzying -- but only for a moment, and then it evens out. Slow cruise, somewhere around fifteen miles per hour. Somewhere around fifteen feet off the ground. "Are you cold?"
Wide eyes, and Cat hugs herself, shivering. Yes, she's cold, and she's afraid, and she hasn't felt /this/ alone in a long time. "I'm fi--/there's one/," she says, pointing to a booth. She glances to him, apologetic, afraid, bewildered. I want to go home. You're nice and all, and you're probably one of the sweeter strangers I've ever met. But still. Stranger. And I'm no longer where I was. And you're him, except you're not at all.
If it helps any, I'm just about as creepy, and just as much of a bastard -- I just hide it better. "Right," says Cos, lowering the two of them, gently letting go the iron in Cat's blood once her feet are on the ground. Major power flaw: people with anemia. There's a brief crackly sound and a couple of flashes of what looks like reflected light, over the surface of Cos - and then he's taking his jacket off; under it's a long-sleeved featureless black shirt. What the collar belongs to. "You're fine, but humor me. I've got a transuit on, I'll stay warm."
"Wh--oh." Cat reaches out to take the suitjacket, bewildered as she curls into it. "...thanks," she adds, and moves to use the phone, hands shaking. Dial Zero. Get information. "Peter Wisdom," she murmurs to the mechanical voice. "Yes, all of them," she grumbles. "Yes. In all of New York State," she sighs. Pause. A little light goes out in Cat's eyes as she says, "Well... how 'bout a Katherine Pryde? With a y. No, /Pryde/ with a y. Katherine with a K." She's standing there, in the borrowed coat, clinging to the phone, resting her cheek on the plexiglass, her heart sinking.
There're stickers on the plexiglass, as there usually are. 'Pregnant? Need Help? Call 1-800-NO-ABORT'. 'The Crusi-Fries'. '91.1 WFMU'. 'Home Employment Hotline'. 'From Another Universe? Feeling Lost? Come to Solace House - Call 1-888-PORTAL-1'
Cos reactivates whatever flickered, and it flickers again, and he stops getting rained on again. And then he's leaning against an electrical pole next to the phone, arms crossed, looking at the ground, listening.
"...thanks," Cat says, and *thunks* her head against the plexiglass. She drops the receiver, forehead against the very sticker she might find useful. There's a sigh, and then she puts the receiver back. Maybe they're just... somewhere else. "You've got to be here," she whispers to herself. "Gotta be." Turning, Cat eyes Cos, and wonders, "...any idea what now?"
The 30th Century. It's the bright, shining future that visionaries have dreamed of for longer than recorded history - diversity, a just government, tolerance, an end to plague and repression and war--
--at least on the surface, which is more than most civilisations seem to manage. Underneath all the brilliance, of course, people are always people: greedy and selfish and isolationist and xenophobic, stupid and egocentric, power-hungry and dispassionate. Upholding the brilliance, however, is the symbol designed to bring the United Planets together in unity and respect, while keeping justice and peace in place - the Legion of Super-Heroes, an organisation of super-powered teenagers charged with honoring the legacy of the larger-than-life heroes of the past.
On a sunny day in the teeming coastal centre of Metropolis, Cosmic Boy, founding member and former leader of the Legion, soars through the air, darting around traffic and flashing past windows at high speeds -- he's on his way to the spaceport, after having taken the weekend off in order to spend time with his family back home on the planet Braal.
He never gets there.
*KSZZATSCH!!*
A foggy, lightly misting evening in Beacon Harbor -- the air, already smelling vaguely of ozone due to the precipitation, suddenly burns and is charged with the scent, the electric blue light of a portal opening sideways above a grimy, sodden street. A figure barrels through it, lets out a startled yelp, and crashes unceremoniously into a pile of wet cardboard left at the curb in front of a bookstore.
Fate's a bitch. Destiny's worse. 'What Should Be' and 'What Is' have found their differences so appalling, they no longer speak to one another. They're all laughing, however, at how precious the moments are when things come together.
In another when, another where, a man who's 23 going on 40 stares at a 19 going on 19 girl who's startled the hell out of him with her entrance. His vivid blue eyes are intense, and she's captivated, summoning more courage than she's sure she has. She peels off one glove, then the other; they hit the floor, and he continues to stare. Leaning in, leaning on the couch where he sits, she reaches to brush a stray lock of black from a pale forehead.
She never gets there.
*BZZZEEOOOORNNN*
A portal opens nearly atop the other and deposits its catch next to the first. Bootless, gloveless, flailing and swearing violently, a figure lands partly on the curb, partly in a puddle of cold, dirty water. One hand slaps uselessly against a piece of wet cardboard as the scent of ozone dissipates and dark eyes begin to clear.
He's getting slapped at. Unsteadily, Cos starts picking himself up, bits of mashed wet cardboard making this a slippery ordeal. As he does so, he's talking -- apologetically, confusedly, concernedly -- and either Cat got hit on the head really hard when she hit the pavement, or he's /not/ speaking English. Nice voice, though. A hand's extended, and the arm it's attached to is connected to a worried face. A worried and /disturbingly/ familiar face. Just, uh. Clean-shaven and well-groomed.
Scrambling back, bewildered and sore, Cat tries to stand, without the aid of the stranger (don't touch me) even though there's something about him that sings familiar. "Wh-what, no, wait. Stop... stop it," she tells him, looking around, struggling to gain equilibrium. She was just in the flat. She was just /there/. And this place isn't anything she recognizes.
This is just about the polar opposite of the environment that the Legionnaire was just in -- but he's good at polarity. Especially when there's a priority higher than his own sensibilities, such as a possibly injured civilian. Who, um. Isn't speaking "--Interlac. Not to state the obvious or anything. English, is it?" he's asking almost absently, fiddling with what's apparently an earpiece after Cat refuses the hand up. "Sorry. Are you all right?" Jarringly bright summer-blue eyes are looking for Cat's, partially shaded by a shock of glossy black hair fallen across his forehead.
"Oh... /fuck/," she breathes, stumbling forward, a hand reaching out. She'll try to brush it out of his face, like she would have, to the one that was with her seconds ago, lifetimes ago. "...You're not... you're not you, not the you not... not... are you?" Her heart is in her throat as her skin pales out, the world whining, slightly with her distress. "...Wis... Wisdom?" Dark eyes meet his--they were always searching for blue, to find them in this fashion burns, bleeds, frightens.
She can; Cos doesn't move away, doesn't step back - instead, he reflexively reaches to catch her if she stumbles too heavily, if she falls. If she doesn't, the hands - gloved - remain outstretched preemptively anyway. But his hair, yes, it can be brushed from his eyes easily. A furrow creases his brow. "I haven't got much," he says, half joking, half apologetic. "I don't even know where I am. I must've knocked you over, coming out of that gateway like that - did you hit your head?"
"N-no," she says, stepping back, her voice cracking as she turns, looking around, a sick fear and helpless rage rising in her throat. "/No/," she pleads. Thin, ungloved hands curl into fists tight enough to leave half-moons welling blood in her palms. Her wide eyes show the evidence of a concussion as she lashes out, destroying the store-front windows nearest her. They buckle, shiver and simply... explode. I hope you stay, Cat. When we get all this sorted, I really really hope you stay.
Instantaneous reaction: throwing up a magnetic shield, diving for Cat herself, apparently trying to tackle her out of the way of flying shards of glass, *not landing*, /not falling/..."Hang on!" The guy's voice. That's *glass*, it's non-ferrous, it's non-magnetic; he was close enough to it. Got to be some awful cuts. He must be what, seventeen? Eighteen? Nineteen? No more than twenty. His voice - he didn't start of speaking English, but now he is, and it's got the faintest touch of the accent that Cat would expect it to have. "Hang on, don't panic, for /grife's/ sake don't panic--" He thinks they're being /attacked/.
A cry of fear and desperation -- Cat doesn't sob, but she attempts to pull back and away, staggering as he knocks hr clear of the glass. "M'not panicking," she whispers, curling up. "Not panicking," she pleads. The /world/ hums, strained and straining, and Cat peeks up at Cos, dark eyes seeking blue. It's not you. But it's almost you. So young. "Kitty, where are you?" she pleads, under her breath. "You said I could stay," she begs. "You wanted me to stay." Looking around from her tiny little pillbug perch, Cat shivers. I want to go /home/. Where my /family/ is.
Cos, up in the air, looking down at Cat, blue eyes wide and worried. He looks up, over his shoulder; his eyes scan the rooftops, the windows. Who shot at us? Who? And then he's holding his hands out, encouraging, gaze locked on Cat. "It's all right, it's going to be all right. I don't know where we are, but I'm with the Legion. Let me take you to higher ground. I promise I won't drop you. Come on, then--"
Cat stares at the reaching hands. Gloved hands. And then she looks at her own. Ungloved. "You're not him," she says softly. "But you look like him," she adds. "What Legion?" she wonders, not quite able to bring herself to reach for him in return. "God, you almost sound..." Like him. I don't understand. Shifting to stand, finally, Cat wraps her arms around herself and looks around -- seemingly unafraid of whatever 'shot at them'. "Not in Kansas," she whispers, and then continues to eye Cos warily. She wants to stare at him, the only reminder, the only familiar looking thing besides her own self. But at the same time... it's not him.
"Come /on/," pleads the boy - the young man - male of indeterminate youthful age. It's hard to say. He alights, every motion reserved, every muscle tense. "Off the /street/. I don't know what you're talking about, but we're sitting ducks out here and you can explain to me when we're safer. All right?" In desperation to get her to move, he starts coming toward her again, hands still out. If you won't let me pick you up, and you keep backing away from me, maybe you'll back into a sprocking /alley/ at least.
"Don't /touch/ me," Cat finally demands, sounding pained as she backs up a step, her hands lifting, palms out, blocking, shaking. "Please don't touch me--it'll be worse than windows, next time," she tells him, swallowing roughly. She's certain that soon, the stinging in her eyes will mean tears -- she doesn't want that, but she can't yet figure out what to /do/.
His hands drop and he visibly relaxes. "Oh. Oh, that was /you/? All right -- still got to get out of here; someone'll have noticed the breaking sounds." Cos /also/ doesn't come any closer. "Plus it's cold, and it's raining. We're going to get sick, out like this." He's trying to use the 'reason' tack. "Please? I won't touch you. I just--" There's a pause, something clicks in his recollection. "You came through. You don't -- you don't know where we are, either."
"Not a fucking /CLUE/," Cat says, turning her face up to the rain. I haven't felt rain since... maybe when Wisdom walked me home. Or maybe when I puddlesplashed with Kitty. A thousand years ago. Or was it when he came to find me, after the phonecall? I don't remember. "Maybe we should find a newsstand," she says, settling comfortably into shock.
"Or a public comm terminal," replies Cos dubiously, hooking fingerless-gloved hands into his utility belt. "Something--" Long pause.
A car drives by, splashing right through a puddle at the curb.
Staring, Cos takes a much closer look at their surroundings instead of occupying himself trying to find movement, glints of weapon sights, people, danger -- he finally blinks. "Oh, bloody /nass/. Right. Lay on, MacGuff. My English is terrible."
God, the sound of his voice, the blue of his eyes. It /stings/. Nodding, Cat moves to shove hands into shallow, tight pockets. Shivering, she trudges along with, and glances back long enough to eye Cos and his outfit. Later, when she's not thinking too hard about how much this sucks, she'll get a giggle out of the idea of Pete as a Trekkie. "Your English is fine," she says, not quite snarking. Newsstand, paper machine, convenience store -- anything.
"No, I'm cheating," confesses Cos, matching pace with Cat, walking alongside. "Translator. I *can* speak English, but not well, and I can barely read it." His outfit doesn't actually look much at all like a Star Trek one, not even the Next Generation -- it's just the right colours, and it's fairly science fictionny. Maybe it's a Star Trek ripoff costume. "The Legion's a...an organization of super-powered individuals, where I come from. We've got government support, but we're autonomous. Mostly disaster-response work." Little pause, glance over. "By the way -- you can call me Cos."
"Huh," Cat says, nodding, listening, but still dazed. "Cos," she says, nodding. "M'Cat," she offers. Somehow, she manages not to roll her eyes at 'super-powered individuals'. Somehow. "Wish I could say it's a pleasure. Meetin y's fine. Wishin it weren't /here/, though," she notes. Quick steps, long legs, cold feet, slapping the wet ground, socked feet splashing through cold, dirty puddles.
It's still better than 'superheroic teens'. Or 'super-powered teens from outer space'. "Cat. Yeah, I - ditto. Me too." Cos looks away from Cat, up the street a ways. There's a blue newspaper machine up ahead, at the street corner; he unhooks one hand and gestures. "That what you're looking for? I'm guessing this is the 20th century. I mean, from the cars."
"Y--yeah," Cat says, eyeing Cos. "What one were you from?" she wonders, frowning as she moves to shove a couple coins into the slots and try to snag herself a paper. It suddenly occurs to her that she might not be in the same 'time' as the one she left, either. Everything looks... mostly the same, time-wise. What she can think to question, at any rate.
"Thirtieth," says Cos shortly, finally just shoving his hands in his pockets. "Does that tell us what city we're in? It ought to, right?" She's speaking English; she, at least, has to be from Earth. This isn't necessarily Earth, but it sprocking well looks like it. "As well as the date, I mean."
"I'm looking," Cat says, scanning the paper. September 3rd. 2003. "Twenty-first century," Cat mumbles. "We're... in someplace called 'Beacon Harbor'," she says softly, and struggles to scan the headlines. "And... according to where I left... I've gone back in time, five months or so."
"Beacon Harbor, Beacon Harbor," muses Cos, wheeling off absently, coming to rest seconds later leaning against a lamp-post. He's frowning, and his hands are still in his pockets. "Presumably coastal, then; most likely North American. Probably northern, given the distribution of harbors requiring notable beacons." There's a pause, blue eyes seek dark again. "Unless you've heard of the place. Have you?"
"Haven't," Cat says, turning to look at Cos. Vulnerable. Broken. Trying to hold it all back, hold it all in. "I gotta find..." Pause. "Public phone." Dark eyes will hold to blue for a bit; the world is a cruel place, and the familiarity is both amazing and wrenching.
"All right," responds Cos quietly, shoving back off the lamp-post, watching Cat. His expression's serious, intent. Hands stay in pockets. "I've got to find Superman - but it can wait. Do you want me to fly you? Can do it without touching. Faster searching, less puddles." It's an offer given in a businesslike tone, matter-of-fact and not likely to be crushed or anything if refused.
"Yeah, sure," Cat says, tearing her expression away from staring at Cos. I can't look at you. I can't look. It's you, but it isn't. I don't understand. And now I'm somewhere far away, far /back/ and this isn't where I came from, and it isn't where I was and what if I can't go home? What if I find you again /here/ and then I go somewhere /else/? "Faster's good."
It's like levitation, only not. It's like telekinesis, only not. What it *is* is Cos first lifting Cat carefully off the ground, and then himself. Not touching - he promised. It's a strange sensation, and very slightly dizzying -- but only for a moment, and then it evens out. Slow cruise, somewhere around fifteen miles per hour. Somewhere around fifteen feet off the ground. "Are you cold?"
Wide eyes, and Cat hugs herself, shivering. Yes, she's cold, and she's afraid, and she hasn't felt /this/ alone in a long time. "I'm fi--/there's one/," she says, pointing to a booth. She glances to him, apologetic, afraid, bewildered. I want to go home. You're nice and all, and you're probably one of the sweeter strangers I've ever met. But still. Stranger. And I'm no longer where I was. And you're him, except you're not at all.
If it helps any, I'm just about as creepy, and just as much of a bastard -- I just hide it better. "Right," says Cos, lowering the two of them, gently letting go the iron in Cat's blood once her feet are on the ground. Major power flaw: people with anemia. There's a brief crackly sound and a couple of flashes of what looks like reflected light, over the surface of Cos - and then he's taking his jacket off; under it's a long-sleeved featureless black shirt. What the collar belongs to. "You're fine, but humor me. I've got a transuit on, I'll stay warm."
"Wh--oh." Cat reaches out to take the suitjacket, bewildered as she curls into it. "...thanks," she adds, and moves to use the phone, hands shaking. Dial Zero. Get information. "Peter Wisdom," she murmurs to the mechanical voice. "Yes, all of them," she grumbles. "Yes. In all of New York State," she sighs. Pause. A little light goes out in Cat's eyes as she says, "Well... how 'bout a Katherine Pryde? With a y. No, /Pryde/ with a y. Katherine with a K." She's standing there, in the borrowed coat, clinging to the phone, resting her cheek on the plexiglass, her heart sinking.
There're stickers on the plexiglass, as there usually are. 'Pregnant? Need Help? Call 1-800-NO-ABORT'. 'The Crusi-Fries'. '91.1 WFMU'. 'Home Employment Hotline'. 'From Another Universe? Feeling Lost? Come to Solace House - Call 1-888-PORTAL-1'
Cos reactivates whatever flickered, and it flickers again, and he stops getting rained on again. And then he's leaning against an electrical pole next to the phone, arms crossed, looking at the ground, listening.
"...thanks," Cat says, and *thunks* her head against the plexiglass. She drops the receiver, forehead against the very sticker she might find useful. There's a sigh, and then she puts the receiver back. Maybe they're just... somewhere else. "You've got to be here," she whispers to herself. "Gotta be." Turning, Cat eyes Cos, and wonders, "...any idea what now?"
