“He’s been sitting there since this afternoon, Father.” Simon said in a hushed voice, peering out into the nave at the odd young man in the fourth pew from the front, on the left. “Just sitting there and staring up at the window.”

Jonathon hummed softly to himself as he checked his appearance in the mirror. Frowning slightly at his tie, he made subtle adjustment to the image generator, tightening the lines on the tie and smoothing out wrinkles. He made a mental note to tone down the realism subroutine next time.

The fact that the tuxedo was holographic didn't detract from how well it looked on him. He had hired a personal image consultant years ago and never regretted it. Everything he wore and carried was carefully crafted to enhance his appearance and to look good on him.

"Okay," he said, again focusing on her. "Someone—you, I suppose—has obviously put some time and effort into at least getting me this far in. So I'm fourth on the list—wait." He glanced at the folder. "Fourth? Really?" He sighed and shook his head. So if I don't take the job you just offer it to the next person on your list who isn't, uh—" he again referred to the folder. "An 'attention whore' or a 'jerk'." He suddenly chuckled. "I can't wait to meet that guy."

Nemesis had to admit that now his curiosity was well and truly piqued. The last thing
He had expected was…well, a job offer. He didn’t even bother to keep the surprise and curiosity from his face. He flipped through the packet, sometimes reading a page, sometimes simply glossing over it. After several minutes he looked up and gestured with the packet.

“This is…what? Some sort of marketing thing?” If she’d wanted to catch him off guard it appeared she had succeeded.

Take out Chinese food, a hot bath and one really long day later, Ophilia found herself back in the comfort of her overstuffed leather couch. The furnishings were simple but extravagant and the place was tidy. It looked more like a model unit than it did a lived in space. The light from the kitchen and her big screen TV were the only evidence that the quiet resident was home.

“Jesus H. Christ. Why do they need so damned many cereals.”

Jag Reynolds surveyed the brightly colored panorama of boxes on the shelves. Cartoon cockatoos and leprechauns stared back at him with stupid grins on their faces.

“Seriously,” Jag said. “This is ridiculous.”

“What are you looking for, dad?”

Staring out of the tinted windows of the Family limousine, Sebastian DiSantiago watched as downtown Hudson City rolled past. He considered the time they were making, as normally there would be a bit of traffic, but it was almost as if the city itself knew who the passenger of this car was, as lanes and lights both were accommodating tonight. He sighed softly, and keyed the button which would allow him to talk to the driver.

"Go ahead and take the long way, I don't want to arrive early tonight."

St. Louis, 2004

"Jason's completed the transfer of funds," Ben announced. He tapped out a reply to the instant message and added, "he can begin the transactions at any time."

Today was going to be a really good day for Ophilia DiSantiago, or so she thought. There was a spring in her step as she walked down one of the winding paths in LeMastre Park. A pleasant breeze promised to bring rain later as it flirted with the unruly curls that framed her petite face. She was carrying a light lap top case, slung over one shoulder, and was looking forward to drinking her coffee from Voodoo Bean.

The squeak of the marker on the white board was grating, to say the least, but Luke was trying anything to make some connections. He would write a name, or an address, or a crime or a completely unrelated event somewhere, then step back and try to connect it to something else. He knew there was something big going on out there…

If only he could put his finger on it.

“Working some sort of powers-for-sale thing, or what?”

He turned at the voice. The stocky frame of Pops McGinty filled the door. He was holding a bottle of ale, which he promptly passed over to Luke.

Elijah sat in the chair, struggling to not mind that it was uncomfortable. It was the strange sort of chair hospitals presumably had specially made - it had padding yet it was terribly uncomfortable. The proportions were all wrong, it was an ergonomic nightmare. His legs were too high. The seatback cut across his massive trapezius at an exactly wrong spot unless he slouched in a spine doubling position Clippit himself would avoid. The fabric was undoubtedly easy to clean, but aside from that it had the feel and yielding comfort of burlap stretched over a few reams of paper.

"Hi Morgan. Mind if I join you?"

He was taking a turn at Ops on the bridge, monitoring the displays while the two pilots got some downtime. They were four days into the journey, things were finally settling into a routine for this group of strangers. To Qamala's mind, none of them were stranger than Morgan Henley (though Teagan definitely gave him a run for his credits sometimes).

Cocktail jazz wafted over the Anchor Hotel Ballroom, and dozens of Hudson City’s elite tried to waft along with it. From his perch at the corner bar, Edison discreetly sneered at some of the particularly clumsy couples. It was beyond him what the unspectacular spectacle of these fine citizens punishing the parquet had to do with breast cancer research. Or Somalian refugees or dyslexic puppies or whatever the hell this event was about.

“Garcia, get your damn ass in here.”

Flinching, Tina put the last of the towels on her cart and headed for her boss' office. Five months working for the guy and his language still grated on her nerves; though it was much milder than the garbage that came out of the mouths of most of her neighbors. Had she once been so naive as to think such language a rarity? Maybe in her old world it had been. Now it was a part of life.

March 1979

“Morning, Sunshine.”

Jag Reynolds opened his eyes to find an attractive, leggy blond lying next to him. She was naked, as was he. He lifted a hand to his face. Good. He was still wearing his mask. He was still in uniform.

“Morning, Sweetie.” Jag had learned that this type of greeting made for a more pleasant morning after experience than the more obvious ‘who the hell are you?’.

“You were the life of the party last night, handsome.”