Room 508, Sunday Afternoon

Coming back from Cyseal, the last thing Kathy expected was to get ready to turn around and go again. But she was sorting her laundry to run a load or two when her phone rang again. That wasn't entirely unexpected, but the name that showed up on her caller ID certainly was.

Gorgon.

She'd barely talked to Nikolai since he'd moved back to LA, though they occasionally bumped into one another in LA when she patrolled. Certainly not enough for him to call her on a random Sunday evening.

"Hello?" she asked, putting her phone up to her ear. "Gorgon? Is everything okay?"

( The Phone Call )

[Many thanks to furnaceface for letting me borrow NPC!Gorgon. Open for visitors before she leaves. Link to Anders'.]

Los Angeles, Sunday Night

Banzai flipped over the edge of the rooftop, landing in a graceful crouch with her rainbows fluttering around her. She stood easily, not a single bruise or sore spot remaining from her time in Cyseal. It was good to have a healing mage in her back pocket.

Her pleased smile vanished as she wondered how many times Regenerator's wife had thought the same thing.

Poor Regenerator. She wished she could do more for him; just covering his patrol hardly seemed like enough when he was faced with the loss of his wife. But Banzai was hesitant to call the number in her phone, unwilling to intrude on the private grief of a man whose real name she didn't even know. What was she supposed to say? She'd been lucky enough to never really lose anyone close to her; all she had was a few platitudes about being terribly sorry and that time healed all wounds.

Maybe she could bring him some tea later? She was perched on the rooftop of the small teahouse that Regenerator liked to frequent at the beginning of his patrols. He'd introduced her to it over Christmas break, explaining the proprietors were actually happy to serve the masked set, since it meant criminals tended to give the store a wide berth. They'd sat and talked over a few nice cups of Ceylon and Banzai'd told him all about her plans to become a doctor. He explained he was a medical resident for his day job. They laughed at the idea of one day working together in the wards and the streets. She should have given him her real name then, when he'd joked about commandeering her as an intern when it was time.

Maybe if she had, she'd feel less lost now. What was she supposed to do? Well, other than take his patrol and hope that somehow, he'd know that it was taken care of?

[NFB, NFI. Some text taken from Chapter 24, "How Am I Supposed to Live Without You", from Peter Clines' Ex-Heroes. OOC welcome, warning for oblique suicide mention.]