The Time Isn't Right


edgar_icon.gif lydia_icon.gif

Scene Title The Time Isn't Right
Synopsis Sometimes the timing is just off.
Date September 4, 2010

Ichihara Bookstore, New York

Two Weeks Ago

It's been a quiet day at Ichihara Bookstore. Nearly silent. And with Lydia working alone, Gabriel has gotten most of her attention as she tries to decide whether to incorporate inking into her already eclectic shop. Chances are she wouldn't sell many books but then isn't it just more important that the bookstore stays open and afloat.

She tickles the white cat's stomach with two fingers, "Who's a pretty kitty?~ Who's the prettiest?~" her face glows slightly at this new connection she's formed. Yes, her new family member is a cat, but it's better than having no one. Biting her bottom lip she gives his stomach another scritch as her smile turns lopsided. "It's you and me, Gabriel. You and me. We can figure out anything together, can't we?" Pushing away from the counter, she frees her hands to adjust her red halter top.

A boy with a child sized rolling suitcase behind him trundles through the doorway. He's not a child perse, more like a young teenager. The suitcase obviously doesn't belong to him, unless you're one of those people to judge a boy by his Disney Princess tagalong. Sleeping Beauty smiles up from behind him, her creepy blue eyes giving blank stares to the ceiling above the store.

"Uhhh, hi," he begins. The suitcase is twirled expertly to a stop beside him and poor Sleeping Beauty is forced to point her blank stare at the side of a column of shelves opposite the register. "I'm here to sell some books. I'm trying to raise some money to … uh… put myself through college?" His voice cracks and squeaks, enough that someone might ask for fries with their order before pulling through. "I've got some good ones here; Star Trek, Star Wars, a bunch of D&D books too, not the core rulebooks or anything, but the novels?"

The teen is issued a kind smile from the owner as she places a hand on the counter. "Well. Let's see what you have and perhaps we can come to some agreement," Lydia's eyes glisten with an unusual nearly indiscernible sparkle. It's not really that her collection is desperate for these books, but it's that a kid brought them in — a kid saving for college of all things. Something about investing in someone's dreams tugs at the blonde's heartstrings.

With a quiet hmm and shift from behind the counter she pads around to peer at this suitcase. "Let's open it up and see what you have for me." Her lips quirk upwards into a tight-lipped smile as she bends down to peer at the contents.

The kid has dollar signs in his eyes as he piles book after book after book on top of the counter. Some of them are well worn and ratty, others look like they've never even been read. True to his word, it's a dork's paradise in that little suitcase.

After the collection's been piled up on the counter, he peers over the stacks and gives her a train-track smile. "So, do you think I could get about fifty bucks for all of them?" It's quite possible that he's not saving for college at all but really looking to buy the new World of Warcraft expansion. "Here, let me show you this one…" He pulls out one of the books and opens the cover, inside is a scrawl in black marker, someone's autograph. "It's authentic too, you could probably get five bucks for it! And there's more!!" He reaches for another book and pulls it up not-so-gently by the cover and a little card falls out from the inside of it.

Without much thought the smile grows into an almost toothy grin, kind, genuine, and warm despite herself. Children have this effect on her. "Fifty dollars, hmmm?" She peers at the autograph and hmmms again, "Well it seems official." Her fingertips run over several of the covers, careful, and almost discerning. "I'll give you thirty for the lot — " she drives a hard bargain. "A lot of the more tattered ones I'll be lucky if I can sell for fifty cents." And the kid should know that much right.

As the card falls from the book, Lydia bends down to pick it up, thinking nothing of it. It's a marker, nothing more. She gives it a vague glance before turning back to the teen to speak again, only when the picture actually registers, a hand rises to her chest. Carefully, the card is put on the counter as she attempts to reanimate.

On the top of that card?

Edgar. Her Edgar. Except… his name isn't Edgar at all. Augusto Hernandez.

Catching a raspy breath, her eyebrows furrow, eyes narrow and she stiffens involuntarily, "Wh-where did you get this? Who is this man?"

The boy glances down at the card and gives an uncaring shrug. "That's just some pitcher for some team down in Florida, Augusto Hernandez." Then a rather sly look slides across his features and he places a finger on the card and begins to slowly slide it toward himself. "It's a rare card, this guy doesn't like any pictures taken of himself. Fifty bucks, easily." He's reaching, a lot.

"Buuuuuut~ I'll make you a deal, lady. Gimme fifty bucks for everything and I'll even let you keep the card. How's that for a deal, huh?" Slowly, the card gets slid back toward her. It's Edgar alright and except for a few more wrinkles around the eyes, he looks exactly the same as the last day they saw each other.

There's no hesitation now. No remnant of wariness or question. Instead, Lydia manages one word, "Deal," as her fingers run over Edgar's face. The lines across it pull at her own features simultaneously overjoyed and saddened, curious and content, hopeful and crushed. All of the time that's passed, all of the days she's spent wondering, and here he fell once she'd finally chosen to stop running. Her eyes become misty as she blinks back the emotion so guarded next to her.

Running a single finger underneath each eye, she removes the moisture, forces a well-practiced smile and then rounds the counter to the register. Fifty dollars. Fifty dollars even. And worth every penny.

As she passes the cash, she slides the card from the counter to her pocket; she's going to find him. For the first time in years, she has a lead.

Ichihara Bookstore, New York

One Week Ago

Sunlight pours through the dusky windows of the store, highlighting the little bits of dust that float in the air. It's a beautiful day, warm, sunny, absolutely peaceful except for the old FM radio that's tucked into a shelf and blaring a selection of 60's tunes.

«Hello Hello Hello!! … We're here at the Express Food Value Value VALUE Superstore! Bringing you all the best from the fifties, sixties, and seventies! For one of you lucky listeners out there our sponsors here at Express Food Value Value VALUE Superstore! have two tickets, that's right TWO tickets to watch our very own CYCLONES whip the socks off those Razorbacks from down south. Just be our lucky lucky LUCKY seventh caller and you'll be walking away with a prize! Will it be the tickets? Will it be a fifty dollar gift certificate to Express Food Value Value VALUE Superstore? Or will it be what's in the mystery box? The only way to find out is to call and PLAY THE GAME!!»

«Right after these commercial announcements…»

The blare of the radio runs into different commercials, beginning with the obnoxiously named grocery store and ending with some crazy man in a furniture store.

A morning of shelving. A day of putting books up. A day of organizing. Most of Lydia's time has been spent doing these things, if only to keep her mind and hands occupied. She'd called for a single ticket last week to no avail — Sold Out. It broke her heart just a little. Just a stitch. She had to be at this game. Had to. And the announcement she'd been waiting for. This music isn't her usual fare, she's more of an instrumental gal, especially these days. Lydia stops shelving books as she inhales a cleansing breath and scurries to the phone.

She touches a hand on that too old handset of a phone — a single finger curling along the cord, contemplatively, she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. She's waited so long for this — if she has to wait longer…

Her free hand is raised to her chest as she hovers over that phone, the number to the station burned into her memory. Shivering, she sniffs, regaining some footing on the guardedness on which she's so accustomed. On the counter is that baseball card. Augusto Hernandez. The motivation behind all of it.

Busy. On the second try busy. On the third try it finally rings once before it's interrupted with a man's voice, «You're caller number eight!» and then the line goes dead. Eight, one past seven… Lydia is too late by one. Over the radio, the commercials drift to a close.

«Thanks for joining us again, this is Wild Willy on your afternoon drive coming to you LIVE from Express Food Value Value VALUE Superstore! We've got Pat on the line all the way from Yonkers! Pat, you're our seventh caller, tell me a little about yourself!»

«Hi Wild Willy, I'm a longtime listener and a first time caller! I've got two kids, married to a wonderful guy and we're on our way to register!»

«That's great Pat, great! Remember folk, registration isn't just a good idea, It's The Law! Remember to register before the first of the year to get a two year card! … Now back to the game Pat, being from New York, you've got to be a big baseball fan, am I right?»

«I LOVE baseball! I want to win those tickets so baaaad, what do I have to do?»

«Well that's easy Pat, all you have to do is answer one question about our sponsors, Express Foods Value Value VALUE Superstore! Do you think you can do that Pat?»

«I sure can Wild Willy!»

«Great, that's just great, let's get started!! All you have to do is answer one question, but if you get that question wrong, you don't get the tickets, you don't get the free groceries, you get the MYSTERY BOX!! Okay, here's your question…»

There's a momentary pause for dramatic effect before the announcer's voice comes back on low tone but very clear.

«Pat, here at Express Foods Value Value VALUE Superstore, we pride ourselves on one thing. Can you tell me what that one thing is?»

The woman on the line hums and haws for a good half minute before she finally ventures…

«Is it service with a smile?»

«OH NO!! I'm sorry Pat it is NOT service with a smile! It's our low low every day prices! Though just for the record if you do see someone here not smiling, you get a free sponge! That's right a FREE SPONGE!! Let's see what's in the mystery box….»

There's an audible shuffle as the sounds of someone trying to open a box comes through the radio.

«CONGRATULATIONS PAT!! You've won ten packets of ketchup compliments of our sponsors Express Foods Value Value VALUE Superstore!! For all you listeners out there, we're going to do this game every hour on the hour until those tickets are gone!! Now let's hear a little more from our sponsors.»

More commercials drift in as the announcer and the caller are cut off. Outside the window two children on bicycles ride by, pausing for a moment to look through the window. One waves to Lydia before peddling off.

Lydia sighs, relieved that while she wasn't caller seven, the last gal on the line didn't get the answer correct. The kid is given a small wave before she turns back to the shelf. She has time now. Time to breathe. She pads from around the counter to tidy some more only to spin in a small circle to the music, "Baby I need you lovin~ Got to have all your loving~ Baby I need your lovin'~ Got to have all your lovin~" The lyrics turn to humming as she goes back to work while Gabriel complains in the background — he's so ignored today.

Whistling the tune now, Lydia spins again, the fullness of her skirt spreading with the motion.

"Caller seven. Only caller seven," she states almost like a mantra as she shelves a few more sci-fi novels. Her cheeks flush slightly as she walks back to the counter, having completed more of the shelving. Her gaze turns down to that card. There's freedom here right now; no one else is here: no customers and no employees. A frown plays on her lips, "Do you want to see me, Edgar? If you don't want to be found — " An ache pulls at her chest. "I miss you," she whispers. "Everyday. Over ten years together… then so much time apart." Her eyebrows furrow as she stares at the card, butterflies forming in her stomach. Her lips purse has she takes another soothing breath.

"Maybe you're happy where you are. The life you have. The people in it." The frown deepens. "Maybe it's all some cosmic sign… no tickets for purchase. Little chance of winning. Maybe… maybe I'm not supposed to find you. Maybe the universe is trying to tell me something…" Her eyebrows furrow further. But that ache in her chest won't relent. She pads around the counter, ready for the phone again, focusing her attention on the music and radio and pushing the idea Edgar doesn't want to see her out of her head.

Hour after hour goes by, caller after caller loses the game, each getting a pittance of a prize rather than the coveted tickets. Finally, near the end of the show the announcement over the radio comes for the seventh caller.

By this time Lydia has the old phone figured out and a rhythm for how to get her call answered. She's been second, fifth, first, ninth, but not seventh. Quietly, she whispers to herself as the phone rings, "Caller seven. Please. Please. Caller seven." Her eyes close gently as the baseball card is pressed against her chest. Augusto Hernandez. The only reason she wants to go to this game.

«HELLO LUCKY CALLER SEVEN!! Are you ready to win Win WIN? Why don't you tell me your name and a little bit about yourself?»

It's not over the radio, it's through the earpiece of the phone. She did it, Lydia is caller number seven!

Suppressing a gasp, the Painted Lady can't help but convey some measure of surprise at actually getting through when she intends. "Uh. Wow," her lips edge upwards in a smile as she presses a finger over that baseball card, her cheeks flushing a light pink like the announcer can see her true motivations for those tickets.

"Lydia. Taylor. Lydia Taylor. I… " the entire notion of talking to a person on the other end has caught her altogether off-guard. Her cheeks flush a brighter pink. "I'm… I'm a storekeeper on Roosevelt Island." Again her cheeks flush. "And I'm really excited about this baseball game. I'm a huge fan — " Of Edgar. Not baseball. And neither of these teams. She smiles — it's strained and discomfited, but it's still there. "What do you need me to do?"

«Well Lydia Taylor who runs a store on Roosevelt Island all YOU have to do is answer one question. Last caller of the day… Can you feel the pressure?!»

There's the squeals of the two youngsters on their bikes as they zip past the store again on their bikes. Both of them are carrying a bottle of soda with a straw in it in one hand while keeping the balance on the bike with the other. This time, neither of them pause, they've got what they want and it's back to the tenement house.

«Alright Lydia, last question of the day. You are it! It's a hard one but there's two tickets to the ball game or a fifty dollar gift certificate on the line! Tell me Lydia Taylor… Are you familiar with children's cereal? Because this is YOUR question! Express Foods Value Value VALUE Superstore sells Lucky Charms by the box… What color is that box?»

That's it… THAT is Lydia's question. Apparently Wild Willy needs to end his show with a winner because everyone knows what color the Lucky Charms box is.

"There's always pressure, Willy," she replies evenly — smoothly before the question is posed. Nervously, she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, there's no one here to see, no one to watch her nerves, and no one to fake it for. It's liberating, in a way.

The smile grows just a little at the question. She can get this one; she hopes. With a lopsided smile she taps her painted fingernails against the handset, "Well I love me Lucky Charms, Willie." Even on the phone her manner and voice reflect an unusual charm. "That would be red. The box is red." Her cheeks flush slightly as she hopes that she's right on this one.

«Oohhhh….» The tone over the phone would suggest that Lydia was wrong, that is until… «ooooohhHH YOU ARE A WINNER!! Congratulations Lydia!! Now, for the second part of your game you need to pick your prize!! In one box I have the tickets to the game and the other I have the fifty dollars in free groceries to Express Food Value Value VALUE Superstore!! Do you want the blue box or the red box?»

Then Jeopardy music begins playing over the radio…

Of course it couldn't be that simple; she couldn't just win the tickets off the top. Pressing her lips together, Lydia wishes she was in the same room to figure out which box it must be. Considering the manipulative games she's used to, she ponders a moment as her eyes narrow, they pushed the idea of red into her mind and they'd rather her end up with the grocery cards, right? And so she hmmms quietly, "Blue. Blue box please."

«She picked the BLUE box folks!! Lydia, let's see what you've won!! …. But first, tell me, which one do you want the most? Is it the gift certificate? I hope it's the gift certificate…»

There's a shuffle heard over the radio, much like all the other contestants who won ketchup packets and other tiny things. This time… It's the tickets on the line.

«Did you say gift certificate? Because I'm holding …. In my hand … TWO TICKETS TO THE CYCLONE GAME!!»

There's canned fanfare, horns, and fireworks being played in the background along with a trumpet selection of 'tadaa'!

«Well that's the end of the show today people. Thanks for joining me, Wild Willy, on your afternoon drive we came live to you from Express Foods Value Value VALUE Superstore! Lydia, hang on the line and we'll be with the rest of YOU tomorrow, same time, new place!!»

End theme for the afternoon drive begins playing over the radio which leads into commercials… and then the five o'clock news.

But even as she's won these tickets — it's more than a week away. Too far away. After years of waiting, even that feels too long. With a quiet hmmm of her own, she places a call; Lydia is going to Jacksonville.

Previously on Heroes…

Jacksonville, Florida


There's a screech of brakes and a hiss comes as a bus rolls to a stop. Dust blows across old, cracked asphalt and an open-toed sandal is the first thing to touch down on the outskirts of the parking lot, followed by the brush of brown fabric from a dress rustling at feminine ankles. The idling engine of the Greyhound bus masks the sound of her footsteps scuffing along the ground as she moves, walking in front of the parked vehicle, letting the panorama of Wolfson Park come into view. The backs of stadium lights look dark in silhouette with the sun dipping down as if to set inside the baseball stadium itself.

Yellow tape between sawhorses is the next thing that she sees, POLICE LINE — DO NOT CROSS, it's a garish warning before she spots uniformed officers, police vans, hears the chop of a helicopter's rotors overhead. Men in suits with plastic badges clipped on their lapels are swarming around the back of an ambulance, watching a man on a stretcher being loaded in to the back.

Blue lights flash from a sea of police cruisers. As the warm afternoon breeze blows through Lydia's hair, sending sandy locks across her face and gently curling around the delicate column of her throat there is only one truth to be realized.

She was too late.

Greyhound Bus, En route


The quiet patter of rain falling on the top of the Greyhound gives a rhythm to the rolling country hills outside. The rain had virtually silenced the bus itself, leaving everyone to their own thoughts. Of course, Lydia had slid as far from the man next to her as possible, allowing herself to stare out the window like she's watching some television set — like these circumstances hadn't happened.

Misty dark eyes reflect back at her in the window pane, increasing that horrible sense of bitterness and regret already filling her consciousness. How dare she'd let hope become the rule of the day, sputtering advice to Kaylee like someone who knew better. Her acrid smile strains tighter across her lips, her chin, and her eyes while her arms hug her body tightly. That urge against her better judgment beckoning she just step off the bus somewhere along the way.

As usual, she'd been too late. She'd been too late to acknowledge her feelings so many years ago and too late to find Edgar yesterday. With a heavy sigh she glances away from the window and back to the seat in front of her.

She just must not be fast enough.

New York City, New York


In a New York minute, everything can change. This is certainly true for Edgar, Augusto, whoever he decides to be today. Already having shed his baseball uniform, he's dressed in a black t-shirt, draggin' jacket, worn jeans, and work boots. He's trying to be incognito but Edgar's a carnie. So used to attention and having people watch him, looking for reasons to be suspicious, he's become paranoid. Perhaps that paranoia just came a little too late.

Hating to admit it, Edgar loved being a ball player. Physical activity, even without the use of his powers keeps him from getting restless. Now, he has nothing, thanks to DHS. They ruined one life and were well on the way to ruining another, except for a bit of cunning with and a dumb blonde.

An absent smirk finds its way to the speedster's lips as he reminisces about the events that stole him from the warmth of Florida. It was so easy, they underestimated him. All that means though, is that they won't do it again. Their fancy technology and unlimited government resources puts them far ahead of the game than he is.

Stopping on a street corner, his eyes slide over to a con game being played with a ball and cups. His eyes narrow as he watches the young grifter slip the ball into a small pocket behind the table before asking his mark which of the plastic cups it's under. "Tha's what I need.." he muses out loud. "I need a new game…"

Jacksonville, Florida


The baseball players had all been covered in that red shale following the game that she'd just missed. But the excitement had been after according to every fan she'd run into. She'd waited, hanging away from the yellow tape of the crime scene and as far from DHS as possible. Even after registration something about them left her wary.

Finally, after hours of questions and interviews, some of the ball players emerged, leaving that main entrance of the field she'd hung around like a lost puppy. Forcing the light in her eyes, and the most flirtatious smile she can muster, her hair is tossed over her shoulder letting its golden flecks catch the sunlight. And in doing so she catches something else — the eye of the emerging catcher, Brayden Penn.

With a high-pitched whistle he struts forward, confident in his ability to catch the blonde's attention.

Her dark eyes flit over to him, it's an opening, one she'd been hoping for. "Hell-o~" she virtually sings. It's all practiced although mostly unused these days. "Looks like you had some excitement tonight." Her hair is tucked behind her ear as she leans towards him, shifting her weight from one sandal to the other.

"Stupid evolveds cheatin' in our game — " Brayden scoffs loudly. "Don't worry though! DHS took care of the fool, he won't be playin' with us again."

There's a sick feeling in the pit of Lydia's stomach; butterflies itch to get out pushing against her insides, but her expression remains steady, maintaining that guise of the flirtatious fan. "Oh?" There's a pause as she reaches into her pocket and removes the card she's been protecting for the last two weeks, Edgar's card, or, rather, Augusto's, "I was hoping to meet — "

"HA! He's the very one they tried to haul away. Got away from 'em though… but they don't belong in the game those types. It's a cheat! Not fair to the common man — freaks shouldn't be allowed to do anything with the rest of us… " Brayden reaches into his own pocket and a can of chew, a pinch of which is put into the side of his cheek. "…but I'll do something else for ya. Give ya my card… say over dinner…?" He spits.

Lydia breathes a little easier. He got away. Of course he got away, no one else could move that fast. The flirtatious smile fails though at the comment about freaks, turning into an all-out scowl. "Maybe you could keep up if you laid off the chew. And I already have dinner plans." She doesn't.

New York City, New York


The streets are crowded with Saturday shoppers, people milling around the sidewalks looking for steals and deals on sweat shop products. Edgar is invisible in the throngs of thousands, a few people give him odd looks, and he glares right back at them. He's not the tallest man on the city block, nor the largest, he might not even be the fastest, but Edgar thinks of himself as one of the smarter ones.

Faster than the eyes can see, he plucks little necessities from tables and displays, pocketing them. He doesn't even need to use his ability with most of these yanks. A dozen wallets later, the speedster is at the top of a building, miles away, rifling through the contents to find the things he needs.

Registration Cards.

Social Security Numbers.

Drivers Licenses.

Those who are not evolved get flipped to the side to be sold. Those that are, he looks them over carefully. A hand comes up to scratch along his beard, could he pass for them? He passed for Augusto Hernandez… It baffled him that people didn't even question his reason for having an English accent. "Accent? No! I'm from Cuba, my mum an' dad, they were English."

Greyhound Bus, Enroute


With a loud sniff, Lydia returns her attention to the window. What was she thinking? What had she been thinking for so long? How could she have believed things were changing, that her luck was changing? She'd only set herself up for heartbreak; there's no one to blame but herself. She'd put her hope in her own efforts which had always been less than they needed to be. She failed at nearly everything. Her forehead presses against the glass, staring outside and letting herself full into a trance. Her eyelids get heavier as her thoughts turn to happier times; happier days where everything seemed right with the world.

Sullivan Bros. Carnival

April 2007 — A Month Before The Raid

The Carnival had closed nearly an hour ago, the darkness of night had been upon them for some time, along with the crisp coolness it bares. The lights of the Carnival dwell just in the distance of the small grassy clearing, yielding just enough light to reflect images, figures, and some semblance of a target for a female knife-throwing apprentice. Not that Lydia would ever be permitted to use what she's learning from Edgar; her image and feminine wiles were far too useful elsewhere, everyone knew that.

Regardless, the former assistant has been learning from the best of the best. She pulls the shawl a little tighter around her shoulders as the cool air nips at her painted skin. Her long ivy and mauve skirt falls to her ankles and swishes as she winds up to align herself with the target, the tree about six feet away and Edgar leaning against it. She'll never have Edgar's accuracy or speed, but then she always knew that. It wasn't about being more successful in the Carnival, it was always an excuse to get away from the bustle of everyone else. A part of her wondered if Edgar knew that or if it was yet another secret kept to herself; she hoped he knew. Lately her secrets and pretenses had been shedding around him. It was slow, methodical, and involved an increase of trust; which proved difficult on her part, even with the ease with which she trusted his skills, she struggled to trust herself. Not after the disaster of the past etched into her memory.

But then, everything about Edgar seemed different. Which is why she'd trusted him in the first place. Her muddy-coloured eyes peer forward at him, silently searching for some sign of disregard. But then her feelings told her it was all sincerity; they had from the start.

With a slow inhalation of breath, the knife is thrust forward, but it misses the target by an inch, yet Edgar, the speedster that he is, manages to catch it. Her form isn't that of a knife thrower, it's more delicate — akin to that of a dancer, both ethereal and graceful in her gypsy clothes. Producing a loud sniff and a quiet scoff the woman shakes her head, "If I had been throwing and you were the assistant, you would've died a long time ago." It's a coy statement, teasing her own lack of skill as she shuffles into position, relaxing against the tree behind her. "Perhaps that's enough practice for tonight?"

There's been an odd weight to her in the last while. Between the bomb, the death of her sister's husband (and her 'attendance' at his funeral), registration, and the discontent of the general populace, the world has become a heavier place for an empath, even one activated primarily by touch. Feeling everyone else's uncertainty is incredibly wearing, especially when the world is already so uncertain.

She bends down, poised to collect what he'll toss back to her, but even in the dark, that weightiness pulls on her shoulders, her lips, her eyes — try as she might to force everything alight, she can feel the stir, the change in the world heavier on her than most in the Carnival. With anyone else she might be able to hide it better. With Edgar? It's improbable at best.

But tonight there's an even odder edge to her. Her features are twitchier; it's an unusual reflection of nerves at the surface of her expression. Even when she'd aimed, her hand shook, invisible to most, but probably detectable by a trained marksman. Her smile is a little haphazard, the hesitance seen in her otherwise generally stoic features spills over. Her long wavy hair is tucked behind her ears as she waits for that knife to return to her.

There's an easy manner about him, the way his dark blue eyes just seem to light up and sparkle whenever the painted lady is around. Though he feels the weight on her, he is either kind enough to ignore it or too cautious to approach the issue. "I don' think I'd look near as pretty as you in a sequined spandex, Lydia." Edgar's voice is always so soft and smooth when he speaks to her. When he says her name it's spoken in reverence, like some people speak about the Virgin Mary or Jesus.

Flipping the knife down from eye level to his side, he tosses it lightly by the handle a couple of times as though testing its weight. He considers throwing it toward the gypsy who is only twenty feet away. They've been doing it the same way all evening, but Lydia looks too tired. A breeze rustles her long blonde hair and he's at her side in an instant to smooth it back down with a faint touch. "You should get back before i' gets cold." He's always concerned with the cold, using the excuse that she might catch pneumonia or some other illness when really, it's his own machismo that wards him off admitting the truth.

Tucking the one knife under his arm, the speedster wraps his large hands around the fortune teller's slender ones and grazes his fingers against her skin as he takes the rest of the knives. In the dying sun, his eyes shine like sapphires when he looks at her face. His lips twitch and he averts them from hers, turning his head away in shame. "Come, Lydia, we'll be late for Joseph's stories. I think it's you turn to light the fire, eh?"

Edgar takes a few long strides as he starts leading her back toward the carnival, pausing to allow her to step ahead of him, like a gentleman. Four knives are held tightly by the blades in one hand as he digs through his pocket with the other. Looking back up the hill where they just were, he furrows his brow a little bit and draws the small circle of gold from his corduroys.


It's flipped up into the air, circling at a snail pace before he catches it up again and swiftly places it back where he found it. Maybe later, up in the Ferris wheel, not now. The time isn't right.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License