Unlikely Housemates


alexander_icon.gif helena_icon.gif teo_icon.gif

Scene Title Unlikely Housemates
Synopsis PARIAH talk house-hunting, travel, women, men, and take pie with their coffee.
Date October 14, 2008

Central Park

Central Park has been, and remains, a key attraction in New York City, both for tourists and local residents. Though slightly smaller, approximately 100 acres at its southern end scarred by and still recovering from the explosion, the vast northern regions of the park remain intact.

An array of paths and tracks wind their way through stands of trees and swathes of grass, frequented by joggers, bikers, dog-walkers, and horsemen alike. Flowerbeds, tended gardens, and sheltered conservatories provide a wide array of colorful plants; the sheer size of the park, along with a designated wildlife sanctuary add a wide variety of fauna to the park's visitor list. Several ponds and lakes, as well as the massive Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir, break up the expanses of green and growing things. There are roads, for those who prefer to drive through; numerous playgrounds for children dot the landscape.

Many are the people who come to the Park — painters, birdwatchers, musicians, and rock climbers. Others come for the shows; the New York Shakespeare Festival at the Delacorte Theater, the annual outdoor concert of the New York Philharmonic on the Great Lawn, the summer performances of the Metropolitan Opera, and many other smaller performing groups besides. They come to ice-skate on the rink, to ride on the Central Park Carousel, to view the many, many statues scattered about the park.

Some of the southern end of the park remains buried beneath rubble. Some of it still looks worn and torn, struggling to come back from the edge of destruction despite everything the crews of landscapers can do. The Wollman Rink has not been rebuilt; the Central Park Wildlife Center remains very much a work in progress, but is not wholly a loss. Someday, this portion of Central Park just might be restored fully to its prior state.

It'll be a few more weeks before the burnt reds and ochres of autumn finish renovating the Central Park's foliage. One of only a handful of good things about living somewhere with 'actual' weather, as far as Teodoro's concerned. Until then, he's left to watch the ponderous transition toward winter with the uneasiness of any other animal out of his habitat. He's sitting on a bench, legs in a hooligan's sprawl he never quite grew out of, his lap occupied by a binder full of MRI scans and a few recent theories on the effect of hemispheric insult out of Columbia's child development department.

There's still more than enough sunlight to see by, but not enough to qualify the day as warm by any stretch of imagination. People pass at brisk clips, which suits him well; he glances up only occasionally to look when a child cries out or a woman's perfume skeins by too strong to ignore. A cardboard coffee cup is cooling, crumpled and empty next to him.

College. Though he doesn't say much, the ex-cop burns with envy. Never got anywhere near a degree. He comes jogging up, ostensibly just another man concerned with his health, to pause at that same bench, going through a few stretches. "So," he says, without preamble or greeting, though his tone is kindly enough, "What's the story? Heard your househunting didn't go so well."

Though he doesn't say much, Teodoro should be a lot closer to a degree than he is. When Alex pulls up, he foregoes the urge to snap the binder shut and devote his attention, rigid-spined and wider-eyed to the older and more-experienced PARIAH member. Instead, he glances up, features pleasantly blank, blinking once as if only just assigning name to a casual acquaintance. Which is almost true. "Previous tenants," he answers the next instant. Shuts the binder only then, as a polite conversation would warrant. Scabs are still healing on the backs of his hands. "He wasn't too happy to see us. Shouted, pushed the girl around. The fact he's there, though, maybe says something good about the location. Building seems sound, I'm guessing the generator's in good shape." But too big to take for use anywhere else, undoubtedly.

Al smiles, ruefully. "Always the way, ain't it? Prime real estate goes for such a premium in New York," he drawls, dropping down on the bench and leaning forward…propping his weight on his elbows. "No one got hurt, right?" For all the lazy tone, his eyes are very keen, as he glances over.

"I don't want to give up on it just yet," Teo confesses. His tone's a little dry, partly out of self-deprecation, and partly out of tacit appreciation for the euphemistic and elliptical style of the conversation. It's fancy stuff, at least until you wind up trudging through spidersilk, inhaling rat poop, and bombarded with capsized precognitives. "No one likes to see an eviction," Not that he has any idea how anybody would go about that, "but it's a good spot. Easier to make renovations to than the other one, if you've seen their floor maps. A lot of people could." Big dig project, big museum, all architecturally documented to great and uncomfortable length in reasonably accessible files, as far as Teodoro's aware. His mouth goes crooked. "We're good. Just a little shaken up. You found it, huh?" Squint.

"I was checking out the one with the big basement. I'm thinking that'd be good for a backup," Read: the old subway station, long abandoned. Alex says, making a little gesture with one hand — turning it palm up, and spreading the fingers. "And no, true. We don't need disgruntled old residents showing up unwanted. It'd ruin our parties. I didn't come in after you, though, if that's what you're asking?" There's an interrogative quirk to the copper brows, now.

That one — with the big basement, Teo hasn't had a look at yet. He thinks he's probably supposed to, soon. He expects more homeless squatters to try to eat his face. "Didn't see why we couldn't work on bot," he nods in agreement. "Might be a good idea to look at some places with less…" Euphemisms desert him, and it's obvious when they do: he grimaces, suddenly all college student, less sleek and whatever spy. "…paper on it." Now, that doesn't sound suspicious. Good thing there are no civilians eavesdropping from behind trees or loitering on nearby benches. He rolls his eyes at himself a little, theatrically, gestures around with a wiry hand. "I guess sooner the better, though. I'm freezing my ass off out here among other things." The eyebrows make him want to scuttle. They're police eyebrows. Blue eyes shift left, click right, playfully. He sounds like he's guessing for the correct answer: "…No?" That's not what he's asking.

"You wanna go get coffee, or something?" No, it wasn't flirting. He just wants coffee, honest. "Yeah, I know what you mean. Famous places draw eyes. But it's hard finding a squat that isn't already crammed full of gangers, or something," Al sounds mournful, as he stretches, and then straightens, surveying their surroundings, before slumping his shoulders a little. No longer quite so much with the soldier's carriage.

Six years of Catholic overcompensation drive Teo's eyebrows upward a fraction when Simon asks the question, but it settles into a bemused grin the next moment. "Buona idea, signor. I'd kill for some coffee." Gangers, Teo also acknowledges with a nod. He stands up, shuffling his binder full of schoolwork under his armpit. Leans sideways to snag his discarded coffee cup with the other, cocks his head, and pitches it underhand into the nearest trash can. The squashed pulp skims the rim before falling in, neatly. It's early enough in a college student's day that he isn't concerned about caffeine intake, apparently. He nods back the way Simon came. "How far'd you run?"

Alexander has a habit. Not quite on the level of cocaine or heroin, but the minute they offer the IV to addicts, Alex is there. "Right on. It's colder'n a witch's tit in a brass brassiere," he says, more cheerfully. "And it only gets worse from here." He jams his hands into his hoodie pockets, leading the way out of the park. "About six miles," he admits, squinting into the wind.

Teo spares himself the internalized rhetorical question of Why don't I go home? and the usual ensuing misery. He whi-stles instead, cheerful, after only a moment's skeptical stare that the man doesn't seem to be in sore angles from that. "Crazy, man. That's a long way.

"How often?" Binder under arm, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. There's no Columbia logo on it, back or front; he knows better than that when he needs to walk home. Instead, there's some trivial but wonderfully American iconograph of a bald eagle spread over the back, some idiotic epithet about 'freedom' lettered around its curving wings, chapped breaks running up and down through the image. His shoes are equally old; comfortable, judging from the ease with which he lopes out of the park. He doesn't say to much, doesn't comment on the tiny dog who darts past with a frisbee in its mouth, or the woman it's running to. Small talk comes to him easily enough. He glances at a poster stuck to the green gates, then away with a grimace. Hatred, he can respect in most incarnations, but not that one.

Al doesn't comment on it. Nor does he direct Teo's attention to it. He casually strolls by it, however, and reaches up to snag it with his finger and rip it down in one smooth motion. "Post no bills," he says, with a faint sigh, crumpling it in his fist and slinging it into a nearly full trashcan. His pace picks up….not a jog, but definitely a swift walk. "Every morning except Sundays," he says. "Or in the afternoon, if I don't wake up early enough."

Always the cooperative one, Teodoro follows along, picking up his feet like a proper little soldier— if one ignores the football hooligan's atrocious posture. If he finds the color of Alex's actions tactless in any way, he apparently feels like he has no business saying so, and clearly, he isn't the kind of young man who minds anybody else's business. Clearly. Though, as the stretch of mall fronts and restaurants open up in broad concrete lines, he can't help but ask: "What happens on Sunday?" One eye squints against the sun. He adjusts his shoulder slightly, tucking his folder in closer as the traffic light hastens them to cross.

A Diner

"I'm not really religious these days, but I do find it wise to try and have one day of rest," Al says, mildly, as if he'd never touched the poster. He heads on as if certain of his route….and then puts his hand on the chrome door handle of a corner diner. IT's a plateglass fishtank, like something out of a Hopper painting, and clearly a relic of a past age. The food must be good, though, because it's fairly busy. Al gestures towards one of the vinyl-upholstered books, rather imperiously.

Whether because he is stupidly and adolescently aborting out of his cooperative mood for a moment or because it's really that interesting, Teo takes a moment to look at the fish in the tank. Bends his nose against the glass, swivels his stare through the transparent depth of water and winds up momentarily eye-to-eye with a bright cardinal tetra's inscrutable black orbs, before he straightens with a grunt. The next moment, he acknowledges the imperious gesture with an apologetic grin that starts in the eyes and doesn't quite reach his mouth. Ducking his head, he lopes to the indicated booth and plants his butt in it, hands still pocketed, hiding from the clinging dregs of cold.

Alex snorts at that, and slings a menu across the table at Teo, amused. "I do that, too," he says, before running his eye over what's on offer, glancing up at the chalkboard on the counter. "The food here is amazing," he says, rubbing wearily at his eyes. "Especially the pie. I haven't had it this good since I left Georgia."

Fortunately for Teo, the menu lands with a slither and parks itself against his chest, and he doesn't have to take his hands out of his pockets to read the front. The pie's right there, with a photograph cheaply but effectively reproduced in tinged ink. "Peaches? Sweet." The latter word takes a fraction of a beat for him to dig up out of his slang vocabulary. He twists, shrugs his binder out so it falls on the bench. Squints at Alexander. It's on the tip of his tongue to ask if the man's okay, but given he just ran six miles, succeeded in euphemisming his way around some fairly sensitive spy stuff, and located an eatery close to the park that wouldn't actually bottom his savings account out, he'd rather not offend. Still, there's a telltale quirk to his mouth before he shifts on. "Georgia. That— has a few good sailing spots, from what I remember. When did you come up here?"

"Bout ten years ago, a bit more," Al explains. He's apparently a regular, by the way the waitress, a motherly, middle aged lady, greets him. "Fell in love with it," he says, glancing fondly around, out the great windows to the streets beyond. "Don't mind me. I'm damned tired. Out too late last night with a fare — worth the money to wait, but I didn't get in until dawn."

Though Teodoro's settled on his order, he waits until Alexander is ready to do so before requesting the slice. Smiles at the waitress, watches her walk away as if something about the sway of her hips actually appeals to his sense of aesthetic. Finally, he pulls his hands out of his pockets, scrubbing shorn fingernails through his hair. He hadn't known the other man drove cabs, or might have just forgot. "I guess we wouldn't do it if it paid a wage," he remarks after a moment. There's something offhanded about the way he says it, implicitly inoffensive. "Get crumbs on the flag." He leans back, glances past the burnished top of Al's head and into the street. An edge strays into his irreverence, though still quiescently harmless. 'Fell in love with it,' he said. "Why? Is it her hard butt, the mood swings, or the cost of her company?"

"All of the above, I guess," says Alex, with a sidelong half-smile. "Something addictive about this place. It was like a whole other country from what I grew up with, you know? The human jungle."

The errant Italian puts his elbows on the table and looks at his hands, folding fingers, flexing metacarpi, testing for stiffness that might be attributed either to the damage picked out in hardened blood on the backs, fading chill, or too much writing. Teo acknowledges Alex's answer with a grunt, neither of sympathy nor disagreement. He smiles at nothing in particular. There's nothing malicious about the wry note that enters his tone when he says: "Spoken like a man who's traveled the world?" Had a lot to compare it to, surely. He picks up his fork and turns it over idly, the steel braced between thumb and fingers as if he's testing it.

Alexander notes, as the waitress comes and pours out coffee in scratched white mugs, "Only countries I've ever been in were the US and Iraq," His voice is an odd mingling of wistful and wry, really. He splays his own hands on the worn Formica of the tabletop, lazily. No marks there. No sign of what he's done.

The rest of the booth is still; the movement of Alexander's hands draws attention by simple contrast. Makes Teo vaguely self-conscious the next moment, tactless and juvenile as his own skin looks. He dollops a minimal dose of sugar into his, nods when the woman mentions his pie is coming out of the oven soon. It'll be fresh. "Sensitive subject?" he asks in a tone that slants halfway between apology and curiosity. He drinks his coffee, arches an eyebrow the next beat with a touch of surprise. That isn't half bad. Not even to an Italian.

A grin splits Teo's cheek. He downs half of his coffee in a swallow, sets the cup down with a clink of fire-hardened clay on the glassed top of the table. "Come on, bambino. You're too young to sound like that." In a moment of ye olde camaraderie that he had shared with the football thugs in days of yore, he drops a hand on top of the fox kit Alexander has for hair, giving the other man — older, all right, but not by that much — a tousling, easily withdrawn any instant the erstwhile soldier shows discomfort.

He slumps back in the seat, cranes his head back to see the waitress coming with his peach pie. Around the two men, the diner shows the wear and tear that comes with prosperity, and the bustle and noise of enough patrons to match. There's a fish tank with cardinal tetras schooling between fronds of water weed, and a middle-aged waitress who knows Alexander by name. "You should come to Sicily. Shanghai's pretty nice, too, if you like the night life. Not so much," he deduces the next instant, squinting cheerfully. "Beijing for culture. Commercialized as fuck, but culture nonetheless."

Al does not take offense. Far from it. He looks amused, and he's had far worse rough-housing. "I'm twenty seven," he points out, gently, leaning into it for the moment. Though he's long out of the service, he still keeps his hair nearly that short - barely more than a copper-colored stubble. "I just grew up dirt poor. But really, I should save up. IT won't stop me from travelling, if I truly mean to," he says, summarily dumping way too much sugar into his coffee, but for the moment ignoring the cream. It's a diner, not far from the park, with plateglass windows that surround it….like something out of a Hopper painting; all chrome and formica and vinyl, a relic of another age. "Sicily," he says, musingly, and then snickers to himself. It's followed by him humming the theme from 'The Godfather', blue eyes still gleaming with amusement.

Helena has arrived.

And in through the door pushes a familiar face. Well, it's more a familiar form. Helena wears that coat like a badge these days, and she's got a baseball cap jammed down low on the top of her head, golden hair tucked into it. She does lift her head to see beyond the brim of her cap though, since chairs are at a premium, and well - there's two faces she recognizes. She begins to drift toward them, licking her lips in anticipation of some caffeine. There's a faint hint of scent about her today, champagne and strawberry. She couldn't help indulging in some BPAL, it would seem. Stopping at the table of her two cohorts in the revolution, she gives them a gamin grin, but doesn't say anything.

"Fuck the mafioso," Teodoro responds to the musical interlude, succinctly but without particular rancor. Let it never be said that his mother didn't raise him right. Or something. He crooks the waitress a grin as she slides his plate of dessert down in front of him, and proceeds to stab it using his fork, with all the zeal of a particularly inept Myrmidon. His right cheek is round with crust and fruit by the time Helena slides into the seat with that smile on her face, that hat on her head, and that coat tucked in around her small frame. His chewing slows as he studies her in her inscrutable silence for a stretched silence, elongated over the clink of dishes and mutter of adjacent conversations. He averts his gaze to Alexander without turning his head. Swallows his mouthful before stating, clearly, "I'm frightened."

Alexander chuckles, low in his throat. "I know, I know. I just….man, those are great movies, for all that they romanticize a very wicked group of men," he admits. And then there is pie. Peach pie, and Alex begins to eat it like he's afraid it will be taken from him. For the first few bites, anyhow, whereupon he looks embarassed and eats more sedatesly. He scoots over to make room for her, patting her mutely on the shoulder by way of greeting.

Helena promptly picks up a fork and begins to steal pie from both men. "Do I want to know why you're frightened?" she asks, focusing deep-set eyes on Teo. Generally his answer to things that scare him is to make him go boom. "And what are we talking about anyway?"

In keeping his girlish figure, Teodoro doesn't particularly mind sharing some pie. Despite a vague initial effort to parry the incoming strike of her silverware, he soon turns his attention back to feeding himself. Or at least, that's what it looks like ostensibly for a moment, before he belatedly answers Alexander. "Save up. If you visited Palermo, my mom has two spare rooms.

"Just don't touch her, or any of my shit," he requests, grinning crookedly, casual as any other coworker inviting one over for vacation. His teeth are, fortunately, not cloyed with pie crumbs. He turns his head to Helena and offers four words in brief, so as not to over-explain the joke. "You had that look." It frightens. He switches pie for coffee. As for what they'd been talking about— "Alexander thinks his life is over at twenty-seven. He now lives vicariously through classic film. I think civilian life bores him," he concludes deadpan.

Alexander hastily swallows his mouthful of pie before bursting into laughter. "Cause my civilian life is soooo dull," he says, shaking his head. "And I will. You got pretty sisters you left back home?" he teases Teo, with a mock wolfish leer. "I was remarking that what I knew of Sicily I pretty much got from the Godfather movies. You ever watched those?" he wonders. To Teo, he notes, "Someday I'll take you to Savannah, then. Got no property, but still some kin in the area. And it can be very beautiful."

"You know, asking a Sicilian boy about his pretty sisters is a good way to wake up with a ticker that ain't your alarm clock." says Helena with a grin. "Right, Teo?" she looks between the two and chides under her breath, "You two didn't ask me for the password. I could be Sylar, for all you know."

Alexander has grace enough to look embarrassed. "You're right," he murmurs, gaze downcast for a moment. And then looks up again, that impish expression in his eyes. "Well, your brother pretty?" he wonders, before taking another neat bite of his peach pie. Surely he didn't mean that. "We'll all go down there, maybe mid winter," he enthuses. "The beach is lovely, we can swim…"

Helena balls up her fist and gives Alexander a light punch. "Slut." she calls him fondly, and then looks back to Teo. "It changes weekly. And I'm not Sylar, but." She wags the fork. "Bad Teo. No biscuit." She looks at Alexander, her smile turning a little wry. "Sounds nice. You all could use a vacation."

A moment's disconcertion dawns on Teo's face. It's difficult to tell whether it was in response to the girl's admonishment or something that Alexander had said. It might well be another cultural trait; when he isn't specifically putting his mind to lying, he's pretty easy to read, and it's clear as a bell he's trying to make his mind up about something. Scowl etched into his brow, twist to his mouth. "Mea culpa," he offers Helena after a breath. Squints a smile at Alexander the next moment. "Romero is the handsome brother," he adds, genially. His stare shifts back to the girl when she says that. 'You all.' He articulates his thoughts on her word choice with a skeptical eyebrow.

"We certainly could," he says, slipping a glance at Teo, as if a bit nervous about that reaction. Here's hoping there's no real offense there, right? "I'll show y'all around. Not a big town, but pleasant, pretty. And winter, it's still sunny and warm. We can road trip," he muses, shoving aside his now empty plate.

Helena looks between the two, smiling mildly. Yeah, she doesn't see herself going anywhere in the future. If she did, she'd likely be on the run. "I might like to go to Italy myself." she says. "Stay in some villa, go walking around some ancient temple, get my pants blessed by the Pope."

Pips of clotted blood show on Teo's knuckles as he turns his coffee mug around, the subtle purple and green of fading bruises discloring the lines between veins and grooves in the skin and bones of his hands. He hit someone recently. Decided bandages and tape were far more conspicuous than keeping the use of his hands minimal, and he'd be right. Polishing off the drink, he claps Alex on the shoulder, whatever minor wrinkle of unease that may or may not have been there before apparently forgotten, resolved, or ignored. "I heard the words 'beach' and 'swimming.' I'm going, and I don't think I'm coming back," he says.

He picks up on the note in Helena's voice, and his mouth flattens slightly, the same expression that he'd worn when chastising Alexander for talking too old.

He says nothing of it, though. Shifts on to business instead, keeping it shorthand. "I looked into one of the housing prospects with Eve. The big one. There was a previous tenant who was pretty pissed off to see us. Besides all that, it looks really promising. Easier to set up than the other one, but we could maybe do both. If somebody could convince him to leave, or take roommates, or some shit." He springs a flick of his finger against his coffee mug, sends it rattling, skidding off into the middle of the table.

"It's lovely country," Al says, reminiscently. "Really." And then he perks up, nodding sagely to that assessment of the museum's possibilities. "I think," he says, turning his mug in his fingertips, "We can clear them out. I'm really quite persuasive, when I put my mind to it."

Helena grins at Al. "You two can check out the accommodations? See if we can rig it for showers, all that sort of thing? I'm sure between the two of you, we can make it a great little hideaway."

A thumbs-up from Teo. "Si. Great big hideway," he amends, after a moment. "I'm going to climb a dinosaur." Should any civilians happen to overhear, well, he's confident enough that that sounds so absurd it probably passes for a euphemism. There are dinosaurs. The nuclear bomb couldn't knock them over, so a physically reckless twenty-five-year-old won't. "I didn't get to look at the generator, but I'm pretty sure it's still there. Figure out the water, the rest should be no problem. Do rats or spiders bother you?" He looks altogether too solemn to be serious as he looks back at Alexander.

Alexander puts on a very prim look. "I have to climb on a chair every time I see a rat," he frankly simpers, in an impression of a little old lady's voice. And then he grins, lapsing back into his usual self. "OF course not. And I can rig it for showers, water, I'm sure. Hell, you know me. We could have an old fashioned bath tub."

Helena bursts into laughter. "Oh my god, you're so gay, and you don't even like boys." she tells Alexander, quoting the song. "We could get those portable shower bags, you know the ones you get for camping? And string them up in the bathrooms. There's drains on the floors, I think. Maybe."

Teodoro scratches his chin on his shoulder, bypassing all the befuddlement from his foreigner's ignorance regarding the song reference and all of the rest, and looks thoughtful. "They kept butterflies or some shit back when." A conservatory, he means. "That much flora and to take care of, there's bound to be some room with drains and hoses and all that stuff. We should probably look around properly. If we could keep the live-in off our backs." He pulls his arms off the table, tugs the binder full of child development notes off the seat next to him and onto the table, lest he forget it.

Alexander slants Helena a look, even as he gets more coffee poured for him, and dumps more sugar into it. "How do you know I don't like boys?" he points out, tone suddenly professorial. "We'll keep 'em off, don't worry," he assures Teo, utterly offhand.

Helena perks. Flora. She misses her rooftop garden, it was something to take solace in. Maybe she can make something like it. "Does it still have the big giant whale hanging on the ceiling of the hall of ocean life?" Helena asks curiously. "There's lots of nooks and crannies. We can create a half dozen panic rooms if we need to."

Teo takes an unusually long time to blink his eyes. When he finishes the process, he looks at Helena again. "Yeah, but it could take some work. The floorplan was pretty well mapped out to… everyone who's ever been there." As far as he understands, you wouldn't want the panic rooms to be located at all obviously. He may not understand very much. Really, he's just a glorified plumber. Teaches French on Tuesdays and Thursdays, subs in for algebra and geography whenever one of the geezers at Washington Irving poop out. Bombs sometimes, but only sometimes. His life is comprised of reasonably comfortable and known quantities. "I didn't see the whale. I want to. Bet it's still there." Blue eyes narrow fractionally in a manner that might lead one to wonder if he was considering the logistics of climbing that, too. "Be a pain in the ass to move the damn thing. Check it out soon?"

Alexander settles back in his booth seat, making the vinyl creak, and notes, smugly. "Not as hard to move as you might think," Which is all the hint he'll give in public. "I'm good when you are, since I can set my own hours."

"You're not taking the fucking whale," Teo informs Alexander factually, a touch bemused. His jeans pocket begins to sing, twittering electronically, briefly, in some default ringtone that came with the cheapest phone on the cheapest plan he could find. He pulls the cellphone out, glances down to see a text arrived. Claps the binder to his ribs then, snagging his hood up over his head with a long finger of his other hand. "Smoking buddies," he explains — or jokes, a half-smile. He slides out of the booth with a long step, sheds enough bills to cover his meal on the top of the table. "A domani, ragazzo. Ragazza." Tossing them a casual salute, he lopes off. The chapped eagle printed across his back flexes its wings once as he squares his lean frame against the cold, and shoulders his way out of the door.

October 14th: She's Got A Cat
October 15th: One Must Ask
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