| Running Out Of Time | 172732014

I'm Glad You're Here: The Restaurant

The night's chill pricked at Sero's skin. He swore he could feel his hairs stand on end despite how warm the weather was earlier today. He sat by the corner of a rooftop overlooking a promenade filled with the bright lights of restaurants that lined throughout it. Bustling with people, especially during the dinner hour, he kept a lookout for anything suspicious amongst the crowds. The cacophony of conversation, laughter, and cutlery filled his ears, but nothing looked out of the ordinary.

Perhaps it was a trick, but something in his gut, in his very core, spoke otherwise.

After a few weeks during his day shift patrol, Sero happened upon the scene of a theft at the city's largest bank in broad daylight. He only arrived after the fact, learning from the police of their account as well as getting in touch with the Local Heroes Network for further information. Not much yielded from the statements, it was a typical group of thugs who made an attempt through brute force. Still, some familiar faces arrived on the scene as well, giving way to friendly conversation and some catching up.

Surprisingly though, on the scene, Sero spotted something odd by the front door of the bank, finding a small card protruding from the hinges - the same calling card he found that night you tried to fulfill a heist during his graveyard shift. He scanned the area, checking the streets below and the rooftops above only to find nothing catching his eye.

He inspected the card, making sure that no one spotted him doing so before his eyes trailed on the message written across the name printed on its surface:

Dining Hall Promenade. 6.30pm this Saturday. Dress nicely, Bucky.

Sero stared at the card in his hand, still waiting atop the promenade. He checked his phone, the time reading 6.27pm lit brightly on its screen. He was early, but better to come prepared than to rush in without surveying the area, he thought, while he ruffled the underside of his undercut, avoiding any of the hair product that kept his hair in place.

He found it silly, maybe even unnecessary, but after reading the message, Sero decided to take the instructions with a grain of salt. He was still in his Hero outfit, but decided to style his hair, use a bit of cologne. He questioned the whole time why he would be putting a little effort in this only to decide that it was best to just go with the flow, and find out what you wanted, and more about you.

Playing with the card in hand, he continued to scan the promenade, watching the crowd brewing below with food and drink, merrily going about their Saturday evening with loved ones. The sun began to set before his eyes caught the sight of an orange light languidly floating above the promenade, making its way towards the rooftop of an Italian-inspired restaurant. The light dispersed into fractals, revealing to Sero yourself still in the garb that you wore the night at the museum.

You inspected the rooftop, checking the time on your phone with a smile on your face. You were fashionably late, maybe by a minute or two. However, seeing as Sero had not arrived, or made an entrance yet, you decided to shift a few things on the rooftop. Locating a couple of old armchairs, an old tyre, a large plank of wood and the sort, you prepared a makeshift dining setup. It wasn't romantic, far from it, but at the very least you hoped that the both of you were at least comfortable during this allotted meeting.

Until you kicked the large wooden plank off from the tyre.

"Nah," you mused, finally swinging your legs over and reclining yourself onto one of the armchairs. You breathed in deeply, sinking into the old chair and finally receiving the relief from your feet, and the use of your Quirk.

It had been one hell of a week. If not for some contracts falling through, you had to make some amends for some oversights. Your most dire concern being to buy some more time to make up for a few setbacks, egregiously having to work with a few rotten eggs in the neighbourhood in more unconventional means of attaining what you needed. It was distasteful. It wasn't your style.