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His papers are still holding up. John Frost has a library card….and he's exiting the local branch with a backpack with library books in it. Dressed in that blue workshirt he favors on his days off, over a white t-shirt, old leans. His hair's pulled back but not knotted up, for once. He looks down a down at heels grad student more than a wanted killer….and he turns to head down towards the subway entrance.
The girl of the day is a travel agent, heading out with the exodus on early hours. Her brain dances with foreign destinations, tropical island paradises and pretty beach spots perfect for last minute escapes. The whirlwind of airports reached by Pan-Am and rail stations along the Eastern Seaboard lives in neat detail. Zhenya has one of those pamphlets stowed in her small clutch bag, peeking out to talk about the delights of Myrtle Beach - golf, family attractions, golden sand! But her mind exists in another place as she waits on the platform. The place occupied by the small notebook she dutifully scribbles into. Doodles, really, biro pen going back and forth. Other commuters stare at ads, the clock, the stairs, anything else.
She doesn't look like anything but a somewhat gainfully employed girl in the big city, one of those new breed.
He's on the wall, sitting on a bench, waiting for the train. The subway….these aren't the peoples' underground palaces, not like in Moscow. It's hot and stuffy…but rather than distract himself with his books, Buck's leaning against the tile, as if it might be cooler there. Keeping an idle eye out, letting instinct extend its feelers.
Places so much more interesting than wrapped up in the affairs of a crush of neat people. They stand in rank and file. They wait like sheep, the shepherd their beeps and announcements of the automated system. Next stop… trouble. Westbound, five minutes.
Zhenya ignores the people who might politely bump her. Her elbows are tucked close to her sides as a precaution. Her blonde hair is loose, falling forward, and those oversized sunglasses the mode of cool. When aren't people looking? Some part of her is always aware under the surface, always seeking the inconspicuous as a jarring diversion. Watched, appraised. Stared at too long. She shyly smiles without looking up yet.
Ostensibly, people-watching. But he's waiting….and there's tension there, despite it all. Shoulders a little hunched. HE should've walked. So many more places to slip away and escape, rather than here, where his options are all too few. If he's recognized….or catches some eye….
|ROLL| Zhenya +rolls 1d20 for: 15
Metal boxes everywhere and not an easy egress in sight. Up comes the train, discharging sweeps and gushes of hot air. The billowing humidity fills the tunnel where they wait. Zhenya obliges by turning sideways like everyone else to open up corridors for the rats to come running out. They trot up to the stairs and escalators dutifully. She waits patiently. The routine is well-established even as she folds up the notebook. It goes back into her purse. If, if, and if.
"Excuse me," quips the blonde woman. She moves back while the intimate pressure of many bodies squeezed into the train car naturally drives them forward. James the stranger, Zhenya the unremarkable young lady, side by side. Like old times.
She can feel the metal arm through his shirt - contoured like muscle, for that flesh-colored cover that never seemed to arrive, but always unyielding. He glances over at her at that, trying to edge away and make room. "Sorry," he says….but he doesn't politely look away, after that, as etiquette demands. Instead, he narrows his eyes at her for a long moment.
Doors stay open a little longer, and those who will proceed ought to. There are always a few seconds of grace period before they shut on the last stragglers. "No, quite all right." It's the rule of places like the big city to be impersonal, unwilling to stare or care. Showing caring is a loss, a law of the urban wild. "Go ahead then." Her accent is the mishmash of the Mid-Atlantic, not really corresponding to Virginia or North Carolina with any expediency. Two quick steps sideways open up a new route.
A moment, and then he's hurrying in to the last car on the train. "Thanks," he says, looking for a corner to pack himself into. No sitting, this time. He'll have to be a straphanger like everyone else.
A girl in heels has to work a little harder to walk a little further. So goes Zhenya into the westbound car. The push of people squeezes them together. Very little room remains and she clutches onto the rail for necessity so when the doors squeeze shut and they're moving with a groan of the wheels, she doesn't fall. She follows the invariable rock and flow of the train. Its mood governs her actions, easily enough.
And there she is again. Once is chance, twice is coincidence….she can see it in his face. That flicker of suspicion, like an animal that's scented something untoward in the wind, for all that he's still hanging lazily from the bar above. It's his right hand there - no scraping the left hand against anything.
Suspicion and fear are the things men live for. Aren't they? Not the peaceful joy of a household and a regular routine. A jolt of life to the heart means resurrecting the thumping uncertainty caused by regular routines. Nine to five is a death sentence, it's just prolonged by the occasional sideswipe.
Zhenya contributes very little under the circumstances except that hard grip. Back, forth, swaying like a flag rippling in the wind. She's just like everyone else, staring downward or outward, not the least at one another. It's something of a dance between them. Killers in their duets, masquerading as grasshoppers or ladybugs. Tick. Tick. Her skin is fair, soft. The dusting of her blonde hair equally so. Nothing questionable.
Winter's offering his opinion, albeit dimly and incoherently. But instincts are instincts and he's learned to listen. On the outside, he seems reassured - lost in his own commuter's reverie, head hanging a little. There's the next station, and he stays on, fixing his gaze on the view past the windows, letting those coming and going have their way, politely edging to the side.
She's not rich. What travel agent is? The subways cover a lot of distance and they have a long, long way to go before the line runs out. Winter meets Widow. It's unfortunately good spider season.
Her movements are lulling, the way the train screeches over the rails. Brakes apply and they all lean forward to compensate except the half-asleep businessman in the corner, who threatens to slump right off. She goes with him. It's thrilling spycraft, the stuff of legends: standing up sleepy. Sway and dance. Hold point. How many times have they run through that ribbon of time, how many moments of keeping a stiff toe-point jete.
"Next stop, Clinton-Washington…" Her tone matches the bleating announcement.
He's still got that bored expression on, that abstracted gaze, nodding to her comment, idly….another outflow of departing riders, the following influx. Until, at the last possible moment, he's eeling through the incoming commuters, greeted with indignant huffs and annoyed comments to dart out on to the platform moments before the doors close for departure.