[SAFE] Stalkers' HQ

It's a closed room in a skyscraper, better kept than most. The glass is still intact, at least. Next to it are a few rooms utilized as makeshift sleeping quarters... This is simply a common area for those who walk the streets unseen.

A desk, a few chairs, a fallen ceiling tile or two, and a stack of laminated papers--instructions, maps, charts or personal files-- are all that can be seen here, for the time being.

(better description soon I promise.....)

The street was flickering with dogs, down below and beyond the pane of glass. It is not unlike a game of chess or something far more interesting from this aerial view. Tristan drinks in the intricacies of the movement, catalogues mistakes and successes for his own personal use and analyzation. His vision halts on the edge of the buildings that they had been in minutes ago.

His gaze breaks, and he turns to the others, awaiting prompt to "speak". He has no reason to engage otherwise.

The pen skims along the paper, quick tidy scrawls, words lettered evenly and neatly. Admittedly, it is fast running out of ink, and before long Morgan is forced to conclude the sentence. He lays down the pen, absently-mindedly rubbing at the ink spots staining his hands.

A moment's silence as he surveys the diminished stack of reports, content with the day's work. It had been...interesting, to say the least, watching the second generation take their first steps. There would be more work, more duties down the line, but Morgan can honestly say to himself that he is rather looking forward to it. They'd been idle for too long.

Morgan looks up. Quite suddenly, he asks aloud, voice echoing slightly off the walls. "Has Grimke returned?" Voice detached and almost casual, the only outwards sign of any emotion is a slight furrowing of Morgan's brow.

Negative
No
Not Yet.

Tristan shakes his head along with the thought, then glances to the door before communicating again.

Sense,
negative,
three stories
down

; these images and ideas are put into the other man's mind interlaced and as a whole idea on its own, communicating that his senses only reach so far, but familiarity is approaching. He remains looking out the window, his arms folded at the small of his back in an almost military stance.

His mind idly comments a quick idea that whatever is happening street level is quite interesting, entertaining at the least.

By this time Morgan has long since gotten used to the foreign presence that was Tristan. In his early days he'd been more unnerved than he'd cared to admit at the other man's telekinesis (invasion of privacy, the invasion of the one place where no one was supposed to reach) but now he simply takes the information in without fuss.

Morgan's mouth twitches when there is no news of Grimke. On any other man a scowl would have manifested itself upon his visage; instead, Morgan rises to his feet and steps slowly over to join Tristan, making a note to himself to drag Grimke back himself if the other man is not within sight in ten minutes.

Troublesome. Morgan and Grimke have never gotten along well, and most likely never will.

Now Morgan looks down through the glass. Eyes narrowing. "If this is his doing..." he cuts himself off to mutter, "--the devil is he playing at?"

His mind runs through several sets of numbers. Patient numbers. The idea that this is their own doing, so far. Exaggerated image and idea of the one with dreadlocks swinging a pale one like a baseball bat, their faces overlaid with their patient codes.

They could be entertaining on their own. Grimke, or rather his hat is the image given to illustrate him, may be assisting though. Tristan cannot stop the comparison of the man to Wile E. Coyote, but shuts the image off after a few seconds. He hadn't meant to give that one away.

He shrugged his shoulders and turned away from the window, body language exaggerated to make up for lack of speech. He grants Morgan one full sentence,

I wouldn't put it past him to start helping.
They're surviving.
[ too well.]