2007-03-19: An Unmarked Nuclear Warhead Walks Into A Bar


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Summary: Jane discovers Jack's bar, gets a steady paying gig there, and Peter joins them. Info is shared, abilities are demonstrated.

Date It Happened: March 19, 2007

An Unmarked Nuclear Warhead Walks Into A Bar

Den of Inquity, Brooklyn, NYC

Technically it's a few minutes past closing, but Jack's liable to keep the doors open for as long he sticks around. These days, he's there all night more often than not. His last group of patrons, a knot of dirty auto workers playing rounds of pool, wandered out not long ago. For once the Den is quiet and completely devoid of its usual under-crust clientele.

Behind the bar, Jack is sipping from a squat glass generously filled with rich, dark bourbon. Forgotten, a cigarette has half-burned in the ashtray at his elbow. Tonight he's skipped his usual suit-and-tie attire in favor of a soft, grey woolen sweater, loose black slacks, and scuffed boots.

Out and about on her wandering of the vast city, venturing beyond Manhattan this time and out far later than she might normally be, the young woman finds herself nearing the Den of Iniquity. Brown eyes scan the exterior, and she smiles slightly. Sure, it's rough, but that appeals to her in ways. Fingers reach out and push the door open, or pull it if that's the way it works.

And in comes Doctor Michelle Jane Forrest, Yale Law '06, wearing dark jeans, stylish heeled boots, a navy blue hoodie with a large Y in white on the front, and a muted red winter coat. She's got gloves with fingertips cut out for playing guitar on her hands, a guitar case slung over one shoulder, and a backpack over the other.

From just inside the doorway this woman, perhaps recognizable from the assembling on the Deveaux Building roof on two occasions and being at the table with Peter Petrelli in Starbucks, surveys the interior. It's a far cry from her girlhood home, her mind mulls with amusement the contrast between this and her sixteenth birthday debutante ball. She knows it might not be the safest thing, a woman alone in such a place at this hour, but it seems so very rock and roll and she doesn't feel helpless. If needed her guitar can be a weapon, and she has a secret that could scare away an attacker.

Jack blinks owlishly as the woman enters. From his slightly flushed cheeks, red-rimmed eyes, and crooked grin, it would seem that the glass he's working on isn't his first. After a moment he beckons his new patrons toward the bar with one long-fingered hand. "Welcome, lady-o." He pauses. Familiar though she seems, he's unable to put a name to her face. Unwilling to let it bother him, he gestures grandly to one of the many barstools. "C'mon in outta the chill, let me shake together somethin' to warm you up, yes?"

"I've seen you before," Jane states, after taking a moment to look the man over. She walks forward to the bar and aims for a stool, setting her gear down and resting a boot atop it. "You were at Starbucks, taked briefly to my friend a few days ago." There's something to her eyes as she seeks to make contact with his that suggests some recent rough living and pride from surviving it, an edginess. "But I don't know your name." A glance goes behind the bar, and she asks "Got wine? If not, beer's good."

"Wine's not somethin' I keep around, but I have-" Jack reaches into the cooler beneath the bar, produces a Rolling Rock, then pops the top and slides it across. "There. Only domestic beer worth having near your face, God bless the state of Pennsylvania." He picks up his own glass and takes an easy swallow before continuing. "As for Starbucks? I thought I'd seen you somewhere. Name's Jack. What's yours?" His calm, grey eyes meet hers readily. Faint, premature worry lines crease his brow and curve around the corners of his mouth, a testament to his own trials and worries. He bobs an abbreviated nod to her, a wordless aknowledgement.

Her hand catches the sliding bottle and lifts it up, she just studies it for a long moment. The 33 on the label is made note of mentally, the white lettering, the mention of Old Latrobe. And she sets it down without drinking any. Her mind mulls over the risk to drinking it, wondering if staying clean means giving up alcohol for the umpteenth time since she returned from waking up somewhere south of AC and suffering alone through cold turkey. Each of those times, as now, she refrained from imbibing, taking confidence in that ability. "Jack," she echoes in acknowledgement, eventually. "I'm Jane."

Jack might not be the brightest guy around, be he's perceptive. He sets his bourbon down with a soft glass-on-glass clink and cocks his head to the side quizzically. Absently, he trails a hand along his stubbled jaw. His gaze is searching and compassionate at the same time, an oddity for a drunk. "Jane," he repeats. "You ok? I hope it's not rude to say that you look a little put off."

She chuckles a bit ruefully to begin her reply, stating simply "I'm good. Just keeping down a demon or two." There's no elaboration, her eyes wander the place again slowly. "It's very rock and roll here, Jack. Ever have a use for live music, a rocker chick who plays like Nancy Wilson and sings like Ann?" As she speaks, her eyes settle on the man again.

"Lady-o, I've always got a use for entertainment," Jack replies, his gaze roaming over Jane's guitar case appraisingly. "I hope you'll understand if I ask you to play for me before I let you loose on the customers, though." The Irishman is perched behind the bar, sipping on his umpteenth glass of bourbon. As is usual, his stalwart constitution seems to be compensating nicely. Seated opposite is Jane, bearing guitar case and backpack, untouched beer before her.

"You won't be disappointed," Jane replies, moving to slide off the muted red winter coat she's wearing and let it drape over a nearby stool. She then reaches a hand in a glove with fingertips cut out for playing to open the case and pull out her guitar, then the amp, and hook up. A glance is given to her untouched beer as if she might drink some of it, but doesn't. Fingers move over strings and frets, she sets about tuning the instrument for a few moments. Once satisfied she launches into a tune. As claimed, she's going to play like Nancy Wilson and sing like Ann. It's a lively riff that begins the piece. "This ain't the end, I saw you again, today… I had to turn my heart away. Smile like the sun, kisses for evvvveryone. And tales… it never fails!"

Technically, the invitation to this bar was for a trio, but unable to get ahold of the Japanese man just yet, Peter's stepping in alone. As soon as he gets inside, he's rather glad that he decided to come alone. Bringing Elle to this type of bar would not have been on the top of his list… Casting his eyes around, the young Petrelli brother begins to shed off his gloves and scarf, followed by his coat, which he drapes over his arm and stands there for a moment, just looking. Italian kid isn't at all out of place in an Irish Pub— not at all. Good thing is he walks in as Jane's starting to sing, and gets to stand there and listen for a moment. The hint of a smile that pushes on his lips carries both sorrow and guilt.

Jack's lopside, thin-lipped grin grows as Jane proudly declares her skill and begins to play. He empties the last of his bourbon with a practiced gulp, then quietly refills his glass. A guitar-ticklin' gal was not what he expected to see on a late Tuesday night. Neither is Peter Petrelli. With a quick headshake, he beckons the man inside and presses a finger to his lips, then gestures to Jane and her playing.

And skill she has. Some might call her expert. Jane's clearly spent years playing and studying the art. Whether or not what she plays has appeal is another matter. Barracuda continues, she seems to understand the emotions Ann had when she wrote the piece after their record label tried a lame PR stunt suggesting she and her sister were lesbian lovers and a reporter at a meet and greet blindsided her with a question about it. Peter is sighted and acknowledged with a nod; she doesn't break from the song. "… if the real thing don't do the trick, you better make up something quick. You gonna burn burn it to the wick, won't ya, Barracuda?!"

Stepping closer to the bar in silence, Peter watches the young woman he'd met play, and despite not being trained in the musical arts himself, he can still appreciate skill when he hears it. And somehow finds himself feeling it more intricately than he'd ever thought he could… Once he's closer to the bar, he settles down on one of the bar stools a few away from her, turned to face her for the most part, while he listens, folding the warm weather clothes onto his lap.

One long-fingered drums a counterpoint on the glass-topped bar to Jane's playing, as Jack wordlessly produces another squat, old-fashioned glass for Peter and tips a generous three fingers into it from the same cut-crystral bottle he's used for his own drinks. Still tapping away, he slides it across. Then he picks up his own glass, tips a nods to the new arrival, and drinks deeply.

It continues, played out in full, until the conclusion. Where high notes are needed, Jane has no trouble whatsoever reaching them. Once the tune is completed she rests her fingers on the instrument and looks at Jack with calm confidence. "I play just about everywhere around the city, sit down and start whenever the mood strikes. Hope to get a band together and/or do session work at studios. These days I like to keep busy as much as possible, so the mood strikes more often. It'll bring me here a few days a week, I think."

The drink that's pushed over gets accepted, and though Peter takes a small drink from it before the music stops, from his face it's— a bit stronger than he's used to. Once she's stopped, he returns the nod with that same sad hint of a smile— now with reaction to the alcohol to add to it. "It'd be nice to hear you play more regularly," he admits, though his voice happens to be more hoarse than he would like. Alcohol, that's all.

"I agree with Pete, here." Jack bobs an amiable not to Jane, and his grey eyes sweep across her guitar. He pauses briefly, considering. "Tell you what. I'll pay you three hundred a night, plus drinks. Stay for three, maybe four hours. Keep the yokels entertained for a bit, y'know?" He leans forward, resting his elbows on the glass-topped bar. "You draw in good business for me, we regnegotiate. Sound good to you?"

Her beer on the bar, still untouched, is looked at again and left there still. Jane doesn't say anything about her issues with chemical dependence, but a man of Jack's experience may well have seen this sort of thing many times. A customer orders alcohol and doesn't partake to prove something to him or herself about control. "You will, Jack," she assures simply. A glance is sent toward the Petrelli brother and a smile is shown. "Peter. Good to see you. Though I'm surprised you're in a rock and roll place like this." The woman chuckles, then turns back to the proprietor. There's a glint of something in her eyes which might be a hint Jack's about to get a taste of her inner lawyer. "Keep soda and juices on hand for me too, Jack," she recommends, "and when I play the case stays open. Tips are mine, whatever the customers give I keep."

"Not my sort of place, I admit it," Peter says, setting his drink down to let it sit for a time. It might not be touched for a while, from the sound of his voice. A few coughs later, and it evens out some. "Didn't expect to walk in and hear you playing. I seem to be doing that a lot since you helped me out." Whether she remembers it or not. That guilty glance is cast in Jack's direction, questioning. Possible to be missinterpreted, even.

Jack holds his open hands up palm-out toward Jane. "Hey, now. I don't want your tips. Geez, I run a dive bar, not a crackhouse. What do you take me for?" He cocks a curious eyebrow toward the woman, then blinks and shakes his head again. "Nevermind, I probably don't want to know." Jack's response to Peter's self-depricating glance is a bolstering smile that temporarily smooths a few of his newly-aquired wrinkes.

"It's all good, Peter," Jane quietly replies. She doesn't speak of what she believes that help was, keeping her word to him and Nathan given some few nights ago. "I get around. This is the sort of place all starting professional musicians should work in. I like it." A quiet confident smile is shown toward Jack. "No worries, guy. I just like things up front and clear, you know? Sorry if it seemed like an insult."

And the promise just keeps coming back to bite him. Peter looks from her to Jack and then suddenly says, "I don't think—" he starts, but doesn't continue, deciding to take a drink first. More generous a gulp than his last one, he ends up coughing quite a few times after he swallows. Not a heavy drinker, this one… When he looks back up, he has to ask a question, based on what little he heard, voice rather rasped and deeper than it sometimes could be, "So you two don't really know each other, do you?" And he's looking more at Jack, than Jane.

Jack bobs an amiable nod in response to Jane explanation. Then, with a sigh, he pushes away his near-empty bourbon glass. Enough for tonight, apparently. Taking up a pack of Marlboros from atop the bar, he shakes one loose, twists the filter between his lips, then lights it. "We've met," he speaks through a thick, white cloud of smoke. "You were with Hiro during the Kirby Plaza thing, right Jane?" Left unsaid is that Jack himself was elsewhere in the building, unable to help his friends when they were captured. He frowns briefly.

Her eyes flash, the woman is suddenly serious, and confused. She can clearly be seen trying to wrap her head around something. Her gaze goes from one man to the other, and ends up resting on Jack. "I was… sick a while back. I had a visitor, I think he mentioned that name. Hiro Nakamura? What Kirby Plaza thing?" Jane is cautious, she doesn't want to admit her use of drugs to anyone who doesn't know about it all. But that Jim guy did say she'd been in rehab, was there a man by that name there too? Was that the facility she ditched to wake up south of AC? And Jack says they met… was he there too? Nothing of this is remembered, there's just one thing she knows is real. Spending three days in cold turkey hell.

"I know that some people said not to tell you… but I was lied to enough that I can't keep doing the same to someone else. Especially not someone who risked their life to help me," Peter says, sounding mildly regretful with the rasped voice. Glancing around the bar a few times, he stands up to move closer, just in case, while he lowers his voice to a near whisper, "You weren't doing drugs, Jane. I was, but not for what you think. I— was being held prisoner, because of what I can do. Because I'm special… and dangerous. And you helped break me out. You, Hiro Nakamura, my brother, Jack here— and a bunch of others."

Suddenly concerned by Jane's response, Jack shoots a glance in Peter's direction. He's definately relieved when the other man takes up the task of explaination. Suddenly it seems wise to finish off the last of his alcohol, so he does so posthaste. After wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, Jack nods in response to the infodump. "He's right," the Irishman admits. "You were with us the night we tried to break Peter out. I don't know about the rest, though."

Her gloved hands curl into fists, and the eyes show darkness. When she speaks, the words come clearly and slowly, a demonstration of the emotions welling up and the restraint she uses to hold them in check. "What you tell me might be true," Jane states. "I don't want to believe I'm a recovering addict. There's a lot of fog over the past month, though, being on drugs explains it, people can black out and lose time when using. One thing, though, isn't at all foggy. I was a mess. I woke up in some shithole south of Atlantic City, made it home, and spent three days in hell kicking whatever I used. So somewhere, somehow, I was on drugs." A pause is taken, and her fists unclench. "Either way I like stories, so spill. Tell me what you know, or think you know, about me." Her manner is stern, it's not a request. Eyes glance back to the beer, then to Peter; a question is tacked on. "Given that I really did do cold turkey, is it safe to drink that?"

"Even if you did drugs, doesn't mean you were an alcoholic. Nathan— seemed to think you'd never touched drugs in your life, and I'm inclined to believe him," Peter says, glancing towards the beer that she's asking about, before glancing briefly around the bar one last time… and then the bar glass that he left where he'd been sitting before slides across the bar to his hand. One display of power, small. "I know that you have an ability like me." He glances at Jack, unknowing if the same is true for him, but… "I also know that a while ago, maybe as long as a month ago, you met my brother and Hiro Nakamura. They were looking for me, trying to find out what happened to me. In November of last year— the same night my brother got elected to Congress— I disappeared. I didn't just disappear, though. I…"

How does someone explain this, even in whispered tones. Elena hadn't known when he explained it to her… As he casts another glance around, he ends up gesturing towards one of the signs. "See that? Unmarked Nuclear Warhead? That's me. I absorb the abilities of people that I meet— and one of those abilities came from a man who— could basically be a nuclear bomb. I lost control of his power and nearly exploded in the heart of the city. Nathan flew me out of range so I didn't kill millions of people… and he lost his career and was disfigured with burns for months. I— am not sure how yet, but he was healed sometime ago, I guess before he met you the first time. The facility I was in found me and promised to fix me, make me safe." And at that, he needs another drink.

Though this is all old news to Jack, he still lets out a low whistle. All wadded up into one unpalatable ball, it never ceases to amaze him. With a small smile and a snap of his fingers, he relocates the bourbon bottle a few short feet from the bar to his hand. As he pours more for Peter and himself, his voice is a quiet, steady murmur. "That matches up with what I know, and then some. I don't know you," his gaze flickers over to Jane. "But I don't think Hiro would've brought you in if you were a druggie by choice. You came along to help Hiro, me, and other people like us so Petey here could get free. Things didn't go so well, though, and not all of us made it out."

"I thought it was odd that a former Congressman I never met would just show up at my apartment," Jane states. Her eyes widen a bit at the display with the glass, and they focus intently on Peter. She's still stern, but is listening, and part of what shows in her eyes and on her face now is disbelief. The beer is reached for and lifted to her mouth, she takes a long healthy drink of it, and holds the bottle in hand. "I never did drugs before this past month, that much I do know. Never had trouble with alcohol either. I could sit and have a glass of wine and stop at one. You've got abilities, just showed that with moving the glass. And yes, I have one too." Silence follows, she goes back to listening intently.

"I— know your ability has something to do with sounds and your voice," Peter adds, looking a bit guilty after he finishes off another drink, looking across at Jack for a moment, before he turns back to the woman. "Hiro— is a good guy. He tried everything to stop the bomb— stop me— from destroying New York. Nathan saved all of you, but Hiro… It couldn't have happened without him." Though that part is hard to explain. "I guess he felt he owed it to me. He didn't know I was staying there on my own. Checked in to get help, you could say…" So he fits the drug metaphor fairly well. "But two weeks ago it came to my attention I was being held prisoner, that I could control my abilities. And less than a week later Hiro brought you— Jack— and a bunch of others in to bring me out. Your team— got captured. Nathan and Hiro were released, with their memories and everything intact, but you— I don't know how, but it seems like they wanted you to forget everything that led up to you trying to rescue me. And these people are capable of a lot of things…"

Jack nods solemnly, his fingers toying with the rim of his glass and his gaze lowered to the bar. "The same thing happened to my girl, Eliana. They captured her before we even left to spring you, Pete." His voice is soft and uncharacteristically gentle. "They did something to her, and now she's not the same. She's forgotten things as well, and no matter how I try to help her remember, she can't seem to." Jack grimaces, then squints his eyes shut briefly. When he opens them again his face is composed, and there's no sign of the pain that was there a moment ago.

"Yeah, I'm a real screamer. I feel one coming on right now. And it's not unlike me to put others first at times," she admits. "My passion's been music for a long time, but out of duty to my parents I went through law school. That, and knowing I could use it to help fellow musicians not get ripped off. My best attention was in the areas of copyrights, trademarks, IPR. So that I tried to break you out when held against your will without being convicted of a crime… it's possible. This bomb stuff, though…" Her head shakes slowly. "I can't get my head around that right now. Whatever happened, I paid a stiff price. Live your life, Peter. Get a handle on things so there's no risk of you blowing up. Make the cost worth it." The beer is drained swiftly when Jane returns to silence, a confusedly speculative and angry look to her features. Sympathy shows briefly when Jack speaks of Eliana.

Another casuality added to the list— Peter looks across at Jack as he speaks of his girl, hand raising to his mouth for a moment as if he feels ill. There's no explosions brewing, but— what can he really do about this? "I intend to," he answers Jane softly, sounding rather ill for a moment. That drink he has gets another long look, as if he's tempted to just down the whole thing, screw the consequences. "There are a lot of things that I need to do— Hiro broke me out for a reason. The world's in danger again. And I can't do anything alone." So self-depreciating, for someone Hiro harped up as the most powerful of them all. On top of saving the world… "If there's any way to get your memories back— or your girl's— any way at all— I'll find it." That drink he'd been denying himself? It gets thrown back, and he's going to regret that right this instant— oh yes.

Jack reaches across the bar to chuck Peter on the shoulder in a friendly fashion. "Don't worry, boy-o. I'd do it all over again a thousand times if I had to. Strange things are brewin', and we all need to work together if we plan to make it through." Smiling crookedly, he meets the other man's eyes. "Besides, you've got family what was worried about you while you were locked up. And a bonne blonde, too," he shoots across a knowing wink. "Point bein', if I'd been in the pokey, it's my hope that others would try to help me as we tried to help you."

"If you need help, I'll give it, Peter, within reason. Nathan thought enough to come look for me when he got out. This… it all seems surreal, I'm not sure I even believe it yet. And these answers just spark more questions. It'll take a while to wrap my head around all of… this. Part of me is screaming that you two are fellow addicts who relapsed and have some joint hallucination going on. Part of me believes." She looks at both men in turn, hoping what she says makes sense to them. "If you got my ability, look out for dog whistles. They may be painful to you, and you will hear them." Jane stands and takes the beer bottle, looking for some place to set it down and have it isolated so she can make a demonstration."

With a grateful glance towards the bartender, even if Peter's currently trying his best to keep a straight face after downing more alcohol than he's generally used to, "I'm glad you all tried. I escaped on my own, with Elle— the blonde's— help. But I couldn't have if most of the security in the building wasn't focused on stopping the two teams…" So even if they might feel they failed, he doesn't see it that way. They left plenty of openings for him to walk right outside, invisible. "I'll take all the help I can get," he says with a nod, trying to include both of them in this. "We need to stick together—" It's the warning that brings out another explaination, "The abilities I absorb aren't on all the time… Still a chance the dog whistles will bother me, but… So thank you for the warning." But what is she doing?

Jack lets out a low whistle. "It's good to hear we managed to help out after all," he nods to Peter. "For a while, it seemed bloody fruitless." With one toe he snags a high-seated chair from it's place tugged snugly below the bar. After inverting it, he straddles the chair and leans his arms across its back. "As complex at it can seem sometimes, we've just gotta keep doing what we think is right. There's no guidebook to this whole mess."

"So I didn't pay the price I paid for nothing," Jane muses, "if you're not both on drugs. Surreal, so surreal. Either way, the cold turkey won't be forgotten. Ever." She finds a tray at the bar's end and sets it atop a table, then places the bottle atop it in the center, intending that the glass stays on that surface and can be easily dumped into the trash without needing a broom. Once that's done, unless someone acts to stop her, Jane steps back several feet. Her lips purse as if she were singing one extended note, but no sound seems to emerge. It's her intent that the bottle shatter where it stands under her assault.

"It definitely wasn't fruitless," Peter responds to the bartender, shifting his coat around as if trying to get into an interior pocket. What he pulls out happens to be a closed folder… which he sets down on the bar in a dry spot… "We do have a guide, of sorts— we just need to figure out how to read it." What that means— he doesn't explain, as he glances towards Jane and her resolve. Cold turkey shouldn't be forgotten. Nor should what they put her through, what they made her think of herself— and as she steps back he blinks, unsure what she's doing— until she opens her mouth and uses that note. All of a sudden he feels a pressure against his eardrums, and he reaches up to cover his ears, obviously flinching under the sound of the extended note— even as the glass shatters. Ow.

Likewise, Jack winces as his eardum pop in response to the sonic stunt. Tenatively, he reaches out to touch the pulverized remains of the beer bottle with one finger. Then a slow grin spreads across his face. "That's bloody brilliant," he fairly crows, his voice raised like a teenager after a long concert. For all his ins and out among the Evolved, he's rarely encountered abilities with visible and tangible effects besides his own.

It's only as an afterthought she remembers Peter might've felt that, through hearing the note. She watches the bottle break, and strides over to dump the glass into a trash barrel then return the tray. "I really needed that," Jane remarks, a hint of smile showing until she looks at the Petrelli again. "Oh. Did that…" A wince of embarrassment and regret arrives. "Sorry, Peter Petrelli! I can do other things too, like echo-locating." And her gaze settles on Jack. "It's share time, got anything like this?"

"Ow," Peter repeats outloud what had been going through his head. That— was almost worse than telepathy. Rubbing at his ear, he shakes his head, "It's okay— really. I've been through worse." The whole blowing up above New York thing might be one of those 'worse.' "Nathan told me you were a real screamer…" A saying he almost took as a joke the first time, even if his brother insisted they were 'just friends, "…Just as you said earlier. See what he means, now." She probably had her uses back at the break out.

"I'm a one-trick pony, I'm afraid." Jack closes his eyes and domes his hands together. When he opens them there's a short-stemmed rose in perfect bloom cupped between his fingers. With a flick, he tosses it down in front of Jane. "I call it 'snatching.' As long as I know where something is all I have to do is think about it. Then Bob's your uncle, and it's here. Been able to do it ever since I was a little one."

Tough as she projects in the face of all this info coming at her, with the whole rock and roll angle too, Jane's still a woman. The rose is picked up slowly and smelled with her eyes closing. "Mmm." When they reopen, her eyes rest on him. "That trick must pay you lots of benefits with my gender, Jack," she quips. "Thanks for sharing. But you should really save this for Eliana." Her hand extends, offering it back to him for that purpose.

"I had a friend who'd love that ability," Peter admits, before he glances up at the clock over the bar. Suddenly tsking under his breath, he realizes he got completely side tracked on his original reason for visiting… "I'm going to give you the number Hiro left with me. In case you can contact him before I can." Reaching for a piece of paper and a pencil, since— well— neither of them appear in his hands. Absorbing people's abilities isn't a sure thing, and he can rarely make them work even if he does. "And I want to leave you both my number. We should at least keep each other informed. And there's more I want to talk to you both about— but I need to get back."

At the mention of Eliana's name, Jack's face clouds somewhat. "There's little I can do for Eliana at this point. She hardly chooses to see me at all, these days." Stiffly, he scoops up the flower and bins it with a underhanded toss. He pockets both the phone numbers Peter hands him, then refills his bourbon glass yet another time. So much for stopping. "I appreciate you coming by, Pete. It was good to sit down and talk with you for a bit, and good to hear that you're doing well. I was pleased to see you as well, Jane. I look forward to having you back in a professional capacity."

"So much to think over and get my brain around," she murmurs as her stool is re-occupied. "Someone wanted me to forget, they went into my head, and…" Jane trails off, not wanting to contemplate that now. "You're a multi-talented man, Jack summons things… I can't ever let on I know any of this. Is there a chance I'm being watched, guys?" Her mind is a whirlwind, so many thoughts going in and out of her head. "I'm torn. Want to know everything, but unsure of the truth in it." She moves to examine the folder Peter opened, but abandons the idea to not prevent him leaving. "Night," the lawyer/guitarist murmurs. "I've already got your info, I think." But if offered she takes it anyway. "Thanks for the storytime." She also moves toward the bin when Jack tosses the rose, and retrieves it for Peter. "You know what to do with this."

Putting on his coat first, and repocketing the envelope, Peter's wrapping the scarf back around his neck when he takes the rose, "Thanks. She might forgive me for being back late with this." And forgive him for smelling of bourbon too. Probably a good idea not to fly after that drink. Might want to flag a taxi, too. "Right, I did give you mine, didn't I— I don't know if they're watching you, or any of us, honestly. I've made myself pretty available, as available as I could think to make myself— and they haven't snagged me off the streets yet. If I'm the most dangerous person in the city, you think they'd be more worried about shutting me down than letting me run around talking to the guys who tried to rescue me. Best way to deal with this— is contact. Message each other every day, and if someone doesn't answer, we come looking. And I am going to try to find a way to get your memory back— and your girl's too." He's not sure /how/… but… There's definitely determination as he heads towards the door.

"Oh, Jack." Peter stops right at the door, even with it partially open, "Whoever owned the dog that died— could you send them my condolences?"

The guitarist/lawyer watches Peter depart, then faces Jack again. "See you soon here, Jack. It's good to have a standing gig. Thanks to you too for the share." Jane seems about to comment more regarding Eliana and what she might be feeling, some of it coming to her too, but she reconsiders. Her gear is packed up and the coat donned. "Good night." And moments later she too is gone, headed home to process, let things sink in, and likely to later go find a safe place for extended screaming.

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