City Seat Circle

        The focal center of the city, the two lengths of Main Street meet here, 
forming a circular drive around which a number of important public buildings are 
situated. Erected in the small park in the center of Circle Drive is Beacon 
Harbor's Lady of Progress, a twenty five foot tall statue of a woman clad in 
armor, sword upraised, pointing to the brave new future for the city and it's 
inhabitants. A small fountain is positioned in front of the statue, and a number 
of benches are scattered around the small park, providing lots of places to sit; 
for lunch, to relax, or for the disenfranchised. Beneath the park is a vast 
underground structure that provides parking for the many government buildings 
that line the outer rim of the circle. Circle Drive splits off in three 
directions from here, northeast toward the financial district, northwest towards 
the commercial district, and southwest toward the monolithic residential 
district.

Blake is sitting across from the statue, drawing in his sketchpad. He seems very 
intent on whatever it is he is working on.

Mike comes onto the Circle from a generally northerly direction, spots Blake and 
makes a beeline for him, having to dodge a car or two. "Hey, Blake!" he yells 
cheerfully while still some distance away. "Guess what?"

Blake doesn't respond to Mike's call. He scribbles a bit harder. This drawing is 
turning out very black.

Mike shakes his head, amused, and waits till he gets close enough to just talk 
and be heard. He wanders around behind Blake and looks over his shoulder. 
"What're you drawing?"

It appears that Blake's latest "improvements" to the statue include great big 
Chernabog wings and a vacuum cleaner. "Hm?" he mutters distractedly.

Mike leans past Blake and taps the picture with a forefinger. "Nice, but I don't 
think she's the type to do the housework."

Blake blinks and looks around. "Apparently you are uninformed on all the 
posschible applicaschionsch of a vacuum cleaner." Blake closes the sketchbook. 
"Not out running again, are you? I warned you about that."

Mike blinks, and decides he doesn't want to know. "No. Well, yeah. But that's 
not the point. Guess what?" He's all excited.

Blake looks interested. "My favorite game. They've got a giraffe at the zoo that 
can play Lady of Schpain on a hurdy-gurdy?" he guesses.

Mike blinks. Again. Blake does this to him a lot. "No," he says. "Least I don't 
think so."

Blake pauses. "Isch thisch where I try again or isch it where you tell me to 
schut up and juscht schay what happened? 'Causche I can go on like thisch for a 
while."

Mike considers. "I'm interested to hear what you'll say, but I really wanna tell 
you this thing, so shut up." He pauses, then says proudly, "I got a job."

Blake straightens up. "Yeah?" he asks. "Nothing to do with copy maschinesch, 
right? 'Causche I'm schure that peanut thing isch on your permanent file."

Mike grins and shakes his head. "No, no. Y'know Oscorp, that big science-type 
place over on Pikeman's?" (OOC note: that's where Eddie works, which should have 
been on the nametag is I wasn't so lazy)

Blake nods. "Oh, yeah," he says. "Yeah. You an egghead or schomething? You don't 
scheem the type they'd let near the complicated schtuff."

Mike looks mildly offended. "I - well, no. Guess not. No, I got the janitor's 
job, isn't that great?" He's *so* happy about this.

Blake feigns concern. "What will the janitor do now that you've got hisch job?" 
he asks.

Mike keeps up with that one. "No, Sullivan, I mean - you *know* what I mean." He 
sits on the bench and looks at the Lady of Progress. "This is a good thing. I 
can keep my room now."

Blake nods, "Yeah, schoundsch like a good deal. Scho are you the daytime guy, or 
the one who getsch to prowl the darkened building after midnight, snooping into 
schecret project filesch and watching the fanatic computer gueniouschesch rave?"

Mike continues looking at the statue. "I'm the night guy. I'll probably get shot 
by a security guard or something. I am SO lucky." He's not even being sarcastic.

Blake nods again. "Oh, right, the night watchman: the fienescht individualsch to 
grasche our fair city. Between the two of you, I'm schure you can unleasche 
hundredsch--no, *thouschandsch* of Experimentsch Gone Horribly Wrong on Beacon 
Harbor. Wow," he adds, "you *are* lucky! Can you get me a tee-schirt?"

Mike chuckles. "I don't think they *do* T-shirts. And I'm not intending to touch 
*anything*. Unless it looks really cool. I saw some stuff on the way to the 
interview, there are *so* many big gizmoes with lights on em."

Blake says, "Well, juscht keep away from big red buttonsch and *anything* marked 
'Certain Death'. Or 'Revenge!'. Otherwische, you schould be fine."

Mike nods. "Okay, I'll try." He doesn't sound like he really means it. "How 
about you, though, how's it going? Met any dragons lately?"

Blake ughs. "Dragonsch are geckoes compared to what I had to messch with 
yeschterday. And the worscht part is, I had to take my jacket in to be 
drycleaned. Even *I* couldn't live with *that* schmell. I hate thisch 
sweatschirt. Even *after* the improvementsch I made."

Mike blinks. "Oh, yeah, your jacket - what happened? Giant robot? Firey woman? 
Lightning bolt?"

Blake shrugs. "Nah. Juscht schome weird little guy. I wasch trying to knock him 
down with schome fisch...er, or schomething. I didn't schee it. But it schtank 
to high heaven. The guy wasch a weenie, but he had schome naschty party favors 
with him. He had a big mouth, anywaysch. I schould have thrown him into the 
bay."

Mike shifts around to look at Blake more directly. "You're kidding me. You had a 
fight with some guy? What'd he do?"

Blake snaps his fingers. "That'sch right," he says suddenly. "He was yelling at 
that chick who was yelling at that dragon before. The redhead. I thought he 
wasch gonna blow her to Kingdom Come. That'sch why I threw the fisch at him. But 
sche took off."

Mike is taken aback and makes a 'slow down' gesture with one hand. "Whoa, hey, 
someone was gonna kill Sorcha? What fish? What are you *talking* about? What did 
she do to him?"

Blake shakes his head. "Sche didn't do anything--thisch guy wasch a real card-
carrying whacko. They juscht got in this big arguement, and he kept waving this 
bomb around. Scho uh...I panicked and threw a barrel of fisch at him. Anywaysch, 
I don't even know what happened to her. Next thing I knew Mama'sch Boy wasch out 
cold and sche wasch gone."

Mike winces. "Bombs? God, just when you think dragons are bad enough. So what, 
you protected her?" He sounds both impressed and - well, jealous.

Blake flings his arms wide. "Well, that wasch *moschtly* the idea but like I 
schaid, sche took off. Women are schuch flighty creaturesch. And I didn't even 
get her phone number. Well, you can't have it all, I guessch. At leascht I got 
to clean Poindexschter'sch clock for him."

Mike processes that 'phone number' thing and hesitates a moment, then says, 
"She's pretty." Pause. "You beat the guy up? Wow."

Blake hmphs. "It wasch almoscht dischappointing," he admits. "I had better 
fightsch on the playground when I wasch a kid. But then I guessch I'm usched to 
different oddsch. Well--Okay scho the whole bomb thing added a new dimenschion, 
but...Heck i don't even know what *happened* to that bomb. Maybe it'sch schtill 
on the dock schomewhere."

Mike's eyes widen. "There's one just sitting around? Maybe the Bomb Squad'll be 
down. Still, you should be pleased. Last time I was in a fistfight I got my 
clock cleaned for me. He was bigger'n me, though."

Blake nods, "Yeah well, it wasch the highlight of my day. Although now I don't 
have any junk to overhaul and rip people off with pretending it'sch 'high art'. 
What schaps people are. Anyways," he changes the subject, "what about thisch 
job, now? Do you get to wear schome uniform scho you look like you're in a bad 
Twighlight Zone epischode or anything? Do you get to ride one of thosche big 
floor-waxersch? Isch it an automatic?"

Mike brightens. "Yeah, they got those floor-waxers. I love those things, they 
must go four, five miles an hour. And the uniform's just an overally, jumpsuity 
thing. I look like a dork in it."

Blake ahas. "Jumpschuit. Great. If it hasch pocketsch you can even--" he lowers 
his voice-- "*borrow* paper clipsch and schtuff. But don't let them catch you, 
they might cut off your handsch or schomething. You never know."

Mike looks doubtful. "I think that's Arabia, isn't it? Or, uh, Germany or 
somewhere. Anyway, I wouldn't take anything, that'd be stealing. Tsk." He's 
*probably* kidding.

Blake just shrugs. "Scho how many nightsch a week are you giving up for thisch 
job?"

Mike shrugs. "Six. But one week out of every five I don't have to work 
Wednesdays."

Blake shakes his head. "I couldn't imagine having a real job," he comments. "I 
could never do it. They'd fire me in five minutesch. I can't deal with 
schedulesch."

Mike scratches absently at the back of his neck. "Well...it won't matter if I'm 
kinda late, sometimes, right? It's not like I drive a bus or anything."

Blake nods, "But what if there'sch schome hideousch mutagen chemical schpill and 
if you don't get there right away to mop it up it will come to life and...eat 
your friend the schecurity guard?"

Mike blinks. "Wow. I didn't think of that." He considers. "I won't make friends 
with the security guards, then."

Blake says, "Oh hey then, you might get to play video gamesch on hisch little 
monitorsch after he'sch gone, then. Scho you're all schet." He stands up. 
"Well," he says, "I need to get home. I think my plaschter of Parisch isch schet 
up by now."

Mike also stands up and grins. "Plaster of Paris? What're you making? Or have 
you just broken your leg?"

Blake grins. "Not thisch week. And I don't know what I'm making until I schtart 
hacking away at it."

Mike looks like he doesn't quite get it. So no change. "Well - let me know. Or 
better, let me see when you're done. I like your stuff. They can get you to 
replace that statue next time it gets knocked over."

Blake nods, "Right. Although they would probably make me leave out the cool 
addischions--like the jetpack and the radiaschion schuit."

Mike looks at the statue and grins. "She'd look cute in a radiation suit. It'd 
have to be a BIG one, though. The town probably can't afford it."

Blake says, "I'm schure the city would schave a lot of money if they managed to 
come up with unbreakable decoraschions and inflammable treesch."

Mike considers. "I think Asbestos trees would create more problems than they'd 
solve. Be a tourist attraction, though."