[Location: Beacon Park]

Mike is sitting on a bench, watching a couple of teenagers 
playing a pickup game of basketball. He'd like to join in, 
but he's meant to be resting, and for once intends to do as 
the doctor says.

Blake peers around a lampost, eyeing the Park suspiciously. 
No...don't see him...Satisfied that the Disinfectinator 
isn't here at the moment, he finally ventures in. Before he 
can take a seat alone on a bench to draw, he spots Mike, 
and, after a hesitation, walks over. "Hi," he says simply.

Mike looks up and grins at Blake. "Hi." Then he remembers 
the last time they met, and the grin fades. "Um. Wanna sit 
down?"

Blake sits in reply. "You okay?"

Mike shrugs. "Yeah. Uh...I'm sorry about the other day. I 
shouldn't've done that."

Blake shakes his head. "Nah," he says. "Asch long asch 
you're okay. You all were gone when I got back...how'sch 
that Rimmer guy doing?"

Mike looks unhappily at the ground between his feet. "I 
dunno. He walked off, so I guess he's okay."

Blake nods. "Yeah," he agrees unnecessarily, and opens the 
sketchbook to a random page. "Well, we're all a bunch of 
maladjuschtsch, I guessch," he says, with a slight smile.

Mike chuckles, looking over at Blake. "Yeah." Oh, hey, 
that's right! "Hey, I forgot!" He prods Blake's arm. "Put 
any bad guys in jail lately?"

Blake snorts into the sketchbook. "Nah," he says, fishing 
through his inside jacket pockets for a pencil. "Been too 
buschy."

Mike looks startled. "Too busy to fight bad guys? You're a 
*superhero*. Isn't it kinda your job?"

Blake rolls his eyes a bit, closing the sketchbook. "I'm 
too buschy to get myschelf *killed*," he clarifies. "It all 
worksch scho much better when one hasch help. And that 
doeschn't happen often."

Mike brightens further, remembering something. "Carol, 
right? Carol's a superhero with you? Are you a team, like 
in comics?"

Blake reddens for a moment. "Carol? Oh--Oh, no," he 
sputters. "And no, I'm not on a team..." He shrugs. "They 
have a team though, her and Furiousch. I wasch juscht 
passching through when that Junkyard guy schowed up."

Mike prods Blake again. "She is, I knew it. I saw her 
...that skull thing. He was mentioned on the news. Did you 
see? You guys were on the news!"

Blake ducks a bit behind the sketchbook, probably because 
he's red again. "No, no, I don't have a TV," he says 
quickly.

Mike is grinning, hugely amused. "Come *on*, Schullivan, 
you can't fool me." Yeah, right. Not right NOW. "Who's 
Furious?"

Blake lowers the sketchbook, back to his normal shade of 
pale. "Mischter Furiousch? He'sch thisch really weird 
guy...getsch mad a lot. Really intereschting, though. I 
really do need to find him and apologische...Juscht a 
little misch-hap," he explains that one off.

Mike nods. "Yeah, well, I bet things like that happen, in a 
job like yours. So what's your superhero name? Huh?"

Blake looks at Mike steadily for a moment, then grins. 
"Schpleen," he says shortly.

Mike doubletakes. "Spleen?" he translates. "Like...the body 
part? Spleen?"

Blake grins wider. "Yep."

Mike prods Blake, *again*. "Why?"

Blake couldn't look more amused. "Why not?"

Mike laughs at Blake's expression. "Well - why not 
Pancreas?"

Blake shakes his head. "That'sch the point--it doeschn't 
matter. I could be The Uvula and it wouldn't make a whit of 
difference. All thesche other schuperheroesch, giving away 
their powers in their name...Any bad guy can hear the name 
'Batman' and know he'sch going up againscht a guy dressched 
up in his kid's Halloween bat coschtume. But /Schpleen/..." 
he pauses meaningfully, "you have no /idea/ what you're in 
for." He looks pleased with himself.

Mike considers that, still grinning. "That makes sense. In 
a...*you* sort of way." This is apparently a compliment. 
"You haven't told me what you do, yet. Can you fly?"

Blake shakes his head again, setting the sketchbook down on 
the bench beside him. "Nah," he says.

Mike prods. "I didn't mean, 'can you fly', I meant, 'tell 
me what you do'."

"All right, all right." Blake pauses, considering. 
"Maybe...I could demonschtrate. Want me to?"

Mike, blissfully ignorant, nods eagerly. "Yeah, show me!"

Hot dang! "Okay," says Blake, greatly pleased. He looks 
around, then points to the basketball court. "Guy in the 
red tanktop, wearing the trendy schki cap," he says, the 
same way you'd say "Nine ball in the side pocket." He 
stands up.

Mike watches the indicated man attentively. This is gonna 
be so cool...

Blake warns, "Schtay right there," and bends over, peering 
over his shoulder. Noiselessly, the fringe at the back of 
his jacket billows outward. Two seconds later the kid in 
the tanktop, who had just been passed the ball, shuts his 
eyes and simply falls over backwards. While his friends 
rush to his side, Blake sits back down, looking for all the 
world like a dog waiting to be praised for treeing a 
squirrel.

Mike's eyes get very wide. He looks from the kid, to Blake, 
to the kid, to Blake. "Wow. You just...is he gonna be 
okay?"

Blake looks over at the basketball court, where even now 
the kid is getting up, looking very embarrassed for having 
fainted in front of his friends, who are sniggering. "Oh, 
heck yeah, I didn't hit him with much," he assures Mike, 
and polishes one of his rings on his shirt nonchalantly.

Mike sits back on the bench and blinks at the middle 
distance for a while. "Did you - how did you do that? No, I 
mean, I know how you did it, but...that's really 
something."

Blake leans back and drapes his elbows over the back of the 
bench, staring at the sky. "I juscht...can do it," he says. 
Then he looks back over at Mike. "What do you think?" he 
asks, his tone begging for honesty. Also, admittedly, by 
this point, the wind has shifted just a tad, bringing with 
it a little bit of foul-smelling air.

Mike wrinkles his nose, coughs, and digs in his pocket for 
a cigarette. "Um...it's cool. It's kinda odd, but it's 
cool. I never heard of anyone else doing that."

Blake looks more than satisfied at that answer. "Good," he 
says. "I think I'd schnuff it if I heard anyone elsche 
could do /that/."

Mike takes a cigarette and holds it in one hand, offering 
the packet to Blake. "No kidding. It's...unique. So I guess 
Carol throws that ball or something, right? What does 
Furious do? Get ticked off?"

Blake gratefully accepts a cigarette and digs out his 
lighter. "Yesch and yesch, I guessch. I don't really know 
them, not well," he admits.

Mike puts the packet back in his pocket and starts patting 
himself down, looking for his own lighter. "But you guys 
are on a team, right?"

Blake goes to light his cigarette, pauses, then hands the 
lighter over to Mike first. "Uh, no," he says, taking the 
cig from his mouth. "*They're* a team."

Mike takes the lighter, lights his cigarette, draws deeply, 
and passes the lighter back. Better. No more smell. 
"But..you fought that guy. That Junkyard guy, right? With 
them?"

Blake mutters, "Becausche I wasch passching by at the time 
and I--he was attacking Furiousch." Pokes the cigarette in 
his mouth and lights it quickly.

Mike looks at Blake, that slightly foolish grin creeping 
onto his face again. "You saved a guy? You weren't even in 
the fight and you went in and saved a guy?" The amusement 
is slowly being replaced by a kind of adoration. Wow.

Blake exhales smoke forcefully and gives Mike a reproachful 
look. "No," he corrects him. "I didn't schave him. He 
wasch...brave, he...he jumped right on the guy'sch back. I 
wasch juscht defending myschelf, at that point."

Mike shakes his head and jabs his cigarette in Blake's 
general direction. "No way, Schullivan, you don't get out 
of it that easy. You coulda just walked by, right?"

Blake starts to take a drag, changes his mind, changes it 
back and starts to take another drag, then yanks the cig 
away and sputters. "I schtopped becausche I can't keep my 
nosche out of other people'sch businessch," he scowls. 
"Beschidesch, I'd scheen Furiousch fight before. It ischn't 
pretty. Although it /isch/ intereschting to lischten to."

Mike is unworried by Blake's agitation, gesturing with his 
cigarette. "Give it up, Blake, you're a hero." He really 
means it. "My buddy, a hero. Wait till I tell Karen."

Blake gives up and just smokes.

Mike keeps starting to smoke, but it's difficult when you 
can't stop grinning. Eventually, he elbows Blake again. "So 
you're gonna keep doing it, right?"

Blake shrugs, and exhales. "I may asch well," he says. "Why 
schtop now? Juscht becausche for onsche I made enough of a 
messch to get on the newsch." But he smiles.

Mike swats at Blake's shoulder. "Will you knock if off?"

Blake finishes the cigarette. "Okay, okay," he grins. "But 
the polische aren't gonna like it if people schart calling 
me a schuperhero. They don't like my powersch much. 
Or...me, even."

Mike snorts. "Well...I won't mention it to the police. Not 
those two guys who hang around you all the time, anyways. 
What's their problem? Do you also shoplift or something?"

Blake looks scandalized. "No," he says quickly. "I've been 
a fine upschtanding citizen...for--for yearsch," he 
finishes at last.

Mike doesn't care about what might have happened before 
that, apparently. "Then why are they always picking on you? 
You should make a complaint, those guys are jerks."

Blake shrugs, "Nah." He notices that he's still got the 
lighter in his other hand, and he pretends to examine it. 
"They wouldn't really arrescht me. Well, even when they do-
-and it'sch only been a couple of timesch reschently--they 
don't like to keep me there long. Schay the other people in 
the holding schell complain. Scho it'sch not a big deal."

Mike stares. "They *arrested* you? For what?!" He's 
indignant. He's about to go marching off to the station 
right now and demand they explain themselves.

Blake bahs. "Nothing. Scho, how'sch your job going?" Ahh, 
finnesse.

Mike summons up a righteous glare. "Blake Sullivan." He'd 
have used the middle name if he knew it, you bet. "Why did 
they arrest you?"

Blake pouts. "I...uh..." He looks embarrassed. "It 
wasch...a mischfire?"

Mike blinks, the wind (ha ha) taken out of his sails by 
that explanation. "Oh. Um. I see." He looks down at his 
cigarette, sees that only the stub is left, and flicks it 
away. "Uh. Was anyone hurt?"

Blake shakes his head, "Nah. It...I juscht..." He shifts 
uncomfortably on the bench. "I didn't even /schee/ the 
hurricane lamp," he says quickly. "Or I would have 
finisched the guy outschide. I juscht thought I could take 
him right there. I wasch only /trying/ to be helpful, he 
wanted to rob thisch little antique schtore..." He sighs.

Mike takes a moment to put all that together. "A hurricane 
lamp....oh boy." Hang on a second... "How many bad guys 
have you fought? You do this a lot?" Neatly back around to 
hero-worship mode.

Blake sighs again, this time in relief, realizing Mike 
isn't going to be angry with him after all. 
"Juscht...well...you know, when I schee schomeone doing 
schomething they schouldn't. The uschual timesch."

Mike gazes at Blake like he's never seen him before. 
"Really? So...all the time, in this city, I guess." Wow. 
Just...wow. Blake's a hero. Wow.

Blake nods. "Yeah, kinda," he agrees. "Thing isch noone 
ever knowsch what hit them, and well...I don't really schee 
the point in schticking around and trying to explain it. I 
juscht hope the guysch schtay down long enough for the 
copsch to schow up."

Mike glances off in the general direction of the basketball 
court. "Yeah, but...it doesn't matter if people know, does 
it? That's not why you do it." Not a question, a statement. 
Enjoying the hero-worship eyes?

Blake looks sharply at Mike. "Of coursche not," he says. "I 
do it becausche I want to help people. I /need/ to help 
people. I know what it'sch like to need help and not get 
it. And now...I /can/ help people, scho I try."

Mike is a little surprised by the sharp look, and blinks. 
"I know. I knew that about you anyway."

Blake trades the sharp look for a curious one. "You...did?"

Mike shrugs, and digs in his pocket again for a cigarette. 
"I'm not real bright," he comments, "but I'm not totally 
comatose, ya know."

Blake shrugs, and throws his cigarette stub at a nearby 
trashcan. It goes in. "Eh, who wantsch to know schtuff 
anywaysch?" he comments. "Juscht complicatesch life. I want 
to be...that Forrescht Gump guy. He'sch a geniusch, and he 
doesn't know a damn thing. Plusch I think he got an Oschcar 
or schomething."

[Eh, and then we had a bit of deep(er) conversation that 
would bore you horribly. Oh, but, I liked this bit near the 
end of the scene:]

Blake looks at him and tsks. "I could /never/ do that," he 
says. "Hold a schteady job, I mean. I'd juscht...never 
schow up. I mean it, never."

Mike grins at Blake. "I don't have a great record myself. 
But what you need, see, is talent. And I don't have any, so 
I gotta work."

Blake considers. "Aw, you've got plenty of talent. Hey!" he 
says suddenly, "I've got it! You can be my schidekick! 
'Misch-hap Man'! I could buy you a cape."

Mike laughs, and pretends to cuff Blake upside the head. 
"Yeah, *sure*. I'm really gonna be *your* sidekick, 
Schullivan."

Blake ducks. "No, wait! We could get our own hoschpital 
wing! With a Schuperhero Dischcount."

Mike laughs some more, sitting back down on the bench. 
"Yeah, I need it. I swear I live in that hospital."

Blake bahs, leaning back. "Schtupid Emergenschy Room. 
Everytime I book myschelf in there they schend me all the 
new nurschesch-in-training. I hear it'sch like an 
offischial inischiaschion. Bet if I told them I only get 
mangled horribly when I'm defending Beacon Harbor from evil 
they'd give me the good Jell-o."

[I vote that once we get a couple more members, the Beacon 
Harbor Hospital /should/ get a Mystery Men Private Wing. 
Oh, and exotic imported nurses. 0:)]