She's going out. Fresh air, or whatever, since it is still daylight out. It's not unusual for her to bump into people on the street. It's New York, and pedestrians are a hazard unto themselves.
What is unusual is the person she bumps into this time, with an initial and automatically muttered, "Maybe move a little, asshole."
Except there's a vague and, frankly, a little unsettling sensation of recognition. The face, the weird outfit. Jess doesn't place it immediately, only that it must be something nerdy or that she missed Comic-Con going on again. Except this kid looks exactly like a dude from a 70's movie.
Absolutely impossible for that particular recognition to be true, though. Right? Right. It's only, like, 11am, too, and she's definitely not that drunk either.
She looks him over a little, gauging the probabilities of every option that may exist to explain what the fuck it is she's seeing.
"What are you doing outside my building anyway? You look like you're late to a convention."
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What is unusual is the person she bumps into this time, with an initial and automatically muttered, "Maybe move a little, asshole."
Except there's a vague and, frankly, a little unsettling sensation of recognition. The face, the weird outfit. Jess doesn't place it immediately, only that it must be something nerdy or that she missed Comic-Con going on again. Except this kid looks exactly like a dude from a 70's movie.
Absolutely impossible for that particular recognition to be true, though. Right? Right. It's only, like, 11am, too, and she's definitely not that drunk either.
She looks him over a little, gauging the probabilities of every option that may exist to explain what the fuck it is she's seeing.
"What are you doing outside my building anyway? You look like you're late to a convention."