Truth. Justice. Minesweeper.

Thursday, March 10, 2005

The apartment Ron and I share is about fifteen feet by fifteen feet. There's a little bathroom. There's a kitchen counter with a sink and a stove and a fridge. There are three couches. There are several arrangements of milk crates, on which can be found the TV and the computer, and in which can be found our clothes and books and whatever else we own. There are many pizza boxes. There is not room to walk; mostly, when we move around the place we climb over couches. It hasn't been really cleaned in all the time I've lived there, it's freezing cold and none of the couches are really long enough to sleep on comfortably.

I never realized what a paradise it was until I couldn't go there anymore.

Greyghost hasn't solved the mystery of Claudia Calhoun and the hexagon/star pin yet. Therefore he and I are still being hunted by misguided superheroes. They know my real name, now that Prowl's working with them, and where I live. So I can't go home, and I shouldn't even go outside.

Cruickshank brings food and other stuff to the office. I shower in one of the offices on the third floor, when nobody's there. I sleep on the couch in the back room.

I'm bored out of my pants. I need fresh air. I need sunlight. I need to get away from all this superhero crap for a while. Except there are informants' reports that need compiling again.
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