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There's a nice little park on 57th Street -- fountain in the middle, baseball diamond nearby. It's busy in the summers, with students and tourists and kids on the playground.

It's November now, though, and getting chilly, and the only person in the park is a figure on a bench feeding the pigeons, long legs stretched in front of him.

He's not exactly covered in birds, but he's definitely surrounded.

No Hitchcock jokes, please.

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Epimetheus gives him a hurt look. "Crush my dreams, why don't you."

Then he raises his eyebrows, intrigued. "Lanes'll still be there later. Where is it?"

"You're gonna laugh at me if you haven't found it yourself." A pointed cough. "Not that anything ever stops you from laughing at me."

"True. So that doesn't exactly answer the question."

"End of the universe." Beat. "But I know a shortcut."

"--Wait, do you mean where I think you mean?"

"Great view from the window seats, prompt service, never a dull moment with the clientele? I hope so, 'cause I don't know if there's room for more than one like it."

He throws his head back and laughs. "Son of a bitch! It's been years since I was at the end of the universe."

(A couple patrons give him odd looks.)

Prometheus cracks a grin bright enough to light up a marquee. "Well, shit! How about that. We must have kept missing each other."

Which he punctuates with another punch.

Indiana, man. What the hell.

"I've never gone there real often," he admits. "More your kinda place than mine. But!"

He stretches, digs in a pocket, and slaps a few bills onto the counter. "Lead the way, brother. 'Bout time I visited it again."

"And not a moment too soon." He flashes a smile at the bartender, and at all the people who are going to be spared their antics, and heads toward the front door again.

No one matching their description emerges on the street outside.

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