Close Encounters
The end of the straw poking out of Janine's iced coffee was chewed to the point of uselessness. Her fingers strayed over the keys of her notebook computer, the toe of her black suede boot tapping a staccato rhythm against the leg of the table. She cringed as the sound of grinding coffee beans impeded her creative flow. Another patron at a nearby table looked up and shot her a glare, and Janine pulled the straw away from her mouth long enough to utter a disgruntled and curt, "What?" The man shook his head and returned to his unfurled newspaper.

The usual subjects had been exhausted. Lincoln Park was old news after several days of furious forum posting. Vampire attacks were old hat, and she wasn't getting anything useful -- just the bland, perfunctory reports in the crime blotter section of chintzy neighborhood papers. 'Unprovoked vampire attack at the Berwyn Red Line stop, 9:04 PM. Victim in stable condition, perpetrator not apprehended.' What vampire attack was provoked, anyway?

She needed something hefty, something that would start people talking. No amount of chai would give that to her, unfortunately.

Whistler counted five more grey hairs in the mirror when he'd gotten out of the shower. That was an odd saying, wasn't it? 'In the mirror'? That suggested that the image opposite was the one suffering from the color change in hair follicle. Even that was incorrect. Hair follicles were part of the skin that collected the cells that grew hair, attached to sebaceous glands. And his sebaceous glands were in a revolt, many jumping ship for putting up the white flag of surrender.

Gods help him should he ever consider a toupee.

What he did consider, even go so far as need, was a morning coffee. The power was out in his flat (again) and only the Agent's internal alarm clock had awoken him. One cold shower later (the outage long enough to turn off the water heater clearly) and he was diving for warmth in the unholiest of places.

Starbucks.

The hatted man wasn't sure what hours Hannah was working now that she'd taken the exit clause, and as much as he wanted to catch up with her (and try to wrangle a piece of free pie), a bleary-eyed and grumpy Agent for the Powers That Be wasn't a great re-welcome.

She flipped through a notepad, scanning through the tips and tidbits people tossed her way when, for whatever reason, they didn't have access to e-mail. Janine had made the amateur mistake of posting her main cell phone number on her blog and inviting people to call or text her with whatever supernatural news they might possess. She immediately dragged her pen over the top line and snorted to herself. A vampire working at a store downtown. Ridiculous.

It was lunch hour, which meant the coffee shop was crowded to the gills with people who possessed raging senses of entitlement that stretched to the armchairs and tables that littered the interior. Even if that meant sipping a tall coffee and hogging a seat for an hour while they pored over the Red Eye's entertainment news. Janine was the only person with the pleasure of sitting alone; in desperate times, strangers would take every seat available and invade her personal bubble. Today seemed to be the exception, and she was glad for that.

He wasn't in the mood for line-ups, but nudging people for his personal benefit didn't seem ethical. Fuck that, it was definitely not ethical and Whistler was annoyed enough to contemplate it (he was ordering coffee from a fucking Starbucks! how much lower could he get in the ethics scale?) but there was an underlying tension he could feel in the room. A low-level buzz that he'd picked up on after the war at Lincoln Park. People were still on edge.

As he finally got to the front, the Agent put in his request for a Venti Columbian Dark Roast and paid with a five dollar bill. He shuffled to the side as a minor gesture of goodwill to allow the next person to order. Small acts of kindness; sometimes it made a bigger difference than saving someone from a bleating dragon.

It was no good; she needed a new straw. Janine closed her laptop, casting suspicious glances at the people surrounding her table. It was a look that clearly said, 'Attempt to steal that computer, and you will die a slow and painful death.' Of course, the brunette had no idea how she might go about causing swift vengeance, but she was sure she'd find a way. She was industrious like that. The woman approached the front counter, a mumbled 'pardon me' issuing from her as she slipped between those waiting in line. When someone huffed, she held up a peace-keeping hand. "I'm just getting a straw, calm down." Sometimes she hated living in Wicker Park; the people were just so damn combative.

She accidentally bumped into a man waiting for his coffee while simultaneously banging her knee against the corner of someone's guitar case. "Sorry," Janine murmured to the man in the hat, standing on the tips of her toes to reach forward and grab a wrapped straw. Five feet tall in shoes, she was usually able to squeak by under the radar, slipping through crowds without anyone even noticing. A crowded Starbucks was an entirely different element.

Whistler wasn't prepared for that.

The energy of the girl. Being bumped was nothing new; he got knocked all the time. His manner of dress (easier to blend in when no one noticed you, and people tended to check out the sharp-dressed man more often than one who seemed a bit... old-fashioned), and looking ahead as opposed to the floor, ensured a certain anonymity. The girl was anything but.

The word that came to mind was: bulldozer.

"At least ya didn't spill my coffee, or there would'a been blood," the Agent goofed.

She gave a small, appreciative laugh at that. "They should just sell people pre-loaded syringes." Janine glanced up at him, backtracking. "Of coffee, not, you know...bad drugs." She unpeeled the white paper wrapping and rolled it into a little ball before flicking it expertly in the small trash receptacle built into the marble counter. A barista slid a large cup of coffee toward them. The brunette gave him a jaunty little salute and made her way back to her seat.

It was only when she returned to the table that she realized if the man wanted to drink his coffee inside, he'd have to sit with her. She pre-emptively cleared away a small spot, tucking her papers and various odds and ends in a camouflage-and-sequined messenger bag that hung over the side of her chair.

The small offering wasn't lost on the Agent. A bit surprising maybe, given his earlier thought, but he wasn't one to decline an invitation.

"Ya could've hogged," he offered, sitting down. "A lot of people do. Not that I'm one to stare down people. Okay I am, but only when the situation warrants."

"Are you kidding? I'd do anything to distinguish myself from the American Apparel model over at twelve o'clock." She gestured with her chin at the painfully thin girl dressed in an over-sized white t-shirt and gold leggings who was sprawled out over the leather couch near the window, picking listlessly at a cranberry scone. "I also would never wear sunglasses indoors. It's all about principles," Janine informed him. She swapped out the mangled green straw in her drink with the fresh one before re-opening her computer.

"She's extremely unhappy," Whistler observed. "Not tryin' to be noticed, just not to be touched." He pulled out the rolled up Chicago Tribune from the inside of his coat and placed it on his lap. The hatted man peeled the entertainment section from its fold and rested it atop. "Got her iPhone on. Listen hard enough, she's got Jeff Buckley singin' Hallelujiah. Should've gone with Leonard Cohen."

Janine shook her head slowly. "I don't hear anything." She raised her eyebrows, glancing at him dubiously. "How do you know she's unhappy? What if it's all an act?" The blog post was forgotten for a moment, her interest piqued by the strange man's observations. The brunette had the song on her own playlist, although the happier bands of the indie rock oeuvre tended to garner more plays from her.

Whistler caught himself. His hearing was more acute than most. "Look at how she plays with the pastry. Not because she's not hungry; it keeps her hands busy, something to focus on." He took a moment to sip his coffee. "Plus, uh, name five other pieces o' music to put someone in that kinda mood."

"The Lacrimosa by Mozart?" Janine shrugged. It was one of the theatre director's favorite pieces, but then he was a somber fellow to begin with. "You're very...acute." She tapped the capped end of her pen idly against her lip, studying him for a moment. "What about Business Casual? What can you tell about him?" With the writing tool, she indicated the man who had glared at her earlier.

He'd nearly missed the 'a' on the last word. The Agent pushed down a blush.

"Something tells me," Whistler blew on his coffee, "that her idea of 'classical' only extends back to the 1970s. Lemme guess," he pointed to the laptop, "you're writing something that lines up more with Dies irae?"

"kind of." While Janine was proud of the popularity of her forums and website, she also appreciated the small measure of anonymity that the internet offered. Her parents, for instance, didn't know just how much effort she put into the virtual realm. "I run a blog and forum for the supernatural. Personal accounts and stories, to be exact. There are also debates, like...will there be a zombie epidemic in 2015? Stuff like that."

The brunette let out a frustrated puff of air, her newly trimmed bangs ruffling. "Or unprovoked vampire attacks on the public rail system. I guess they don't call it the Red Line for nothing."

The Agent snorted. "Like there's such a thing as a provoked vampire attack." He paused. Of course there were. They were called Slayers. But given what the woman just said, perhaps correcting himself wasn't the best idea.

"So... blogging, you say." Now that the world at large was aware that the supernatural was super but not necessarily natural, it stood to reason that people spent time online both looking up information and collecting it. "I heard of someone once who wrote a BITELOW... "you know, blog like it's the end of the world. I think they did zombies."

"There's a surprisingly large niche of enthusiasts out there." Janine took a quick sip of increasingly lukewarm 'iced' coffee. "They even have little sub-sects, like one of the slang terms that was coined is 'fangcentric'. Those are the ones fascinated particularly by vampires. From there, it deviates into the vicariously interested, and the ones who, well..." The brunette leaned forward, lowering her voice. "They kinda fetishize it. I tend to gloss over that as much as I can, but there's always some joker who will link to vamp porn."

Whistler resisted the spit-take as he attempted to swallow his coffee. "Which... don't tell me..." The liquid burned his throat. Would it be rude for the hatted man to vault over to the unhappy blonde's table and abscond with her scone, so he could busy himself with it? "End up as a snuff film."

"I wouldn't know. Never watched past the first ten seconds. It's either a girl or a guy -- depending on the market, and sometimes even both at one time -- carrying on and moaning, 'Oh, please, bite me.'" Janine wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Some people have no dignity." Her voice had raised to its normal register again, which wasn't that discreet in the first place, and several patrons had stopped their afternoon meals to stare.

"Anyway, that's what I do in my free time. How about you...oh, I didn't even get your name. I'm Janine." It was a whirlwind of words, her energy stoked by talking to someone and also the after-effects of the caffeine kicking in.

"Whistler." He was still stuck on the fetish porn; it was something he'd have to dial in to the UN liaison and find out if he had any jurisdiction to investigate further. Rhiannon would have a fun time busting up that party. Shit. He kept putting off their trip south to go after the Klan. Gods, his brain was scattered. The Agent made a mental note to start using the calendar on his Blackberry.

Stupidly, he pulled out his business card emblazoned with the symbol of the United Nations, and slid it over to Janine.

When she spotted the card and read over the black text imprinted on it, her eyes widened. "Is this real?" With a teal-painted forefinger, she slid the card closer to herself. "Wow." Janine looked back up at him, suitably impressed. She grabbed her pen and jotted down the address to her site on her notepad and tore the piece of paper out before handing it to him. "That's where I am. You should give us a visit; I pay for hosting so you won't be deluged with weight loss ads."

The brunette straightened proudly, her striped scarf falling over her shoulders. "We're catching up with LUElinks in terms of hits. It's an exciting time."

Whistler was glad Janine didn't ask exactly what he 'liaised'. That would've been some fancing stepping, and as she seemed to have her fingers on the pulse of the superunnatural in (at least) Chicago, he didn't want to become another source. Not that it couldn't work the other way around...

"I'll definitely give it a hard look." He took in more of his coffee. "It'd be interesting to see what people are talkin' about."

She gave him a luminous smile, finishing off the last of her coffee as it made an audible 'slurp' sound. "Cool." Her eyes strayed to the clock in the corner of her computer screen. "Oh, boo, I have to get back to work. I have to measure and fit an actress for an authentic whalebone corset, that of course I have to make." Janine didn't really mind it, since it was sort of in her job description, but the woman in question was a notorious diva. "One of our contributing writers penned an ambitious re-imagining of Moby Dick, where the whale is really demonic in origin. I work at a theatre," she explained. "As a costume designer."

The brunette began putting away her things, stopping every few seconds to put her palm to her forehead as she tried to remember everything. "Right, so, it was nice meeting you." Without warning, she thrust out her hand for a shake.

If the Agent told the woman the true story of Jonah and whale, she'd see their 'revisionist' take on Melville's classic wasn't too far off. "Sounds a bit outta left field, which makes it right up my alley," he laughed. Whistler shook her hand warmly. "I'll have to look out for that.

"You take care, Janine." He offered a smile. "And I'll be sure to click on that site soon as I can."