Log file from Dolphin.
Oct. 1, 1999

New York: Soho
	SoHo (meaning "south of Houston") is the chic-est of downtown
neighborhoods. With hundreds of art galleries and scores of trendy
boutiques, stores, eateries and residents, it is hard to imagine a place
that better defines what happens when art and commerce meet and do brunch.
Walking down West Broadway during a Sunday afternoon you'll see
statuesque, leather-trousered women with impenetrable sunglasses strolling
along on the arms of men wearing slicked back hair and sockless Gucci
loafers.
	But it was not always this way. Until the turn of the century,
SoHo was a neighborhood of hardworking folks, a center of manufacturing
dominated by rough, cast iron buildings. Around the turn of the century,
many businesses (including Tiffany and Lord & Taylor) left SoHo for
fancier uptown locations. The area began to slip into decline and many
buildings were simply abandoned.
	It wasn't until the 1960s that SoHo became desirable again, and a
thriving artist colony began to flourish in its out-sized spaces. But the
surge of popularity led to a flood of development and gentrification,
sending rents soaring and pushing SoHo out of the range of the very people
who had breathed new life into it a few decades earlier.

Contents:
Sanderson
Obvious exits:
Greenwich Village <N>  Lower East Side <E>  Subway <D>  Warrior's Bar <WB>

Sanderson:
	A tall young man of about 24, Sanderson is well built and quite
weathered. His sandy blond hair is wiry and unruly; he looks like he could
use a shave, and his bright cornflower-blue eyes are already crinkled at
the corners. Instead of your standard heroic square jaw, the man has a
moderately pointed chin; a distinct widow's peak at his hairline lets a
stray curl fall onto his forehead.
	Covering his head and shading his eyes, presently, is a battered
tan fedora - there're a couple of small pieces of wrinkled paper sticking
out from the band. On his back is a beige canvas satchel, patched in
places, and discolored in others. His jacket, too, is a worn tan color;
his shirt's an off-white, coarse linen. Actually, everything about him,
except for his eyes, is rather sand-colored. Tough canvas dungarees cover
his legs, and his feet are shod in brown steel-toed boots.

Dolphin:
	Light blue eyes catch your gaze first, eerily off-colour. It takes
a moment to realize what's odd about them - they pale to a gleaming white
in the centre, alien and unreadable. Her face is oval, an air of elegance
given by arched white brows and full, expressive lips. That same effect is
marred slightly by an impishly snubbed nose. Her expression is calm, her
skin tone lightly tanned - odd, considering she doesn't often see the
sunlight. Her hair flows in a platinum wave to mid-thigh, swirling around
her.
	She is wearing the remnants of a white shirt, torn at the sleeves
and tied just below her chest, revealing a smoothly muscled stomach. Faded
denim cutoffs cling snugly to her hips. That is the extent of her
clothing, her arms and legs bare. There is a simple metallic band around
her left wrist. She has an ethereal, almost unnatural slenderness that
seems fragile until she moves, and the play of streamlined muscles become
evident. There is a quiet confidence to her.
	A final piece of oddity is present - a thick, fleshy webbing that
stretches between the strong fingers of her hands, and between her bare
toes. She moves with grace and agility.

It's a good thing that strange sights are common in SoHo. On the other
hand, that doesn't stop pretty much everyone she passes from turning to
stare after her; Dol, mostly dry at this point, walks quite calmly down
the sidewalk, hair glinting in the evening streetlights. Bare feet on New
York sidewalk... ick. It doesn't seem to bother her. Her gaze is occupied
with bright neon lights. And, despite her novelty, she manages to keep her
personal space - the streetside crowd makes way for her, if grudgingly.

It's not so much of a surprise that Dolphin can keep some sort of personal
space on the sidewalks in SoHo - well known as Manhattan's 'student
center', and just off of art-land, there's more of a general feeling of
respect toward fellow man. Or it could just be the fact that she's got
them webs between her fingers and toes. Sanderson's walking along in the
opposite direction, nursing his evil habit, and occasionally flicking ash
to the sidewalk. He spots Dolphin, and a funny-looking smile crosses his
face.

Dol's attention is drawn more by the people immediately around her;
despite her even expression, the flicking of her eyes implies perhaps that
crowds make her nervous. Nevertheless, the route she takes is apparently
an accustomed one, as she doesn't appear lost. In fact, spotting the sign
for Warrior's, her expression brightens considerably, and she speeds up a
bit, moving toward the door.

Following Dolphin's gaze, Sanderson blinks and wrinkles his nose. He
resolves to try to change her mind, and - right after tossing his cig into
a bin by the side of the road - promptly bumps into her. Quite by
accident, naturally. "Ack! Hey! You exist!" He pauses. "Oh, damn! That
means I didn't dream all those stupid things I said!"

The pale blue eyes blink once, her white lashes nearly transparent, and
Dol hesitates for a moment before her confusion clears. Her laughter is
silent, but she at least offers something audible: "Hello."

Okay, now what, hotshot? Sandy hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck,
then drops his hand to gesture vaguely SoHo-ward. Like, the rest of it.
Like, everything but Warriors', although that'd be kind of hard to divine
from the action. "Umm!" he says cheerfully, verbally, intelligently. "So
hey, I, uh, was gonna ask you for your number, last time I saw you, but I
remembered just in time that they probably don't work too well underwater,
hey?" He pauses again and reddens slightly. "Okay, pretend you didn't hear
that." Another, shorter pause, then he blurts, "Do you like, um, coffee or
anything?"

Have you ever had the feeling you were speaking into a void? You keep
talking, and talking, and no one answers you? Nobody home? Maybe that'd be
preferable, actually. Unfortunately, that bright gaze is anything but
vapid; the quirk that tugs at Dolphin's lips is both knowing and amused.
"I don't drink coffee." Raising a webbed hand, she pushes back the hair
that seems to be in constant danger of draping itself over her face. Oh,
hell, let's give the guy a break. A second sentence, even. "I just come to
watch the people."

Ooh, that face of his is so telling at times like this: you can almost see
the wheels turning in his head as she says she doesn't drink coffee, as he
tries to come up with something else, anything else. Then it's like a
storm breaking as she finishes the thought - hey, that's easy! Simple
solution. Mix a little bit of practical suggestion with a little bit of
ego, and you're all set. Hopefully. "Well, you can watch people just as
well...even better...from a sidewalk table at any one of these yuppie
cafes. Alternately, you could watch me as I fail miserably at being
entertaining..."

Dolphin folds her arms, then raises one hand to tap a finger lightly on
her chin. "Cafes mind when I don't buy anything," she replies easily.
"What will you do to be entertaining?"

Sanderson pauses again, "Well, we could get you an Italian soda...or a
root beer, maybe they have root beer. Or I could just order something
expensive and then say you're with me, so they don't bother you..." He
grins lopsidedly, putting his hands in his pockets. "See, 'cause, well,
I'm not sure what I'd do. And if I have to make it up as I go along, well,
I end up running out of material. Boy, wait until you get to the fifty
year old jokes."

Dolphin's smile reveals a flash of white teeth. "I don't drink," she
clarifies. "Anything. Guy lets me sit at the window and watch the street."
She tilts her head to the side a little. "It's Sand. Right?"

"Ohh," says Sanderson, face clearing. "Gotcha. Well, that's swell of
him...and yeah, Sand. Sanderson and Sandy work, too." He falls silent for
a moment, but, um, it's not a pause this time. It's just falling silent.
This is a moral decision, you see. What has the greater pull? Possibly
spending more time with this...this absolutely stunning, enigmatic girl
with webbed fingers, or the embarrasment/hypocrisy of going into
Warriors'? It takes a second, but his pride loses the battle. "Okay. You
win. But...mind if I join you?"

Dolphin shakes her head slightly. You know that little, secretive smile
women get when they know something men don't? The one that drives guys
nuts? She's doing that. "No.. I don't mind." She takes a step toward the
door of the bar, and adds, "Sanderson. That's nice."

Oh, yeah, she's driving him nuts; he's rather predictably trying to figure
out if she's actually even remotely interested, or just humoring him. And
man, does he get a kick out of that. Trying to figure her out, that is.
Yeah. /Now/ he gets a kick out of it. Oh boy. He follows her in
nonchalantly, but occasionally grins to himself. "Nice, huh?
No.../Dolphin/ is nice. Sanderson doesn't fit in those little test-taker
bubble things."

You head into Warrior's Bar. *IC notice: You are checked, politely, for
Weapons and such devices*

New York: Warrior's Bar
	Vastness and sheer size are the first things that you notice about
this place. The floors are dark hardwood, which is polished to a nice
smooth shine. The main bar is a half rectangle that resides on the left
side of the room. It is an old fashioned bar with oak for a body and brass
railings and trim about it. There is a long mirror behind the bar, both
for seeing yourself and those who arrive behind you. Above the bar is a
covered railing that has various paintings, carvings, or other pieces of
art depicting warriors from various time periods. About the room are
multiple tables, usual sturdy ones that are made of oak with chairs of the
same ilk. Multiple doors lead from here into other parts of this vast
establishment. There are various pictures of Guy Gardner, and other
heroes, giving you a clue as to the theme of the room you are going into.
There are also various doors that inform you of employee restricted areas.
	There is also a main stage in this room, as with the bar it is
made of oak and trimmed with brass. It looks like it would be an excellent
venue for any performance.

Obvious exits:
Lantern Room <LR>  Door <O>

Dolphin glances back over her shoulder; this time she /does/ look blank.
"I'm sorry... test-taker bubble things?" A flash of a smile to the
bartender on duty, who waves to her after the obligatory second or two of
wide-eyed ogling.

Sanderson hooks his thumbs in his pockets and raises his eyebrows. "Oh.
Um...well, one of the things the government makes people do sometimes is
take tests, where you have to fill in circles that correspond to
letters..." He actually does pause again, this time, perhaps realizing how
irrelevant this must be to her. "And when you write your name in, they
only allow for eight letters. And my name has nine. So I always end up
being 'Sanderso'." He sighs. "Um. But anyway. What kind of people do you
like to watch the most?" Yeah, lame conversation. He warned her. The
50-year-old jokes will follow shortly.

Dolphin laughs; it's a soft sound, like waves breaking on the shore. Her
tone is always low, though she is at least speaking tonight. She's not
always quiet; she just needs to remember that hand signals don't always
contribute to the best quality conversation. She walks to a booth at the
window, and slides into it, looking up at you. "The colourful ones," is
the reply, seemingly without the need to consider. She smiles, and
indicates the window with an elegant gesture, webbed fingers indicating a
group of punks walking by across the street. Wryly, she adds, "It's like
an aquarium of humans."

Laughing in honest surprise, Sanderson slides into the booth across from
Dolphin. "I wonder what they-all would think if they knew they were being
watched like..." he pauses, then laughs again, this time more quietly and
a little bit nervously. "Like fish. You don't mind it when people say
stuff like that, do you? I mean, I don't know how it works...do they talk?
Or what?"

Dolphin nods, her attention caught by a small girl skipping down the
sidewalk. "Yes," she replies, surprised, "of course they talk." A chuckle.
"But I don't really mind. It's true. I worked in an aquarium once."

Sanderson hmms, slouching slightly, hands still in his pockets. Then he
remembers and takes his hat off - he's usually good about that, it's just
that, well, Dol is so damn distracting. He raises his eyebrows. "Wow. So,
if they talk...what do they say? Do they mind being in tanks like that?"
Then he blinks, getting even more ramifications. "Wow, what do you *eat*?"
Ah, now he's blushing; that's so goddamn cute - but you better not let him
know or he'll get even more embarrassed. "Sorry."

Dolphin's blue gaze moves away from the window and back across the table
to your blushing features. There's that secretive smile again. "I eat sea
plants, mostly." She shrugs a tanned shoulder. "It... the dolphins eat
fish, and the sharks... it is not so different when the humans do so.
Nature can be a harsh cycle." After a moment's thought, she adds, "The
ones in tanks are not unhappy. They know they won't be eaten."

Frowning slightly, and reaching up to scratch his nose, Sanderson shakes
his head. "Still, that's gotta take getting used to." He glances out the
window, spotting a couple of kids dressed as Sailor Scouts. He blinks,
looks again, then shakes his head once more and looks to Dolphin. "Mmm,
right. So...do you, ah, spend a lot of time with Aq- Garth? Ack,
nevermind, none o' my beeswax."

Dolphin's attention too is caught by the Sailor Scouts; she blinks at them
before looking back across the table. "Garth?" A smile. "He's a friend. A
good friend; I've known him many spawning seasons."

He visibly relaxes. "Oh, that's keen," says Sanderson, grinning lopsidedly
- he knows she knows exactly what he was thinking, so he may as well play
it up a little. Or maybe not. Don't want to look *too* stupid. Pause. You
*do* know that this is *the* only time he's *ever* like this, right? He's
not even sure what's gotten into him. "So, uh, what do you do for fun?" He
narrowly avoids facepalming.

Dolphin looks supremely innocent. Those pale eyes are so hard to read. A
little disconcerting, even, the way they go all white in the centre. "I
swim," she replies patiently. "And play with a pod of dolphins." She
smiles. "Sometimes I help out the Titans... do you do that sort of thing?"

A waiter approaches, a little uncertainly. He doesn't bother asking Dol,
but addresses you with, "Did you want anything, sir?"

Sanderson nods to Dolphin, face thoughtful. Does he really want to mess
with this? Does he really want to introduce his personal chaos into her
life? Probably not. Probably, it would be a bad idea. "I...used to do that
kind of thing. I guess I'm doing it again." He glances up at the waiter.
"Oh, uh...sure. Do you have...I guess, can I have a Guinness? If you have
it on tap."

What sort of pansy excuse for a bar /doesn't/ have Guinness on tap? Even
if this is the States, and you have to water it down to conform to your
alcohol content laws. (*ha*-ha!) The waiter smiles, nods, and walks back
to the bar to get the beer. Dolphin nods, by all appearances quite
interested; she keeps her eyes on you, rather than the intriguing play of
colours outside. "Do you work alone, then? You said you weren't a Titan."

A pansy bar like Warriors' might not have Guinness - or again, it might be
watered down. Bleagh. However, Sanderson's resigned to whatever he's gonna
get, here, and instead of worring, grins at Dolphin. "Well, like I said,
for a while I didn't do it at all. But now..." He shakes his head, then
sits back. "Now I'm getting all involved again. And that there is Robin's
fault. If he didn't ask me...if it was just Batman asking...but no, the
kid asked." A grin. He's cool with it.

Your beer is delivered unto you, as Dolphin smiles again. She does that a
lot. It's a swiftly brilliant expression that seldom fails to reach her
eyes. "You know Robin?"

...which is why it's so amazingly addictive, that smile. Sanderson nods,
"Yeah, we've met a few times." He grins again. "The kid is really bright.
Really swift." He nods to the waiter in thanks, then tests it - it's
halfway decent, at least. "Reminds me a little of me...except a lot more
polite and considerate."

Dolphin folds her arms over the tabletop, and leans forward comfortably,
tossing hair back over her shoulder. "I like Robin," she agrees. "I work
with him." The smile turns mischievous. "And are you ... not... polite,
and considerate?"

Sanderson laughs, shaking his head. "No, no...I'm a rude and inconsiderate
jerk." He grins. "Insensitive, too. Can't you tell?"

Dolphin nods sagely. "Absolutely." She tilts her head to the side, peering
curiously at the beer. "Is it good?"

Sanderson grins again, sitting up a little straighter. He makes like Vanna
White, placing the beer on the table in front of him and doing the
'display' thing, framing it against the backdrop of his hands. "You're
welcome to try it! Even if you don't, as a rule, drink anything. Except,
don't go trying it if it's gonna get you sick." He raises his eyebrows and
sits back again. "I like it, but you might hate it. People say it's an
acquired taste."

Dolphin's expression gets that slightly wry edge to it again. "It would
make me sick." She does regard the mug curiously. "I just wonder why
people drink it so much. It looks.. polluted."

Thoughtfully, Sanderson looks at the beer. "Well," he starts, crossing his
arms contemplatively, "I like the way it tastes. And if you drink enough
of it, or of any alcohol, you get intoxicated. Drunk. You feel unattached,
disassociated; you might withdraw, you might get loud. And then if you
drink more after that, you pass out."

Dolphin nods, tapping a webbed finger lightly on the top of the table.
"Ye-ess... I've seen that. I suppose there's some appeal," she says,
dubiously. Then, abruptly, laughs. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to criticize
your drink. I'm only curious."

Criticism? Hardly! Sanderson shakes his head, waving his hand around
dismissively. "Nah...don't worry about it." He grins. "Besides, I've asked
my share of bizarre questions today...you owe me some, right?"

Dolphin considers that for a moment. "Alright... do you swim?"

Sanderson nods cheerfully. "I can't hold my breath underwater for any
longer than three minutes, at this point, but sure." He stops, then grins.
"Next!"

Dolphin considers, silently. No "hmmms" or "umms"... just silence. She
turns her head to look out the window, at the scattered travellers on the
brightly-lit street. A minute passes. Another minute.

Patience is one thing Sanderson Hawkins has learned very well in the past
fifty-plus years. He waits.

After watching several students make their way down the street, Dol turns
her attention back to you, bright eyes curious. "Why are you older than
you seem?"

Well, he hasn't exactly gotten *tired* of telling the story...it's just
that at this point, he's told it so many times that he can sum it up
fairly concisely. He also takes a good long drink first, holding up a
finger as if to say, 'Wait! One second.' Then he sets his mug down. "Well,
I was a teenager - a sidekick - in the forties, when the first wave of
Mystery Men started operating, wearing masks and fighting crime. My
mentor, the Sandman, he was great...it wasn't his fault, what
happened...but, he was working on this weapon he called the 'silicoid
gun'. While he was testing it, it exploded or misfired or something...I
don't remember that part very well...but it hit me, whatever it did." He
looks like hee's trying to decide how much detail to go into, then finally
opts for the simplest: "I was stuck as a...a monster, for about forty
years. Maybe forty five. I...got cured in the eighties. And I still looked
like I did when the whole mess started."

Hmm. OK. How exactly does one respond to a story like that? Dol takes in
the words, eyes widening... then sits there for a moment or two, since she
often doesn't think of things to say even at the best of times. Finally,
she says simply, "That must have been terrible." Her blue eyes are
sympathetic; her expression slightly embarrassed. She knows it's a lame
response. What can she do?

Sanderson shrugs, then smiles a little crookedly, eyes twinkling.
"Hey...it's all good. If that all hadn't happened, I'd be all gray and
wrinkled, and what would *that* do for me?" He stops, then, considering.
"Actually, I'd probably be wiser. And people would get out of my way. And
give me a senior citizen's discount. Hmmm."

Dolphin smiles. "But you wouldn't be able to do all the good that you have
a chance to do now." She pauses. "What's the most fun you've ever had?"

Sanderson blinks, sitting back again. "Oh," he says, "Wow. That's a tough
one." He frowns, holding his chin in his palm, holding his elbow in his
other hand. "Huh. I think it'd be a tossup between any number of the
practical jokes us kids used to play on the Society, and maybe..." He
pauses, now, biting his lip. Maybe it's from the effort of remembering.
Maybe it's because he also remembers how it stopped. "Maybe the time I
spent as a Young All-Star."

Dolphin folds her webbed hands together, and regards you - not intently,
but steadily. "Tell me about that, then," she says lightly. "I didn't mean
to bring you down."

Sanderson mmms. He runs a hand through his hair, then stares at his beer.
"Actually..." he says, eyes remote, "actually, I'd rather live in the
present. Maybe I'll tell you sometime. But I'd rather not right now." He
finishes the drink, then glances up at the clock. He faces Dolphin again,
but won't meet her eyes. "Not now."

Oops. Yeah, it's a good thing you won't meet her eyes, the dismay in them
would probably melt an iceberg. "I'm sorry!"

Sanderson looks up quickly, alarmed. To elicit such a response...! He
shakes his head emphatically, holding up his hands as if to stay a tide.
"Don't be! Don't be. I just...I would really just rather not talk about it
right now. It's not you, don't worry, you didn't pick at anything that I
shouldn't be thinking about anyway." Oh, that was bad phrasing. "Don't
worry," he reiterates clumsily, then sighs. "But...I should go. I have to
meet someone...hopefully, I'll be *able* to help Starman figure out who
torched his store. Guy I'm meeting should know something." Words.

Dolphin nods, still looking a bit wide-eyed. Yeah. Try to make friends
with the guy, and end up chasing him off - Dol doesn't like upsetting
people. Words, apparently, elude her at the moment, but she smiles a
little uncertainly.

Sanderson shakes his head again, standing. "I'm sorry. I..." He smiles
uncertainly, too. "I guess there are some things I still need to think
about, huh? I really have to go, though. I...I'd like to see you again."

Dolphin nods. "Where?"

Sanderson hehs quietly, "Well, I don't come here, usually. But I'm around
the Titans' tower enough these days..."

Dolphin nods again. "I think the pod will be here a little while longer.
Near New York, I mean." She regards you, still with that abashed air.
Hands folded on the table.

Sanderson regards Dolphin quietly for a second, then grins. "Okay. I'll
call you." In other words, he'll spend lots of time outside, watching the
pod. He goes up to pay for his drink, replacing his hat on his head, then
tips it to Dolphin as he passes her again on the way out. And yeah, that
*is* a real smile. Guess you just caught him off guard.

Dolphin smiles back, one of those bright, quicksilver expressions, and
nods. Her strange eyes watch you as you pass on the street... another fish
in her personal viewing tank.