New York: Greenwich Village Since the era of World War I, the image of Greenwich Village has been that of a bastion of urban bohemianism, a place where anything goes in terms of music, clothing, thought, and behavior. Indeed, its reputation for tolerance is well-established, having been a center of counterculture activity since the Beat era of the late 1950s. But the Village defies easy categorization, and a walk down Bleecker Street today, past the legendary coffee houses where Bob Dylan used to play, will probably only kindle nostalgia for a world not totally overrun with tourists. Once a magnet for every manner of starving artist, poet, and anarchist, the Village is now such an in-demand place that most would-be world-shakers simply can't afford to live there. Greenwich Village is the center of New York's gay community, especially in the area around Christopher Street, which, like San Francisco's Castro Street, has become synonymous with gay life. Will McIntyre strolls along the street, his hands buried deep in his jacket pockets as he gazes out into the starry night sky. When you gaze into the abyss, they say that the abyss gazes back. With that in mind, William MacIntyre glances at the heavens and entertains the notion, contrary to his education, that the shimmer white dots against the black velvet backdrop are, in reality, the eyes of God looking down upon the works of man in austere, distanced disdain. He smirks and interrupts his thought with another thought directed at himself. "Damn, Will. You think too much." And he's right, you know. In a stark, shocking contrast to the deep thoughts of the powerhouse, Mr. Sanderson Hawkins stands outside an independent coffee house/jazz club, debating whether or not he ought to go back inside and complain about the fact that they put sugar in his java when he told them specifically not to. Finally he seems to come to a decision - it's just not worth the bother. The suit-wearing adventurer takes one final sip of his oversweet bitterness, grimaces, and tosses the contents of his cup into the gutter. The cup itself goes into a nearby waste bin, and the man starts down the sidewalk, hands in pockets. Will McIntyre turns his gaze downward as his thoughts turn again. His paces increases even as his attentiveness decreases and if someone's not careful, they're liable to get run into. Luckily, Sandy's pretty darn alert, so there probably won't be any bashing of heads tonight. As the Golden Ager makes use of that strip of concrete so thoughtfully placed next to the road by that wonderful City planning bureau...or Department of Roads or something...he spots the guy walking with his head down. The guy that looks - well, kind of familiar, actually. "Look out," he says congenially, "don't want you running into any street lamps, now do we?" Will McIntyre glances up suddenly and with an accutely alert expression on his face. "Huh? Oh... Uh..." He quirks an eyebrow as he recognizes the voice. "Sand-Smasher the Golden Man, I presume?" He grins in Captain Marvel fashion, leaving yo to wonder if he was joking or serious. "Sandy'll do," replies the Suited One, grinning quirkily back. He stops for a moment, pausing awkwardly, then reaches up to rub his nose. This motion accomplished, he shakes his head quickly and briefly as if to clear it of cobwebs, and raises his eyebrows. "I...uh...Darkstar told me, y'know, you took me to the hospital." He pauses again. "I appreciate that." Will McIntyre waves a hand about expressively. "No problem, 'old man'. Look. You were drunk and casuing a scene. Embarassing yourself. You needed to get some sense knocked into you. I grew up on stories about my grampa's barfights. I'm not out to kill anybody. Just to keep people in line and make sure no innocents get hurt." Oops. Well, that wasn't exactly the friendliest of statements. Sanderson's smile freezes, tightens. His hands don't move from his pockets. "I remember every bit of that night - up to the point that I got knocked out - perfectly. Jack and I weren't causing a scene. We were on our way home when you decided to mess with us..." he pauses, and his eyes narrow, smile dropping. "And I never need to be kept in line. Ever. You make yourself out to be awfully pleasant and good-willed for a brick who picks on 'mere mortals'." Will McIntyre rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. "Brick? You think I asked for the powers? I just ended up with them. Listen, 'old man', I spent years studying, training... Learning criminology, martial arts... I don't need to be lectured by a guy who, as I seem to recall, decked Superman on at least on occasion in his 'Sillicon Monster' phase." Ouch. He apparently has done his homework. "Fuck you," says Sandy quietly, face going slack. "That'll teach -me- to try and be friendly to an arrogant, posturing prick." He turns silently, and begins to cross the street. If you were looking closely -- behind the obvious fury was a sort of bewilderment. Apparently, our hero can understand good, and evil, and bastardliness, and anti-heroes, and good villains...but not someone who purports to be one of the Original Good Guys and acts like a New God. Will McIntyre turns his back and glances down at the ground. He mutters, "Prick."