circle7 | Space Mafia - Phase One, Perhaps

They've been trailing him for at least half a week now, long enough to know exactly what schedule he held on weekdays, what coffee shop he frequented, where he stopped before heading home, even who he talked to on the commute. It was also long enough for Viana to begin to get antsy, enough for her to begin to despise the simplicity and genuine honesty of this place, but she had never been good at sitting still. It was a relief, then, that Evan rolled over on the couch he slept on this morning and said, groggily (but she had years of experience with interpreting Early Morning Evan-Speak), "We're taking him tonight."

Consequently, she'd been in a good mood all day. Viana was always like that when she had something to do, when she felt useful, when she felt important. It was no wonder that she left their family, Evan realized in retrospect; in his heart, he had been preparing for the day himself. Viana even volunteered to check them out at the hotel counter this morning, probably the happiest Evan has ever seen her when handing over payment. "You're awfully bouncy," he murmurs, leaning against the side of the last store the good doctor seemed to visit before heading back to his home. He takes a drag on his smoke, the last drag, before stamping out the dying embers beneath his foot. "Sure you can hold still enough for this?"

Viana's eyes are bright in the dark. Evan can almost hear the excitement in her veins. "I've been waiting for this all day," she says, voice surprisingly level, tossing the same rock she used to knock out the nearest streetlight up and down in her hand. It made their portion of the sidewalk dark enough so that no one in this sparsely-occupied neighborhood would notice if someone stole a small-name doctor off the street, if they dragged him into the alley. In the darkness, no one would see the flailing of his arms, the panic of his eyes. He lived with no family, had little friends; no one would miss him. Perfect. "And I'm sick of waiting."

Today's been unusually busy. Word had gotten around that the metal-armed-doctor can fix bicycles, and he's quite a busier man for it, and fairly sure he's fixed every bicycle in town. Even as he heads down the cobblestone streets to his last stop, he's tucking away tools in his vest. But, on the other hand, one of those vest pockets is now weighted with the money of a hard day's work. It may be exhaustion that makes him less aware of the two watching in wait for him.

As he approaches the shop (a small bakery where he gets his dinner), he notices the sudden lack of light that usually illuminates the store front. The doctor's still a good distance away, on the edge of the shadow from where light should be. "I could fix that," he mumbles, but he's interrupted by the growling of his stomach. "...Tomorrow, maybe."

Disregarding the streetlamp for now, he heads for the door.

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