Val stood rooted to his spot as the beauty in the gym shorts walked past him. "I think it would be best if we all leave here together," she said before walking back to the others at the barricade. He lifted a finger at her and was about to protest, but all that came out was a spluttering stammer. "Hey...you...but,...where...there's...wha?" he finished lamely as she sauntered away.<br/><br/>'Oh, very smooth, Valentine. A genuine Casanova, you are. And what do you do for a living? Something with words, right? Maybe you should put your tongue back in your mouth before you trip on it some more, huh?' He took a slow, deep breath and shook his head, rolling his eyes the way he always did when he realized he was a moron, and followed after her.<br/><br/>As he reached the small group that had formed around her, he noticed that each of them was definitely different than the average New Yorker. He searched for a way to explain it, but failed miserably; there<em>was </em>no way to explain it. They just felt...off. Or rather, they felt more<strong>on </strong>than anyone else he'd ever met. It was the only way he could describe it. Val glanced around the little band, and noted that the cop was still there, having been joined by a young-ish man with spiky hair and heavy boots. He met their eyes and was startled by the sudden sense of familiarity, of connection. For half a heartbeat he thought of the notepad in his pocket, but something told him this was more than news. This had the makings of something....personal.