Just for the record (Joshua)

[Dr. Henry Ramsey]

Henry stepped outside for a cigarette, chuckling quietly to himself. A few of the other people who worked or volunteered at the station glared at the sound, in no mood to find the humor in their current situation. He ignored their disapproval, continuing to smile as he searched his pockets for his lighter. As usual, it was all Ronnie's fault.

Ronnie, the intern and son of the little radio station's founder, was not what you'd call popular with the volunteer staff. Henry wasn't quite sure if the kid was just tragically inept or if he was some manner of mole, sent to bring about their doom from the inside. His latest stunt had everyone in a panic--they'd thought he could be trusted to at least store the records that weren't in regular rotation, but the idiot had recently confessed that instead of organizing and shelving them as he'd been instructed to, he'd put them into massive stacks in the basement.

This meant that all of their vinyl was lying in the damp, buckling and warping under their own weight. Their manager used to work in radio in the old days, and his refusal to modernize his systems meant that there were no electronic copies. What was lost was lost, and there was little hope for replacing them.

So it was that everyone was scrambling for reinforcements to help them sort through the mess. Henry, for his part, sent out a brief, politely worded text message (with the appropriate hints of urgency) to anyone he'd volunteered with anywhere for the past decade. It was a long shot that anyone could make it with such short notice on a Saturday, but it was still worth trying. He'd gotten a reply, but when he went to check his texts, he found that the alert beep had been a last act of defiance before the screen blinked out.

No matter, he thought, taking a long pull from his cigarette--he'd find out if anyone was coming soon enough.

[Joshua Bernstein]

Synagogue had just let out when Josh felt the vibration his trouser pocket that meant he'd received a text. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, scanning the message as he followed the throngs (such as they were) out into the open.

A plea for last minute volunteers followed by an address was all that he needed to entice him over to the station without bothering to find out what he was volunteering for: volunteer work was always a moral imperative and thus there was no need to learn about his task until he arrived. Whatever it was, it was surely for the public good.

He typed out a hasty reply to the effect of Of course I'll be there, you can count on me before pulling on gloves and hat and calling a cab; there was far too much snow and ice on the ground for bicycling to be practical.

The cab driver had expressed surprise at the address given. "I'n't that the jazz station?" He'd asked and Josh had shrugged. Volunteers had been asked for so volunteers they would get; he didn't know why the jazz station, of all places, was requesting volunteers. Perhaps they were holding a fundraiser of some sort.

Snow was piled high around the small building hosting the station and there was only one other person in sight; Josh hoped they weren't the only two volunteers. That had happened to him before and it was always a little depressing.

He took a deep breath as he paid his fare, willing himself to remain calm. There could be other volunteers hidden somewhere, just as one cockroach meant there were more to be found if one only knew where to look.

"Thank you," He dismissed the cabbie before making his way through the slush to the door. The person standing there was an older gentleman, smoking (good, someone who wouldn't fuss at him about his own cigarette habit), and vaguely familiar. He wasn't one of Sean's friends -- or at least, Josh hadn't been introduced to him, yet, if he was -- and he definitely wasn't a friend of Riley or Cobalt's since he hadn't been at either of their parties. He hadn't been at Synagogue and Josh was fairly certain he wasn't yet old enough to live at the retirement community with his mother. There weren't that many other places he could know him from; maybe from his stay at the hospital? He'd been too drugged up to remember many faces. Perhaps he'd seen him at the Holiday Bash (highly likely considering that everyone in the entire town had been invited) or they'd volunteered together last summer when he'd first moved to Pilot Ridge. Regardless of when they'd met, Josh could only recall that they had, not the details.

"Ah. Good morning. So where are the volunteers supposed to be meeting?" He looked around as if hoping to see more of them miraculously show up. "We aren't the only ones, are we?"

[Dr. Henry Ramsey]

"'Mornin'--I appreciate you coming out." Henry riffled through his memory in search of a name to match the face of the man approaching the door. Coming up blank, Henry grinned in welcome as if they'd been friends for years anyway. His motives for volunteering were often a little less than altruistic--keeping himself occupied was his first defense against relapse-- and he had a lot of respect for people who helped people with no prospect of gaining anything in return. Plus, jazz was important to Henry, and so was this station, for all of the logistical nightmares and near disasters.

"Oh, they're inside, preparing a virgin sacrifice," Henry responded with a chuckle. Recognizing that the other man would probably appreciate some context, he briefly explained Ronnie's blunder with the records and gestured over his shoulder at the building behind him with his thumb. "They're deciding what to do with him before we start. Then it's first come first serve on which job you choose. "

It occurred to Henry that he was being rude, " I'm Henry, by the way, Henry Ramsey. Sorry to keep you standing out in the cold, but I need this nicotine like nobody's business. You smoke?" That last was asked with slightly raised eyebrows as he offered Josh his pack, which was distinctly girly looking, complete with shiny letters spelling out "Sweet Dreams".

Being that cigarettes and food were the last vices available to him, and the filters of these cigarettes were dusted with chocolate, Sweet Dreams seemed delightfully decadent to him. Henry was far too comfortable with his sexuality to care that they were marketed to women--the things were a delicious way to make the shakes stop. He really hoped that Josh took him up on his offer, because he'd recently read an old Salvador Dali interview in which Dali says he used to carry around fake mustaches in a cigarette case and offer them to people at parties. Henry found that funny enough that he'd gone out and immediately purchased three fancy fake mustaches to tuck into his pack.

Thus far, not one person had been bold enough to grab a 'stache, but Henry could always dream.

[Joshua Bernstein]

Josh shook his head in sympathy as Henry explained the situation. "That's rough," He commented, "Best to keep him out of the way, then. Perhaps you can use him to fetch lunch, he can't mess that up."

This wasn't exactly the sort of volunteer work he normally participated in, but he couldn't leave now. And besides, they clearly needed the help even if help in this case wasn't world changing. "What sort of jobs are needed?" That was something they would probably go over once all the volunteers were rounded up, but it never hurt to be thinking about where he would be most useful.

"Henry! It's nice to meet you. Again. I appear to have your number on my phone." He added, as though this were perfectly normal. Of course, for him it was; he frequently asked for phone numbers and just as easily forgot where he'd met their owners. As a result he wasn't entirely sure he would recognize half the people in his phonebook or even be able to say whether he knew them from Pilot Ridge or the City. "I'm Joshua Bernstein." If the other man was also introducing himself then he probably didn't remember where they'd met, either, which made him feel a great deal better about forgetting.

"I do indeed!" He accepted the offer of cigarettes gratefully. So few (read:none) of his friends understood the relaxation provided by smoking, instead focusing on the health detriments. "Thank you."

He ignored the rather feminine packaging; even as a child he hadn't been a bastion of masculinity and thirty odd years of being out to (almost) everyone had left him immune to such trivialities. And besides, as Henry was offering them he was unlikely to judge anyone else for accepting.

He wasn't really paying attention to the object he was drawing out of the pack, expecting it to be a cigarette like any other. What he was not expecting was a fake mustache.

He pushed his glasses back up his nose and stared at the object for a moment, turning it over in his hands. "Well. This is certainly the oddest cigarette I've ever seen." He pinched the ends between two fingers and held it up to his face for closer inspection. "Is this some novel method of snorting nicotine?" That was meant as a joke, but he really was at a loss as to why there was a mustache in a pack of cigarettes.

[Dr. Henry Ramsey]

"Or we could kill him," Henry said of putting Ronnie on lunch detail, "A bit messier, perhaps, but he's tried to bring about the apocalypse so many times I'm starting to believe the boy is actually the son of Satan." As furious as he was with the useless destruction of vinyl, he couldn't help being both impressed and amused by the sheer depth and breadth of Ronnie's stupidity. Well, perhaps that was a little unkind. He wasn't stupid as much as he was lacking in all common sense.

Henry listed the volunteer jobs they needed today in order from least to most desirable. "Well, there have been people hauling boxes of records up for a couple of hours now, but that's a terrible job. Don't let the guys from Advertising sweet talk you into it. Then there'll be folks cleaning and drying them. Dull as dishwater and just as dirty.

"Or you could check records for defects and convert them to digital. That's the fun job--so long as you don't mind listening to a bunch of old jazz records."

Henry took a long pull on his cigarette and blew a couple of smoke rings. He was determined to be one of the latter volunteers, but then, so was everyone in the station. No manual labor, a bunch of music, and a steady supply of snacks--it was difficult to see the downside. He was fairly confident that he and Joshua, having gotten here so early, would have their pick of jobs.

"Bernstein, like the bears. Don't know how I could have forgotten that one." His daughter, Delia, had loved the Bernstein Bears when she was a little girl. She liked to read them to her parents, making a game of pretending she was teaching them to read. Whenever she got to a word she didn't recognize she would make them sound it out. "Nice to meet you too, Joshua. Again."

To Dr. Ramsey's great joy, Joshua reached into the pack and withdrew a mustache like Excalibur from the stone. Laughing, Henry replied, "I wish--I'd wear one every workday. No, I'm just taking a page from Dali's book. Have you ever noticed that fresh pack of cigarettes smells like raisins? So too do my mustaches." He selected one himself and casually stuck it onto his upper lip to mark the occasion.

"Need a light?" he asked, holding his lighter up between two scarred fingers.

[Joshua Bernstein]

"Usually the government frowns upon vigilante-style murder." Josh commented, although he couldn't help but smile at Henry's joke. "Even the son of Satan should be considered innocent of apocalyptic destruction until proved guilty by a jury of his peers." His tone was light-hearted, but that wasn't far from his actual view on the matter; the justice system shouldn't be subverted even when the crime committed was catastrophically evil and there were no doubts who the culprit was.

He furrowed his brow, nodding as the other man listed the required jobs. He wouldn't mind either of the first two jobs mentioned, but he wasn't exactly dressed for that kind of menial labor. If he'd planned this then he would have dressed more appropriately, but as he'd come straight from Synagogue he was still in a suit. "I'm afraid I don't know how to convert records to digital." He admitted. He wasn't terrible with technology but he rarely made an effort to use it unless necessary for work, and that definitely did not include converting anything over to anything else.

"I think the bears are the only reason anyone ever remembers my name," Josh laughed, recalling the charming young woman he'd met when he'd first moved to Pilot Ridge. That was the first connection she'd made, as well. It was too bad he hadn't seen her around since; she was one of the few people who hadn't laughed at his desire to eradicate the terms meta human and baseline human.

The explanation did nothing to clarify matters as Josh wasn't familiar with Dali or his mustaches, not being inclined to the arts, but he shrugged and joined the other man in donning his prize before selecting what he'd wanted -- an actual cigarette.

"Thank you." He accepted, taking the lighter graciously. How could he forget someone who shared smokes? That was just shameful. "So, ah, Mr. Ramsey, where do you work?"

Maybe the answer to that question would jar his memory.

[Dr. Henry Ramsey]

Joshua's response to his quip about Ronnie caused Henry to raise his eyebrows a fraction, because it seemed, suddenly, as if they were talking about a little more philosophic than an intern's bungling of common tasks. The other man was at least half serious, though to judge by his smile, still amicable. In the forefront of his mind Henry wondered if he had unwittingly touched a nerve, while in the back Joshua's phrasing nagged insistently at his memory.

"The government frowns on lots of things," he said with an easy chuckle, the words rolling past his teeth on wings of cigarette smoke. When he continued it was with the same serious-but-not air with which Joshua had spoken. "That's very generous. Me, I'd have to wonder; where do you find the peers of the Antichrist? In Hell, which is exactly where I'd want to send him."

Henry had done some rough living as a young junkie in the heart of Spanish Harlem, once upon a time, and the experience left his worldview forever altered. On a deep and personal level, Henry Ramsey thought innocence existed only in fairy tales or in children and the mentally feeble. This wasn't to say everyone was evil, just that no one was pure. His mistrust in the judicial system prompted cynicism when it came to the subject of fair trial. Some men and women he'd encountered had been both extremely evil and clever enough to manipulate the system. They (and Henry counted himself in their number) were the most dangerous kind of criminal--which is to say, the kind that rarely gets caught and wriggles out of any charges pressed.

"Sounds more intimidating than it is," Henry said of the conversions, having once had the same reaction. "There's a special record player you plug into the computer, and it does most of the work. If a stubborn old man like me can do it, I think you'll pick it up just fine."

When Joshua followed his example in donning a mustache, Henry beamed at him. He had earned the reputation of an eccentric since coming to Pilot Ridge, and not everyone was so willing to indulge him in his quirks. Wherever he'd first met Josh--Habitat for Humanity, perhaps? the soup kitchen? the library?--he was certainly enjoying his company now. It was a pleasant break from the panic and animosity flying around inside to simply sit and enjoy a cigarette in good company.

When Joshua asked his profession, Henry licked his lips, tasting the chocolate dust left there by his filter. He loved his work with a passion he'd once reserved for heroin, and his enthusiasm for the subject shone through in his chocolate brown eyes. "Call me Henry," he said first, never having been a man of much formality, "I work at a private school--the Hammel Institute--as a school therapist. "

Not everyone in this neck of the woods was aware of the school's incredible nature, but many of them were not only aware but alumni or the families of meta humans themselves. Even if Joshua was still in the dark about the true nature of the school, the man simply didn't strike him as the intolerant type. Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact.

[Joshua Bernstein]

Josh was aware that there were people who manipulated the judicial system (for instance, Gabe: Sean had made this point quite clear since the attack on the school over the summer) but he couldn't think of a better way to deal with miscreants and criminals. He certainly couldn't condone vigilantism even in those cases, and besides, he liked to imagine that everyone could be rehabilitated, and that included meta-supremacist terrorists. Not that I want to be around them even then, a small voice whispered in response to that thought. He could forgive them, they just needed to stay away. Far, far away.

"That...sounds remarkably easy," He agreed in relief; not that he was opposed to carrying around boxes, but he would prefer to allow the younger volunteers do the physical labor. He was recovered enough from the assault to have resumed walking places (in the snow, no less) but he still wasn't entirely sure if he should be carrying heavy objects. Besides, he was fifty (almost fifty one!) and while he was in decent shape thanks to years of bicycling, he still wasn't as limber as he once was.

Then the older man answered his question about jobs, announcing with obvious relish that he worked for Hammel. "Really!" Josh's eyes widened in surprise at Henry's revelation (that he was a therapist, not that he worked at the Institute. Sometimes it seemed that everyone in Pilot Ridge worked at Hammel.) "That's quite a coincidence, then. I have a friend who works at Hammel as a therapist as well. Sean Neville." He hadn't heard of any other therapists (he'd yet to meet Miles), so it was perhaps a bit unnecessary to include a name, but he was used to clarifying when informing people he had a friend who worked there.

He took a long drag of his cigarette before glancing toward the door of the station. "....when do they expect us to begin? If we wait too long we might lose our place in line and be forced to haul boxes around after all."