Parking garages were a marvelous invention, aside from a more generalized appreciation for construction methods (bearing the weight quantity of automobiles without issue is to be applauded, even if it seems mundane to some) Hatman appreciated that they provided cover from the rain and the wind. something encountered far too frequently when observing his quarry.

In this case the wind had been chilling him beyond his comfortable tolerance, and he'd found a good perch overlooking his quarry's workplace, a construction site building the steel beam frame of what would become yet another office building or retail outlet.

He crouched by the concrete Bannister, distance and a bland colored shawl would protect him from being seen from street level,

While an abandoned panel van that had been here long enough to accumulate dust AND four stolen tires provided adequate cover from cars driving past in search of empty spots higher in the garage. actually hm. a glance back and an inquiry with his power confirmed it was missing its catalytic converter also. amusing but expected.

Sarah slips pulls her keys out of her pocket as she approaches her bike. Already reaching for her helmet in her saddlebag, when she feels someone enter her range, probably a few levels below at the moment. And what an interesting someone this is, if she didn't know better, she might think they've been lobotomized. Practically half the mind accessible to her power, and so many options for what she can do. It's honestly worrying. Checking around her for anyone of note, she pulls her helmet on and straddles her bike, ready to cycle through the parking garage in search of whomever she's sensing.

Innumerable ears perk-up at the sound of a motorbike, quickly tuning it in favor of observing its current quarry lie to the site foreman, reading lips was useful, as was the aura of deception flaring with what were presumably lies or fudged truths.

Perking up once more as the motorbike draws closer to his position. he throws a couple cursory inquiry at the vehicle. used for transportation, personal enjoyment as a project to work on, excellent condition, not especially interesting.

His quarry had assuaged the foreman and was chatting with some other construction workers. nothing new.

Oh! a Black-Billed Magpie! "Delightful simply delightful" he vocalizes to himself. His voice reverberating strangely. From within the folds and pockets of his massive shawl six arms unfurl with a notebook & sketchbook along with some pens. Using a few arms each to write his observations, and to quickly sketch out the bird.

Watching this person's power sweep into a flurry of actions is fascinating, and just a tad distracting. But her search so far hasn't revealed any suspicious persons. Just a bunch of empty cars and that van that's been in this garage longer than she's been in the state. Turning back around up into the garage once more for another pass Sarah decides to try something. Halfway up the garage she pulls into an empty space and directs her attention towards her current target. Giving their mind another onceover before focusing in on a surprisingly underused sense of aggression, for a cape, and threading her own power in before thrumming it to life for a few seconds. Cranking the aggression as high as she can bring it before dropping it back down to null all at once. Keeping an ear out for anything of note, heavy breathing, cries of frustration, or anything of the sort that might peak above the distant din of the occasional passing vehicle.

A rising tide of frustrated anxiety ripples through him, hundreds of chitinous appendages clicking as he resorts to his old fallback, nervous jittering to try and bleed off he energy. The clicking, chattering, and hum of legs, mandibles, and small wings is noticeable compared to the silence moments before. "pointless, boring, uninteresting quarry."

All at once his jittering and chittering stops as he feels the frustration dying out. And he is still for a long long moment. Why had he suddenly felt so anxious? dissatisfaction with his current investigation? no. Mr. Foxxe warranted investigating. Had he gotten enough sleep? Impatience? it'd only been a week.. outside factors? weather? illness? interlopers?

Before all at once his body starts shifting under his cloak, unfolding additional sensory organs from within his fractal center, paranoia was a close cousin of curiosity, and he was well acquainted. a few additional limbs wouldn't hurt either.

Tucking his bird watching books into his shawl, wouldn't do to forget those.

Perking up at the sudden drone of clicking and humming coming from just below her, Sarah swings off of her bike and pockets her keys before slowly moving towards the source of the noise. Keeping her footsteps calm and careful, avoiding stepping on anything loose or fragile. Stepping down to the appropriate level Sarah's gaze centered onto the old van up on cinderblocks. Pausing after each step towards the van, paying attention for any potential noises that might come forth. Stopping her approach once she's roughly 3 meters away from the van as her attention catches onto the very large and very numerous insect legs peeking out from beneath the van.

Footsteps approaching, at a cautious stride, the motorist from before. Being deprived of intel is so frustrating.

Query is this location significant to the interloper? Hm. Familiar with the location. No personal significant beyond utility. Query is the interloper familiar with self? Interesting. Searching for and attributing significance to myself. but unfamiliar.

He waits for a moment, doing his best to piece together positioning with his assorted senses. letting out one last quick series of clicks for his echolocation to hone in on, limbs tensing, before stepping out from behind the van for a direct confrontation.

She nearly stops breathing when whatever it is starts to move out from behind the van. Straightening her own posture out as she checks the surroundings for possible exits should she need any. Shifting her weight so that her back is facing the nearest accessible ledge, and stepping closer to the van as she finally sets her eyes on the famed Hatman.

"Come here often?" She asks, thanking herself for keeping her helmet on to better obscure her identity.

"No. I do not. But you do evidently." His voice had a strange uncanny resonance to it, originating not from his hat adorned 'head' but more from his center. the closest analogy would be something like an electronic larynx, and the kind of background hum of insects you see in the summer in warmer climates.

To the young thinker-trump, it would be evident that Hatman's power is working to influence him, the strong baseline level of artificially inflated curiosity is being amped up in regard to her presence.

Interestingly, while it is quickly amping up in focus towards her, the power is letting focus on other things slowly dip towards the baseline level. The power clearly actively in-use, the weight of the power's observation of the surroundings is almost a tangible feeling. somewhere between a heavy blanket and direct unbroken eyecontact.

"Speak your name."

"I'd prefer to be called Psychologist at the moment," She reaches deeper into him as she throttles the curiosity from being enhanced anymore than it already is, but letting the tunnel vision continue to do as it likes. "May I ask just what it is that you're doing here, since this apparently isn't a regular haunt of yours?"

"Psychologist, study of cognitive, emotional, and social processes. Intriguing." Mind a blur with theories and implications of Psychologist as a chosen name, and whether or not he should actually explain to this person.

"Investigation is eased by a vertical observation post." He steps a bit closer.

"You are. remarkably composed.." A low hum from his core, as he tries to connect dots.

"Tell me Miss Psychologist. are you admitting patients?"

"I find that being composed is far more useful than falling to panic." She takes a step to the side as confidently as she can manage, attempting to disguise it as simple pacing. "If you're asking if I have an opening for you, I'm certain I can manage to fit you in."

Hatman nods his 'head' slightly at the bit about maintaining composure. "You lack credentials, so why Psychologist?"

"Not Therapist, Counselor, nor Psychiatrist." A low hum "Names are fascinating. Did not choose my own, please humor me."

Olfactory organs of all sorts unfold from deep inside his fractal body, breathing deep the scents of Psychologist. Skin oils, shampoo & soaps, clothing detergent, all the little things that may serve to distinguish a person.

Rarely did he get the chance to get close enough for scent tracking to be useful.