Sam more or less tunes out the noise of British cursing from the next table over. Tuning things out is one of his great skills; he's had to make it, otherwise he probably would have turned out even more nuts than he has, growing up with Dean constantly in his space. Instead, he sips his coffee with grateful absentmindedness, and sets to work seeing what he can find.
ROMAC, rift, New York, he types into Google. Most of what comes up are New York Times articles; Rift Widens Over Mining Uranium in Virginia, Rift in Israel Between Netanyahu and Barak, a Forbes article about some video game. He frowns, flicking through the first few pages of results, but there's nothing.
He tries rift, supernatural, New York, and time-space rift, and a dozen other combinations of potential keywords, but either no-one's writing about what's happening here, or it's being censored. That Lucy woman had said ROMAC was a government agency, he supposes they could do that. Awfully fucking 1984, but, well.
He's racking his brain for the names of the few reliable conspiracy theorist websites he has bookmarked on his own laptop to see if there's anything on any of them when he realises he's being addressed. Sam looks up, thrown out of his concentration, and fuzzily blinks at the guy doing the addressing. It's the English dude, the Billy Idol lookalike who'd been swearing at his phone, and it takes Sam a moment to realise what he's referring to.
'What? Uh-- no, not really, sorry.'
He peers at the phone.
'That's, what, Angry Birds?' He's seen those stupid red birds on enough t-shirts and lunchboxes to have an idea. 'I don't know anything other than the name, sorry man.'
no subject
ROMAC, rift, New York, he types into Google. Most of what comes up are New York Times articles; Rift Widens Over Mining Uranium in Virginia, Rift in Israel Between Netanyahu and Barak, a Forbes article about some video game. He frowns, flicking through the first few pages of results, but there's nothing.
He tries rift, supernatural, New York, and time-space rift, and a dozen other combinations of potential keywords, but either no-one's writing about what's happening here, or it's being censored. That Lucy woman had said ROMAC was a government agency, he supposes they could do that. Awfully fucking 1984, but, well.
He's racking his brain for the names of the few reliable conspiracy theorist websites he has bookmarked on his own laptop to see if there's anything on any of them when he realises he's being addressed. Sam looks up, thrown out of his concentration, and fuzzily blinks at the guy doing the addressing. It's the English dude, the Billy Idol lookalike who'd been swearing at his phone, and it takes Sam a moment to realise what he's referring to.
'What? Uh-- no, not really, sorry.'
He peers at the phone.
'That's, what, Angry Birds?' He's seen those stupid red birds on enough t-shirts and lunchboxes to have an idea. 'I don't know anything other than the name, sorry man.'