[ WP ] you have the ability to see everyone 's physical manifestations of their greatest fear . You can interact with them but no one notices , you 've befriended yours . While at the bar and the man sitting across from you buys your next round . When he comes over , you notice that he has no fear `` shadow '' ...

*odd* 
 
 He puts down his mug for a moment, turning to stare at the figure sitting on the ground beside him. `` What's that?'' 
 
 *strange not* 
 
 `` Hold on a moment. Bartender, another one?'' It's been a long week, he's not going home until he ca n't remember where home *is*. 
 
 The man sitting on the stool beside him, nursing his own drink, speaks up for the first time that night. His voice is different - not in any easily discernible way, but there is a depth to it, a certain power. `` Put it on my tab.'' 
 
 `` Thanks. Wait - have we met before?'' 
 
 The man shakes his head, still staring downwards at the drink in front of him. His head is tilted in such a way that it's impossible to get a clear look at his face, but his voice is the sort that one would n't forget easily. `` I'm not from around here.'' 
 
 `` Well, it's nice to meet you then. I'm Quentin - I moved out here a few years ago.'' Quentin holds out a hand. 
 
 It's a long few seconds before the stranger finally turns and accepts it, and Quentin finally gets a good look at his face. Young, but damaged, scars marring the once-perfect complexion. The man's left eye is missing, replaced with a prosthetic of some kind, and the left of his mouth dips down in an irregular curve. `` Steve.'' 
 
 Not exactly the talkative sort, clearly. Quentin is tempted to take a look on the other side of the man, search for the shadow that would define his greatest fear. He restrains himself - one can learn quite a bit about a man by their greatest fear, but he had often found it to be *too much*. He could almost see it, though - something gray or black, fitting in a rather large space between the two stools. But he did n't look any closer, he knew where that went. 
 
 And then, of course, it had been the reason he had moved out of the city. Fears were n't scary in and of themselves; it was rare that the *idea* of something happening was nearly as terrifying as it happening to oneself. But walking down the city, being surrounded by the dead and dying, beaten and - no, it was n't worth thinking about that, anymore. He was n't going back. 
 
 *do it* 
 
 `` No, I really should n't. Do n't you go telling me, either.'' It always makes him a bit nervous, talking to his shadow in public, but nobody ever batted an eye. Sometimes, he wondered if other people could see them as well, but nobody ever seemed to interact with their own. 
 
 *okay* 
 
 He realizes the new drink is already in front of him. The man beside him has gone back to staring at the table, as if counting the endless scratches and dents characterize the bar. `` So, what made you come out here? Visiting family?'' 
 
 He watches the man - Steve - take another drink, and waits. The silence stretches on somewhat. Not that it's quiet in the bar, perhaps the opposite, but he feels as if there is only a void that surrounds them. 
 
 The silence stretches on, for a minute. 
 
 `` No, I'm... I moved out here yesterday.'' 
 
 ***farm*** 
 
 Quentin understands. The Reynolds had been trying to get their farm to sell for a number of months, and he did n't see Robert in the bar. Just like them to disappear on a moment's notice, but he did n't begrudge them it. He'd seen their fears, after all. 
 
 `` So, did you buy the farm from Bob and Marissa?'' 
 
 It's an innocent question, but the man startles, turning to stare at Quentin. `` How'd you know that?'' 
 
 `` Small town, was n't that hard to guess.'' 
 
 He turns back and takes a long drink from his keg. `` I see. I'm not quite used to this kind of atmosphere.'' 
 
 Paranoia? No - hardly likely. Half the reason Quentin had moved out of his apartment was to get away from the people who were truly paranoid; their fear was everywhere, covered *everything*. The most Quentin allowed himself to see was the dark outline on the other side of the man, strangely unmoving. `` Where do you come from?'' 
 
 The man grimaces. `` I've been in the army for a while now. Just got back from Iraq.'' 
 
 `` Ah, I see. Good to see you made it back in one piece, then.'' Except for the eye, perhaps. 
 
 The man snorts. `` Yeah, I wish.'' 
 
 *message* 
 
 His phone buzzes in his pocket a moment later. *your parents showed up, should come home* 
 
 So much for forgetting where he lived. 
 
 `` Sorry, I need to run. Have a good evening, Steve.'' 
 
 The man nods, again staring into the drink in front of him. 
 
 A final chug of his drink, a bill left on the table, and Quentin is on his way out the door. 
 
 *look* 
 
 It's a bad idea, he knows, but he pauses for a moment. Just a glance, he thinks, and turns around to see what fear he had seen the outline of. 
 
 Sitting beside the man, perfectly solid and not whatsoever shadow, is simply a wheelchair.
