Wendy Peterson

Novak took a moment and remembered the conversation that he'd had with Frederick last week.

"Hey, Novak," he'd said, the cheerful man intruding on Novak's space with practiced ease. "How's my favorite mad scientist doing today?"

Novak merely sighed. Frederick only bothered him with his blunt-force method of flattery when he wanted a favor or something similar from him. "What do you want?"

"Oh, I'm wounded!" Frederick clutched his heart, feigning betrayal, but only for a moment before he redoubled his efforts to sway Novak to whatever garbage he had prepared this time. "Look, I've got something for you to do." Novak rolled his eyes, but stayed silent. "You'll enjoy it! Don't think I didn't see that. I've booked, well... let's call it a networking opportunity." Frederick's eyes gleamed here, which Novak took to understand that there was more to this than met the eye. "You like your weird science stuff, right? Well, I've gotten you a meeting with a weird sciency doctor next Sunday! I'm sure you two will find plenty of stuff to talk about. And Arceus knows you need more friends, man."

Novak grunted. It actually didn't seem like a terrible idea. At least, not as terrible of an idea as what Frederick normally sprang on him. He'd gotten used to the guy, but damn, he could be dumb. "Why do you do this. What would you do if I had something to do next Sunday?"

"Oh, but you don't, do you?" Frederick wheedled, and Novak had to admit that it was true, so he tentatively agreed.

And then, there had been today. About ten minutes before he had to get ready to leave, Frederick stopped him. 

"You're wearing that?" He asked, looking appalled. 

Novak just shrugged. "Is something wrong?" He was wearing a simple grey t-shirt and cargo shorts. Frederick had turned Novak around, while he protested that he would be late, to get him to change into something else, because "first impressions were important."

Which led to where he was now, standing at the entrance to a fancy restaurant and anxiously picking at the collar of his jean jacket for what must have been the third time in a minute. He scanned the crowd for a person who matched the (terrible) description he'd been given, which was nothing more than "short purple hair and looks like she's gonna have an anxiety attack."