It is currently 20:03 Pacific Time on Wed Oct 3 2001.
Currently the moon is in the waning Full Moon phase (91% full).

Harbor Park -- Fountain
Situated in the center of a large, open meadow is a clustering of six trees, a 
flower bed, a few steel-and-wood benches set firmly into concrete, and a 
flagstone courtyard that is dominated by a large fountain.
The fountain is a wide circular pool of water some fifty feet across and about 
five feet deep in most places. The sculpture in the center is a mix of old and 
new, traditional and modern: eight concrete-and-stainless-steel slabs about 
six feet high are set in a rough Stonehenge-like circle around the center of 
the fountain. Water flows from their tops, cascading in bright mesmerizing 
sheets to the pool below. Rising above the steel circle is a large marble 
statue of the Water Bearer, an androgynous figure draped in robes of flowing 
water. It bears a large jug carved with various Greek symbols, from which 
pours a seething torrent of water into the pool at its feet.
Cars on the nearby street have an excellent view of the park as do any 
residents of the tall buildings which line the waterfront.
The murky waters of the Columbia River flow swiftly along the east side of the 
park. Bracketing the park to the west is First Street and the city of St. 
Claire. Recent construction work is creating an earthen berm several feet high 
all along the borders of the park in all directions.

[Salem]
Tall and dark, he stands a few inches over six feet, a striking and rather 
dangerous-looking man in his late twenties. A mane of black hair, well past 
shoulder-length, frames a hawkish face, the left side of which is twisted by 
scars; apart from this disfigurement, he's quite handsome -- albeit in a 
devilish, saturnine kind of way. His face is one designed for brooding and 
cynicism, and the neatly-trimmed, short black beard makes him look all the 
more satanic. The dark sunglasses don't help, either. In short, he has the 
look of the very devil about him, or of a Christ figure gone bad.
The tails of his duster nearly sweep the ground when he walks. The black 
leather looks battered and shows signs of long use; it's seen better days. His 
clothes underneath tend toward dark hues as well -- black jeans, a dark green 
t-shirt, and a pair of combat boots that have been well worn in.

[Tatt]
        Her hair catches the eye before anything else: a ropy fall of 
waist-length dreadlocks, died neon orange with a hint of darker roots. Such a 
mane is obviously the product of years of growth: knotted and braided in 
places, shot through with tendrils of crimson and purple. Here and there, a 
few pieces of metal glint dully from the tangle.
        She's no beauty, conventional or otherwise. Standing somewhere above 
six-foot, she moves loose and easy in her coffee-colored skin. Her features 
are hatchet-faced and hawk-nosed--all prominent angles and sharp planes, and 
her figure is no better: she has the rangy, raw-boned build of a hungry dog, 
with a loping stride to match. Oddly light brown eyes anchor her features, 
flashing topaz above a mouth given to startling long-toothed grins.
        The brown canvas of her skin is etched with stories: some tattoos are 
faded, while others are inked in fresh, raw indigo. They cover every exposed 
limb like milemarkers, measuring the distance she's travelled.
        Clothing is urban black: a slick black t-shirt has been cut ragged at 
the sleeves, displaying tattooed biceps and a brass arm-band. Black leather 
clings to her legs, faded and patched in places, matched with a pair of 
metal-reinforced boots. Her dreads are pulled back to reveal the shaved lower 
half of her skull, and the strange tattoos there.

Salem wanders alone through the park, his gait slow and apparantly 
purposeless. He ignores the fountain in favor of one of the park benches, but 
doesn't sit. Rather, he strolls along behind it, one hand running over its 
back, the other holding a half-empty bottle of water.

There's no noise as a rangy shadow detaches itself from the trees at the edge 
of the meadow, loping purposefully towards the fountain.

The park is almost empty, under the light of the full moon; consciously or 
not, most of the city-dwellers know not to come here when Luna is bright. Only 
one other human figure might be detected, standing by the edge of the water 
and looking out over the expanse of the park like a sentinel.

Salem, lost in thought, grins crookedly to himself, then raises the bottled 
water to his lips to drink. He spots the other visible figure in the park as 
he does so and pauses, lowering the bottle slowly.

[Rina]
Dark-brown eyes, touched with hazel and amber, look out from a pixie-sharp 
face. Rina's skin is fair, but not quite pale--a light Mediterranean olive 
from generations of pure Italian ancestry. Black-dyed hair, tipped with white 
ends for the last half-inch, frames her features in a butch cut straight from 
anime: long enough to send spikes down into her eyes, tapering to jagged 
shortness at sides and back. Her chin is delicately-boned, her mouth small, 
the line of her jaw well-defined: an Italian beauty, a Michelangelo's muse 
turned modern. She can't be more than twenty, but a certain hard cynicism 
shows in her expressions. She carries herself with streetwise confidence and 
lean athletic grace. 
Form-fitting jeans of black leather hug the scant curves of her legs, 
descending to the ankles of well-beaten Doc Martens boots. She wears a snug 
long-sleeved t-shirt with a blue ribbon logo on the front and the legend 
"DOWN WITH THE FASCISTS" and 'www.eff.org' beneath it. 
A traditional biker jacket in black leather, at least two sizes too big, 
drapes over her. On the right shoulder, at both front and back, electrical 
tape patches what must be a hole in the leather. There are more additions to 
the traditional biker body armor: scraps of circuit board, metal spikes and 
rivets, and a pair of mismatched vambraces that make her look like some sort 
of Mad Max knight errant.

Clad in black, the nightwalker would blend easily in the darkness if it 
weren't for the neon-bright shock of hair. The tall figure stops below the 
fountain, staring up at it for a moment before casting an expectant glance 
across the meadow and checking a wristwatch.

Rina hops down from the concrete pilings by the river--and the faint clink of 
metal can be heard, trim rattling on the leather. "Not a good place t'meet 
someone," she calls out curtly. Too far away to recognize him, certainly.

Salem's head turns toward the bright-haired figure by the fountain, glancing 
that way a moment before he turns back toward Rina. His brows furrow slightly, 
and then he takes off the sunglasses, revealing deep-set eyes -- one sharp, 
dark brown, the other dead white within the scars twisting down the left side 
of his face.
"...Rina?" Salem's questioning voice carries easily over the park.

The character by the fountain glances over at the mention of that name, but 
otherwise keeps a watchful eye on the streetside of the park. Checking her 
watch every once in a while, and pulling a brown-bagged bottle from her 
jacket.

Headed for the fountain, Rina stops in her tracks to look at the man--and 
then stare. She's silent for an incredulous moment, wide-eyed. "... Jack?"

Salem's scarred face stretches into a toothy, sharklike grin. Returning the 
cap to his bottled water, he slips it into a pocket of his coat as he strides 
over toward Rina. "Ah, good. At least _some_ of the family has decided to 
remain in town to welcome be back."

Rina musters a startled smile, and lifts her chin to look up--and up--at him. 
"What-- what brings you back?" she asks, lamely.

Slouching loosely, the dark-skinned woman by the fountain seats herself at the 
edge of the concrete platform. She takes a few swallows from the concealed 
bottle, then pulls a few small objects from a pocket and begins to fiddle with 
them. Hard to tell whether or not she's in earshot of the pair.

"I decided I'd been gone long enough," answers Salem. His grin, fading to a 
warm (if slightly sardonic) half-smile, vanishes briefly as he turns to glance 
toward the unfamiliar woman by the fountain. The smile returns as he directs 
his attention back to Rina, however. "Is anyone else left that I'd remember?"

Rina shakes her head minutely, and her own smile fades the slightest bit. "I 
don't think so," she answers. "At least... not Glasswalkers. Unless you knew 
Roger?" The slight wrinkling of her nose betrays her distaste.

At the fountain, a brief flare of fire illuminates the woman's face as she 
lights a cigarette and checks her watch once more--then lifts her head at the 
approach of a lone figure from the street.

Salem frowns thoughtfully. "...Hmnh. Vaguely." He arches a brow at her 
expression. "Bit of a git, is he?"

Rina nods, and then glances in the woman's direction. Something else shifts 
through her features, and she frowns, glancing away. "Yeah."

Tatt stands smoothly, waiting for the hunched, hurried figure to come to her. 
"..Right on time, cabron," she mutters under her breath.

Salem catches Rina's look and turns his attention once more toward the 
fountain. "I see they finally finished it," he remarks, a lightness in his 
tone that isn't echoed in the sharpness of his regard. In a lower voice, meant 
to carry to the Kinfolk only, he asks, "Known or unknown?"

A lone figure crosses first street, heading toward the park. A car slams its 
brakes, the driver leaning on the horn and hurling obscenities. Jonathan 
Hunter doesn't even look as he casually flips the guy off and steps onto the 
curb. Slipping both hands into his pockets, he moves through the gate in the 
fence and enters the park proper.

"She's known," the girl murmurs. "He's not." Her attention shifts to the new 
arrival, those dark eyes narrowing slightly before she looks away.

[Jonathan Hunter]
It isn't his height that attracts attention. Just capping six feet, Jonathan 
Hunter is tall, but not enough to stand out. Neither is it his hair, a 
shocking blonde that's nearly white, cut short and spiked up. The three days' 
stubble that covers his face is hardly uncommon on today's streets. It could 
be the trenchoat that he wears, even in the summer, over what otherwise seem 
to be seasonally appropriate clothing. It must be the way he moves, a level of 
awareness above the norm for the drones that walk up and down the city's 
streets. He seems more awake, more alive. It is this vitality, most obvious in 
his eyes, that sets him apart.
The jittery, sweatshirt-clad man exchanges some low words with Tatt, stopping 
occasionally to look furtively over his shoulder. The taller woman crosses 
both arms over her chest, her response murmured and nonchalant as she shakes 
her head. Placing a hand on the man's shoulder, she leads him a few more paces 
away.

Salem utters a noncommittal 'mmn' type of noise and follows Hunter's progress 
with his eye. His hands vanish into the pockets of his coat, and his body 
language grows tense, full moon restlessness chafing under a near-iron 
control.

Jonathan Hunter walks in the direction of the fountain, but not directly 
toward the two pairs of strangers. Instead he opts for the other side, where he 
sits on the edge of the pool and slips one hand into the water. His eyes 
constantly scan the area, but they always return to the three.

Rina's jaw tightens, and she turns and paces toward Tatt, idly--as if 
interrupting the deal is of absolutely no consequence. "Yo," she says easily. 
"W'sup?"

Salem pauses for perhaps half a second, if that, before following Rina. He 
falls into step with his shorter associate rather easily, and lets his scarred 
face settle into an expression of pleasant neutrality.

The dreadlocked woman passes a smooth glance over Rina and lifts her chin in 
acknowledgement, deftly relieving the nervous man of a wad of cash as he 
shoves something into his pocket. "Nada, chiquita," she answers quietly, with 
a measuring look at Salem before returning her attention to the kinswoman. "_Y 
tu?_ Gonna sic another dog on me, or what?"

Rina's half-smile is just a little icy. "Of course not. Unless I catch you 
dealin' on our turf again. In which case you and I are gonna have words. Or 
maybe you and my Glock. Capisce?"

Salem's pleasant expression sours a notch at Tatt's greeting, becoming rather 
more fixed. He says nothing, however, but continues to regard Tatt with a 
sharp, studious eye, as if memorizing every last detail of her face.

[Log break.  Had to change computers.]

Rina pages: Tatt just said she didn't think the park was anyone's turf.

Rina's expression tightens subtly. "It's the city. And the city belongs to 
those who rule it." She rolls her shoulders and crosses her arms, looking up 
at the woman steadily--rather like a fierce kitten looking the panther in the 
eye. It'd be almost amusing, if the contest weren't in deadly earnest. "Now, 
if you were to join forces with us, we wouldn't have this little... problem."

"..Join forces," Tatt echoes dryly, flashing a long white incisor as she grins. 
She flicks her cigarette into the darkness with a shower of sparks as she 
notes, "Big words fer a little sister, hey?"

Salem seems all too comfortable in his silent, supportive stance at Rina's 
shoulder; he has the 'enforcer' look down pat, though his expression remains 
outwardly pleasant. He moves his eye from Tatt's face to let his gaze skim 
over the park, checking for witnesses, and for a few heartbeats his attention 
is arrested by Hunter, which seems to throw off the Glass Walker's equilibrium. 
He turns further toward the other man, and then stops abruptly, his smile 
withering into a narrow-eyed frown of concentration. It's with this 
much-less-than-pleasant manner that he drags his attention back to the matter 
at hand -- Tatt and Rina.

One corner of Rina's mouth turns up, slightly. "It's just business," she 
answers, casual. Her eyes are far, far colder than that smile.

Jonathan Hunter flashes a smile at Salem when the other man looks his way. 
Almost casually, he turns to rest his back against one of the concrete and 
steel pillars, pulling one knee up to his chest.

The dreadlocked Strider's regard drifts down over the smaller kinswoman, for a 
moment leaving her face. "Does 'us' mean yer glass-sucking hero, too?" Her 
gaze is blunt, guarded.

Rina tips her head just slightly. "You don't have to deal with him, if you'd 
prefer to work under someone else," she says mildly. "We try to be... 
accomodating, to people who do right by us."

Salem smiles thinly at Tatt, his body stiff and edgy beneath the comfortable 
clothes and black leather duster. Still, though, he chooses to say nothing, 
letting Rina do the talking.

Tatt makes a thoughtful sound in the back of her scarred throat, shoving both 
hands into pockets as she casts a distracted glance around the park. "What's 
the catch, _chiquita_?"

Rina purses her lips slightly, focused on the woman in front of her. "We just 
need our cut," she says simply. "That's all."

Tatt pages: ...Ever since she got slammed by two within the same week, that 
is.

"That's what I mean." The Strider squints up at the moon before returning her 
attention to Rina, eyes sparking with a dull blaze. ""What kinda cut, an' 
where's it go? Fuck if I wanna be payin' fer Johnny's goddamn Armani."

"Twenty," Rina says softly, studying the Strider's face. "That drops to 
fifteen when I trust enough t'know y'not holdin' out on us. And most of it 
goes to what we call 'infrastructure'. The more responsibility you take on, 
the more y'get paid out. And you'll prolly pull down more profit, if y'deal 
with us. Sources."

Tatt releases a short, sharp bark of laughter. "Infrastructure, my fuckin' 
tail," she rasps. "This place is a sinkhole, _gatita_. Look around you. It's a 
lost cause. _Comprende?_"

Salem's attention strays over toward Hunter again; something about the man 
seems to simultaneously attract and irritate the Walker, taunting his rage to 
the surface in a way that Tatt's mannerisms and speech has not. He gives his 
head a slight, quick shake and turns away again, his mood now distinctly sour.

Rina's jaw tightens a fraction. "We play the hand we're dealt," she says 
tightly. "I'm tryin'a improve it, in what small way I can. Be a part of that, 
or get the fuck outta the way."

The Strider takes a single step closer, closing the space between herself and 
the kinswoman. "Y'got quite a tongue, _Angelita_.Show it off too much an' I 
might be tempted to cut it out as a souvenir..." Her posture is loose, 
betrayed only by the curling of a tattoo-marked fist at her side. "Jus' drop 
the fuckin' righteousness, hey? It don't suit you."

Jonathan Hunter watches the interaction between the two women with interest. 
Too far away to hear, he can nevertheless tell that there is some tension 
there.

Rina's smile curls into something darker, a little more wry. If there is a 
condescension in the Strider's remarks, a criticism, it doesn't faze her--only 
brings a trace of wistfulness. "Yeah. It isn't righteous at all t'hand out 
that kinda judgment. I like you better when y'dancin'."

Tatt opens her mouth as if to answer, then emits a strangled growl of 
frustration and mutters something in Spanish as she half-turns from the kin. 
The tension in her frame is abruptly gone, and she shakes her head as a dog 
would shake out its fur."So're you kids buyin' tonight, or what?" Her topaz 
gaze flashes to include Salem in the question, and she lifts a brow. "I'll 
put it on y'tab."

"Rina." Salem's voice, when he interrupts, is quiet, holding distinct notes of 
mildness and apology that are completely at odds with the coiling tension 
that's been slowly tightening under his skin. "I should be going." Implicit in 
his manner is the confidence that Rina can handle herself just fine on her 
own. Tatt gets a cold look -- one that puts the previous flashes of mild 
irritation he's directed at her earlier to shame.

Rina turns to the man, studying him a moment with more insight than one might 
expect. "Hang on..." She digs into an inside pocket of her jacket, and hands 
him a business card. "This address. Might find some good people there. I'll be 
around tomorrow. Or y'can always ask for Johnny."

Kaz is a barely visible presence, down by the riverside, flute case in one 
hand, evidently drifting in from an evening of busking. Something in the 
group by the fountain makes her raise her head, as if scenting something. 
She's soon angling more toward the fountain, trying to /look/ as if she's 
still drifting.

Salem accepts the card, pulling out a slim black wallet to stow it safely 
into. "Thank you." He flashes the Kinswoman a smile that's muted considerably 
by the tension -- full moon and otherwise -- within him, and then, perhaps 
surprisingly, gives Tatt a polite nod as well. "Be seeing you." Repocketing 
the wallet, he turns to walk away. He hasn't noticed Kaz, and he's very 
firmly _not_ looking at Hunter.

Jonathan Hunter's attention shifts to the latest arrival. He looks Kaz over 
assessingly.

Rina returns her attention to Tatt, then, her smile taut. "Nothin', thanks." 
There's still ice in her eyes.

Kaz's attention is too much on the leaving Salem to really notice Jonathan for 
a moment.

The dreadlocked Strider eyes Salem's departing figure for a long moment. 
"Y'sure do pick some funny boytoys, Angelita," she comments lowly towards 
Rina. "But, hey--whatever jumpstarts y'engine." The refusal gets little more 
than a fluid shrug, as Tatt gives a considering glance at the man seated on 
the fountain.

Jonathan Hunter tips an imaginary hat to Tatt, his lips pressed tightly 
together as he watches one women, then the other.

Rina's jaw tightens. "He's a friend, thanks," she says dryly. Her attention 
follows Tatt's, and a faint line furrows between her brows. Without a moment's 
thought she walks in the stranger's direction, casual and confident, the grace 
of habit in her strides. "Must be new in town," she offers, when she gets 
close enough. This time her smile is lopsided and charming.

Salem is, by the time Tatt makes the 'boytoy' remark, either out of earshot 
or too preoccupied with the storm brewing around inside his own skull to pay 
attention to it. As he nears the street, the scarred Walker pulls out his 
sunglasses and slips them back on, once more obscuring his eyes -- the dead 
one in particular. And he utterly fails to notice Kaz.

Kaz has certainly noticed Salem enough, as she's curling her lip in his 
general direction, before finally turning her attention to the rest of the 
people littering the park. Jonathan, being the only one she doesn't recognize, 
gets an assessing look in return, as she heads toward Rina.