It is currently 20:14 Pacific Time on Fri May 13 2005. Currently the moon is in the waxing Crescent Moon phase (35% full). Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 68 degrees Fahrenheit (20 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the east at 3 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.95 and falling, and the relative humidity is 60 percent. The dewpoint is 54 degrees Fahrenheit (12 degrees Celsius.) Currently the moon is in the waxing Crescent Moon phase (35% full). Pool Hall Pool tables, with one foosball table and an air hockey table hiding among them, dominate the space of the hall, hardly yielding any space for the motley crew of players chalking their sticks and eying the brandy bottle at the bar lining one wall. The dust and scratches on all surfaces save the green velvet lining the pool tables indicate this hall as skimping on maintenance and cheap on cleaners. Its lack of flashy videogames and surplus of toothless kibitzers underscores its appeal to the older crowd. No natural sunlight is permitted into the hall, its lighting provided by bulbs swinging from the ceiling. A recent 'renovation' to the hall has caused many splinters and embedded bullet holes, adding much to the aged atmosphere. Ruddish stains, dark and ominous even under the lights, refuse to be washed out of the floor. A dart board brightens up the walls with its red-and-black scheme, and a moosehead looks down on the proceedings. Mounted from the ceiling, a television blares its glaring brightness and noises. A set of double doors, one locked, the other unlocked at the whims of the hall manager, lead out to the street. Unobstructive doors behind the bar undoubtedly lead to storerooms. Friday night--the Pool Hall would seem to be doing very good business. It's noisy and crowded, and the air is thick with smoke and the far less pleasant smells of beer and body odor. Already, a fair amount of the patrons are drunk, adding to the noise level. Jeren has settled herself into what can be considered the 'quieter' corner of the bar, one elbow resting on the bartop itself, the other hand fondling the neck of a beer bottle--mostly full. The Ragabash is regarding the bottle like one might a particularly devious opponent. Her eyes are a little red, and her hair is mussed all to hell, but otherwise she seems the same as usual. Except for the fact that she's sitting in a bar, staring at a beer, that is. Grey pushes the door open, immersing himself in the miasma of smoke and stench with practiced familiarity, and even adding to the air pollution with a cancer stick of his own. He makes a direct line for the bar, conversation faltering at his passage, then hesitantly resuming in his wake. Though he pays little enough attention to the makeup of tonight's crowd, he does spot Jeren, and after a brief hesitation, heads over to take a stool near her. "Evening." Jeren startles from her contemplation of the beer bottle, the familiar voice pulling her out of her own thoughts where all the rest of the surrounding ruckus seems to have failed. For a moment she squints at Grey, and then offers a neutral, "Evening," in return--even moving her beer bottle out of the space in front of his stool. Grey pulls an ashtray closer, then helps himself to a bowl of pretzels in the casual manner of one who has spent many hours at many, many bars. No further conversation is offered; the next words out of the Philodox's mouth are to the bartender -- who seems to recognize the tall, scarred man. "Double vodka. Straight." The Ragabash seems to ease a little as Grey addresses the bartender; certainly, she doesn't offer any conversation herself at the moment. She leans her chin on her hand, returning her gaze to the beer bottle--Jeren doesn't actually /drink/ from the thing, but she sure seems occupied with staring at it. Grey's drink is brought over quickly enough, and the Walker pays from a roll of twenties. Unlike Jeren, Grey /does/ partake of his alcoholic beverage of choice, though in careful, savoring sips. The silence between them stretches out, but the Philodox doesn't seem to mind it, and certainly there's plenty of chatter going on around them. Jeren allows it to go on for quite some time, ten, fifteen minutes easily, all the while squinting at her own beer and not making a single move to drink it. When she finally /does/ break the silence, the remark might seem completely out of left field. "It tastes like shit." Grey has to turn his head to look at her; he's seated himself with his blind side toward his tribemate -- a subtle gesture of trust? "What, the beer?" His eye flicks to her bottle, then back to her face, his expression wearily bland. "Yeah." She taps the bottle with a single finger, disturbing the contents. "Like shit. I keep trying to like it, I figure it takes some getting used to, but I still can't stand it." A faint, brief not-smile flickers across her lips, followed by a snort. "I can't stand it enough to get drunk even." Grey grunts. "You want to get drunk, get something harder. All /that/ will give you is a buzz, and eventually a gut." He takes a swallow of vodka like a pro, barely registering the potent burn. Jeren's lips purse--she seems to find something amusing about Grey's suggestion. "Ah. Well." The Ragabash clears her throat, and asks, "--What would be harder?" Grey lifts an eyebrow and frowns slightly at her. "Than beer? Nearly anything." Jeren gestures vaguely. "Yes. And what--what else is there?" She points to his drink. "Vodka, I heard. So there would be...err. Ale? Whiskey?" From the way she says the names, it's very obvious the /name/ is the only thing she knows about the drinks. Grey considers, then calls the bartender over again and lays down some cash. "Scotch on the rocks for the lady." The bartender looks at Grey, then at Jeren, then back at Grey; the human's expression has a knowing look; intimidated, but knowing. He nods, pours a measure of scotch over ice, then sets it down atop a cocktail napkin in front of Jeren. Jeren reaches gingerly for the glass, though not before sparing a grateful look toward Grey. She takes a very, very careful sip, lips puckering almost immediately. But hey, she manages to swallow. "--Yeah," she mumbles. "So obviously this would be my first time in a bar." "So I gathered," says the Philodox, without even the slightest glimmer of humor. He takes a drag off his cigarette and then exhales languidly. "Well I've /been/ in a bar," Jeren corrects, before pausing to take another sip. "I've just never actually been in one to drink." She glances sidelong at the Philodox, then clears her throat again. "Shutting up. Sorry." Grey's shoulders lift and fall, uncaringly. "It's not bothering me." He takes a drink, then adds, "You talking." Jeren glances at him again in mild surprise. "Ah." There is another pause, in which she takes another sip, and then a slightly larger swallow that nearly makes her choke. "--Hnn. In that case, I might babble a little more." She gestures behind them. "I don't know how to play pool either. Or make coffee. Cy looked at me like I'd grown an extra head when I told her, but I guess I just never...bothered to learn." Grey takes another drag off his cigarette, languid and slow like the archtypical cowboy -- the thin, scruffy kind that shows up without a name, kills the leering banditos, and then rides off without a word to anyone. "Isn't hard. Do you drink it?" Jeren shakes her head. "Nah." She swallows. "Mm, the others used to, you know. Treads--he'd have at least three cups, every morning he could manage, and," a 'heh' here, "he'd bitch about it when we weren't in a place we could get it. I used to find it so irritating when he'd do that." She runs a finger along the edge of her glass, then touches the moisture to her lips. Grey nods slowly, offering a politely encouraging grunt by way of reply. "That happen often?" "Now and then," Jeren replies quietly. Her conversation seems to dry up with these words, and she falls to drinking from the glass again. Grey grunts again. He's quiet for a while, alternating between vodka and cigarette, watching the room with a dull, uninterested eye. After a few minutes, he speaks up again, without warning. "Need to you poke at Cy for a couple of weeks. Try to provoke her." Jeren runs her fingers roughly through her hair. "Mm." Her lips twitch. "That shouldn't be very hard at all, given my current track record. What's the reason?" "She's being tested. Needs to learn to control her temper. Even when pressed." Grey takes in another lungful of smoke, then taps off excess ash. "Basement's all right for her to lose it in. So. Provoke her. Piss her off. Make her control her temper or control it long enough to exit the room and go downstairs." The Ragabash's lips thin. "--Like I said. That shouldn't be too hard." She pinches the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger and closes her eyes. Grey nods and then lapses back into brooding silence. Well, at least everyone /else/ in the bar seems to be having a fun Friday night. Another few minutes pass, before Jeren takes her turn at breaking the silence again. This time it's a muttered curse into her drink. "--Fuck. I don't--I can't--this really isn't working very well." Grey turns to look at her again, the short end of his cigarette burning between two fingers. He raises an eyebrow and looks vaguely quizzical. Jeren glances toward Grey, then back down. "--The drink," she explains. "I'm pretty sure I'm...getting drunk. It's just not working the way I'd hoped." "What were you expecting?" asks the Philodox. "I would like," Jeren says with deliberate slowness, "To get obliviously drunk. Or at the least the happy-stupid drunk you see in movies." Grey grunts disparagingly. Amazing how expressive one little noise can be when combined with a subtle twist of the lips, a narrowing of the eyes. "Oh, /happy/. You want happy, go down to the clubs and buy some E. You want to get drunk /quickly/, order a few more shots of that, no ice, and down them as quickly as you can. One after the other." Jeren looks, for a moment, as though she's truly considering at least the last suggestion. But then she shakes her head and pushes the nearly empty glass away. "--Whether I get high or drunk, it'll still be there when I come off." "True." Grey toys with his own glass, then abruptly downs the remainder -- nearly half -- and waves the bartender over for a second. Abruptly, as if getting her second wind, Jeren launches into random conversation again. "She's really protective of you, you know. If I wanted to really, /really/ piss her off, well..." "Call me a filthy, perverted son-of-a-bitch?" Grey's voice is without ire, just tired and with a hint of bitterness underneath. He pays the bartender for the second double vodka, then downs a more-than-healthy portion of it. Jeren exhales sharply, sending several strands of hair blowing away from her face. "It's not very creative. Besides," she eyes the Philodox sidelong. "Natalie would have my head when she heard of it. And besides /that/--I'd feel like a fucking hypocrite." Grey narrows his eyes, and suddenly his regard turns sharper, more intent. "...Would you." "Mmm," Jeren confirms. And without elaborating. "She's pretty rabid about most of the rules, though. I might be able to spark something if I'm more subtle about poking at them." Squint. "I'd do eating habits, but I've already got her with that one." Grey is slow to turn off the intent look, but he does do so, and without pressing her for more information. Anotehr grunted, wordless reply signals that he's listening. Jeren ponders silently for a moment before continuing. "The best way to do it--with anyone, that is, not just Cy, is to listen, and watch, because everyone gives little clues about what their buttons are. And then you just sort of...wriggle in..." Grey turns his head back toward her, but only slightly. If the eye on that side was able to see, it'd be looking at her. It, and its working companion, are narrowed, his mouth thin. He grunts again. "Me," Jeren murmurs. "I just have a really good knack with hitting buttons by sheer accident on top of that." She looks up, apparently to check for eavesdroppers, then continues, "You know how I Firsted? I nearly made Treads frenzy on me, I pissed him off so badly." Grey considers this, frowning. "...So you went off in defense?" Jeren nods slightly. "I got first blood on him, even. Then he flattened me." Her eyebrows arch. "Broke my jaw. Shut me up at least." Another grunt. Definitely no chuckle. Grey finishes off his cigarette, stubs it out in the ashtray, then reaches into his pocket to get out a pack of Camels and a lighter. "Had to break a kid's fingers once," he remarks as he taps out a new cigarette. Jeren turns her head, looking interested. "How'd that happen?" "He was new," says Grey, setting the cigarette in his mouth. It bobs in time with his next words. "Didn't believe us. So I provoked him." His frown deepens slightly; he's looking straight ahead and not at anything in particular. At least nothing obvious. He lights the cigarette, inhales a few puffs, then puts the pack and lighter away. A nod, before Jeren once again rakes her fingers through her hair. "Did he change before or after the bone breaking?" "After." Grey looks down at his drink, fingers tapping lightly on the side of the glass. It's Jeren's turn to grunt now. She allows yet another few moments of silence to pass by unbroken while she rubs her thumb against the side of her other hand. "--So. Provoke Cy. Drag them out to the sticks and run them around a little. Hit them with handguns 101." A pause. "Natalie wants to get them both shot too--again with Kevin." Grey nods. He takes a drag off the cigarette, then says, "Oh, Cy's also allowed to lose it in the woods, or in the barn. So you know." Jeren twitches slightly as the barn is mentioned. "--Right. There's a thought. There was a mouthy Gnawer kid out there earlier today. Getting those two in the same room might get a few sparks were an elder wouldn't." Grey leans forward, elbows propped on the bar, to rub absently at the scar tissue around his dead eye. "...Mmnh. Yes, fine. So long as she's tested." Again, Jeren falls silent. She seems to be developing quite a pattern here, though this time she doesn't immediately start up with the chatter again. She's studying the melting ice in her empty glass. Grey's left hand, the one without the cancer device smoldering between two fingers, leaves off rubbing and runs back through his unkempt hair, ending up at the back of his neck. Slumped, weary, he just sits there quietly for a few minutes, then takes up his glass and swallows the rest of his drink. "Mnh. Going to head out. Get some air." Jeren looks up, frowning faintly. "Going for a walk? Or heading back home? I drove here, but--" She thumbs a finger toward the glass. "If you're heading that way, it can't hurt to not make yourself look like an easy target." One eyebrow lifts. "Whatever the reality is." Grey, pushing to his feet, gives her a narrow-eyed, chilly look. "I can take care of myself." Setting the cigarette in his mouth, he fishes out a tip for the barkeep, pulls up the hood of his sweatshirt, then turns to walk toward the door. Jeren slumps back against the bar, grimacing. "That's not what I meant." Her hair is treated to yet another finger raking, then she picks up her empty glass and runs one finger along the edge. A beat, and the glass is wiggled in the bartender's direction. Yet another grunt is all Jeren gets in answer as the Philodox stalks out of the pool hall and back into the Washington night.