It is currently Fri May 20 2005, around 2 or 3am. Currently in Saint Claire, it is partially cloudy. The temperature is 56 degrees Fahrenheit (13 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the south at 10 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.10 and rising, and the relative humidity is 64 percent. The dewpoint is 44 degrees Fahrenheit (6 degrees Celsius.) Currently the moon is in the waxing Full Moon phase (83% full). Harbor Park -- The Meadow One of the last bastions of green left in the city, mottled and withered grass and weeds covers the earth like a badly stained carpet, with the construction work turning what is left into just bare dirt. The vegetation seems marginally healthier the further it is from the river and much healthier towards the central area of the park around the fountain. Construction work is ongoing here: a raised earthen berm about five feet tall is being built all around the park perimeter, with two breaks each at the Bridge Street entrance and the First Street end. Wooden posts are being erected at regular intervals all along the earthen wall, while tasteful iron gates and fences are being added at the entrances. Overpowering the scent of living vegetation are the exhaust fumes from a busy street to the west and an unpleasant stench from the Columbia River to the east. From the street view or river view, the park is now isolated, as if it existed apart from the city. People in tall buildings have an excellent view of any goings-ons for now, though. In the center of the park, a small glade of six tall trees and a flower bed surrounds the fountain. 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. Rina sprawls on the edge of the fountain, limp as a rag doll, a hand trailing the ground. She is motionless, pale, her eyes closed. It's almost as lovely as a pre-Raphaelite painting. Compared to that, Thomas Grey is less pre-Raphaelite painting and more film noir in his gray trenchcoat, three-day stubble, and lit cigarette. All he needs is a fedora, a suit, and a decent haircut. The Philodox wanders vaguely through the park, looking downwards more often than not, lank hair hanging in his eyes. He smokes, and once stops to take a flask out of the inside of his coat for a quick swallow. His gaze wanders the area as he screws the cap back on and puts the flask away, and it's then he notices the figure sprawled on the fountain. The mismatched, shadowed eyes squint, and a moment later, he starts moving in her direction, wary as a dog gone feral. Dark-brown eyes, touched with 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. Her black-brown hair is left just long enough in the front to fall almost into her eyes; the butch cut tapers to an army-short buzz at the sides and back, hardly more than a velvet fuzz covering the nape of her neck. Her chin is delicately-boned, her mouth small, the line of her jaw well-defined. Her eyes have a shadowy, bruised look, either from fatigue or the artful use of makeup; save for that Gothic touch, she might have stepped from a pre-Raphaelite painting. She can't be more than twenty-five or so, but in that youthful face the eyes are cynical, brooding, world-weary. Athletic grace and a certain streetwise confidence show in her movements, but there is often an element of tension as well. A black barbed-wire tattoo encircles her throat, and matching inked bracelets are visible on her wrists. There is another marking visible at the nape of her neck, not ink but a scarred-in symbol that looks as if it was branded into her skin. (page for details if taking a closer look) A vintage dress of dark-red georgette skims her in veil-thin fabric, leaving little to the imagination. Ripped fishnet stockings and a lace-trimmed black slip show beneath the loose-cut, flowing fabric. Her thrash boots, fastening with a row of buckles up to her knees, seem rather incongruous. She wears two rings, both a silvery white gold. Her right hand bears a single diamond framed by two smaller ones, the decorative work on the ring elegant and subtle, perhaps Art Deco. On the left she wears a simpler band decorated with letters and scrollwork. She doesn't move. Her jacket is absent, and it's hard to detect any movement of breathing until he comes closer--then he catches the barely perceptible rise and fall of her chest. Grey's steps slow; he stops well outside of arm's reach, brow furrowed and frowning. "...Rina?" His voice, though hoarse, is perfectly recognizeable. Nothing. Grey moves closer. Step. Step. Step. Like he's afraid she might explode, or that if he breathes wrong, he might break her. Step. Within reach, now, and he says her name again, louder. Still nothing. Grey swallows hard. He takes a quick glance around the park, sucks down a lungful of cigarette smoke, then sets the cancer stick between his lips as he closes the last of the distance between them. He hesitates, then goes down on one knee and reaches out to touch the side of her throat, feeling for her pulse. She stirs, the slightest bit; a shift in her features, a faint hoarse sound. The pulse is faint and slow. He's still acting like the tiniest wrong move on his part might destroy her. Or him. He grasps a shoulder, shakes it gently. "Rina? Wake up. /Rina/." That elicits a more definite moan, and one hand lifts slightly. Not far. Grey examines her limp body -- what's visible of it, anyway -- for marks, taking care not to touch her more than necessary. He spots the tiny red dot on her arm the second search through, and for a second stares at it. Then he swears in Serbian, stands up, and takes a twitchy drag off the cigarette, his gaze once again skimming over the park. A few moments later, he bends down and, grasping her wrists, pulls her up into a limp sit. She makes a soft, incoherent sound, the words not quite discernible through slurring. There is some weak attempt to move. Grey answers her in muttered Serbian, sounding stressed; the syllables are clipped and right. Redolent with cigarette smoke, and with a touch of vodka on his breath (though obviously not too much, since he's not obviously drunk), he cups her chin in a hand, squints into her face, then carefully peels back one eyelid to get a look at her pupils. Rina pages: She's flying. Chasin a BIG ol' dragon. Her skin has a familiar feel, a clamminess that he probably associates with unpleasant memories of his own. She doesn't respond, not for some time. Grey shudders as he releases her eyelid, letting it droop back down again. Muttering in Serbian again, just a single short sentence this time, he lifts her from the fountain, swinging her up into an efficient, if undignified, fireman's carry. Before walking off, though, he casts a look about the ground to see if her jacket, or anything else, has been discarded nearby. [It hasn't. No sign of it.] Wrong Way approaches the meadow from the south. She pauses at each bench, trash can, or likely bit of detritus by the path, sniff-sniffing for food. Spotting the man and his baggage, she lifts her nose from the ground and tips her head to the side, watching him quizically. She stands on three legs, this wolf-mutt; the fourth bent up and twisted underneath her. The deep scar on the upper portion of her left foreleg may be to blame for the way it snarls in upon itself. Mottled coffee-colored fur covers her lean form, darker atop her head and neck, and fading to a light tan around her pointed muzzle. Her overly large ears are not as well covered as a true wolf's would be, but her large frame and broad, furred paws give no question as to her heritage. Her dark eyes separate her from the true wolves, their focus somehow not quite right. Her gaze tends to fall too short, or seems to see right through the object of her attention. Grey spots the tripod mutt as he turns to give the park a tense, narrow-eyed look, his mouth tight around a lit cigarette. His frown deepens at Wrong Way, and he snarls a short phrase in Serbian at her. Rina is limp, an odd scent around her. Wrong Way cringes back, tail tucking between her legs and ears flattening against her skull. Sorry. Just hungry. Still, after the cringe of appology she hops to the side and continues to watch the man. In her three-legged gait, she moves in a wide arc, keeping a respectful distance while still growing somewhat nearer. Familiar, she notes with a twitch of her ear and a narrowing of her eyes. Grey seems about to turn and leave when the bitch cringes back, then pauses, head swivelling to stare back at her. His nostrils flare, and then he repeats his previous phrase, only louder and more forcefully. Wrong Way once again cringes away from the voice, and this time she doesn't return to her approach. Both ears swivel backward, then forward, and though she doesn't take a step, she does lean forward to sniff at the man and woman. Her eyes seem to focus somewhere beyond Grey, and for an instant she is terribly still. Then she drops heavily onto her haunches, twisted foreleg hanging limply, bemusement in her expression. Grey glares at the stray another moment more, then turns on his heel and stalks out of the park, Rina hanging over his shoulders like a well-dressed sack of potatoes. Wrong Way merely watches them leave, but her head tips so far to the side that she might be in danger of losing her balance, and the focal point of her gaze shifts to somewhere other than the couple she watches. Studio The studio is elegantly modern, clean lines transformed into ... an environment. The first impression is one of a decayed city: the walls are covered in a collage of deep colors, dimensional media, flaking paint, circuit-boards and rusting riveted metal. It is disturbing, like a glimpse of the twisted city Umbra. Beneath the surface, the studio is a large, high-ceilinged square room with almost an entire wall of windows. It constantly smells of paint. Rolled canvases lean in one of the corners, and finished pieces adorn the walls. A six-foot length of pipe hangs a wall-sized painting that masks off some of the street-view windows, creating a slightly more personal space that evidently serves as a bedroom; the piece is a dark, strange cityscape, an oddly skewed view of the world beyond the glass seen through otherworldly eyes. It it one with the wild work on the walls. The edge of a futon can be seen beyond it; the walls around the bed bear swirling patterns of colors, calming dark shades of undersea blue and circuit-board green. These patterns slowly blend and darken, growing out into the rest of the room, the Apocalyptic vision. Shards of mirror catch at the light; jewel-dark colors shine like dim, clouded sun coming through stained glass. The sofa is quirky and curving, a work of modern art upholstered in spring-green velvet. A painted cloth occupies much of the hardwood floor; the coffee table, a sculpture of recycled blue and green circuit-board and mixed metals, rests on it in front of the couch. An arty-looking steel chair completes the small seating area; instead of an end table, there's an odd birchwood box, three feet by four and about the same height as the coffee table, made up of five very shallow, big drawers. Some might recognize it as a 'flat file' for art storage. The east wall holds bookshelves, supporting a small stereo, collections of pictures and found objects, and a good number of books. The corner by the windows holds an elegant black mesh chair, and a black desk with a slim notebook computer and phone atop it. The wall behind the couch is dominated by a huge canvas, the framing large enough that the painting is cantilevered forward at the top--so that it overhangs the room slightly and draws one in even more. The painting depicts a futuristic city, all spires and crystalline forms, almost like something out of one of the Matrix films or a cyberpunk novel. The city of light and metal and glass grows on a planed surface, webbed with light and spiderwebs and strange lines like circuitry--paths, almost, all of them converging on the city and drawing the eye to its gleaming complexity. In the surreal landscape, it stands out like a window into paradise. Metallic paints, flake and mica accentuate the surfaces; in places the oils and gesso have been mixed with silver, or powdered glass. The easel once again stands near the painting-wall that splits off the bedroom; it is in a good spot to catch both natural sun, and the track lighting mounted on the ceiling. All around the studio, paintings hang like windows into other worlds, earthly and fantastical. Opposite the windows, a compact kitchen is marked off by a crisp stainless steel counter. The west wall nearby has doors to a closet and to a small, sparsely-appointed bathroom. Steady and relentless, Grey walks the streets of St. Claire from Harbor Park to the studio Rina calls home. Upon reaching her door, he pauses, mutters something underbreath, then kneels down to shift her off his shoulders and searches her for pockets. More specifically, for her keys. He finds two, on a chain around her neck; nothing else. Grey brusquely pulls the chain up off her neck, then tries the keys in the door. His free arm is tight around her, holding her up. At least one of them works. Inside, the apartment is cold and smells of paint, as always; there are spatters everywhere, signs of a recent and protracted engagement with her canvases. Another muttered phrase, and he lifts her up and carries her over the threshhold like a groom. There's no romance here, though, only tension as he takes her briskly over to the bed and lays her down. Her boots get unbuckled, removed, set down. Then, dress and all, he pulls the blankets over her, makes sure she's comfortable, and again checks her pulse. He's lost his cigarette somewhere on the way over. It has picked up, a little, an encouraging sign. Another slurred sequence comes from her, John's name discernible in the midst of it--maybe. Grey straightens up and stands over her, breathing through clenched jaw and flaring nostrils. Then he turns away sharply, goes to make sure the door is locked and all the latches and bolts secure. He paces the apartment, checking windows, making sure nothing is lurking about. He double-checks, then, and triple-checks. Only after that third circuit is Grey at ease enough to retreat to the main area. He shrugs out of his coat, tosses it over the back of the couch, and sits. A few minutes later, he gets out the flask, takes a couple of swallows, and then lights a cigarette. After two cigarettes, she moves--first a stir and a murmur, and then a low groan of denial. Grey looks up sharply, shifting around to stare at the painting that screens the bed from the rest of the room. He stubs the cigarette out in an empty coffee mug -- substitute for an ashtray -- and then stalks to the edge of the barrier. There he stands, arms hanging at his sides, brows lowered, eyes intent behind lank, ear-length black hair. She curls up on her side, shaking, her eyes flickering open dully. Another low moan betrays her. Grey asks her something, a harsh, brusque inquiry in Serbian. His fingers twitch, then curl themselves into fists. With some difficulty, she focuses on him; her face is taut, vague, as if seen through a mist. "Jack?" Grey's face twitches, muscles tensing along his stubbled jaw. He glares at her, then spits out a word in Serbian and turns away, stalking back to the couch and sitting down hard. With trembling hands, he shakes out a third cigarette and lights it. She shivers, tugging the blankets around herself. Then she moves abruptly, lurching to hang her head over the edge of the bed; her hands tighten as the heaving starts, tortured choking sounds. The dry heaves alternate with violent shuddering. Cruelly, he doesn't come to see her, comfort her. He just sits on the edge of the couch, polluting her air with secondhand smoke and staring angrily at a spot on the opposite wall. She wipes her mouth with the back of a hand, and fumbles for the half-empty glass on the night table; her wild arm knocks it over, and a sound of raw pain comes from her throat. Grey stands up abruptly and stalks back to the edge of the screen, stopping just short of it, just out of view. He speaks again, this time at length, his tone angry and lecturing with a slight tremor that betrays something deeper. He takes a breath to suck in smoke, snorting it out through his nostrils like a surly dragon. Then another few words and he stalks away. She can hear him opening cabinets, the clink of glass, the sound of the faucet running. There's a thud from the region of the bedroom, as she attempts to get up and promptly falls in a heap on the floor. She wipes her mouth on a corner of the sheet, and tries to hold herself up with one arm; eventually, though, she ends up curled in a tight ball of misery again. Grey crosses back. He stands over her for a moment, then sets the glass of water on the night table, bends down, and gathers her up in his arms, settling her back on the bed. He speaks another word, less harsh than his earlier invectives, as he rearranges the bedclothes and makes her comfortable. She tries to fight him off, weakly. "Go," she mumbles. "Just--" Shaking compromises the effort, then, and she curls up tighter. Grey repeats himself, still frowning. Smokey fingertips touch her forehead, feather-light, and then snatch away. He stares down at her, then withdraws back to the couch. She can hear him muttering, occasionally pacing. Somewhere she manages to mumble words, muffled in the blankets. "Speak fucking English, Jack. Please. At least then I can HEAR you ripping me a new one." She's answered with another stream of Serbian invective, then breaks off abruptly and just paces, smoking like a chimney as he stalks back and forth between the screen and the couch. Hours pass, filled with unpleasant symptoms. When she drinks water, the dry heaves shortly become vomiting; it's good that she has a plastic trashcan by the bed. In that time, Grey finishes his cigarette and, eventually, curls up on his side on the couch, pillowing his head on one arm. He's wide awake, too tight to sleep, listening to the sound of her movement, his gaze burning a hole in the coffee mug turned ashtray. Only when dawn starts leaking into the windows do his eyelids start to droop. The sounds of misery pursue him into sleep, to bring back dreams of things he would rather forget. ============================================================================== To: Rina Subject: Epilogue ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Most likely, he doesn't sleep long, maybe a couple of hours, and then wakes abruptly from nightmare (no screams, just a jolt and sweating). After that he'll probably leave, especially if she's fallen asleep or something. ============================================================================== ============================================================================== To: Cypher, Jeren, Natalie, and Kevin Subject: Out Again ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Grey's out all Friday night, but he's back before noon Saturday, so no worries. Poor mood, though. He retreats straight to his room to sleep, and woe betide any who try to stop him. ;) ==============================================================================