It is currently Fri May 27 2005. Currently in Saint Claire, it's a sunny day. The temperature is 91 degrees Fahrenheit (32 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the north at 6 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.77 and falling, and the relative humidity is 16 percent. The dewpoint is 40 degrees Fahrenheit (4 degrees Celsius.) Currently the moon is in the waning Gibbous Moon phase (70% full). Bridge Street(#2898RJ) All the way from Fifth to Twelfth, tenements crowd together tightly, interspersed with a few shops and little stores. A single, larger grocery store decorates a part of the block from Eighth to Ninth. Bars create a grill over the windows of the littler stores, and smells reminiscent of a garbage dump waft from many of the small alleyways. It is nothing unusual to hear a shot, or many shots, ring out from any of the area, nor to see swaggering teenage boys in leather eyeing those who pass, especially women. It's 8:15 PM and the streetlights have just snapped on. Grey's and Jeren's visit to the hardware store was uneventful. The place was tiny, with narrow aisles perched on rough cement. No doubt it had been doing business for many years before the rise of Walmart. Nevertheless, it had a lot more personal charm and an excellent selection of gardening supplies. Now, walking home, those claustrophobic aisles would have seemed a lot more... secure than the crumbling tenements and deep shadows that now surround the two. Grey carries the heavier of the two bags of purchases and walks with his blind side toward his tribemate; a cigarette dangles from his lips. Though he hasn't been especially conversational throughout this little field trip, neither has he seemed as curt or distant as he usually does. The seedy surroundings bother the former Ronin Ahroun not at all; he's wandered this part of town many times in past years. Hell, he used to /live/ around here, and he mentions this to Jeren, pointing out the very paint-peeled tenement building in which he once made his lair. As if the laws of the universe cannot allow Grey to be comparatively 'friendly' without exacting an opposite price, Jeren has been all but completely silent the entire trip, even though she's the one who asked to come. A grunt here, a nod there, a one word answer every now and then, that's all she really gives. The Ragabash glances toward the indicated building, squinting. The ex-Ahroun's ex-lair looks like it may be on the verge of collapse -- of course, it may have looked that way years ago when Grey was still living in it. Either way, a building in such a deplorable state doesn't really stand out from any other structure on the street. It's quiet tonight. A car hasn't even passed by in the last few minutes and the human garbage that usually occupies the corners look like they've fled to cooler environs. Only the sound of Jeren's and Grey's feet and the crinkling of plastic bags makes any noise; this relative quiet only serves to accentuate the silence between them. Grey shrugs and continues onward, lapsing into silence. The tenement is left behind, though not quickly; the Philodox is in no hurry, either because of the heat or a desire to stretch out the time 'out'. Jeren scratches the back of her neck at a slight, reddened lump, brushing her unruly hair out of the way to do so. She lets the silence stretch for a while, before finally venturing, "Washington doesn't do anything by halves in it's weather, does it?" Grimace. And it's her words that really drive the point home: it's miserable out here. So hot and humid that everyone seems to have abandoned the street to two Garou with gardening supplies. It's the quiet that makes the muttered expletive audible. A slurred curse that just barely exits out of the slash of black between two buildings -- along with something else. Something hard, and small, and black that CLACKS loudly onto the thin strip of sidewalks and quickly rolls into the center of the street. "Ever been to New York?" Grey asks, turning his head slightly toward her. "Same th--" His response is interrupted, and his attention shifts swiftly toward the object rolling out into the street. That very slight movement of Jeren's head might have been the beginning of a shake, but it ends with a jerk in the opposite direction as she also looks sharply toward the sound of the loud clack. The small object -- whatever it is -- rolls to a stop right in the middle of a manhole cover about twenty feet away. Grey frowns. He glances back in the direction the object came from, then again at the object itself. "Here," he says abruptly, handing Jeren his bag, and then -- after a moment to reassure himself that the street is, indeed, empty tonight -- jogs out into the middle of the street. He slows as he gets nearer the manhole and the enigmatic thing on top of it, moving more cautiously though obviously determined to see what it is. Jeren grunts, adjusting her grip on the bag she's just been handed. Her gaze follows Grey's progress for a moment, before flicking back in the direction the object seems to have come from. It's an eight-ball. The little number is easily visible from the angle of Grey's approach. It appears to be unharmed from its bounce on the asphault, but looks quite grimy all the same. As Grey continues to approach it, both he and Jeren hear yet more noise coming from the dark aperture between the tenements: sort of a vague shuffling, followed quite distinctly by a cough. And then Grey is within a few feet of the ball and spots the thin red smear that gives the lone white spot a sort of pinkish hue. Grey stops once he sees what the object is, and his frown deepens at the sight of blood. He turns back around, nostrils flaring, and then starts back toward the sidewalk and the other Glass Walker. Jeren's attention has focused completely on the shuffling noises coming from the alley. She's squinting, as if by narrowing her eyes she might be able to make them see more clearly into the dark opening, and her muscles have all gone visibly tense. Several seconds pass, but Jeren's diligence goes unrewarded. By the time Grey arrives back at her side, an approaching car's engine would muffle anything of that same volume anyway. Grey reaches Jeren and mutters to her, "An eight-ball. With blood on it." His gaze is fixed on the dark alleyway; he moves to one side of it and with a gesture encourages the Ragabash to do so as well. "How good at you at avoiding notice?" he asks, still keeping his voice low. Jeren carefully lowers both bags to the pavement, then steps quietly after the Philodox. The question receives pursed lips, and another squint toward the alleyway. "--It depends on who's notice I'm avoiding," she murmurs. "Should I give it a try?" The car -- an ugly eighties panel van -- rumbles by and quickly fades away. The alley remains quiet. Grey glances back toward the sound of the approaching car, as alert as any wolf on the hunt would be. He watches the van pass, then turns back to Jeren with a nod. "Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it isn't." Jeren pulls her black overshirt into place, fastening the middle button. Then she runs one hand back through her hair, steps lightly forward, and slips into the alleyway. Just before she goes, her form appears to blur around the edges. Trick of the light? The younger Garou moves silently and smoothly into the shadows, neatly disappearing from Grey's sight. The small passage is choked with mouldering trash and the smells that go along with it. A person of less grace would have difficulty moving among such uneven debris, but Jeren manages it neatly. As her eyes adjust to the gloom, she spies movement about thirty feet down. A large, hunched shape leaning against a wall and making short abrupt movements. And then she hears another cough -- so quiet it doesn't even reach Grey fifteen feet further on; the sound doesn't emanate from the leaning shape (person?), however, but from nearby. The shape moves, turning slightly, and hisses a loud "Shhhh!" Ironically, this /does/ reach Grey as well as Jeren. Grey, for the moment, remains tense and alert just outside the alleyway, keeping an eye on the street and an ear to the blackness. As much as she can, Jeren tries to keep herself within the natural shadows cast by the two buildings, and keep near the walls, rather than relying solely on her own skills. She continues forward, mindful of the trash underfoot, as she tries to get a better look at what might be going on. By the time Jeren gets to within fifteen feet of the shapes, she's able to make out the big leaning one as a person whose bulk comes mostly from layered clothing. The man's abrupt, furtive motions continue, and she can now make out a vague rustling noise. Then there's another cough -- this time with a decidedly wet sound -- and a distant groan. The shape turns again. "Shhh-! ...call some one inna minute." The shape turns back. "Firs' gonna give m'self a reward..." More rustling. "...good citizenship n' all." This guys gotta be either tanked out of his mind or a complete idiot, as his talking is far louder than any of the coughs heard so far; easily loud enough for even Grey to hear them clearly. Jeren's shoulders hunch. One hand snakes into her jeans pocket and produces a key--it's the key to the safehouse, which she either hasn't actually put with the rest of her keys, or which she took off the keyring before they left. This is flipped back in the direction of the street--she's aiming toward the side nearest Grey, but in such a small, cluttered alley, it's not the most accurate toss she's performed. Maybe it's the dark, or simply trying to split attention between two things at once, but either way the result is the same: Jeren's throw goes amiss. The Ragabash hooks it, and the key bounces off the side of the wall with a loud PING and goes spiraling deep into the garbage littering the ground. The noise alerts the man and he turns suddenly. "What?" He draws in a shaky breath. "Shit..." He turns and begins to awkwardly shuffle-run towards the other end of the clogged space. Eww. That's...not going to be pleasant to try and find later. Jeren spins back around as the man speaks, dropping her gift in the process, and starts after him. "Where you heading, pal?" she calls loudly after him. Grey's patience runs thin. Hearing Jeren's question, the Philodox ducks around the corner, stepping into the darkness; he takes a moment to let his eyes adjust. After a few more awkward, stumbling steps, the man staggers out onto the Reagan Avenue side and into the light. Jeren (and even Grey, who's just stumbled into the alley himself) can now clearly make out the features of an almost quintessential bum. He turns blearily back towards the darkness, weaving a bit, and holds up something -- only Jeren is close enough to identify it as a wallet -- then pitches it on the ground. "'idn't do... /nuthin./" he mumbles and staggers away as fast as his shaky frame can go. A car on Reagan nearly flattens him and honks loudly -- just as the other person in the darkness coughs again, a horrible, gurgling sound. Grey is about to go after the bum when he catches the sound of the gurgly cough nearby. He spits out a word in Serbian and turns toward the source of the noise, squinting. Jeren grimaces in sheer annoyance as the man escapes out into traffic. She doesn't pursue him further, instead opting to pick up the flung wallet and head back toward her tribemate and the hunched figure. Jeren easily snags the wallet and heads back into the foul-smelling space just as Grey reaches the cougher. The smell of blood is thick in this part of the alley, and the feeble light from the street outlines a middle-aged man's painful grimace. That same light reflects off of dark fluid seeping from his lips. "Sranje," Grey says again, quieter this time, growly. His brow furrows as he stares at the cougher, as though by sheer force of will he could make the darkness abate. No such luck, and the once-Fostern shakes his head irritably and then addresses the man with a curt, "Sir?" "Mugger," Jeren murmurs toward Grey, lifting the retrieved wallet. "Looked like a street bum." She glances toward the injured man, mouth twisting again. The Ragabash lowers herself into a crouch near him, and flips open the wallet. The man's eyes flicker, then open wide, gleaming brightly. He coughs, hacks, and more blood bubbles up. "D-don't call..." His eyes roll around like something behind them's broken loose. "D-don't-" Crouched a few feet from Grey, Jeren attempts to examine the wallet, but sees little save for the dim outline of a driver's license. Grey glances sidelong at Jeren, then back at the cougher. He drops slowly into a crouch, frowning at the nameless man. "You're badly injured," he says, and then asks, "Who did this to you?" Jeren slides the licence up and out of the wallet. She squints at it, trying to read the name. In response to Grey's words -- or perhaps in response to nothing at all -- the victim manages to shake his head forcefully. "Just... not..." Another hideous sound emerges from within his chest, and that's when Grey notices that the man's shirt is completely soaked through; this wasn't a normal stabbing -- it looks like he's been gutted. "Don'... Don't call..." Nearby, Jeren attempts to read by the almost non-existent light, and finally manages to make out a Washington State ID in the name of Ted Ray. Grey swears again upon seeing the extent of the man's injuries, then stands up and gets out his cellphone. "The hospital might be a shithole," he says, stepping over to Jeren and lowering his voice, "but this man's going to die without medical help." He glances back at the bloody figure, his face hard. Jeren nods in agreement. As Grey moves away, she moves forward, settling into a crouch next to the man and dropping the wallet to one side. "Hey...Ted? I want you to keep talking to me, alright? Say whatever's on your mind." She undoes the single button on her shirt and slips it off, wadding it into a ball that is very carefully pressed against the bleeding area. That...would be the extent of her medical knowledge. A weak hand makes a feeble grasp for Jeren's arm as Grey begins to dial. He manages to do little more than get her shoulder wet. "Don't... c-call... t-th-" His whole body suddenly lurches forward, wrenched by a cough -- the final one. He goes rigid, wheezing with the force of his body trying desperately to get the blockage out of his lungs and not realizing that the lungs themselves are broken. And in that instant, Jeren actually feels her hand go /into/ his body, such are the extent of his wounds. The man -- Ted Ray, apparently -- is rigid... rigid... and suddenly he slumps lifeless against the wall. It's so much like a movie. So much... except for the stench and the textures... and the eyes. They never do quite get the eyes right in movies. Ted Ray is dead. Grey pauses in dialling and watches the man's last spasms with eyes that have seen such things far, far too many times before. As Ted Ray dies, the Philodox stands very still, very quiet. Jeren goes absolutely rigid. She's still looking at the dead man, and her hand doesn't yet pull back. Finally, a single, heavy breath forces it's way out from between her clenched teeth. Grey lets out a breath and turns off his cell. "Come on." His voice is quiet. "Check the wallet, and we'll call the police from a payphone." He's still staring down at the dead man. "Make sure you haven't left any prints." Finally, Jeren pulls the bloody shirt back. She clutches it tightly as her other hand fumbles for the wallet again, as her eyes are still locked on Ted's face. "My key," she says, in an oddly detached tone of voice. "I...it's back there. On the ground." Grey grunts. "I'll get it." He steps past her, past the corpse, and goes looking for the wayward key. A few moments observation quickly reveals that a search for the key could take an hour /with/ flashlights. Another car is approaching from the Regan side of the alley. Jeren drags the wallet forward and flips it open again. This time she's searching for anything else that might be inside it. More cursing in Serbian from the Philodox, a steady, muttered stream of Slavic vulgarity. "Hopeless," he says at last, and then frowns toward the sound of the approaching car. The wallet yields up little else to Jeren's searching. It looks to contain several more cards, but nothing that can be made out in this light. The main compartment is empty -- probably already picked clean. The approaching engine sound gets louder...louder...and then stays at that level. A distant squeak attests to a pair of brakes that need to be adjusted. The car has stopped, probably about ten feet short of the alley entrance. Jeren checks every pocket, every crease, in some bizarre effort to make absolutely certain there's nothing else. Then she lifts up the edge of her shirt and starts to wipe everything--the wallet, the licence, inside and outside, trying to get anywhere she might have touched. She doesn't react at all to the sounds of the car. "Company," Grey mutters. He steps back into the concealment of the shadows, moving away from the body of Mr. Ted Ray. Unable to identify the nature of the other cards and finding nothing else, Jeren quickly begins to get rid of her prints. She's almost half-way done when a door opens... and closes with a muffled CHUNK sound. Footsteps approach the entrance as the engine continues to idle in the background. Jeren only just manages to bite back a curse at Grey's warning. She gives the whole of the wallet a swift wipe, and tosses it next to the dead man. There's a brief moment in which the Ragabash can't seem to help not looking at him again, before she turns and moves after Grey. Skulking about in the shadows of an alley, hiding amidst stink and garbage... it's like riding a bicycle; once you learn, you never forget. At least, Thomas Grey hasn't. He hunkers down, crouching against the filthy wall, his gaze intent on the other end of the alleyway. Something intent and feral glints in the Walker's face. The footsteps eventually resolve into a slim figure wearing blue. A sudden crackle of almost unidentifiable radio gibberish confirms the man's identity: St' Claire PD. He turns and looks into the alleyway, apparently seeing neither Jeren or Grey. Reaching up to his radio, he murmers "414, checking a disturbance." His arm drops to his side and he just stands at the entrance for a few moments more, staring in. Jeren crouches not far away from the Philodox. Her head is turned toward the opposite wall, but she can still see the blue figure out of the corner of her eye, and she isn't about to move her head to get a closer look. Her entire body has once again gone rigid. Grey murmurs to Jeren, very very quietly, "Go. Carefully. Use your gift." A beat. "Get the bags." He never takes his eyes off the figure of the cop. After another few seconds, the figure standing at the entrance reaches to his belt and- "Shit..." It's an utterance of exasperation -- not surprise. Another second passes. "...every time..." Shaking his head, the police officer turns and walks out of view. Jeren doesn't move until her form has already started to blur again. She leaves the bloodied shirt behind, hunches over, and walks as swiftly as she dares toward the other end of the alley, where the bags were left. Grey doesn't watch her go; his eyes stay on the other entrance to the alleyway. He waits a few moments. The entrance remains empty. A door opens... but doesn't close. By now Jeren has moved quickly and quietly to within ten feet of the alley entrance. A tip of plastic bag is poking around the corner and moving fitfully in the sluggish wind. The "weed weasel" that bag contains seems to belong to a whole different world than this one. Smoothly, carefully, Grey stands up and starts retreating back toward the Bridge Street end of the alley. The Philodox is mindful of where he puts his feet -- wouldn't do to trip and go sprawling -- but does his best to remain aware of his surroundings. Jeren continues at her current pace, though if anyone were actually looking at her it would be obvious that she'd like to go much, much faster. Some part of her is quite aware that at least one of her hands is bloodied from her attempt at stopping Ted's wound, and it's this hand that she reaches for the first bag with, intent on wrapping the plastic handles around any telltale redness. A few more too-slow steps... and then Jeren snags the bag and is out! She quickly disappers around the corner. Only Grey and the late Ted Ray are in the alley now, though only one is moving methodically for the Bridge Street exit. The light available to Grey suddenly dims. A quick glance over his shoulder reveals that the officer has returned, blocking the entrance once more. A notable difference this time: he's carrying a massive mag-lite in one hand. Grey's seven feet away from the exit and that's the moment a saying of an old friend returns in perfect internal audio: "Fifty feet or a thousand, Salem, it's always the last five that are the bitch." Grey remembers something else that same friend used to say. How there's sometimes nothin' you can do but haul ass and pray. Barely a second after the Philodox registers the appearance of the mag-lite before he makes a break for Bridge Street. He's a fast runner naturally, and a bit of Rage lends speed to his feet. The second bag is retrieved as soon as Jeren scoots around the corner. She lets her shoulders roll back as she walks--walks, not runs, whatever she might want to do--back in the direction they originally came from. The name of the game is casual, even with a bloody hand and a missing over shirt. There may have been sound, but the blood was suddenly pounding too loud in Grey's ears to tell (Jeren could have told him he was surprisingly quiet). The cop may have shown the light directly on his fleeing back -- but he wouldn't have known, as he was too focused on the exit. Regardless, two important things occurred: First, Grey exited the entrance and stumbled around the corner. And second, there was no shout of surprise or anger. The world of the Garou is often an unlucky one, but tonight it seems Gaia decided to cut a few Walkers some slack. Bridge street is just as empty as when Salem and Jeren left it: a collection of slumping buildings, scattered garbage, and a single eight-ball sitting inexplicably in the middle of the road. No witnesses. It actually takes Grey a few moments to realize that life hasn't kicked him in the ass and stomped him into the curb again. Lupine instincts still rather too close to the surface for comfort, he pulls up short near Jeren, stares back at the alleyway and then shakes his head and reaches for one of the bags. "Let's go," he says, and then, a bare few seconds later asks, "Any guesses what happened to him?" Jeren barely pauses as Grey pulls up beside her, though there's considerable relief on her features. "He...I..don't know. That wasn't a blunt injury. When I tried to stop the bleeding, my whole hand went in..." Grey grimaces. "Get a name?" "Ted Ray," Jeren murmurs quietly. "Nothing but his drivers licence and a few cards. No cash." Grey glances back over his shoulder at the receding alleyway. "Mm. Better keep an eye on the paper." He seems to lapse into thought, then. Jeren falls silent as well, staring hard at the pavement just in front of them as she speeds up her pace just slightly. The two walk on, soldiers in a hidden war where not all casualties get proper burials, and not all mysteries get solved.