It is currently 23:46 Pacific Time on Fri Jul 15 2005.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 63 degrees
      Fahrenheit (17 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the 
      southwest at 7 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.99 and rising, 
      and the relative humidity is 75 percent. The dewpoint is 55 degrees 
      Fahrenheit (12 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing Gibbous Moon phase (63% full).

Safehouse: Porch

The front porch of this sprawling, multi-floored house is the decorated
      centerpiece despite being offset within the footprint, a two-story 
      layer-cake structure replete with several support pillars and decorative 
      eaves in contrast to the clean planes and angles of the rest of the 
      building, the windows of a third story piled on top of that. To the 
      porch's right is the jutting spire of a three+ story, castle-like 
      octagonal tower, complete with tall pointed roof; to the porch's left, 
      the roof decreases gradually in height to an end that is at most a 
      story-and-a-half. Windows abound: down the face of the tower, in every 
      level of the porch, to the two-story unit immediately next to the porch 
      and even a few at ground level far to the end.

Access to the porch is reached from seven steps up from a walkway which runs
      most of the front length of the house, between the porch and the driveway 
      to the house's left. Trees and bushes landscape the front lawn, and a 
      tall hedge blocks most of the eyes of curious onlookers on the main 
      street.

There are two discernible entrances to the structure, the most obvious being
      the twin doors on the front porch, the less obvious being a single door 
      off a much smaller stoop just off the driveway. The footpath running 
      alongside the driveway and the driveway itself lead to breaks in the 
      hedge allowing an exit to the street.

It's a quiet night in the neighborhood -- or it was. The silence is gradually
      interrupted with the artificial growl of an engine. At first it sounds 
      like a distant leaf blower, but as it climbs in volume it becomes obvious 
      that it belongs to a motorcycle -- a dilapidated one judging by the 
      labored noises it's making. The loud and practically unmuffled rumble 
      turns down the lane and a weak yellow headlight announces its presence to 
      the abandoned street. The driver downshifts, and the motor changes to an 
      even more sickly "put-put-put" sound. The bike slows... and finally 
      glides into the driveway of the almost painfully Victorian house, with 
      the driver cutting the engine before the bike's completely stopped. He 
      puts his feet down as it does, and at last there's silence save for the 
      faint ticking of the engine.

The house is quite dark but for a flickering light of a large television in one
      of the larger downstairs windows. Moments after the motorcycle goes 
      quiet, a figure moves behind the curtains and the light goes off.

It's almost a minute before the driver of the motorcycle moves. But at last he
      lifts up his slumped head and takes off a battered orange helmet, shaking 
      loose an extremely untidy clump of gray locks. With a sigh of pain or 
      exhaustion (or both), he swings a leg over the bike and puts down the 
      kickstand. There's a tattered army surplus bag lashed to the back of the 
      bike, but the tall man doesn't go for it. Instead, he pulls a long black 
      cane from behind the bag with one hand, and a half a bottle of tequila 
      with the other. He turns and heads for the porch, the cane making muted 
      /thack/ sounds on the sidewalk, and then more hollow noises on the porch 
      steps. Scratch is back.

Back, and with no parade to welcome him, no lights left burning, no warm
      welcome for the prodigal son, or grandfather, as the case may be. Only a 
      dark, quiet house on a dark, quiet street.

Scratch limps over to the door -- long motorcycle rides only exacerbate old
      wounds -- and tries the knob. His posture suggests he doesn't expect it 
      to be unlocked... and he's not disappointed. Nevertheless, he issues a 
      grumbly sigh and clumps over to a lonely looking rocking chair. He 
      collapses into it heavily and the rickety thing gives a loud squeak of 
      protest.

The porch light suddenly flicks on over the front door, just as Scratch is
      settling into the rocking chair, and the front door opens to reveal a 
      grim-faced man with obvious scars ripping down the left side of his face. 
      His attire's rumpled, though not as much as Scratch's; he does not appear 
      to have gotten much sleep recently. "Can I help you?" His voice is polite 
      but not especially friendly.

Cross Peter O'Toole with Alice Cooper. Scratch is about six feet tall,
      broad-shouldered, and leanly muscular in a way that suggests he was quite 
      a scrapper in his youth, and the occasional sharp, predatory glint in his 
      blue eyes hints that those scrapping days are not quite over. It matters 
      little that the man has recently seen the start of his sixth decade, that 
      his face is lined, that his hair hangs limp and gray past his shoulders, 
      or that he walks with a cane; one glower is enough to make most mortals 
      blench. An old wolf is a wolf nonetheless.

He's wearing a grimy white T-shirt with the words "Sexo? Si!" on it in dark
      purple; it hangs out over a pair of faded blue jeans with huge holes in 
      the knees. Battered black combat boots, real shitkickers, are on his 
      feet. He hasn't shaved in several days, and his long hair hangs loose 
      around his shoulders.

The cane he leans upon -- there seems to be something wrong with his left hip
      -- is black and looks quite sturdy, like it could deliver a good smack 
      upside the head as well as provide support for its master.

Scratch starts and almost drops the bottle. Almost. He clutches it to him like
      a mother would a child and squints up at the new arrival. His eyes are 
      red and half-closed, but there's still some smouldering life behind them. 
      He just holds the stare for several seconds, before finally answering 
      with a question of his own: "Who the fuck're you?"

Grey's gaze is steady, narrowed, and he's frowning like he's never learned how
      to smile. "I could ask you the same thing."

"True enough, junior," Scratch answers irritably, "but since one of us just
      completed a sixteen hour road-trip, give me the fuckin' courtesy of goin' 
      first, yeah?" With that he screws the cap off of his bottle and takes 
      three large gulps of tequila from the upended bottle.

Grey's eyebrows lift at 'junior'. Still holding the door half-open and blocking
      the way into the house with his body, he looks thoughtful for a second or 
      two. "Thomas Grey," he says flatly. "And I live here."

Scratch lowers the bottle with a loud exhale and wipes his mouth with the back
      of a tattooed arm. He turns his gaze back on Grey and his eyes narrow 
      even further -- though this time in concentration. Finally he shakes his 
      head. "Nope. Doesn't ring a bell." Pause. "Answer me one more question 
      and I'll tell you my name, Tommy."

The use of 'Tommy' provokes a tight, thin-lipped frown. Grey shifts his weight
      and folds his arms across his chest. "Ask."

Not well versed in Grey's large repertoire of frowns, the emotional shift is
      lost on Scratch. He shifts position and swings one leg over the arm of 
      the rocker, which protests again. "Can you smoke in there yet?" The tone 
      is relaxed, but his expression implies a more alert state.

Grey cocks his head slightly. "No," is the younger man's deadpan reply. "The
      lady of the house forbids it."

Scratch cackles -- there's no other word for the wheezy laughter -- and bends
      forward from the force of it. "Ha...! I bet she does!" It's only seconds 
      before the laughter transforms into a dry cough. Scratch straightens up, 
      still hacking, and wipes away tears with a grin. Finally he manages to 
      stop. "Oh jesus, that's great." He gasps for breath. "'The lady of the 
      house.' Perfect." He sticks out a filthy hand. "Name's Scratch, son. As 
      in 'the devil.' Or, 'boy did I fuck up that last pool shot.'"

Grey doesn't seem to share the old guy's amusement, though the laughter doesn't
      seem to piss him off, either. He steps forward to accept the handclasp, 
      gripping firmly in a reflex of basic courtesy. "Scratch," he says, before 
      recognition strikes. "...Ah. As in the man who went off to... Mexico, was 
      it? Or the Amazon?"

"Doesn't matter. Either are shitholes." Scratch leans over and retrieves a pack
      of cigarettes from his back pocket. The label is in unfamiliar spanish, 
      but it might as well read 'shoddy smokes.' He fishes one out and lights 
      up with a zippo. After that he returns his attention to the younger man's 
      taciturn visage. "Well..." he says after a moment, the cigarette 
      dangling, "ain't you a handsome one."

Grey, with the door closed behind him, fishes out his own pack of cigarettes --
      Camels -- and taps one out with the ease of many, many years of practice. 
      He shrugs off the remark about his appearance with a grunt as he also 
      lights up. "What brought you back?"

Scratch suddenly looks away and rubs his face exhaustedly. "Told you," he
      murmurs in a gravelly voice. "Shithole. But it's too late for story 
      hour." He takes a deep drag and turns back, giving Grey another once 
      over. "Hm. You're older than most. Bet you can handle yourself, too." He 
      exhales smoke towards the ceiling. "Must be the new model."

Grey puts the rest of his Camels, along with the lighter, away in the pockets
      of his sweatjacket and looks quizzically at Scratch. "'The new model'?"

"Yeah." Scratch flicks the still glowing butt out into the yard. "Ass-kicker.
      Mud-hole stomper. You got the look, you know." He grins and holds up the 
      bottle. About a quarter left. He shakes it. "Bet you'll even do drywall 
      without complaint."

Grey's mouth twists into a lopsided grimace as he takes a pull off his
      cigarette. "Former ass-kicker, actually," he says blandly. "And mostly 
      it's yardwork these days, not drywall." He shrugs. "Anyway. If you're 
      looking for a place to stay, there're still some rooms open in the 
      common-use side of the house. Unless you want to bunk in the cub-room..." 
      He pauses, considering Scratch with a slight squint. "Though, knowing 
      Natalie, she'll want to speak to you anyway before letting you into the 
      Family side." The capital letter is all but audible. "If nothing else, 
      she'll probably insist on having you checked for... corruptive 
      influences."

Scratch says "For once, slim," Scratch growls quietly, "I agree entirely.
      'Mehico' ain't the desert rose she used to be." With a suppressed groan 
      he gets to his feet and stretches. "I appreciate the invite... but all 
      the same I'd rather just find a fleabag to hole up in. The general and I 
      get along better the further apart we are. Just let her know I'm back, 
      yeah?" He uncaps the tequila and finishes it off in three quick slugs 
      then coughs and grimaces. "Fuck, I hate tequila." He turns around to 
      retrieve his cane. "Trash this will ya?" Scratch tosses the empty over 
      his shoulder with no warning -- but not very hard."

Grey is quick on his feet, adroit the way Scratch himself once was, decades ago
      and before the busted hip. He catches the empty tequila bottle with ease. 
      "Is there a number by which we can reach you?" he asks, giving the label 
      a cursory glance.

The label looks like a cheap mimeograph crudely affixed at an angle to the side
      of the bottle. It depicts a devil from an old woodprint and some words in 
      spanish too blurred to be read. "Not yet," Scratch says simply, thumping 
      his way past Grey. "Maybe sometime soon. Let's not get hung up on 
      specifics just yet." He begins easing down the steps, looking like an old 
      man hobbling with infirmity; only a trained eye could see the veteran 
      warrior wrestling with old wounds.

Grey has such an eye, even if he only has one of them. He nods in reply,
      watching the older man head off with a neutral expression. "All right." 
      He hesitates, then adds, "Be careful."

Scratch stows his cane and then gingerly swings his leg over the seat of the
      bike and gets comfortable. He looks up at Grey evenly, showing no sign of 
      inebriation; no doubt this one's liver is a veteran of another kind of 
      war. "/You/ be careful," he answers back, but not in an unfriendly tone, 
      "I'm too damn old." With that he pulls on his helmet and starts the bike. 
      Backing down the driveway with occasional touches of his feet on the 
      ground, he's quickly facing in the direction he came from. Scratch turns 
      one last time, flashes Grey the peace symbol, then throttles up and heads 
      off. Much like the man riding it, the bike seems to be more capable than 
      it looks. The motorcycle and its rider quickly disappears into the night.

Grey stays on the porch to watch the old Ahroun ride off, then crushes out his
      cigarette and heads back inside.