Date: 8/2/02

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.


[Little Tim]

        Street-punk, through and through: baggy old jeans (all
grease-stains and holes), tattered black hooded sweatshirt, black t-shirt
fading brown with age, black knit cap, old school combat boots (with one
duct-taped toe). Tattoos adorn his hands, his forearms, every canvas of
skin, messages and mementoes from earlier days. Metal shines from ears and
nose, rings of various sizes crowding each other. Scars -- some thick
tangles of tissues, some fine-lined reminders -- mar his already hard face
and hands, telling tales of long nights and unsavory associations; chipped
teeth and a well-broken nose add to his image.

        His young features are lean, angular, and his cynical grey eyes
seem hungry for... something. He probably has no idea what. He carries his
tough, muscular frame with the brashness of street-thugs everywhere, sure
he can handle anything.


Apocalypse is sprawled on one of the benches, legs stretched out, feet
bare, flip-flops lying nearby. The Fang slurps on a Massive Biggie Super
Uber coke.

Little Tim comes into view as he nears the fountain, boots clomping on the
flagstones, cigarette smoke trailing him like factory exhaust. He pauses,
sticks his cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and scans the area.

Apocalypse glances up, curious lilac eyes watching the grubby punk
curiously and without the slightest hint of fear. Her free hand comes up
and scratches at the lumpy scar-stuff where her right ear used to be.

If Tim notices the punk-rock girl quietly glowing over there on the bench,
he shows no sign of it - his gaze just sweeps the area around the fountain
again, almost as if he owned the damn place. Whether he does or not, he
sets his boots to clomping again, this time toward a bench that just
happens to be near Apocalypse.

Apocalypse speaks up. "Hey, 'sup?" Her voice is cheery, casually friendly,
and touched with a thick New York accent.

Little Tim has taken a seat off to the girl's left, and when she speaks,
he takes a long drag on his cigarette before saying, "Yeah, 'sup?" He
blows his smoke agressively, then adds, "Your mom know you out here
tonight?"

Apocalypse grins toothily, crookedly. "Naaah. Too fuckin' busy gettin'
stoned on self-pity. How 'bout you, man? Your pop fuckin' know yer out
here, too?"

"Naah, my pop's out knockin' up your mom," Tim replies, deadpan, then
snorts a little mean laugh. He finally gives the girl a good once over,
his face hard to rea, then asks, "So how the hell's the self-pity you
burnin'? Good shit?"

Apocalypse shrugs, slurping down another mouthful of cola. "Dunno. I ain't
tried it myself. Not my fuckin' thing, ya know?"

Little Tim nods firmly, as if he does, indeed, know. He's about done with
his cigarette, so he squashes it underheel, then turns a little, arm slung
over the back of the bench, facing the girl. "You got a name, kid? I
usually run through the small-talk bullshit for a while before I get all
nosy, but things ain't been so cool lately, so I been, like, 'Fuck it,
homes.'"

Apocalypse switches the massive cup to her other hand and sticks the
now-free one, all cold from contact with condensation-covered waxy paper,
out for shaking. "Apocalypse. Friends call me Apoc."

Little Tim moves into position to shake the hand with his own tattooed
one. "Huh. What kind of fucked up name is that, anyway? Yo' mama too busy
gettin' it from my pop to name you right, or what?"

"She was kinda fuckin' depressed 'r somethin'. I dunno." Apoc shrugs,
still grinning crookedly. "Weirdo morbid hippy shit or somethin'. Fuck, I
never really bothered t'ask her."

Little Tim gives her another look, this one a little more analytical,
easier to see through, then he says, "I'm Tim. Little Tim to folks 'round
my neighborhood. Asshole to everyone else." He takes a minute to fish out
another cigarette, banging the box against the heel of his hand, then
says, "You know, now that I think about it, my friend Kaz mighta mentioned
you. Yeah. You know her?"

Apocalypse brightens visibly at mention of Kaz. "Fuck yeah! Dude, me an'
her kicked the fuck outta some shit, no fuckin' lie. Kaz, like, rocks the
world."

Little Tim snorts a little laughter, less mean than before, more honest.
"Yeah, her an' me're pretty damn tight, if'n you know what I mean. This's
part a her neighborhood too." He pauses to light his new smoke, orange
blossoming behind one cupped hand. "How'd the fuck-kickin' go, by the way?
I mean, I know some - my friends were, uh, you know... " He trails off,
clears his throat, spits loudly on the ground.

Apocalypse sits up, her attention sharpening as he regards Tim with
renewed interest. "You Trouble, then? Coon-y-esque?"

Little Tim says, "Yeah-yeah," around his cigarette. "All fuckin' kinds of
trouble, man - you name it, I c'n find it. And speakin' of trouble," he
says, "my stomach's gon' give me no end of it if I don't get me some chow,
like pronto. You in?"

"Sure, man," says the Fang, hopping to her feet. She slips into her
sparkly flip-flops and offers Tim the cola. "What'cha in th' mood for? Oh,
an' the shit-kickin' went overall good. Fuckin' beat out the gibber-boys."

Little Tim takes the soda, no question, and pretty much drains the rest in
one good go. "Yeah, I heard that. Didn't know, like, how /you/ did, is
all. I was gone on some, uh, personal business, an' Kaz didn't tell me if
you was, you know, a fighter or what. Or you some other type of kid?"
Moving now, toward the street, Tim assumes Apoc will follow.

Apocalypse does indeed follow. She scratches at her not-ear scar again as
she falls into step with Tim. "One step down from that," she says. "Got
pretty fuckin' beat m'self, lost th' fuckin' ear here, ya know, but
otherwise came out okay."

Little Tim says, "One fuckin' bitch of a medal, there, kid," as he
examines the once-an-ear. His boots carry them across the meadow, toward
the chainlink border of First street, like they've done this a thousand
times before. "So, you ain't a fighter. My guess is you a joker, then. Am
I right?"

Apocalypse grins, all broad and toothy and gleeful. "Nope. Storyteller.
An'... Kaz tell you which branch I fuckin' sprang from?"

Little Tim cocks one eyebrow, giving the girl yet another inspection. "You
ain't sprung up from the street, then, the way you say that. Surprise me
again."

Apocalypse hooks her fingers into claw-like little talons and makes a
surprisingly accurate bird-of-prey 'skreeeee' noise. Then she giggles.

It takes a minute to work through his occasionally dense head, but once
Tim figures out what she means, he says, "Uh-/uh/. You fuckin' lyin',
girl, you know you are. Them folks don't let their daisies grow so wild as
you, all punk-rock an' metal. Nope."

"Hey, if I'm fuckin' lyin', I'm fuckin' dyin'," says Apocalypse. "I tol'ja
my mom was a slug, didn't I? Fuckin' did the monkey-dance wit' someone she
shouldn't, an' ran helter-skelter to th' Apple fer her life. I got born in
th' middle'a Central Park, yo."

Another light bulb flickers on over Tim's ugly head - his mouth even forms
an O for a minute - and he says, "Aw-right. Got it. You like Kaz." Then,
snickering like a kid, he says, "Monkey-dance. That's fuckin' /right/ man.
Good one. She ditch you when you was born? Leave you onna doorstep like in
stories for some poor fuckwit to raise?"

Apocalypse pushes her hands deep into her pockets. "Naaah. Jus' too
fuckin' whine whine whine t'do anythin'. Spent most'a my fuckin' childhood
wit' folks like you an' Kaz. Later some Brit type tried ta do the Eliza
Doolittle on me, an' I guess some'a it stuck, mebbe, but soon as I was
outta there, I was fuckin' _outta_ there. Ya know? I dig the glowy
front-a-th'-battle shit, but the miss-priss stuff? Fuck that. Ya know?"

Little Tim ambles on, ducking under the chainlink, then holding it back
for Apocalypse. "I do know, girl, yup. I should teach you my
Fuck-You-Kung-Fu, so next time you there at the front of the battle, doin'
your thing, you don't lose yo' other ear. One's enough, ain't it?" Kicking
some trash over toward a bin, he says, "So what the hell dragged your ass
out here? We about nine stops past 'Fuckin'-Far-From-New-York' out here,
you know."

Apocalypse hunkers down and slips through the gap in the fence. "Dude, I
came ta help fuck up the dancey fuckers." There's another of those big,
broad grins. "Was th' biggest fuckin' rush, no joke, no lie. Plus, I ain't
never been outta Nu Yawk b'fore, so figgered I'd go all out."

Little Tim shakes his head, whistling. "You got balls the size of truck
tires, girl, comin' just for that. Some fuckin' losers from around here
took off before that shit came down, and here you run up from other side
of the country. /Damn/." There's honest respect in his voice for once.

Apocalypse beams at the compliment, but only says, "Dude, one'a those
fuckers came back. Some foreign chick like Bjork or some shit. Total
fessed-up coward." She shakes her head.

Little Tim clears his throat and /doesn't/ mention that he didn't happen
to be at the battle, either. "She a ranger? 'Cause I don't truck much with
the woodsy-types around here. We tried to start our own camp here, at the
park, so we didn't have to rely on the fuckers out in the woods, you know?
While back now. Good thing it ain't happened - probably woulda made it
easier for the wackos to divide an' conquer."

Apocalypse doesn't seem to care much, or she didn't notice. "'Ranger'?
Yeah, I'm guessin' she was." She gives Tim a curious look, head tilted
slightly to one side. "Yeah, guess it woulda been. S'a shame, though...
city, uh, camps are pretty fuckin' cool. You ever been ta Central Park?
S'like the best of the fuckin' wilderness in th' middle a' the fuckin'
city. Rocks _hard_."

[Handwaved: They head off to some diner, get some grub, Apoc pays the
tab.]