Date: 8/31/02

Garcia's Pizza Parlor(#2882RJM$)

The first thing some people notice when they step into this room is the
noise: almost always there is some sort of noise, of music or conversation
or the employees in the back, cooking. Others see the lights, harsh
yellow-white over the counter and on into the kitchen in the back, a
dimmer, indeed faint glow above each of the tables scattered around. No
matter which sense is first engaged by the room, almost all soon are
captured by the smell of pizza; the smell pervades the place, an aroma of
melted cheese, cooked tomato sauces, various meats, vegetables, all
subtle, yet all blended together into the overwhelming smell. The smell
tells the customer that, despite the less-than-classy look of the
restaurant, the product is, undeniably, almost guaranteed to be good.

In the corner near the door is a trio of video games and a soda machine.
Scattered around the room are several tables; lining the back, the counter
on which the pizzas are put before they are picked up.


Apocalypse struts into the pizza parlor with the scarred Gnawer, thumbs
hooked into the pockets of her jeans and as cocky as a gunslinger in a
Wild West saloon. "What'cha like on ya 'za, Annie?" the Fang asks, all
upbeat and boppy and cheerful.

Anneka drifts along like a windblown leaf alongside the Fang, her battered
skateboard tucked under an arm, convenient excuse for her mangled hand to
be stuffed in a pocket, away from view. Her hair bobs around in a wild
halo about her face, though even between that and her astonishing
sunglasses, the scars still show. She glances at Apoc, flashes her a sunny
grin. "Everythin'," the girl says. "Long as I can eat it."

Apocalypse gives that careless hellion grin, all teeth, and tosses off a
sloppy version of a British Army salute. "One massive wit' everythin'. Got
it. Why'n 'cha find us some seatage while I wrangle up th' fuckin' grub?"

[Anneka]

Nothing ever stands against the passage of the year. This urchin here is a
fair example of that, a young woman in the waning days of her teens. She's
about five feet tall, a tangle of wiry limbs, knees and elbows, sharp
edges and a sunny face. The hair that trails out from beneath her
motheaten beret is sand's shades in hue and fiercely curled, long enough
to mute the scars that trail out in radiant lines from one eye, reach back
to touch an ear. A battered pair of ugly pink sunglasses hide where they
start, it's probably just as well. She's wearing a huge, thick-knit
pullover, gray and white and black threads with enough holes to show a
dark tee underneath, green leggings and scuffed brown shoes fashionable
long before she was born.

A junkyard bedouin in salvation's cast-off garments, that's Anneka today.


[Apocalypse]

She looks disreputable. She looks like trouble. She looks like
five-foot-six of misspent youth and a hundred and twenty pounds of
cheerful go-to-hell, the rebel bastard daughter of the late eighties and
early nineties, and all about twenty years old.

Fair skin like a goth's fondest dream is mostly unmarked by scars,
blemishes, or visible tattoos, but make no mistake; she ain't pretty. Her
nose is too beakish, bony and protruding, and one overlarge ear sticks out
like a jug handle on the left side of her head. Her platinum-blonde hair
is short, but growing shaggier and is just curly enough so that tufts of
it stick up every which way. Three rings pierce her left ear and two more
adorn her left eyebrow. Her right ear is completely missing, replaced by
bumpy scar tissue. She's got the flat, willowy build of a supermodel, but
slouches with all of a slacker's carelessness, and there's something
vaguely manic about those odd blue-lilac eyes.

Her oversized jeans were black a long time ago; now they're a faded gray
color, massive holes gape at both knees, and the cuffs are ragged. The
front of her extra-large t-shirt sports a picture of Bruce Campbell on the
front in all of his Army of Darkness glory, and a pink dog collar's
strapped around her neck, complete with little metal studs and a
bone-shaped tag. Her sockless feet are clad in a pair of bright orange
canvas hi-tops. Hanging around her neck is a pair of little round welder's
goggles, the lenses a radioactive shade of bright green.


Anneka dips her head twice, a cheery nod and skates her way along between
the tables to a booth near the back. Not quite literal, but the way she
moves, quick and certain, suggests the roll and rattle of wheels. She gets
a few looks along the way, more than she might have a year ago, a wrinkled
nose. She thumps down at the booth, her board alongside her, drags her
hands through her hair. By then, everyone's looking away, might miss the
odd shape of one hand.

Apocalypse draws a few looks herself, though for somewhat different
reasons. She waves to a couple of college-aged people sitting at a booth
up near the front and natters on amiably with the guy working the counter
today. She's in motion almost constantly, either bouncing gently in time
with some inner music or, when leaning against the counter, wiggling a
sneakered foot back and forth. Money changes hands via the medium of
plastic -- Visa; it's everywhere she wants to be -- and eventually the
Fang makes her way to the back with two tall glasses of soda. "Pizza
should be ready inna few," she announces.

"Rawk," the Gnawer says, an admirable approximation of a certain
Galliard's tone. Her clothes are ragged, ancient and worn, but for once
she's reasonably clean. There's dirt under her fingernails, splotches of
mud on her knees. She reaches out and tugs a glass towards her, grins.
"Thanks." The skateboard, propped along the wall near her, twirls one of
its wheels, slow and slower. "Haven't been here t'much, a while."

Apocalypse sucks down a shocking amount of cola in one gulp, via straw.
"Mmmm. Caf-eeeeeeen." She grins. "Yeah, me neither. Been scammin' my meals
outta the SCCU dinin' hall past fuckin' week 'r so." She waggles her
eyebrows.

Anneka drags her marred hand through her tangled mane, gives the Fang a
sidelong glance then slurps at her own drink. "Don't go up there too much.
Couple times. Don't real look like I'm comin' from school, an' don't look
like I'm goin', neither. I kinda went to a class, once. That was cool."

Apocalypse's eyebrows lift. Interested, she focusses her complete
attention on Anneka, light-colored eyes intent. "Yeah? What kinda class?"

"Mercenaria mercenaria!" the girl says. "Clams, mostly. It was mostly
'bout estuarial 'cology, but I didn't hear alla it 'cause the air
conditioner was too loud."

Apocalypse crinkles up her nose a bit, the corners of her lips quirking
upwards in good humor. "Suckage." She slurps at her soda. "I'm thinkin' of
maybe takin' some shit in th' spring. Hafta talk ta Uncle Ian back home,
though, see if he'll cover me fer th' tuition." She chuckles briefly.
"Take some literature an' shit like that. He'll dig it. Me gettin' some'a
that fuckin' ed-joo-ma-ka-shun."

Anneka bobs her head up and down, a quick nod, slurps at her soda. "'s
good t'go. I kinda stopped, but it's good t'go."

Apocalypse scratches at the side of her neck, near her hairline, and nods.
"Yeah. Nice campus here, too. An' the theater department rocks." Her grin
turns sly and naughty. "'Specially this one stage manager type. Mmmm."
Before she can elaborate, though, their pizza's announced to be ready, and
with a mild 'woot' the Fang hops up and trots off to fetch it.

Anneka pulls her legs up, clonky shoes thumping along the underside of the
booth, curls right up, crosslegged. She glances after the Fang, then
settles down to drinking, quick.

Apocalypse returns with a large pizza that's covered with every topping
under the sun. Except for anchovies. Even the insane Noo Yawk Silver Fang
doesn't like the little fishies. "Voila!" she declares, setting it down.
Dropping into the other side of the booth, she waves Anneka toward the
pie, stating, "First a' the kill ta th' greatest in station." No mockery
there, just that cheerful, irrepressible grin.

The Fang might get a glance, a flicker of irony in the girl's green eye,
but it's hard to say for sure around those awful sunglasses. She grins,
bright and sunny, reaches out to drag up a huge, heavy piece. "Hot, hot,
ah--" Cheese drags around everywhere, but she takes a bite, anyway. "Mrf
if gd."

It's certainly true that for a Fang cliath to declare a Gnawer cliath the
greater in station is... unusual, but then, Defies-the-Apocalypse seems to
revel in the unusual. It's a sincere kind of unusual, anyway, and she
looks pleased as kittens in catnip as she helps herself to a piece. True
to her upbringing, the New Yorker folds the slice lengthwise before biting
into the pointy end. "Mmmm-hmm."

Anneka has no similar upbringing to draw upon, but the pizza is heavy and
messy and folding certainly helps. She looks at the Fang around her piece,
her mouth full, giggles muffledly.

Apocalypse looks back at the Gnawer, mouth full of pizza goodness. She
grins around this oral burden, swallows some of it, and says, "Penny for
'em."

Anneka chews on her pizza, exaggeratedly, her mouth full of the stuff,
strands of cheese trailing down from the triangular piece to the broken
circle where many slices still remain. Her giggles, muffled laughter now,
try to get louder. "Fees," she manages to say, between bites.

Apocalypse makes with the blinking eyes, amused in her own puzzlement and
chewing pizza all the while. "Fees? Library fees? Traffic fees? Fees
powder?"

Anneka gulps on her laughter, her bites gaining a wolfish edge as she
manages to swallow without choking. "Cheese," she says, laughing now.
"Cheese!" She reaches around with her marred hand, pulls up on the strands
dangling down to the plate. Quite a mess, but she laughs anyway.

Apocalypse is sensitive to laughter; she catches it quickly once someone
else starts it. "Heh! Oh! _Cheese_!" This indeed strikes her as being
extremely humorous, and she barely manages to down the rest of her
mouthful of pizza.

Anneka's laughter trails out to sunny giggles, cheery things from this
scarred up kid, her shoulders hunched up, her eye shining from where it
can be glimpsed, over her glasses. They've slid down her nose, perch there
like they want to fall off. Her other eye stares off into nothing, ringed
about with thick scars. "Cheese," she says, muffles her giggles with
another bite.

Apocalypse's laugher subsides, becoming controllable, but hilarity still
glints in her eyes. "Ya ever notice," she says, taking another bite, "that
cheeses have the funniest fuckin' names?"

Jessica walks into the room and settles down at one of the empty booths.

Anneka gnaws on the crusty remnant of her pizza, wrinkles her nose up into
a squint. "Like mozzarella?" the girl offers. She pushes her sunglasses up
with a greasy hand, then stuffs the crust into a pocket before reaching
for another piece.

Apocalypse nods vigorously. "Mozzarella. Gargonzola. Brie. Limberger."

Anneka giggles, muffled again. "Limfurger," she says, around a mouthful of
pizza. A slice of tomato drops down on the tabletop, though it only tastes
freedom a moment before she picks it up and eats it. "My dad likes eatin'
green cheese. It's green, but it's not bad." She takes a bite. "Bu'
/green/."

"Cheese," Apocalypse states, quite firmly, "should not be green." Her
attention's entirely on the large pizza and the Gnawer sitting across from
her.

"It's green, though!" says Anneka. She puts her slice down, a few huge
bites taken from it, pulls one of her legs up so her knee shows over the
table's top. She points at her leggings, green indeed. "Like that green,
'cept cheese."

Apocalypse shakes her head in denial. "Bad cheese, then," she says, with
mock severity. "Green cheese is _bad_ cheese."

Anneka flops her leg down, the heel of an unseen shoe thumping against her
seat. "Nope," she says, draws her slice back up and takes a bite. "Just
green." She nibbles mushrooms off her pizza. "But maybe it's real /mad/
cheese."

Apocalypse pauses in mid-chew and looks at Anneka with wide eyes. "Rabid
cheese?"

"It's sure green," Anneka says, thoughtful. "There's gotta be somethin'
goin' on." She chomps on her slice, chomp-chomp.

"Rabid cheese," says Apocalypse again, more firmly, decisively. "Gotta be.
Bruce Banner cheese. Someone made it _angry_."

Jessica glances over as a drift of conversation catches her ears and
chuckles.

"It's from England," Anneka says. Like the last slice, the crust is tucked
away in a pocket before she settles back against her seat. "Umf." A heel
thumps along, somewhere out of sight. "That's kinda far from here," she
adds.

Apocalypse continues making her half of the pizza disappear. David
Copperfield would be impressed. So would Garfield the Cat. "Mmmmm," she
says. "That fuckin' 'splains it. Came all the way from England, no wonder
it was green. Fuckin' went rotten."

Anneka squints, freckled nose wrinkling up, and draws her head back.
"Yeah, but my dad ate it. It didn't smell funny, 'neither." She rubs the
bridge of her nose, then reaches out to scoop up another slice. This one
stays on her plate, though, while she tugs bits of stuff off it it. Two
pieces are really plenty for a wiry street kid. "

Apocalypse downs no less than four, but she has the spastic energy of a
greyhound, so there's little surprise in that. "Me, I draw the line at
runny cheese." She pulls a face, tongue poking out between her lips.
"Runny cheese an' green apples. Nooooo green cheese."

Anneka loops her arms around her middle and laughs, looks at her companion
over her ugly sungalsses. "Ew. Runny cheese is bad."

Apocalypse grins. "Yeah. It's like snot. Snot-cheese." Such fine lunch
conversation this member of Garou nobility has to offer. Her teacher back
home would surely faint.

Anneka scrunches her nose up, obligingly, though she keeps eating anyway.
Tomatoes.

Apocalypse just grins and chews and eats, gleeful as a twelve year old
who's just managed to tell a dirty joke.