It is currently 19:26 Pacific Time on Fri Apr 29 2005. Currently the moon is in the waning Gibbous Moon phase (60% full). Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining lightly. The temperature is 54 degrees Fahrenheit (12 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The barometric pressure reading is 30.11 and steady, and the relative humidity is 90 percent. The dewpoint is 51 degrees Fahrenheit (10 degrees Celsius.) 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. She could be one of the world's smallest skinheads, a skinny bald chick barely over five feet tall. A faded skull-and-crossbones adorns the front of her black t-shirt, and a massive rip in the left knee of her baggy jeans shows the thermal longjohns worn underneath. The old black trenchcoat is far too big for her; it comes down almost to her ankles and the sleeves are well past her hands if she doesn't roll them up. On her feet are a pair of scuffed shitkicker black boots, shin-high. There's a spiked dog collar around her neck and spiked cuffs around her wrists. All of her clothes look as through they've been worn continuously for months without seeing the inside of a laundromat. She's fairly grubby herself. Her age is difficult to determine precisely; she looks anywhere between her mid-teens and her very early twenties. She also appears to be suffering from a low-grade cold. Her brown eyes are puffy and bloodshot, and her prominent, bony nose is red and sniffly. Her skin's pale, her brown eyebrows almost nonexistent. Even cleaned up, she wouldn't be a beauty. The slightly murky waters of the Columbia River flow briskly to the east. The faint smell of chemicals float up from the surface of the water. A small, skinny, bald figure in shabby gothic-punk clothing scrambles up and onto the top of the earthen wall separating the park from the Columbia river, drenched to the skin and, thanks to the rain, not likely to get dry anytime soon. It pauses there for a moment, crouched and shivering, prominant yellow teeth bared in a holy-fuck-it's-cold grimace. Nicodemus is standing in an essentially deserted park, nearish the fountain, holding an umbrella over his head. Maybe the cop is on the beat, maybe not. But there's a squad car parked near the meadow's entryway with the lights and engine off, and Nicodemus seems to be doing a whole lot of nothing except staring blankly into the fountain while idly holding a cup from Starbucks in his free hand. You see a thin and wiry young man in his early twenties--and a bit on the short side at about 5'4" to 5'6" in height. His black hair is cropped short in a 1950-esque crewcut. He's currently decked out in the traditional dark blue SCPD uniform. His badge identifies his number, rank (Officer), and last name (Dalton). Officer Dalton is carrying several obvious weapons, as police frequently do. Under his left arm in a shoulder holster is the lethal option: a no-nonsense Glock 21 .45 caliber pistol. On his hips are the non-lethal options. Left hip: chemical mace/dye. Right hip: a taser gun. A "hands free" police band radio is mounted on his left shoulder. Two necklaces are around his neck, tucked inside his uniform so as to be inobtrusive. He's wearing black, form-fitting leather gloves. A faint hint of fine incense lingers quietly about his immediate vicinity, almost like a unique, well-selected cologne or aftershave. J.C. shivers and sniffles and lets out a cough, but her eyes are bright as she scans the park and fixates on the cop. Half-climbing, half-sliding down the berm, getting her coat and jeans muddy, she hits the grass with both booted feet, then starts jogging up behind the cop, her teeth still bared. One hand ducks into the pocket of her too-big black coat. Nicodemus seems fairly oblivious to pretty much everything going on around in the park--which is a whole lot of nothing except J.C. approaching--until you're within about thirty feet and he looks up, eyes going from face and almost immediately to the hand inside the trenchcoat. And there he stands, one hand holding the umbrella, the other holding the coffee. The hand with the coffee cup lowers either consciously or from training, lingering near the taser's holster--but not overtly so. And probably the cup partially obscures the electric sidearm. "Need some help?" J.C. stops dead when Nicodemus turns around, her mouth dropping open in a rather comical 'o' of surprise. Then she lets out a squeal worthy of any rabid fangirl, a gleeful shriek of, "NICKY!" Her pocketed hand comes out -- empty -- as she charges toward him, arms spread to tackle. Or hug. Given the choice of protecting himself from getting wet from the drizzling rain or getting wet from the drenched homeless woman, Nicodemus lowers the umbrella so it functions as a makeshift and unintended shield. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! You're soaking wet! And who the heck are you?" J.C. pulls up short and gives Nick a disappointed look, blinking rapidly. Up close, she's awfully pale and thin -- not that Jenny ever had much in the way of padding -- and there are dark smudges under her eyes and bright flush-spots on her cheeks. She sniffs. "Ya don't /remember/ me, Nicky? It's me!" Nicodemus raises the umbrella back over his head now that the threat of charging sodden female has been averted--and so as to not appear totally rude. And also to keep the rain from soaking him, truth be told. "I've seen you a few times before, but.... I see and talk to hundreds of people each day I'm working. And," he lies, "I'm horrible with names." J.C. hugs herself and shivers. "It's okay, Nicky," she says, sniffling. "I know yer a good guy. Uh-huh. If ya 'member me or not. A good guy." She nods emphatically. "I've got to get back to patrols," Nicodemus says, glancing back towards his cruises parked to the west. "But remind me what your name is again? And here," he offers the half-empty venti Starbucks coffee to you, still warm to the touch through the paper insulator. "You ought to go get out of those wet clothes before you get pnemonia and die." It stated matter-of-factly, as if you will if you don't. "Oh, no I won't," the grubby little skinhead woman says, taking the cup with a grin. She probably already /has/ pneumonia, or something similar. "Don't worry 'bout me, Nicky, I'll be okay! You go! I'll come see ya soon, promise!" Nicodemus looks mildly unnerved by this final statement, and just nods mutely as he heads back to the car, angling the umbrella to keep the rain off him as much as possible. Nicodemus pages: It's all about the hand sanitizer bottle in the squad car. Oh, yes. J.C. waves cheerfully at the retreating man, then starts sucking down the coffee and looking around the park with a gleeful expression.