The Iron Urchin

[hazlogs]

It is currently 16:56 Pacific Time on Wed Dec 17 2014.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining lightly. The temperature is 47 degrees Fahrenheit (8 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The barometric pressure reading is 29.87 and falling, and the relative humidity is 97 percent. The dewpoint is 46 degrees Fahrenheit (7 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Crescent (Theurge) Moon phase (27% full).

The evening rush is just beginning to wind down, which is a good thing given that it's lasted half as long again as it usually does. Expected, since the rain that began just before lunch hasn't let up much at all. That's winter in Washington, though. The streets are sodden, with spray caused by passing tires not exactly flooding the sidewalk. The unwary leg might end up a bit damp, though.

Fitz wanders the streets like a stray dog that doesn't give a damn about getting a home, tangled wet hair clinging to his scalp and forehead, jacket sodden and too light for the weather anyway. He slouches, thumbs hooked into the front pockets of his jeans, occasionally swerving his path to get in the way of another pedestrian, not colliding with anyone, just enough to be a jerk about it.

This guy's like an unholy hybrid of sneery video store clerk and 1950s greaser. He's white, about twenty years old, and somewhere around the six foot mark (maybe a bit under, but hard to say for all the slouching he does), and he looks like the kind of guy who revels in being an absolute steaming pile of shit to everyone around him. His straight brown hair is rarely brushed, rarely washed, and slightly too long, especially in the way it tends to hang in oily strings over his forehead. He's not ugly, and maybe if he shaved off that grungy stubble and smiled more (and not in that lips-pursed smirky cocky way that he usually substitutes for smiling), he'd look pretty good in a boyish kind of way. But he doesn't and isn't. So much for that idea. He's got nice blue eyes, at least.

He's usually dressed in torn jeans, scuffed boots, and wrinkled t-shirts, sometimes paired with a cheap black jacket or flannel overshirt or hoodie. His voice is deep, rough, and growly in a way that's actually pretty pleasant on the ears, and may be his best feature. (If only what usually comes out of his mouth wasn't shit.)

Nicodemus exits a relatively new, small, gourmet grocery store the local foodies and well-off, well-connected hipsters know about. In his left hand, he's gripping one of those "save the planet" style grocery bags made from recycled plastic. Poking out of the top of the bag are the red blooms of what's almost certainly a dozen roses. He stands under the shop's small fabric awning, looking about and preparing his black umbrella prior to venturing out into the rain.

This thin, wiry, short (5'6"), and moderately attractive man is probably in his very late twenties to mid thirties. His dark brown hair is of medium length and styled so as to appear unkempt--even though it isn't. His attire, appearance, and mannerisms communicate that he's well-off, but certainly not wealthy

Nicodemus is currently wearing loose-fitting blue jeans and a grey long-sleeved shirt--perfect for variable spring weather conditions. The exceptionally perceptive might notice his pants do not quite hang naturally over his right ankle. A new-looking charcoal gray longcoat envelopes his form, shields him from the weather, and masks some of his body language and movements.

He wears few accessories: an unadorned cotton lanyard and a slender gold chain around his neck plunge beneath his shirt, a small metal owl pin resides on the left collar of his coat, and worn brown leather gloves protect his hands. There's a whiff of wood-smoke and ozone lingering in the air about him, possibly from an expensive cologne.

When he moves, it is with grace, fluidity, and sure-footedness. When idle, he seems alert and focused, yet somehow simultaneously introspective.

Reggie walks side by side with Kevin, hogging the sidewalk and forcing people walking the other way to choose between trying to squeeze between them or dodge out into the puddles of the street, debating the commercialization of Christmas. "I saw the first Santa ads appear just after Labor Day", Reggie claims. Reggie's well protected against the soggy weather, dressed in a hooded jacket with the hood pulled up.

His scars are the most striking thing about this man. A deep scar circumnavigates his head, cutting his visage into parts. His visage is far from flattering even without the scar, featuring an unevenly flattened nose, cauliflowered ears, and monobrow sheltering sunken eyes, and long, greasy hair bound in a tangle of a rat-tail. His hands demonstrate a history rich in manual labor, with stumpy, thick fingers and fingernails broken to the quick. His right arm is a massive length of scar tissue from shoulder to hand, with the weak muscling of a paraplegic, a strong contrast against the bulk and muscling of his body and other arm. The skin of his torso, usually covered up by a shirt but still appearing at his neck, consists of thick, red skin with peeling scales. Not much of the damage is visible as his long-sleeved, plaid shirt is buttoned up to the last button. His jeans are almost fashionable, being shredded through at the knees. He's wearing a black bomber jacket with a patch of a snake hissing on the back.

The majority of the foot traffic Fitz encounters are those holiday shoppers, the exhaustingly chipper, never a frown sorts with their bags of holiday cheer and ugly sweaters. Those sweaters you can't see, mind, they're covered under rain coats. But their smiles are visible and the rude wending of the Galliard's path is greeted with quick apologies or quicker dodging. A couple pardons themselves as they brush past Nick to go into the grocery, too well dressed to be the hipster sort, so they must be foodies. One certainly seems so, given the jargon and uber-knowledge displayed in the snippet of conversation the mage manages to catch. And as Reggie and Kevin discuss the time old tale of Christmas akin to Linus and Charlie Brown, a ragged scamp of a body shoves between and past the two at a run.

"I wouldn't mind so much," Kevin begins, "if there were actually any Christmas songs less than fifty --" He's interrupted by someone shoving past him unexpectedly, an unusual occurrence since most other pedestrians give Reggie and him a good wide berth, spooked by the intangible garou-ness of the duo. "Whoa, where's he off to in such a hurry?"

Fitz is, judging by his expression, possibly contemplating greater mischief when he catches the runner's quick movement out of the corner of his eye. Alert as any cur that's gotten a kick out of nowhere, he turns quickly to see what's up.

"Pardon," Nick says politely to the couple moving past him. He goes to pop open his umbrella and then notices two familiar faces not too far off--Reggie and Kevin. There's a flicker of hesitation as to what to do next, though his eyes do seem to also catch sight of the runner butting rudely between the pair. Fitz? Unnoticed for the time being.

Reggie turns for a look after the runner. "He's likely gotten someone's spending spree", he speculates, then, with a sudden frown, pats his pockets to ensure they're not emptier than usual.

Nothing has been liberated from the Ahroun's pockets, and if anything there's been an addition of pocket lint. Kevin, likewise, has all his belongings well and intact. The ragamuffin bolts past Nick and nearly over Fitz, figuratively of course. The pint-sized runner zags around the metis, clipping in in passing, then ducks around a corner and onto the next street.

Fitz cocks his head, squinting, a bit of a 'wtf' look on his face. Then, after a quick 'what the hell' shrug, he takes off after the runner.

"Someone's after him," Kevin points out as he sees Fitz go scooting after the runner. "Let's keep an eye on this." He speeds up himself, not enough to overhaul either of the others, but enough to keep them in sight and see what happens next.

Nicodemus stepped aside as the ragamuffin darted toward and then past him. That's when he notices Fitz, followed by the fact that Fitz--a garou with issues--just went after the destitute person. "Fuck," he exhales under his breath. As Kevin and Reggie come scooting by, Nick nods and falls in behind them. "The guy giving chase is a new kid in town with some anger issues," he huffs as he accelerates to keep up. "Could go south fast."

"My money's on the first guy", Reggie says to Kevin, "Head start." He follows the ragabash, also curious as to the outcome. When he notices they're being followed, he stops, turns, looms over, and inspects Nicodemus until he places him with, "The van", then turns sharply, and resumes following Kevin, at a quicker pace now that he's lost some ground.

As Fitz rounds the corner, he finds the scamp paused midway down a more clear road. It's a side street, a little bigger than an alley and used almost as frequently. Once the metis has come into view, the smallish figure takes off running again. Kevin, Reggie, and finally Nick catch sight of him just as he begins sprinting anew.

Fitz seems more than happy to keep up the chase, lips peeled back in a troublemaker's grin.

Nicodemus continues following Kevin and Reggie, letting the two garou lead the way. His brief interaction with Reggie seemed to unnerve him a little, but most people who interact with ugly ahrouns tend to get a little unnerved.

Reggie raises his arm to point at the runners ahead of him and Kevin, as though Kevin needs the visual aid and as if Kevin weren't ahead of him. "They went that way. If it's not too late, I'm changing my bet."

"Too late?" Kevin calls. "You'd be late for y'own funeral." Kevin is certainly more nimble than his burlier packmate.

Impossibly fast, it's around the next corner that the Galliard finds the ragamuffin waiting again. Waiting, this time, within a step of being run into. Waiting, in this more isolated, more quiet street, with hardly a breath to show that he'd been running at all. It's all that Fitz has time to register before a fist rocks his world. Nick, Kevin, and Reggie are given a fine view of the metis getting knocked onto his back.

Fitz's stunned look is exaggerated, pop-eyed, almost comical. He coughs and rolls over -- getting wetter, if that's actually possible -- getting to his feet, plenty of time for the others to approach. Or for the heavy-handed runner to attack again.

Nicodemus slows up a little now that Fitz seems to have been momentarily stunned. He raises a gloved hand to his face. Probably in shock. Yes, probably in shock.

"Fine, I'm sticking with the original bet", Reggie retorts, as he watches the first runner flatten the second runner. Reggie comes to a halt after turning the corner to the view.

Kevin skids to a halt next to Reggie, and he shoots the ahroun a quick look. "Get ready to wade in if that guy looks like he's about to be killed," he suggests.

The runner starts after Fitz as soon as he's on the ground, still insanely fast. The arrival of three others doesn't even give the smallish form pause as he runs, yes runs, at the metis. It's followed up with a football punt to the groin, the follow through of it pushing Fitz away and sending him sliding anew toward the group yet approaching. The kid keeps on from there, running to take on Reggie next.

Right in the jewels. Fitz utters a strangled grunt and goes fetal, clutching his smashed genitals, his face red, his eyes unfocussed.

Nicodemus gets an eyefull of a ragamuffin thumping a garou and going after a second. That's enough for him. He backs up hastily in the event the guy makes it past Reggie, hands raised in defense in case the guy is fast enough to dart around Reggie rather than take the Uktena on head-to-head.

Reggie broadens his stance with a step and bends his knees, making ergonomists proud, and extends his hands to touch the runner.

"Now that's not cricket," says Kevin, sounding very English for a moment, and teams up with Reggie to form a barrier in the fugitive's path.

Give and take is a tricky thing. Reggie's arms extend and hands flatten and manage to catch the runner square at the shoulders. Momentum is such that the Ahroun is knocked backward, shoulders jammed painfully in their sockets, and almost instantly his body finds the pavement. However. The scamp loses his feet abruptly, forward motion leaving him skidding toward Kevin's. The Ragabash soon learns himself just how hard a hitter the kid is when a fist knocks out his knees.

Fitz remains curled up in his own little world of pain.

Nicodemus stops retreating, takes a step to one side to allow the street urchin sufficient room to run past him, and adopts a judo-looking stance--all defense, zero offense, and fully prepared for the supernaturally fast moving kid should he come at the Walker kin/mage.

Reggie measures his length on the sodden pavement, rolling about and unable to push his bulk upwards due to the lack of working arms.

Kevin was prepared for an attack higher up on his body, but his knees? Not so much. The ragabash has his feet swept from under him and he slips on the wet ground, going over just as embarrassingly as Reggie. He does at least get a chance to grab for his assailant to try and take him down along with him.

There's naught but air for Kevin to grab, fingers just missing the runner's threadbare jacket and ratty scarf. The kid flips about to his back, then rolls to his stomach as he struggles to get legs back under him again. Even in such prone positions he's quick, squirrelly.

"Ffffff..." Fitz is starting to uncurl, lips stretched in a pained grimace that's slowly melting into an ugly grin. "....uuuuuuhhhhhHHHAAAA LA LA LA LAAAA..." He's stopped clutching himself and has arms under him, pushing himself up. "La la FUCK laaaa..." His singing voice is ragged, gravelly, and rough, almost in tune but not quite, kinda flat really.

Nicodemus stands his ground where he's at, studying the urchin's nimble moves being made against the garou as if in preparation for him potentially being next on the list for an ass-whuppin'.

Reggie rolls until he can get a knee under him, and with a sudden surge of effort, gets to his feet entirely from his knees, as his arms are still useless. "What are you made of--lead?", he stomps over to the runner, and he continues his stomping motions, attempting to stomp on the runner's feet. "Steel?"

Kevin rolls over and tries to get hold of the slippery chap's legs to tackle him while he's occupied with Reggie up at head level.

Feet flail and kick with far more strength and speed than any little urchin has a right to. Kevin's hands are knocked away twice before a heel catches him in the jaw and sends him sprawling again. Reggie's feet come close to catching a skull beneath them, but the kid's hands grab and hold fast, dragging the small frame up until he's got arms around the Ahroun. Then the runner begins to squeeze, like a snake constricting its next meal.

Fitz takes his time getting back to his feet, but to his feet he gets, the pain in his balls faded to an aching memory, and he eyeballs the scene as he sings, loudly and gratingly, swaying like he's had a little too much to drink, eyes casting about for possible weapons. "DECK the halls with BALLS of holly... FUCK la la la laaa... la la la laaa..."

Nicodemus stays where he's at in his crouched, defensive stance. He moves slightly, making minor repositionings of his legs' stance on the ground and his arm's defensive positionings. He's not been attacked yet, but if he is, he's probably about as ready as he's ever going to be. It's doubtful that the kinsman would do much in the way of damage in comparison to the trio of garou, though. As such, he hangs back from the fight rather than becoming a liability in the middle of it.

Reggie, with arms doubly useless from injury and from constriction, puts all of his effort into kicking his newest bosom buddy. "You want a friend, you have to buy me a beer first", he growls.

Kevin recognises one of the others nearby. "Nick!" he yelps out from his position on the ground. "What the hell?" He holds his jaw as if it's hurting quite a lot. Which it probably is.

The arms that've wrapped around Reggie squeeze more tightly, bones bend and creak in protest under the pressure and the Ahroun soon finds it very difficult to breathe.

Fitz, still singing, side-ambles toward some trash he spots near the curb. "DON we now our GAY apparel..." He bends, picks up a broken beer bottle, and slings it with good strength and fair accuracy toward Iron Urchin's head. "FA la la FA la la, LA la LA..."

Reggie, with insufficient breath to quip or even growl, falls silent. He stares unblinkingly, jaw clenched, at the urchin-turned-constrictor.

"Damned if I know!" Nick hastily in response to Kevin's comment as he continues holding his ground, letting the garou do the fighting. "Call for backup?" he offers unhelpfully.

Kevin lurches to his feet. Instead of rejoining the fray directly, he turns to Fitz. "Hey! You! What the hell's this all about? I should call the cops."

Glass strikes and shatters, tinkling and clattering as it falls. The water already running from the urchin's head takes on a pinkish tint as blood mixes with the rain hitting his head. The look he gains from Reggie is returned in full indignant glower, but more importantly the kid releases his hold and sprints as soon as his feet hit the ground. The speed, at this point, is to be expected as the runner takes off like a shot, path intending to take him straight past Nick and Kevin.

"TROLL the ancient yule-tide--HEY!" Fitz breaks off his gravelly carolling as the kid takes off. And, just to prove that he's got more guts than brains, he takes off after the kid without the slightest hesitation.

Nicodemus shuffle-slides his feet over the ground, maintaining a defensive kind of martial arts stance as the kid tears down the alleyway trying to get past both him and Kevin. "Don't do it," he warningly cautions the running kid. "Don't do it."

Reggie gasps as he attempts to fill his lungs again, and he staggers to a shadowy doorway of this side street. Hidden in murky darkness, Reggie adjusts his jacket, his form appears to bulge, and his arms flex, regaining their movement.

Kevin lines up next to Nick as the kid heads for them. If anything he's a little ahead of Nick -- don't want the squishy member of Team Good Guys to get knocked about.

The urchin isn't stopping. That much should be obvious to Nick first and foremost, when his words only seem to add fuel to the kid's speed. He runs headlong at the pair, not just looking to break past them but push the pair into the walls they side with. It works with Kevin, the Ragabash is shoved dazingly hard into one wall. With Nick, things don't go quite as well planned. By some random twist of events, or just dumb luck, Nick's hands wrap around the wrist that comes near him and the runner is twisted and planted bodily into the other wall.

Fitz practically skids to a halt to keep from tripping over Kevin or hitting Nick, teeth bared in a 'fuck!' that doesn't get past the 'fff!' stage. He eyes Nick as if sizing him up.

Nicodemus follows through the move, making it look fluid, and re-adopts his prior defensive stance--in case the kid gets back up. "Same team, Fitz!" he calls to the newcomer garou, having put his back to the Fianna. His feet shuffle and scoot slowly across the ground as he backs away from the freshly wall-planted kid.

A newly mobile Reggie marches out of the doorway, arms swinging and fists clenched. His march is interrupted by a hiccup as he tries to figure out how the runner got planted in the wall, then he shakes his head, and checks on Kevin. "All there, gov?", he imitates what he imagines to be an English 'cockney' accent.

Kevin bounces off the wall, parkour style, and out into the path of Fitz. "I said, tell me what this is about!" he commands. Which isn't quite what he said previously but never mind.

The kid is down, sliding and slumping, face first against the wall. He's not moving, but his eyes are open, staring but empty. Red oozes down the wet bricks and drips from the runner's nose onto the pavement below to mix with the wash from the evening's rain.

"He knows my name?" Fitz, bemused, addresses the air next to him like he's breaking the fourth wall on a pseudo-reality tv show. "How does he know my name?" He shrugs, then turns his attention to kid, surveying the damage. Eyebrows go up; he's surprised, a little impressed. "Damn." And he looks at Nick again, same expression on his face.

Nicodemus grimaces as he sees what kind of damage has been done to the runner. He takes a few more steps back and away, easing out of his martial arts-like stance and letting the garou in to do their thing. "Sorry," he apologizes to downed kid. "I warned you to stay back." Conversation over, Nick looks to Fitz and Kevin. "Val told me about Fitz. Fianna, yes?" Eyes go back to the kid. "He's not dead, I hope?"

Kevin seems about to take a swing at Fitz as he gets no answer for a second time, but the comment about his name makes him pause and turn to Nick. Then Nick explains, and Kevin drops his fist with a look of disbelief. "You mean... he's... And he damn near took /three/ of us down?" He stares at the downed guy with a look of respect which quickly turns to suspicion. "...he shouldn't be able to do that. Wyrm? sense?" He gestures at Reggie and Fitz hopefully.

Reggie checks for a pulse in the ex-runner's neck, before turning and raising an eyebrow significantly at Kevin.

"Oh, Val. Nice kid." Fitz wrinkles his nose, almost looking disappointed. He gives his head a little doglike shake, spraying water, sniffs, and shrugs. "Don't have that Gift." This in answer to Kevin.

"Well neither do I," Kevin snaps, "so what do we do? Why the hell were you chasing him anyway, Fritz? He pick your pocket?"

"Vampire? Fomori?" Nick suggests haphazardly, as if he's pulling possibilities out of a random oriface.

Reggie slowly turns to Nick and announces in a slow, low tone. "He's dead."

Fitz eyeballs Kevin with a bit of a squint and then shrugs, his face a picture of exaggerated innocence and bafflement, with an 'aw, gosh' smile that just begs to be hit. "Shucks, I dunno. I guess I just got taken over by my baser instincts." He's being sarcastic, that much is obvious.

Kevin gives Fitz a fine old glare, but no more. He's more concerned with Reggie's news. "Ahhh, no. OK. Operation Cover Up, commence." He looks up and down the vicinity checking for witnesses, cameras, cop cars or anything else that would be further bad news.

The way both up and down is clear, and in this part of town there are no cameras spying on passersby. The only thing that meets Kevin's searching is the rain and his own companions.

Nicodemus seems stunned by Reggie's words. "What?" He repeats the same word just to make sure that doesn't change anything. "What?" And he then looks at the deceased kid in horror.

"I want to know how you did that", Reggie continues in his slow tone, "but more, I want to know if you can get your van here. If you can take him out of here, there'll be less questions. There were many witnesses out on that street", Reggie points down to the street where the racing started, "who will remember him", he nods towards Fitz, "if police start asking why there's a body here."

"I ain't nobody," Fitz says with a smirk, shaking his head. He's ambling backward. "Just another medium-build white guy. Nobody's gonna remember me." He gives the dead kid another glance, then starts heading off.

"Yeah?" Kevin fires back after Fitz. "I'm gonna remember you, real well. Want a little talk with ya, sometime."

"Whatever, boss," Fitz says in a voice that holds no respect whatsoever. He flips a hand in a dismissive kind of wave, his back to the group.