Lyra and Fei

[hazlogs]

It is currently 21:26 Pacific Time on Sun Jan 5 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is mostly cloudy. The temperature is 34 degrees Fahrenheit (1 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The barometric pressure reading is 30.43 and falling, and the relative humidity is 100 percent. The dewpoint is 34 degrees Fahrenheit (1 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing No Moon phase (18% full).

Regan Avenue East, Downtown

Red brick buildings rise, some of them crumbling from disrepair and disuse, others patched together by repairs. Graffiti covers some of the walls near street level, some rude, most crude, but the occasional drawing is meant for a lighter-hearted reaction. The graffiti becomes a colorful, almost gaudy mural at the western end of the district, an announcement of the Regan Hope Project's presence. Trash litters the majority of the gutters, from Harbor Park in the east across to just before the Regan Hope Project's domain, where the trash is less prevalent and the buildings less run-down. Small shops with apartments in the floors above them span a block here and corners there: delis, second-hand clothes, textiles, small restaurants, a grocery store. Sandwiched between the buildings are weed-choked empty lots.

Fei

What he lacks in size, he makes up for in attitude. He's about five and a half feet tall, a wiry young man of mixed Chinese and Vietnamese heritage who appears to be in his late teens or perhaps early twenties. His straight black hair is spikey and short, the ends dyed a bright red, and he wears the colors of his gang with an air of supreme confidence.

There's a girl sitting on the steps of the grocery store, playing with a nickel. It gets tossed up in the air, she catches it- very simple game. But she's not sitting idly, no...each passerby, and there aren't too many, gets a scrutinizing stare, which quickly fades into disinterest. Lyra starts to hum. Catch. Hum. Catch.

And there he is, Joseph Fei Chan, Fei Lung. Only the most arrogant of young men would name themselves after a dragon, and Fei is just the arrogant young man to do so. The rest of the gang is absent for the moment; Fei struts along by himself, a confident smirk curving his lips.

At Fei's appearance, Lyra misses the nickel as it comes down, but she catches it after she fumbles. It's slipped into her pocket. She keeps her head bowed and waits for him to pass her. After a moment, she gets up as well, straightening out her shirt before heading down the street in the same direction as he.

It's true, he doesn't notice the Gnawer girl whose life he'd made so complicated. In fact, he doesn't even look her way. His hands are in his pockets and his head is held high; he walks like a king, like he owns the whole street and then some.

For a minute or two, Lyra's content to follow him, a dozen yards behind so that he doesn't notice. Or maybe she's still gathering the courage to approach him. But eventually she grows tired of staring at the back of his head...at the back of his unscarred neck, she muses bitterly. Her walk gains speed, till its an all-out run. Then she just -pushes- Fei.

"The hell--?!" Fei stumbles, recovers his balance, and whirls around, his confident smirk vanishing into a surprised scowl. His eyes narrow as they focus on the little Gnawer girl. "Oh, it's _you_."

Lyra

This girl is five foot three, thin and slender, on the small end for being sixteen. She's a little on the pinched side too, like someone who hasn't been eating enough lately. Almond-shaped, hazel eyes that change in the light are set above high cheek bones in a pale face. There's a tinge of yellow to her skin, her Chinese heritage obvious in the first glance. Long black hair falls halfway down her back, well-groomed. Lyra's pretty enough when she smiles, limbs long and muscles toned, if not very strong. She used to be a sprinter, and all those years of dance lessons have made her flexible and acrobatic. Her voice is smooth, a gentle contralto, and peppered with an English accent.

A tight, longsleeved black shirt with holes cut in the shoulders is Lyra's choice of wear today. The sleeves become fingerless gloves. Muddy, dark jeans with frayed hems and torn belt loops hug her hips. Her shoes are black, scuffed Mary Janes. And she's done her hair up today, braids wrapped around her head with black ribbons running through. The only real spot of color is a cheap smiley-face necklace around her neck, the kind you get from a twenty-five cent machine. There is no Gaian pendant anymore.

"(You bastard!)" Lyra shrieks madly, at the top of her lungs. Anyone in the neighborhood can hear her, surely...but the only ones to understand will be Chinese. "(You tell me you love me, and promise me the world-)" She raises her hand to slap him across the face, as vehement as any spurned lover. "(-then once I get pregnant, you flee! Typical trash!)"

Fei takes a step back, grimacing, more irritated than fearful. He glances quickly around at the street before looking back at her and responds in the same tongue, with scorn. "(I told you what you wanted to hear. It's not my fault you let yourself get pregnant. Besides...)" The smirk's returning, unfriendly and without any trace of guilt. "(The way people talk, I'm not the only one you've been with. How can you know your baby's mine?)"

Lyra lets her tears fall, anger and bitterness and renewed hatred welling up inside. "(It -is- yours,)" she yells back. "(My aunt has friends at the hospital. Do you want me to get tested and prove it and take you to court?)" Someone opens their window, yells out angrily, "Shut the fuck up you crazy Japs, it's almost midnight!"

"Go fuck your daughter, nigger!" Fei yells right back at the shouter. Then he stalks over to grab Lyra by the arm. "(Shut up, just shut up. You can't prove _anything_.)"

Her free hand comes up and smacks him, hard. "(I can, and I will, unless you come with me and talk this over. Anywhere but here, you honorless pig.)" Lyra spits in his face, eyes glittering with tears and rage. "(And you call yourself -dragon-.)"

Rage lights a fire in Fei's eyes, and his hand lashes out in a vicious backhand strike at the girl, with all his strength. "(Little slut! I'll _show_ you dragon!)"

Lyra's head whips to the side, and she doesn't stumble backward only because of his hold on her arm. For an instant she's afraid, remembering the flash of a knife and the pain. "(Pig!)" she bites out again, wincing with the sting of the bruise that would prolly be arising any moment.

Fei starts walking, his fingers pinching cruelly into her arm. "(You'll regret that, slut,)" he hisses at her. "(You'll regret crossing the dragon. You want to talk? Fine. We'll go somewhere and talk. Whore.)"

The cliath puts up enough of a struggle that Fei has to keep his grip tight, but she lets herself be led somewhere of his choosing. "(How many others did you use,)" she whispers angrily. "(How many other girls did you mark?)"

Fei gives her arm a painful squeeze. "(Didn't I tell you to shut up? I thought you wanted to talk somewhere _else_.)" He turns a block and starts heading southward, deeper into the pits of the city, where the cops almost never go.

Lyra cries out at the squeeze, trying to pry his hand free with her fingers. "(You can't hurt me,)" she insists shrilly, as they start taking turns into parts of the city she doesn't know well. "(I'll...I'll...)" She's at loss for a threat that won't incite him further.

"(You'll what?)" Fei's smile is hard and twitchy; he walks fast, showing no sign of caring whether she has trouble keeping up or not. Deeper into the city he leads her, down closer to the wharf district.

You go down one of the streets, south towards Bridge Street.

East Bridge Street

The power plant to the south, chain-link fence delineating it sharply from the street, takes up two blocks, from Fourth to Second. Across the street, and down along Second and to First, are tenements, small bars, and the occasional slightly-better-maintained building. Teenagers give older, grim-looking men and women nowhere near enough space for respect, jostling them and sometimes knocking them down while brushing arrogantly by. Trash in the gutters and along the sidewalks is a glum reminder, with the filth spewed from the power plant itself and the factories beyond to the south, of the poverty of the area and the lack of care given to this section of the city. The occasional shot rings out, down the street or in the tiny, darkened alleys burrowing between buildings.

"(Why did you use me like that?)" Lyra sobs, stumbling as he pulls her faster than she can walk easily. "(You knew I wasn't myself. You knew...what would Mai Lei say?)"

Southwards lie factories, warehouses, and the wharves still occasionally used for delivering and shipping goods.

Fei snorts. "(As though I care what my sister thinks.)" He tosses a frown at her.

You head southwards, into the wharf district.

Wharf Street, Industrial Sector

An untidy sprawl of warehouses and the occasional factory, particularly the power plant, spreads westwards, through several blocks around and west of the wharves. The wharves themselves are decrepit, rotting from the river inwards, though the landward ends are still maintained sporadically. Ash and dirt and smoke cover everything in a dark film that dulls color and darkens whiteness. Rainbows of small oil spills are nothing unusual in the warren of streets and alleyways; nor is the presence of rust along metal eaves. In the alleyways, huge trash bins are accompanied by oil drums, tires, and the waste of decades of industrial carelessness. The smell of smoke from the power plant overlays all; between smell and residue, all combines to lend an air of desperation to the empty collapsing warehouses and one of depression to those warehouses yet standing and in use.

Lyra tugs at her arm, sobbing in frustration and clawing at his hand. "(I thought...I thought you were a good person. I thought maybe you didn't know, or wanted to keep up your reputation in front others. But you cut me! You let them call me Fei's Bitch! How could you be such a monster?)"

Fei's destination is one of the warehouses in the wharf district -- a tall, dark, abandoned structure with rows of broken windows. He drags Lyra into an alley alongside the big building. "(You're right. I made a mistake, letting them do that.)"

A glimmer of hope on her face, and she pulls on her arm again. "(Let go, you're hurting me,)" she mumbles frantically.

Fei does let go, but only so he can propell her through a side door into the warehouse; the interior is all shadow, smelling of tar and rotting newsprint. Stacks of newspaper make ominous shapes along the walls. "(There. We can talk now.)"

Lyra rubs gingerly at the red imprints on her arm, and she takes a few steps backwards from Fei, staring up at him defiantly. "(Tell me why,)" she demands hotly, tears still spilling down her face. "(Tell me why you did all that you did, why you hurt me so.)"

There's a quiet snick of a switchblade; the small, sharp blade gleams faintly in the dim light. "(Because I wanted to. Because _you_ wanted me to.)"

Lyra pulls back another few steps, heart pounding in her ears. "(I didn't want to be branded with your name in my neck,)" she whispers, eyes on the knife. She starts to tremble. "(You, you can't know all that I've lost because of what you did. The boy I loved spurned me...-you- were my first!)"

Fei plays with the knife, weaving it back and forth between them. He's smiling now, the way a snake might smile, or a fox, lean and predatory, confident and sly. "(I'll be your last, too, little slut. Take off your shirt.)"

The cliath keeps backing up till she's hit the wall, unable to believe this was happening. It was far more frightening without that haze of alcohol to delay understanding. "(No...no...)" she whispers, shaking her head in denial. "(Why? -Why- are you so cruel? -There has to be a reason you do what you do-.)"

"(Because I'm Fei Lung,)" the young man says smugly, and while he's not old, he's old enough; he's not a child or a boy. "(Because I'm a dragon, and you're nothing but a bitch.)" He gestures with the knife. "(Now take off your shirt, or I'll do it for you.)"

There's a million words, images, sounds running through Lyra's head, making her freeze. "(Fei Lung, for your sake prove to me there's some way to save you,)" she begs. I don't want to kill him. I don't want to be touched with that knife. "(You said you were sorry they called me a bitch. Aren't...aren't you sorry for hurting me?)"

Fei takes a step toward her, the knife between them, the sharp end pointed at her face. "(I said I was sorry for letting them call you _my_ bitch. You're not _worth_ being my bitch. Last chance, Lyra. Take off your shirt, or I'll cut you.)"

"If you touch me with that blade, you'll die," are her quiet words. "If you leave now...if you don't hurt anyone like that again..." Lyra chokes back a sob. "But you will, won't you."

Does he hesitate? Even a little? Perhaps... but confidence and arrogance win out. After all, she's smaller than he is, younger, a _girl_, and unarmed. "Fuck, you're stupid," he replies in unaccented English, and lunges forward, the knifeblade flashing toward her eyes. He's good with it; he knows how to handle it.

Lyra twists her head out of the way, hands going up to catch the knife-weilding wrist, hoping to wrest the blade away from him.

The tip of the knife scores a thin, shallow line across the Gnawer's cheek -- she avoids being blinded -- and her hand closes on his wrist before he's finished with the gesture. Fei's eyes widen slightly as the girl moves faster than humanly possible, then sets into a snarl as he yanks backward, pulling the girl off-balance as his knee comes up to her stomach.

It's been too long since her last judo lesson, and as her RoP showed her, since her last fighting lesson of any kind. Lyra gets her breath knocked out of her when his knee connects with her stomach, her grip on his wrist slacking. But she doesn't let go. She tries to hook her leg around the foot he's got on the floor, so she can trip him.

If it's been a long time since Lyra's last fighting lesson, it's been almost no time at all since Fei was last in an actual _fight_. The Gnawer's rage gives her an edge and lets her get in some blows; he manages to trip him up, but he's wise to such dirty tactics, catching himself as he falls and slamming a foot into her knee. In the end, speed isn't enough, even rage-fueled speed; the ganger is soon getting the upper hand.

Lyra cries out and lets go of his wrist, falling half on top of him. Her knee hurt terribly, like something in it had twisted or broken. "(You dishonor dragon,)" she gasps through gritted teeth and pain. One hand reaches for his knife arm, the other around his throat.

Fei's wrist evades her grasp, and as she reaches for his throat, he twists around, grappling the girl. The knife's lost somewhere in all of this, going skittering off into the darkness, but he's got his arm around her throat now, and his fingers are tightly entwined into her hair at the top of her head, gripping it and pulling it back. "(I'll show you dragon. You're _dead_.)"

Instead of pulling ineffectually at his arm, Lyra slams her hand back knuckle-first as hard as she can, hoping to hit him in the eye. She chokes when she tries to speak, so instead she desperately tries to concentrate on shifting.

The Gnawer is rewarded with a yelp of pain, and then another yelp of surprise as the thin little teenage girl in his grasp grows taller and hairier, turning to some kind of brawny Neanderthal. With the Glabro's greater strength, coupled with her assailant's shock at the transformation, Lyra escapes Fei Lung's hold.

Lyra rolls away from Fei, sucking in great gulps of air, before getting to her feet shakily. She's dizzy by how different the perspective is all of the sudden, and from the adrenaline. Sobbing through a throat that's no longer quite human, she looks for the knife.

Fei's still gawping, staring at the Gnawer with stupid amazement, too stunned to even try to regain his feet.

The knife? There, at the far end of the warehouse, a glimmer of metal.

The Philocliath hulks over to the knife, stooping one long arm to pick it up in her hands. Once the switchblade is in her possession she shifts back to homid, panting. There's blood on her cheek where he cut her, and her knee throbs, although the momentary move to glabro has moved kneecap back in place. "(You claim to be a dragon,)" she says breathlessly. "(I am something else, too. I am a judge.)" Painfully, limping, Lyra walks towards Fei. Blade outwards.

Fei shakes his head, scrabbling backwards and scrambling to his feet. His eyes are still wide. "Wh... whuh..." He shakes his head, backing away from her warily, holding himself ready for her attack. "(What _are_ you?)" he demands.

"(A girl you hurt,)" is the soft reply. "(So consumed by what you did to her, she asked the gods to give her the strength to punish you. And they answered.)" Lyra screams then, no words, just a frustrated cry of anger and pain as she -throws- the knife at him.

Fei dodges to one side and the knife -- inexpertly thrown -- clatters to the floor past him. A grin slashes across his face, then; he turns and makes a dive for it.

Lyra realizes her mistake, too late, darting towards the knife as well. She lets him get hold of the blade...if she gets the opportunity she'll leap on him, knee at the back of his kneck, and leave her hands free to rip the blade away. Stupid of her, giving him back his weapon!

Fei scoops up the switchblade as the girl lands on his back. Both go to the dirty floor in a tumble; Fei rolls, slashes out with the knife, and the blade strikes a deep cut into her leg, biting into the meat of her calf. No words now, no playing; he's deadly serious now -- emphasis on the 'deadly'.

Lyra screams, for a second helpless on the floor. Growling, she curls up and uses her anger to shift again to glabro. If he stabs her now, at least it would hurt less. To hell with making him pay and understand, the wolf in her just wants him to pay.

And stab her he does, his human strength equal to her near-human strength, and the young cliath can tell that though nobility has its place and fair play is all well and good, the ganger is a better fighter than she is, and the blade cuts her again, slicing across her belly this time. He screams back at her, no words, just a primal yell of anger and fear and bloodlust.

One furred arm goes across her stomach, across the cut. The other goes straight for his throat, her fingers seeking to close around it and squeeze as tightly as she can...nails pricking into his flesh, cutting, drawing blood and pain in the same places on his neck that he cut her...

Fei chokes, fingers digging into the hand at his throat. He kicks frantically, but more sure and straight is the knife, that damned knife. The blade stabs into the inside of her arm, and he spasms, dragging it downward along to the wrist of the hand that's cutting off his air.

The Gnawer's blood spurts in liberal amounts over them both.

Breathing labored, the other arm comes away from her stomach, bloodsoaked as well. The fist shoots out and punches him in the face. Lyra grunts, struggling to keep a hold on his neck.

Fei's nose makes a satisfying crunching noise under the Gnawer's fist, and his grip on her hand slackens a bit. Still, the knife continues to dig into the blood-rich, meaty flesh of her arm, widening the wound; the blade scrapes against bone,

Shrieking, Lyra grabs for the knife, trying to dig it out of her arm. She's forced to release him, that hand in terrible pain...so, if she manages to get the knife away and in her -left- hand, she slashes out with it wildly.

Fei collapses back onto the floor, coughing and choking. His fingers tighten on the knife desperately as he feels her fingers grabbing for it, and a brief tug-of-war ensues. Lyra wins it, wresting the switchblade from the ganger and, lashing out in a panic, opens a line up along his cheek, missing his eye by a hair's width. Fei yells in pain and starts pulling himself back along the floor, kicking out wildly.

With a snarl unhuman she lunges, lurching forward to grab his shoulder with her free hand and slam him to the floor, using her body weight to pin him there. The knife flashes upwards briefly, then plunges into his chest. Again. And again. And again. Hazel eyes stare at his face all to hungrily, waiting for the sign that shows he's too weak to fight back.

The first stab hits a rib, jarring the Gnawer's arm. The next scrapes past another rib and sinks in deeper. The third, though, slides completely home. Fei struggles almost to the end, fists beating at the sides of her face and boxing at her ears, but the end isn't long after that.

His eyes start to glaze over. The light in them goes out only seconds afterward.

Lyra shoves herself away from his still-warm and wet body, lying on the floor and shifting to lupus, a blood-covered, exhausted creature. She leaves the knife there in his chest. Something in the back of her head notes that she did it without claws or teeth, that he's no Broken Veil. The knife would be reported as a gang fight. The dragon was no more.

Willing herself to stand, she gets to her paws. Too weak to utter any grand and noble words. Just shame, and sadness, and relief. It was over. That's what she tells herself, as she crawls out of the warehouse and starts the long road back to her home. It's over.