"What are you saying? That you came back here to die?"

[hazlogs]

Location: Harbor Park

(Scratch)
Cross Peter O'Toole with Alice Cooper. Scratch is about six feet tall, broad-shouldered, and leanly muscular in a way that suggests he was quite a scrapper in his youth, and the occasional sharp, predatory glint in his blue eyes hints that those scrapping days are not quite over. It matters little that the man has recently seen the start of his sixth decade, that his face is lined, that his hair hangs limp and gray past his shoulders, or that he walks with a cane; one glower is enough to make most mortals blench. An old wolf is a wolf nonetheless.

A tattered jean jacket (really nothing more than an ambitious collection of threads) hangs over a smudged white T-shirt; both are so full of holes that the occasional splotch of a tattoo is readily visible through them. Likewise, the holes in his jeans are threatening to turn his pants into shorts and give yet another glimpse of ink (a glowering skull etched onto one knee). Battered black combat boots, real shitkickers, are on his feet. Scratch's long hair hangs loose around his shoulders, but his face is clean-shaven.

The cane he leans upon -- there seems to be something wrong with his left hip -- is black and looks quite sturdy, like it could deliver a good smack upside the head as well as provide support for its master.

Scratch peers around, rubbing a weathered hand the color of old sap along his head. "It's been a long time," he mutters. "A long time."

Salem fishes around for a cigarette. "You're not kidding."

Scratch snorts, baring his teeth somewhere between a smile and a grimace. "The hell are you, kid?"

(Salem)
This gawky white kid is a few inches over five and a half feet tall and looks to be around fifteen or sixteen years old. His straight black hair is medium-length and shaggy; he's probably past due for a haircut. He's got a thin face with a beaky nose, thick eyebrows, and dark brown eyes. He's not a bad-looking kid, quite the opposite, but there's still something about him that makes most normal people uneasy, a feeling of potential violence, of predatory intensity.

Rumpled blue jeans, battered sneakers, and black t-shirts are his usual attire, along with a black hoodie for the colder weather and a black denim jacket over that.

The kid grimaces. He finds his cigarettes and lighter, gets one out and lights up with the kind of unthinking ease that only comes from a decades-long habit. "It's Jack. Long story. Short version is, don't fuck with the Fae." He takes a long drag and exhales.

Scratch blinks. He leans in close, one eye peering at this...teenager...through a tangled curtain off gray hair. Then the eye widens. "Holee--" He snaps back upright, inhaling sharply. Blinks. "I mean.../damn/, son." He opens his mouth to say more, then shuts it with a shake of his head.

Salem grins crookedly. "Happened about three years ago. Three?" He squints a little, thinking. "Three, I think. Before that..." He snorts, takes another drag. "Believe me, I have been living in that 'interesting times' shit. How're you?"

Scratch says "Old enough to be your fuckin' grandfather!" His tone is shock with a dash of amusement. "I mean...hell, do the fae work on legs?"

"From what I understand," Salem says, "the fae can do whatever they goddamn well please, and will probably do whatever you don't actually want. This," he gestures at himself with his cigarette hand, "was because a tribemate of ours wanted to learn a Fianna Gift, so he petitioned Stag, and I went along because, hell, he's a friend and he's good for Rina. Stag wants to test us, we follow him to whatever, and don't ask me what the hell happened after because next I was back in the Realm practically pre-pub-fucking-escent. The friend didn't show up for like a month later and had full-on amnesia for a while." He takes another drag. "But he learned the Gift. So that's something, I guess."

"That's something," Scratch echoes. He snaps his fingers at Salem in a distracted way. "Hook me up with a
"...with a cig, kid. God knows I could use one." He rubs his face. "How you even manage to buy those? Or do you steal them? Little fuckin' delinquent." Scratch smiles, the gleam has relit in his eyes.

Salem tosses the pack and lighter over to the old codger. "Mouse -- that's our current tribe elder -- keeps a supply. She smokes even more than I do." Which is saying something. "Not that I'm above a little five-finger discount, but shoplifting mostly fucks over the poor bastards working retail, so... only in emergencies."

Scratch lights the cigarette and takes a deep drag. His cough is sudden as it is loud. He curses as the cig goes flying out of his mouth. One ropey arm makes a grab for it but his speed is all wrong, far too slow for Scratch. The cig tumbles to the ground the same instant as the old man does. He spits out a few more choice epitaphs.

Salem, alarmed, spits out a swearword in Serbian and lunges, making a grab for the old Walker's arm, his own cig tumbling to the grass.

"Aw hell, let's not start a fire," Scratch gasps, getting the coughing under control. He seems to be breathing steady, but he doesn't try to get up. "Stamp those things out, kid, then help gramps to that damn bench."

Salem does so, extinguishing both cigs under a black sneaker and then helping Scratch to a bench. "Believe me, I know how you feel," he says, ruefully.

Scratch gasps in pain, and it's obvious he's trying not to show it. "Nah, don't think you do." He lets Salem ease him down onto the bench. "Feels like my bones are on fire, see. All the time now. Shit like that pratfall keeps happening. Strength is...all over the damn place. But mostly heading into the crapper." He sucks in a breath and squints at the water reflecting in the sun. "You? You're dealing with waiting for your balls to drop again." He laughs, and it almost seems normal.

Salem grimaces at this, then lets the irritation and worry go (at least a little bit) and chuckles. "All that hard living's catching up with you, old man."

"Salem..." Scratch looks over at his cane, lying on the bricks. He doesn't bother to straighten up. "I was trying real hard to look like my old self in Saint Claire. Been able to fake it when I needed to...while I made my way north." He breathes in through his nose, and now it's obvious he's hurting. "Our pack leader always used to say, 'You're not really fucked until you can't fake it no more.'" He turns to Salem. "So glad I found you _compadre_. I ain't got shit left in the tank. Can't fake it no more. This...shit...is eating me alive."

Salem listens, dead serious, dark brown eyes intent, brow furrowed. "What are you saying? That you came back here to die?"

Scratch takes a few deep breaths, as if gathering himself. "Dunno if this is a farewell tour or a Hail Mary," he says finally. Then he closes his eyes. As he speaks, his head slumps down, like he's wandering a long road of memory. "Been tearing the hell out of the Wyrm's asshole in Mexico, you know. All the monsters decide to come outta the damn woodwork--practically out in the open. Think they own that dusty little patch of Gaia. Cuts both ways, though. If the monsters push out the people, then the veil doesn't mean /shit/. I've made a lot of those nasties regret their damn arrogance, kid. You woulda been proud. Then I ran into Cesar the dipshit mage."

Salem starts to smile -- just a tug at one corner of his mouth -- at Scratch's talk, though that fades at the last bit. "What'd he do?"

Scratch says "A bunch a Black Spiral _banditos_ roped in Cesar with their fuckery, and convinced the dipshit to work for them. They had a whole compound just working away, a regular nightmare factory nestled in the heart of cartel country--not that even those fuckers dared to come close." He shook his head, greasy locks rushing back and forth across his face. "I got sloppy. Hell, I may have been drunk. They captured me. And Cesar the dipshit mage doses me with some shit he calls..." Scratch tries some Spanish, but it's garbled. "...aw hell, something like 'silver truth' in _gringo_. Then they toss me in their 'recreation pit' and see how long this magical poison will take to kill me."

And all Salem can say to this is, "/Shit./"

Scratch smirks. "Well nothing kills me quick. And after awhile they got /pissed/. So they sic'd some of their playthings on me." He lolls his head over to look at the young teen. "Zombies, kid. Motherfucking /zombies/. Like outta the movies. What a world. Anyway, they weren't infectious, at least not to an old werewolf like me. So I killed them. Then I killed some brain-washed _federales_ they dumped in. And see, now I was getting /pissed/. I was angry at them, myself, the whole damn world. I figured I was done. So I decided they were too. I. Went. Bezerk. Held nothing back." He laughs, but cuts it off before a new cough can start. "I ripped down a section of catwalk, jumped up, and swiped the head right off of ol' Cesar the dipshit mage. Took down a few pitiful specimens posing as dancers, and the rest scattered." Scratch turns to look back at his cane. With a painful breath, he straightens, then stands with a groan. "I ran off into the desert to die. Only, I guess I don't die so easy." Scratch limps--one painful step at a time--over to his cane. With glacial slowness he bends down and picks it up. "Can't...believe...I made it back." He turns his eye on Salem. Bright again, but now it's clear that the gleam is fever, or the edge of madness. "Know any mages, kid? 'Cause I'm all outta miracles, and Cesar the dipshit mage is about to punch my ticket from beyond the grave."