Death of a Cub

[hazlogs]

IC: Jan 23, 1997.  While the Moot was in progress...

Wharf, Pier Two(#1122RA)
The creak and sway of the rotting boards are in sync with the gentle slap of 
  water against the pylons. Only the sections of the Pier jutting far into the 
  river have fallen into disrepair. The sections nearest the bank are still is 
  fair condition as some commerce still occurs by way of the river. However, 
  many goods that were once shipped via the waterway are now shipped overland 
  which is cheaper and faster. The wharf stands as testament to an older time, 
  when the River was a lifeline for the city.
Beyond the warehouses lining the banks to the west, the black asphalt strip of 
  First Street can be seen.
Contents:
Ripley
Bill(#2507PJc)
Obvious exits:
First Street  

Bill's Desc:
Bill looks to be in his early teens, just hitting the puberty and pimples 
  stage. Blonde hair is kept in an erratic and short trim with the exception 
  of a foot-long rat tail in the back. His eyes are a fair blue, contrasting 
  sharply with his rough and calloused freckled skin. His ears, unlike most 
  city youth, are unpierced.
Insofar as fashion goes, his clothes look, well, mismatched. He's wearing a 
  pair of purple pants that are far too long and baggy. A ragged T-shirt is 
  covered by a lime-green polyester sportsuit.

Ripley's Desc:
The man before you could be a model for any men's fashion magazine. His short 
  red hair, dazzling blue eyes and perfect smile, coupled with a self-assured 
  grace in every movement he makes sends out an aura of competence but not 
  necessarily likability.
He currently wears new khaki chino trousers and an expensive-looking button-up 
  shirt. Around his shoulders and neck, a sweater is loosely tied, and his 
  feet are clad in shiny brown loafers. A silver Rolex is worn on his left 
  wrist, which he occasionally glances at, as if waiting impatiently for 
  something to happen or someone to arrive.

Hazmat's Desc:
A tall, gangly sort of girl in her late teens, just under six feet tall and 
  somewhat skinny. Pale, pale hair hangs in lank strings about her face and 
  shoulders, somewhat greasy. Her features are ordinary enough, too narrow to 
  be considered really attractive, and her nose is crooked. Grey eyes with a 
  constantly blood-shot appearance watch the world with quizzical 
  intelligence, and her long-fingered hands seem rarely still.
Her clothes are dirty and secondhand; the plain grey sweatshirt is worn to 
  holes at both elbows, and the faded blue jeans are blackened at the knees. 
  The clothes fit tolerably well, but not perfectly, having been made to fit 
  someone of her height but larger mass. The off-white sneakers are brandless, 
  and the battered brown trenchcoat is rather too big for her. Her pockets 
  bulge with assorted junk. 

Bill is seated on a crate outside of the Wharf Rat's usual hangout. He's got a 
  small pocketknife and is whittling on a cheap piece of wood. Judging from 
  the pile of slivers piling up on the ground, he's been here a while. The 
  wood doesn't appear to be taking any particular shape.
Hazmat moves in near-silence, Ragabash gifts masking her scent even as they 
  make her difficult to notice to those not looking right at her and for her. 
  Hands in pockets, she scans the otherwise empty wharf with a faint frown, 
  then moves up behind Bill.
Ripley stands in a shadow, just within sight of the ragabash as she makes her 
  approch, if she were to look back. He does his best to duck into a shadow, 
  standing still and observing silently.
Bill seems unaware of Hazmat's approach or Ripley's existence, so fixed on 
  whittling he is. The cheap piece of wood is lovingly turned a few degrees so 
  the unattended side can be whittled upon.
Hazmat's wiry body tightens slightly, and then _moves_, silent and swift as 
  any predator, switchblade fleshing out of her pocket as she grabs the boy by 
  his collar and pulls him off his seat. In an instant, he's down, with sharp, 
  cold steel at his throat.
Bill drops both wood and pocketknife upon impact, managing an 'Ooof!' that 
  echoes off the cheap steel of the deserted warehouses at Hazmat's impact and 
  upon impact with the ground. Wide-eyed, he opens his mouth to complain about 
  the treatment, but the sharp feeling at his throat cuts off the response 
  with a careful swallow.
Ripley puts his hands in his coat pockets, watching with the same cold 
  detachment he would if he were watching a fellow surgeon perform a 
  procedure. The only thing that betrays any emotion is the licking of his 
  lips in anticipation of the kill.
Hazmat straddles the backwoods boy, keeping the switchblade at his soft throat 
  as she gazes, a moment, into his eyes. Quietly: "Yuh scared?"
Bill's expression makes the question redundant. Very slowly, slower than 
  molasses, he moves his head in an affirmative, careful not to accidently 
  have additional pressure added to the knife's blade.
Ripley continues to wait, watching. His hands move a little in his pockets as 
  he watches, and a little smile crosses his face.
Hazmat bares her teeth; it's not a grin, nowhere near a grin. "Yah," she says. 
  "An' now --" Her hand moves, slashing open throat and jugular with swift 
  professionalism. "Yuh dead."
Ripley steps out of the shadows at about that time, moving swiftly to look the 
  boy in the eyes as his life drains from him. "Dogboy?" he asks Hazmat.
Bill's eyes manage to bug out even farther as the steel parts through flesh. 
  Blood ejaculates from the wound with the fading pulse of his heart, 
  accompanied by a raspy gurgling. Now, Bill struggles for life, too late to 
  save it. Then, the brief bout of thrashing ends forever.
Hazmat's head comes up, the bloodshot eyes flashing anger until she recognizes 
  Ripley. "Nah. Dogboy woulda shifted, 'r frenzied, 'r somethin'." Ignoring 
  the spattered blood, much of which stains her hands now, she pulls the 
  switchblade from the boy's throat and works at slicing off the scalp.
Ripley watches Hazmat do her thing. "I'm hungry. When you're done, perhaps we 
  could go somewhere and talk... about things. About Becca, in particular, and 
  some other things in general. I'll pick up the bill."
Hazmat glances up again, eyebrows raised, obviously interested. She flashes 
  the other Dancer a smile. "Oh-kay. Fuhst I wanna spread th' corpse 'round. 
  This is Wharf Rat's territory, I wanna mess it up, see?" She pulls the scalp 
  free of its skull, raggedly, wasting no time.
Ripley leans against a wall, finally taking his hands from his pockets. In 
  them are a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He fires one up, watching 
  casually. "Go at it, kid. Work up an appetite."
Hazmat flashes Ripley another Haz-grin and goes back to work on the corpse, 
  using her knife rather than her claws. Poor ol' dead Bill's body gets 
  thoroughly mutilated, gutted, disembowled, bits spread out more or less 
  randomly. Finally, Hazmat cleans her knife off on the boy's shirt-tail and 
  pockets it. Her own clothes and face are still rather bloody, but she seems 
  relaxed, happy, pleased with herself.
Hazmat, in afterthought, pockets the scalp, rat-tail and all.
Ripley, looking Hazmat over, comes to a decision: "We'll order take-out." He 
  tosses his half-smoked cigarette into the remains of the corpse and starts 
  out away from the wharf.
Hazmat trots off after Ripley, tunelessly humming "The Minstrel Boy" under her 
  breath and not giving poor ol' dead Bill a backward glance.