The Rat and the Mage

[hazlogs]

Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 63 degrees Fahrenheit (17 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the southwest at 10 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.04 and rising, and the relative humidity is 62 percent. The dewpoint is 50 degrees Fahrenheit (10 degrees Celsius.)

It is currently 15:19 Pacific Time on Sat Jun 29 2002.

Currently the moon is in the waning Gibbous Moon phase (71% full).

You stride over to the grassy mound and after skirting an iron bench, reach the white marble fountain.

Osprey Circle Fountain

Situated in the center of the grassy mound is a white marble fountain. The smooth stone of the fountain sparkles and sends off bright shafts of light whenever a stray beam bounces of its shiny surface. Perched at the top of the fountain is a soaring osprey. Directly below the osprey, gentle jets of water spurt up into the air, making it seem like the spray is propelling the osprey upwards toward the sky. White marble, about a foot wide, rings the center of the fountain, allowing the formation of a watery basin. Iron benches sit slightly back from the fountain.

The asphalt roadway of Osprey Circle rings the grassy mound.

Contents:
Nicodemus
chalk drawing(#3481d)
Flower Bed

Obvious exits:
South

Nicodemus is slouching listlessly on one of the benches surrounding the fountain in the central area of the Historic Distric. Sunday traffic has yet to pick up, seeing as it's Saturday late in the afternoon. The night life has yet to crawl out of their beds, yet Nicodemus is up, about, and even in the sunlight--such as it can be called in the Northwest.

J.C. pads along, cheap plastic flip-flops slapping against the concrete, the short bald chick now in less wintery (but still grubby and dumpstery) clothing. She's got a thin library book tucked under one sweat-stained armpit.

It might be preternatural awareness, blind luck, keen and alert senses, or maybe the wind blowing from the right (or possibly wrong direction); whatever the cause, Nicodemus turns his head to look around. His eyes alight on a few people, of which J.C. seems to be one of the chosen few, and then returns to his professional grade loitering.

J.C. stops by a trash can and peers in, but there's nothing interesting on the surface and apparantly she's not hunting moldy Whoppers today. Wiping her nose on a bare arm, she wanders away, and in looking around spots the goth; a moment later she recognizes him and grins cheerfully, giving a wave.

Nicodemus hesitates momentarily, then returns the briefest of nods--a carefully gauged nod meant to be polite enough as a response, but not so polite as to invite further discourse with the homeless bum.

Unfortunately, J.C. seems to be one of those people who doesn't quite get the little 'go away' signals that normal people use and understand as a matter of course. So she wanders over with her book and her runny nose and bloodshot eyes and yellowish, crooked-toothed grin. "Hey, is you again. From the library. 'N the park."

"Yeah," the goth says, looking back towards the fountain. He's apparently the talkative sort.

J.C. leans against the other end of Nick's bench, shifting the library book to her other arm so she can scratch a reddish, flaking patch. The title, glimpsed, is _Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH_. "So, what's your name, anyways?"

"Nicodemus," the goth says, not looking towards you still and thus ignorant of the book and its title. He begins to fish about inside his jacket for a cigarette.

"Mine's Jenny," says the homeless chick. "My friends call me J.C."

It has a name now, and has become harder to ignore. Nicodemus extracts a cigarette from the pack and puts it to his lips as he looks over at you. "Jenny's a nice name," he comments, then follows up with, "Want one?" The pack of clove cigarettes is still in his hand.

J.C. says, "Sure!" and reaches for one, grinning broadly. "Hey, these are th' hip-slick-'n-chic type, ain't they?"

Nicodemus is quicker on the draw and hands one over to you, slender fingers touching only one end to avoid potential contamination. "More or less," the goth agrees as he returns the pack to a pocket and begins fishing for his zippo.

J.C. turns her head aside, as Nick goes for his lighter, and lets out a wet, hacking cough. Then she grimaces and spits out a greenish glob of saliva and snot. "'Scuse me," she says, turning back and wiping her mouth on her free arm.

Nicodemus leans ever so slightly further away from J.C. after the display. "You, uh, sick or something?" A hand withdraws a gold-plated zippo from a pocket and flicks the flame on. "TRUST NO ONE" is engraved on the side.

"Allergies," Jenny answers, quickly, like she's been asked it many many times before. One shoulder hitches up in a shrug. "It ain't contagious 'r nothin'. 'Least, that's what the, ya know, the clinic doctor said." She sticks the clove cigarette in her mouth.

Nicodemus doesn't look entirely convinced, but neither entirely in doubt. A deft drag on the cigarette and it's lit. "They didn't prescribe an aspirator or anything?" He extends an arm out--way out--so you can light your cigarette from the zippo.

J.C. leans forward to light the clove cigarette. She gives it a few puffs, coughs, then flumps down onto her end of the bench, dropping the book between them. "Nah... I c'n breathe okay, I just get, ya know, hacky. Some days it's better'n others. I mean, winter? Winter /sucks/." She scratches at the rash on her arm again. It looks raw, oozy.

Nicodemus snaps the lighter closed with practiced ease as his hand withdraws from J.C.'s proximity. "I can imagine," says the goth who's probably only spent the night outside on, at best, a cub scout camping trip well over a decade ago. "You ought to get that checked out, too." He motions towards the rash, as if perhaps J.C. hadn't noticed it yet.

J.C. pauses, looks down at the rash, then grins guiltily around her cigarette -- which she's puffing more than really inhaling, pure novice, yes indeed -- and folds her arms across her chest. "Yeah, probably. So, what's it ya do anyways?"

"Harrass innocent people, ruin people's fun, shoot people for thrills, and beat on minorities with a club," Nicodemus replies with a casual air as he slumps back into the bench, taking a long drag from the cigarette afterwards.

J.C. blinks owlishly, then tips her head to one side. A hand strays up to scratch at her neck. "Ya must be very unpopular."

Nicodemus lifts a shoulder. "It's a living, I guess." A spark comes to life in the goth's eyes and he grows a bit distant as memory kicks in. "Car chases," he almost murmurs in a near-reverant tone. "Those are the best part."

J.C. perks a little bit herself. "Oh, like on the, the, the picture thingy?"

Nicodemus is jarred out of his transient daydream. "Picture thingy?"

J.C. makes a rectangular shape in the air and gestures a lot. "You know, big building, dark rooms, sticky floors, real loud?"

Nicodemus looks blank for a few seconds before he suggests, "Movie theatre?" Surely that's not the word she was looking for.

J.C. pauses a moment, puffing on the cigarette, then nods. "Yeah... movie theatre."

Nicodemus looks at you for a bit in disbelief, then resumes his slouch and examines the fountain's spray and ever changing patterns. "Movie theatre," he repeats quietly. "Don't get out much, do you?"

J.C. shrugs. "Kinda sheltered upbringing, yeah." She turns her head to let out another of those wet-sounding coughs, then continues, now holding the clove cig between two fingers and examining it with fascination. Especially the burny end. "Was glad t'get out."

Nicodemus flicks ash from the end of his cigarette onto the ground and lets it dangle listlessly between two fingers. "I can imagine. Runaway?" he inquires, now officially prying.

J.C. cocks a bloodshot eye at you. "Hey. I'm one-score 'n one. Ya ain't a runaway at /that/ old, are ya?"

Nicodemus exhales sharply in amusement. "I meant originally."

J.C. crinkles her nose up, then quirks a bit of a grin. "Same. Only lef', like, um..." She counts on her fingers. "Six months ago."

Nicodemus returns the clove cigarette to his lips and dwells on the response for quite a while. "I can't imagine living under that kind of repression for twenty years. I'd have been gone by the time I was twelve."

J.C. shrugs. "It was okay. I mean... I didn't really know much different. I didn't /like/ it, but it was, like, /normal/." She puffs on the cigarette a moment. "I even got Mama's... uh, mom's blessin' to leave. I still, um, call her and stuff. But, I dunno, I don't wanna go back or anything."

"I could see that," Nicodemus says before leaning forward to flick ash between his boots and onto the ground. "Just didn't know any better and that life was way different once you poke your head out of the hole its been down in so long. Religious nutballs?"

J.C. hesitates a moment, and then grins crookedly, displaying those discolored, prominent front teeth. "Yeah. Real, um, ya know, the end-of-the-world types."

Nicodemus doesn't seem overly surprised. "Lots of that going around recently." He drops the remains of the cigarette to the ground near his feet. "End of the millineum and all. Happens every hundred years or so. Mayan calendar ends in 2012, so we'll get another dose of it in ten more years." A boot cuts short the cigarette's remaining spark of life.

"Two thousand 'n twelve?" J.C. pauses in playing with the cigarette to wipe at her nose. "'N we're, hmnh, two thousand 'n two. Huh." She shrugs, flicking ash onto the ground and watching it sift downwards. "Maybe Mayan ran outta numbers."

Nicodemus leans back into the bench. "That or they ran out of rock to chisel it on. Or make it aesthetically pleasing. Or," he adds as he thinks up a new one, "they made calanders like we make yearly ones. Throw them out when its twenty-twelve and go buy a new one. Except they all died out before they could make them."

"Ya know what I think sometimes?" says Jenny.

Nicodemus glances back at you, suddenly recalling that he's talking to an allergy-ridden destitute. After a moment's hesitation, he bites. "No, what?"

J.C. drops the cigarette on the ground and steps on it the way she'd seen you do. "Bad shit might happen. Prob'bly gonna happen. But there ain't no end of the world. World's too fuckin' big, yeah?"

Nicodemus seems to think about that for a bit in silence. When he speaks, some half-minute later, he offers, "It won't end. It will change--faster or slower--but is not likely to end. The people that claim it will end," the goth surmises, "are the ones who are afraid of change and try to prevent change from happening. Trying to hold back the natural entropic process is like a gnat trying to hold back a freight train. You can get out of it's way, you can hitch a ride, or you can be a splat on the windshield glass."

J.C. grins broadly at the analogy, and the sheer warmth of the expression, unrestrained, lighting up her whole pasty, unpretty face, makes her almost... well, not attractive exactly. Never attractive. There's definitely something 'there', though. "I like that. I like that a lot."

Nicodemus scratches along the lower side of his jawbone. "Well, it was... interesting talking with you, Jenny. But I've got to get to work." The goth gets up with a subdued grunt of effort, then lifts a few finger in a lazy farewell wave. "Take care. Stay away from freight trains."

J.C. waves back, still grinning. "You, too, Nicodemus. See ya 'round."