Nick's Miscalculation

[hazlogs]

It is currently 10:25 Pacific Time on Mon Dec 1 2014.

Currently in Saint Claire, it's a sunny day. The temperature is 22 degrees Fahrenheit (-5 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The barometric pressure reading is 30.15 and rising, and the relative humidity is 92 percent. The dewpoint is 20 degrees Fahrenheit (-6 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (63% full).

Harbor Park -- The Meadow(#194RJ)

One of the last bastions of green left in the city, mottled and withered grass and weeds covers the earth like a badly stained carpet, with the construction work turning what is left into just bare dirt. The vegetation seems marginally healthier the further it is from the river and much healthier towards the central area of the park around the fountain. Construction work is ongoing here: a raised earthen berm about five feet tall is being built all around the park perimeter, with two breaks each at the Bridge Street entrance and the First Street end. Wooden posts are being erected at regular intervals all along the earthen wall, while tasteful iron gates and fences are being added at the entrances. Overpowering the scent of living vegetation are the exhaust fumes from a busy street to the west and an unpleasant stench from the Columbia River to the east. From the street view or river view, the park is now isolated, as if it existed apart from the city. People in tall buildings have an excellent view of any goings-ons for now, though. In the center of the park, a small glade of six tall trees and a flower bed surrounds the fountain.

The murky waters of the Columbia River flow swiftly along the east side of the park. Bracketing the park to the west is First Street and the city of St. Claire.

Monday. Below freezing temperatures. School in session. Worker drones buzzing away in their warm office hives. The park is unsurprisingly deserted, the bums having departed for the shelter provided by alleyways and metal barrels of burning trash. It's not totally deserted, though. One overweight man in a jogging suit is wheezing his way around the perimeter of the park, and Nick is standing on a swing--feet on the plastic seat and both gloved hands gripping the ancient, thick chains that support the seat. He's swinging with mild vigor, too. Coat alternately flapping behind him on the forward-swing and then folding hard against him on the back-swing.

Not all of the bums seem to have evacuated either, at least if one counts Ghost among them. She's looking the part about as much as she ever does today, clearly wearing every layer of her all-too familiar clothes, including faded baseball cap with the hood of her jacket pulled up over it (and her ears), and she still looks distinctly cold. She's already headed toward the swing set; presumably she spotted Nick from the street. One hand, clad in a self-made fingerless glove, lifts as she draws near. The other hand is clutching a steaming styrofoam cup that lacks the expected coffee smell. Probably hot chocolate.

Nicodemus is standing on a swing's seat, gloved hands on the chains, swinging just below the point where bravery might start to come into play for Joe Human. As Ghost approaches, he notices her and nods his head once, not ceasing his current activity. "Ghost. Haven't seen you in a while. Likely because I've not been out this way anytime recently," he observes in advance. "All quiet on the western front, I assume, for the park?"

Ghost shakes her head ever so slightly as she gets close enough for casual conversation. "Been laying low," she says. "Took a trip out to Yakima, but it's all shit from here to the coast. Inland's not going to be uh, be much better soon, I bet. You?" The hot chocolate cup she now clutches in both hands, close to her chest.

Fitz slouches an erratic path into the park, hands stuffed into the pockets of a big puffy shiny winter jacket, bright blue and brand new by the look of it. Doesn't at all suit the unwashed, disreputable-looking man inside it, who's hatless and ear-red and lank-hair and stubbly and has a cheap-looking backpack hanging off his shoulders by sagging straps. A scuffed pair of sunglasses cover his eyes; there's a big scratch on the right lens.

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 says "I haven't been down to Yakima in a long while. Back when I was in college. Lending a hand to the anthropology department on a dig long ago." His swinging loses momentum as the weight of his memories slows him down momentarily. "So you got in and out of Yakima without much trouble? Don't suppose you went to Hanford, I'm guessing."

This thin, wiry, short (5'6"), and moderately attractive man is probably in his early 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 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 much of his body language and movements--perhaps intentionally.

He has a 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.

"Hell no," Ghost says with feeling, if no greater volume. "Val's video was enough of that place for me. But you can practically feel it, can't you? It's too close as it is." She turns her head just enough to briefly scrutinize the newcomer before looking back and taking a small sip of her hot chocolate.

This is a young woman of average height or a little above, maybe 5'6 or 5'7, who looks to be somewhere in her early twenties in age. She has olive skin, shoulder length dark brown hair that's almost always pulled back into a simple, tight ponytail, and even darker brown eyes that look black from any distance when they aren't catching the light. She is neither ugly nor particularly pretty, and there's a certain haggardness to her features, a sharpness defined less by genetics and more by hard living. Her build is athletic, of a sort; not the sort you see on track fields, but the sort you find among young soldiers in distant countries, or refugees that are used to moving at a moment's notice and from which reality demands a certain sort of fitness or death.

Her clothing isn't ragged, but it does tend to be rather frayed around the edges. She wears faded jeans and old but sturdy sneakers with decent treads, a variety of cheap shirts, a long sleeved button-up shirt when the wind is up, and oftentimes has a light jacket tied about her waist, as if she wanted to be prepared just in case. Her hands are well calloused, both on the palm, fingertips, and knuckles. Oftentimes she wears a very well used pair of fingerless gloves, though often these appear to have been made fingerless after the fact.

The pair of conversationalists by the swings can easily see Fitz scanning the park, then angling to intersect with the struggling and overweight jogger. He falls in step with the heavier man easily, the backpack bouncing and jouncing. Nick and Ghost are too far away to hear the conversation, but the jogger doesn't look at all happy with his new running companion, and Fitz is smirking in a very unkind way as he talks.

"Nuke from orbit almost seems like a good idea with Hanford. " Nick pulls one chain with his right arm and pushes with his left, causing the swing to yaw dangerously back and forth while he continues swinging. "Except the black ooze stuff would eat that shit right up, and then there'd be an even bigger problem to deal with." Frustration is clearly growing. "It's like no one can do anything but just watch and wait for the inevitable."

"I thought nukes were part of the problem," Ghost quips. She doesn't seem bothered to be talking to a swinging kinfolk, though she does appear to be sparing glances toward the jogger-and-stranger interaction. "People are fortifying here then? I guess there are worse ideas. Your uh, local protests don't seem to be moving very fast, like they did in other places."

The jogger tries going faster to shake his new friend, but Fitz matches the fat man's pace and then exceeds it, zigging in front of the other man, talking all the while. The jogger stops, huffing, face red, angry. Probably telling Fitz to leave him the hell alone. Fitz doesn't. Fitz jabs the jogger in the chest with a finger and says something that makes the other man clench his fists.

Nicodemus stops twisting the swing from side to side as he rocks forwards and backwards. "Radiation exists. You can shield against it, but you can't unradiate with any known material. But could there be an anti-radiation? The opposite of irradiation?" The swing reaches its forward apex and Nick simply steps off, drops vertically about six feet, and lands gracefully on the ground without missing a beat. "Like anti-gravity. Is it antigravity or just gravity going in the opposite direction?" he rambles.

Ghost seems to be paying more attention to the developing situation now, though she still answers Nick even when looking toward the other two. "Is this the kind of thing you think about a lot?"

Fitz seems to be inviting the fat man to hit him; he's opening the shiny blue puffy winter coat to bare a stained t-shirt and holding his arms out. When that doesn't work, he thrusts out his chin and taps it with a finger invitingly. And still talking while the fat man looks angry and flustered. Finally, the fat man turns away abruptly, tries to jog off -- and Fitz lunges forward and shoves him from behind, hard, knocking him to the ground.

Nick's mind must be racing because it takes a moment to register that the harrassment he'd only been paying very casual attention to has escalated into a push-fest. "Not really," Nick replies to Ghost, flippantly dismissing whatever it was he was babbling about enthusiastically just seconds ago. "Well that's not very civil behavior," he observes, scrutinizing Fitz and the pudgy jogger's altercation to see if it escalates further.

Ghost's expression is a tense sort of frown now. "I haven't seen him before," she says; whether she means the jogger or Fitz is up for interpretation, but given the circumstances, it's probably the latter. "I stay out of the shelters though."

Fitz is just audible now, yelling at the downed man. "Get up! Are you just going to lie there?! Huh?! Lie there and take it?! Get up!" Fitz waves his arms in sweeping gestures, punctuating his demands that the fat man rise. Said fat man doesn't seem particularly willing, though he's rolled over to stare fearfully up at Fitz the way one generally does at aggressive unpredictable assholes.

Nicodemus purses his lips slightly, opens and closes his fingers a couple times, casts a sidelong look towards Ghost, who's holding a cup of hot chocolate, and then towards the fountain's pool beyond. He then looks from fountain to Fitz, narrows his eyes a little in focus, and then clasps his left hand into his right hand. Fitz suddenly finds about a half cup's worth of ice water in his crotch--as if he just peed himself. Because that's what it certainly looks like.

Ghost returns that sidelong look with a faint, questioning wrinkle of her forehead. The wrinkle doesn't go away when she jerks her head back toward the altercation, and Fitz especially. One of her own hands curls into a slight fist, but she's staying put just now.

It's hard to say whether Fitz or his victim actually has a chance to register the pee-like wetness that appears in the crotch of the battered jeans because the shock of ice-cold water results in an explosion of fur and claws and teeth. The jogger doesn't even have time to scream before the werewolf falls on him, clawing and biting.

This is a scruffy and rabid-looking werewolf, black-furred and unkempt, a full nine feet of trouble brewing. He's got a slouchy, defensive-aggressive manner about him -- ears usually laid back, tail low, lips stretched in a toothy, submissive 'grin' when he snarls. His muddy yellow eyes are watchful, his growl low-pitched and rough.

His fur grows a little weird on his upper back; close examination would reveal scarring there, but the pelt's so thick in that spot that it's hard to see it from a distance.

Nicodemus takes a step backwards--even though he's some distance away--as suddenly Fitz explodes into a particularly ugly, black-furred crinos. Where most people might be taken off guard, Nick isn't. "Oh, fuck," he breathes as he looks around for... something. Other attackers? A hot dog vendor? The police? Whatever it is, it's probably going to be too late to help out the obese jogger.

The 'something' that he sees is probably not terribly reassuring, because there's a black furred monstrosity right next to him and moving before the hot chocolate even hits the ground. The second crinos lunges at top, Rage-fueled speed toward Fitz. Her aim is to knock or drag him off, but even she probably isn't fast enough to save his victim.

The initial impression of this creature is a portrait of the enemy. Her fur is a dingy black and grey, and her ears are a little too long for a wolf, the fur on them a little too short and fine in comparison to the rest of her head. Small thin folds of bare grey skin stretch noticeably from the outside of her elbows and back toward her body, and again from the back of her legs to her tail; the patagia is minor enough and flexible enough to avoid restricting movement, but impossible to mistake for anything else. Her eyes seem entirely black except when they widen enough to show what little white exists, dark unpleasant pools that do nothing to soften her overall image.

She's wiry for a werewolf, but her musculature is well defined. Too well defined. Her fur and skin seem to pull unnaturally over her frame when she engages in any real movement, a sensation more subconscious than not, and a close study reveals patterns in what can be seen of her muscles that are a little too perfect, a little too precise. Her teeth and claws gleam brilliantly metallic and deadly sharp, clearly unnatural to any observer. She carries herself in a way that suggests she's intimately familiar with her warform and entirely comfortable using it.

The jogger is nothing but bloody meat and bone in what was a really good exercise outfit, all his efforts at self-improvement gone to nothing. Lightly draped in the ragged remains of his bright blue puffy coat, the black-furred werewolf is in the process of biting down on his victim's head when Ghost makes contact, and he immediately turns his mindless ire on the cyber-were, clawing and biting madly, without strategy or finesse.

Nicodemus does what any sane human would do at this point: he turns and runs. Of course, he runs for cover instead of just keeping on running until hi lungs want to explode. That'd be what a sane human would do in this sort of a situation. Nick, who is clearly not sane, runs for the cover of the not too distant fountain at the heart of the glade, putting the very heavy object between him and the furred and clawed chaos erupting elsewhere in the park. He moves swiftly, swearing with a hushed "shit!" every fourth step, until he's concealed.

Black fur meets black and grey, and there's a second spray of crimson as the first werewolf's claws score against the second's chest and face. The grey in her fur turns dull silver, metallic, and the sound of the hitting claws goes from squishy flesh to grating against steel, though they're still clearly doing damage. Ghost-in-the-Machine may not be frenzying, but her temper is pretty clear as she reaches forward in an attempt to seize Fitz's head and fling him bodily toward the river bank.

Ghost's throw is mighty; the scruffy black werewolf literally goes tumbling, over and over, arms flailing in a way that'd be more comical if not for the circumstances. He flies over the edge of the bank and lands in the cold, dirty river water with a splash.

As Ghost chucks Fitz, Nick takes advantage of the situation by reaching an arm out and mimicking the throwing motion from behind the fountain--adding far more force to the throw--and thus height and distance--than Ghost might have anticipated. Or even think herself capable of.

Ghost-in-the-Machine's hind legs bend and then shove as she springs after him into the water; slightly more out of the public eye, she attempts to get right on top of the other crinos and shove his head not only underwater, but into the wet river mud. She's not exactly very buoyant herself, considering that she appears to have turned into a fully metal werewolf.

Fits struggles mightly, as one tends to when being drowned and/or suffocated, thrashing like a cat shoved into a bath. The struggles soon weaken, though; Fitz has taken in a lot of water already.

Ghost-in-the-Machine is anything but gentle. Titanium claws dig into the back of Fits's head and one ear as she leans more and more of her weight on him, and one foot soon joins the effort by stepping between his shoulder blades. She doesn't let up when he starts to weaken; if anything, she intensifies her efforts. Black lips peel back from metal teeth in an unpleasant grimace, but she's silent apart from the water splashes she's causing.

Corax are drawn to trouble, much the way their raven-kin are drawn to carrion. It should come as no real surprise that a short time after all the fuss begins, that a Memory appears in the sky above the park.

Fits' struggles gradually cease; he goes limp under Ghost's weight and remains in Crinos form.

Ghost-in-the-Machine waits several precious seconds after he's gone completely still, then reaches down with her other hand and yanks the unconscious and very soggy (and muddy) crinos up and onto the bank. She makes the first noise since this whole thing began, an irritable, disgusted hiss, and swipes blood away from one of the nastier looking injuries on her front. Gradually, the metallic nature of her fur vanishes, and, with one last kick to the prone crinos, she shrinks quickly down to glabro.

Memory circles lower, quorking harshly as she draws close to the two Crinos. She circles, making certain that the crinos isn't about to wake up anytime soon.

Fits lies there on the bank, bloody and waterlogged and barely alive, water drooling out of his muzzle.

Ghost gives Memory a startled look, but she doesn't stop to chat. She's already scrambling back over the berm and back toward the shredded remains of the poor jogger. She's bleeding through her clothing, but for right now, blood seems to be the least of her worries, since she immediately starts trying to gather up as much of the body as she can.

After making certain that the Metis isn't gonna start moving in the next few seconds, Memory lands on Fits and using the Gift she 'borrowed' while circling, she attempts to drag him into the Umbra and out of sight.

Nicodemus peers from behind the fountain that he's interposed between him and the formerly brawling crinos. Now that one is down and the other's in control, and no one is in crinos form anymore, Nick gets up. "Holy shit!" he exclaims, taking everything in. He then turns and flees the scene before any cops come.

Fits is in no shape to put up any kind of resistance; he's barely aware of anything at all. Raven and waterlogged crinos vanish across the Gauntlet.

Ghost manages to gather up the mangled head (mostly skull) and an arm. She turns to talk to Memory only to find the Corax vanishing, and then to Nick only to catch him high tailing it away. She swears under her breath. Back to the body, she gets most of the torso as well, and starts to haul the lot back toward the water. Even in glabro (though thankfully, with her hood up and hat pulled low still), the amount of weight she's hauling at once looks a little too much for her size, but she doesn't seem to be struggling overmuch.

From the direction of downtown comes a rumbling black SUV, like something a government agent would drive on his way to a very important assassination. It navigates it's way quickly and swiftly into the park proper, rolling over grass and sidewalks like it's on a mission. It heads right toward the fountain. As it nears, Slug leans his head out the window, his hood down, and lets out a loud whistle. "Somebody order a taxi?" He calls out across the park.

Sitting shotgun is Alicia, who has a furious look upon her face as she peeks out the window to try and get a clue of the situation. Cracking the passenger side door open once they stop, she steps out and moves forward towards Ghost as she spies her with the body.

Ghost is all tension by this point. She stares at Slug, then points at the remains she's gathered up. "Garbage bags," she says, clipped, voice glabro-low. "I don't know what can be done about the blood unless you brought a hose." One gash on her collarbone is visible, another on her chin. Both are nasty and bleeding badly, but not enough to fully hide the glint of metal beneath.

Slug sets the car in park and steps out, walking fast. He walks over to Ghost with his hands out, and at his sides, as if to say 'Look at me, not reaching for any weapons'. He looks at the blood on the ground, and his lips purse. A second later, a bunch of flies, gnats, and other insects come buzzing in from across the grass and trickle all over the bloodstains. "I think that'll work," he says. "So, uh, not going to ask what happened or anything, but maybe we should get outta here."

"I'm going to ask what the fuck happened. What the //fuck// happened?" Alicia says with a throaty growl in her throat as she stares at Ghost. "And I want a whole fucking explanation once we get in the car and you better hope I like what I hear or so help me God. Also, you're in the front seat." She states abruptly to Ghost as she jabs a finger towards the SUV. "Jesus Christ on a pole stick." She mutters as she flips out her phone and sends off a text.

"Hey, I /didn't/ do it," Ghost emphasizes immediately. "I just tried to contain it." Her eyes flick rapidly from Alicia to Slug, and she offers Slug what she can of the more physical remains. "I don't have any bags. Tell me you brought some. Or we'll have to dump him in the river."

"No," Slug says sternly, his voice growing hard. "Not in the river." He walks back around to the car and rummages around in the back. He comes up with a few Whole Foods tote bags, and tosses them on the ground near the body. Then he rolls up his sleeves. "Small stuff in the bags, big stuff in the tailgate. The insects should get all the really small stuff." He rolls up his sleeves and marches over to the body, and grabs two great big bloody handfuls of remains. He grunts and hauls them off to the car, throwing them into the open cargo area.

"Then who did? Was it a spiral?" Alicia asks as she rolls her sleeves up to grab ahold of a body part, nose wrinkling as she forces herself to calm down. "Were we just attacked out here?" As she carries a bag of body chunks to the car, she grunts out, "Slug, we gotta get rid of this car also. You got a plan for that?"

"He was pestering a jogger," Ghost says as she hauls what she can--it's an impressive amount--to the car as well. "Picking a fight, I don't uh, I don't know why. Never seen him before. Then all of a sudden he's frenzying, and the jogger's..." she indicates the remains with a grimace. "You weren't attacked, I was the only one here except for Mr. Dalton."

"I can clean out the blood myself. Not hard. Then I can get rid of it in a lot of different ways. Don't worry about that." He sighs and comes back, and scoops a lot of bloody bits into the small bags. Then he hauls it back and places it beside Alicia's. "We won't be able to make this perfect. Just make it as good as we can, and lets go."

"I'll make sure my brother is on it and he covers. He's great at spin." Alicia gives one last look about the area, then motions to the car. "Alright, let's get out of here, soon as the wheels move, tell me everything you know, Ghost."

"I just did," Ghost says, as she gives the car a dubious look. She moves toward it, shrinking to homid as she does so--still bleeding, soaked, and covered in blood, but human, at least--but it's clear she's not exactly enamored with the idea of getting in.

Off in the distance, sirens start to wail.

Slug slides into the driver's seat, with the sort of tense posture that suggests he isn't at home behind the wheel. But his feet reach the pedals, and he knows how to make the car go. He waits until everyone's squared away, and then he hits the gas and hurries out of the park. Once they're on the street, he slows down a bit, and does his best to blend in with traffic. When he gets the chance, he wipes his hands off on the shirt underneath his hoody.

"Yeah, I want the whole story with the details. I'm a Galliard, not a ten year old. I need a description of the guy who went nuts, what was the argument about, who threw the first shot?" Alicia says as she pinches her brow with her bloodied fingers. "Ech, gross. Seriously, Ghost, every detail that you can muster, or I can just yank it out of your head with one of my gifts. That'd be easier to be honest, at least I'd get a good picture of what happened."

"Stop the car," Ghost tells Slug, in a flat voice.
Slug glances sidelong at Ghost, and shrugs. The SUV coasts to a stop at a traffic light. "If you wanna bail, I ain't stoppin' you. I ain't gonna start a fight in a car with a body, not with the cops blazin' up the street."

"You aren't bouncing until I get all the details, Ghost. Seriously, I have razor thin patience for this shit. Start talking, //now//." Alicia growls from behind her in the back seat.

Ghost turns in her seat, her eyes narrowed to thin slits. "Stop threatening me, or I'm out. I didn't have to take that guy down back there. I could have run off and not got myself sliced up trying to keep your territory from getting busted, and nobody would have even known I'd been there. I could have bailed as soon as Val said you were coming."

"It doesn't really sound like she did anything that warrants a fight, on a full moon, in a car, with a body." Slug says, drumming his fingers on the wheel. "Everythin' can be found out later when everything ain't so tense."

"I need a description of the guy, pretty fucking please. What was the argument about if you can recall. Was it a familiar face or someone new? Do you know anything about him?" Alicia says with a tense growl to her voice as she stares back at Ghost, fingers slightly curling. "If you can give me that, you can take off."

Ghost returns the stare for a second before good sense overrules pride, and she turns her head away. "Weaselly looking white guy. Around six foot. Grungy. Doesn't wash his hair, slouches, stubble on his chin. Kind've smile you want to punch someone over. Dirty, shabby clothes, except this brand new blue winter coat that wasn't dedicated. Backpack. He started screwing with this jogger that was already in the park, pissing him off. The jogger tried to leave, he pushed him to the ground and started yelling at him. Then bam, frenzy. Black fur. Wasn't even an argument, and I didn't hear most of what he said. For all I know he's one of yours, but I've never seen the guy before."

"Val's watching him," Slug says after a moment or two. He toes the gas when the light turns green, slowly accelerating down the road. He drives nice and easy, giving everyone a wide berth. He pays a lot more attention to the road than the conversation. After a second, he flips on the radio and turns it down low. Real low.

Taking in a slower breath, Alicia asks, "Was there any spiral spraypaint near by that could have triggered this guy into losing it?" She asks once she gives a firm nod, leaning back into the chair and wiping her fingers off on her jeans. "Val? Well, if you're talking to her, can you tell her to find me, soon as possible?"

Ghost shakes her head. "No." She doesn't fully turn back around, and she's leaning a little more on the door--including with her hand on the door handle--than might be advisable for anyone that wasn't secretly a seven foot mythological monster. The bleeding around her visible injuries has slowed all on its own, but there's still a glint of metal down there below the meat and blood.

"OK, so this guy is just an asshole?" Alicia leans forward and says, "I'm going to heal you, alright? You cool with that?" She asks as she squints her eyes. "You must not be feeling so good."

((And with that, we leave the stalwart scene-cleaners and shift to Val and Fitz in the Umbra..))

Umbra: Harbor Park

The Umbral ground beneath your feet here is lush with vegetation, an oasis of life amidst the concrete and webbing of the scab. Trees stand proud and tall here, their branches full of leaves. Shrubs line the outer edges of the park, tangled with encroaching webs. The fountain stands out boldly from even the surrounding area, the sleek lines sharper and more pronounced. Clean pure water roars and cascades from the figure in the fountain's center, falling into a cold clear pool that looks quite inviting. Spreading out from the fountain, the rest of the park is a green veldt that seems to radiate life and strength. The river banks the east shore of the park, bridged by a massive rusty bridge. On this shore, the glade seems to have spread out on to it, vines winding around the supports. Further across the river, the bridge melds into the scab again, flaked with rust and covered in webs. The river itself is clean within a few feet of the shore, but black ooze seems to encroach menacingly from the murk of the rest of the river.

A walkway leads out of the Glade-like atmosphere of the park from just north of the fountain. Eastward, the dark span of the bridge stretches over the vile river. Dark streets lead west and southwest into the blighted Umbra of the city.

The Umbral Glade is lit at all times as if it is the full moon.

After dragging Fits into the Umbra, Memory helps herself to a beakfull of bloody fur and flees to the nearest tree. There, she stashes her 'prize'. A silvery tendril binds her to the unknown Garou, as Memory clings to her perch and stares at Fits. After a time, a stormcrow joins her.

A good long time passes before the sodden werewolf's eyes flutter open. He coughs -- gags, really -- and rolls over just in time to barf up a mess of water, river mud, and partially-digested McDonalds food.

~Well, no idea who you are,~ Memory says, after Fits is given a moment to recover. ~But, you certainly made one hell of a mess before you were half drowned. Oh. And you're in the Umbra, if you haven't noticed that already.~ The Corax shifts from clawed foot to foot, as she cocks her head to one side. Her companion, the stormcrow, merely /stares/ at Fits, with beady red eyes.

Fits wipes at his drooling muzzle and then stares glassily at his own clawed hand. ~M'in Crinos. Th'fuck m'I in Crinos?~ The words are slurred and slow. He coughs again, gags up some more muck, then works himself into a sit, jaw hanging loose.

~Well, judging by the pieces of jogger I saw strewn about, I'd guess that you Frenzied,~ Memory states, feathers fluffing up around her body.

Fitz shrinks down into homid form, the backpack hanging loosely from its straps now that the big puffy coat is gone. He doesn't look much better, healthwise -- eyes mostly closed, jaw still slack. Distantly, he says, "Well ain't that some shit."

Memory clicks her beak together, then takes a moment to smooth out the feathers on her chest. ~Mind telling me who you are?~

"Fits," he says, rubbing at his mouth with one hand. Or maybe what he said was "Fitz". "Mule, Galliard, Fianna, uhhh, wha'else. Cliath." He stares up at the raven and the stormcrow, not really focussed on either. "Jus' got in from Lone Oak. Got out b'fore..." He sketches a wobbly spiral in the air with a dirty finger. "Jus' before. Probably all dead, I d'no."

Memory draws in a deep breath and releases it in a breathy and very human sounding sigh. ~Joy. And chance you'd be willing to sit her on your rear, while I get one of the locals to come here?~

"Yeahsure," says Fitz, briefly lifting a hand up in an 'OK' gesture. He certainly doesn't seem to be in any mood or shape to do any running off.

Memory turns her head and makes some gurgling noises at the Stormcrow next to her. At first, it looks as if the spirit isn't going to move. Then, the shadowy crow spreads its wings and takes off.

Fitz flops out onto his back and lies there with the heels of his hands pressed against his eyes. Nope, doesn't look like he'll be going anywhere anytime soon.

Silence reigns for about ten minutes, then the stormcrow returns with a scrap of paper and a small rock in its' beak. Memory leaves her tree and accepts these items, after shifting into her human form. "You feeling anymore stable?" She asks, tentatively, as she pulls a pen from her backpack and scribbles out a note. "I'm Val, Memories-of-the-Dead. Around here, anyway. Corax." Folding the note around the small rock, she hands the items back to the Stormcrow and the spirit takes off once again.

Fitz utters a weak 'heh' at the question and folds his hands behind his head. "Hello, Val Memories-of-the-Dead the Corax." The slurring's a little better though his voice still sounds like gravel. And a doozy smirk twists his lips.

Val edges a bit closer, so she can properly see the other's face. "So, you want to tell me what you /can/ remember? I showed up just in time to watch the Heavy Metal Wolf doing her best to drown you."

Fitz pushes himself up on his elbows, squinting. "Drown me, huh? No wonder I feel like someone's trying to tunnel their way to China inside my head. And, nah. Mostly I remember messing with some asshole in the park. Wasn't supposed to be anything. Then..." The Fianna screws his face up in thought. "He dumped some ice water into my pants?" He doesn't sound too sure of that.

Val snorts softly, then shakes her head. "Well, you dismembered the jogger. Big mess. Have no idea how the locals are going to feel about that. I /did/ manage to drag you over here and call in the clean-up crew, but that's about it. Honestly, I'd bugger off, but the moment I do that, you'll pop back in to the Realm," Val says, nose wrinkling up. "Probably crawling with cops by now."

Fitz shrugs at mention of the locals, then sits up, still looking like death warmed over. "You got someplace else, Misses Val Memory-of-the-Dead? You wanna stow me someplace and fuck off to do somethin' better'n babysit, I get it. I'm like..." He trails off, grimacing. "...I dunno. I was gonna say somethin' witty, but I think that part got washed away in the river."

Val rolls her eyes, then smirks at Fitz. "Just Val'll do. And I can babysit for a bit longer. Kinda hoping someone'll show to take you off my hands. One of the Gnawers, if I'm lucky. And you're lucky that's all the river washed away. You're still breathing, right? So, how'd you end up bolting just in time to avoid becoming Dancer chow like all your Sept-Mates?"

Fitz smirks right back at her, eyes half-squinted against his headache. "Because I'm a slimy piece of shit, just like my Shadow Lord daddy. He gets some dumb broad of a Fianna knocked up, scuttled out of town just before her tribe can form a posse. Same with me. I see that thiiiiiin little horse-hair holding up the Sword of Damocles starting to fray, and I get the fuck out."

Val snorts. "Not a very Garou-Like thing to do," she comments, dryly. "Then again, I've never been much of a fighter. Tend to bugger off when it looks as if sticking around will lead to my untimely demise. Corax never did see the Wisdom of dying for a lost cause. Don't see any news being spread about that way."

Fitz scratches at his stubbly chin. "Maybe I'll try that line. I mean, hey." He gives a shit-eating grin and spreads his arms. "I'm a fuckin' Galliard. Dead Galliard's pretty useless."

"But you actually have to run off and /tell/ people what happened," Val says with a faintly amused snort. "Slug should have gotten my message by now. Guess he couldn't send anyone. I'm going to dump you with the Gnawers. Try leaving you with the walkers and I'll end up plucked. You up to a walk? Few secluded places close to here. We can cross back over there, then I'll take you to the Gnawer-House. They're generally pretty accepting, so long as you don't fuck with the rats."

"No fucking rats. Damn!" Fitz rolls his shoulders, rocks his head from one side to the other, and heaves to his feet. He weaves a little but stays standing. He shoulders the backpack. "Okay, let's go."

"Other option, if you want another one," Val says, deadpan, as she starts walking. "I could dump you with the Shadow Lords. They do have running water."

Fitz follows, limbs loose, head slightly hanging. He smirks. "Well, if you hate me /that/ much, Misses Val..."

Val laughs. "Honestly, Shadow Lords here aren't all that bad. The one in charge is a big of a cold-fish, but that's hardly unusual. Anyway. I happen to have keys to the Shadow Lord place. I will admit that letting you in is kinda amusing, just because it'd annoy the hell out of them and there isn't too much they could do about it. But, making enemies without reason isn't all that bright a thing to do. So, off to the Gnawers we go!"

"Rats and moldy pizza, hot damn," says Fitz, smirking and sarcastic.

"Just remember to leave the rats off the menu," Val says with a smirk. In short order, she finds a good place for the pair to cross over and they return to the Realm. From there, she leads him to the Old Library and suggests that he stay put for now.