May 20, 2004.05.20.04. - treasures [ratchet][southside]
(ratchet)
(clickclickclickclickclick)sound blooms constant, between grunts of little figure flipping the lid to yet another dumpster up and over. plastic crashes against metal, gaunt frame falls to crouch, head canted, listening. When no one seems to follow, no lurchy stepping guy following to belch up more monster centipedes to try and sting her tail, there’s a nod. sharp.
animalistic.
grubby fingers – no longer filthy due to forced bath, but getting grimier by the minute – grasp edge of dumpster, smooth pull and jump sends nimble form into the disgusting mess of things inside metal behemoth. A low hum sounds in counterpart to occasional click as nimble finger poke through contents, searching for anything of value. Another mans trash, the little rat’s treasure.
(james)
another man's trash, the little rat's treasure
the little rat's treasure, another man's intrigueit's not that James saw the skinny creature or formed the notion of deliberate follow
more appropriately, he... thinks.... recognized the sound of constant clicks traveling along the airwaves
sound effects riding Chicago's seemingly never-ending winds
(Windy City, after all, Jamey-boy)
carrying the ticking pattern out of the alleyway and to the Ahroun's earsthat prior crash of the dumpster lid did do a little something to help pinpoint location
one thing the Fostern doesn't do is enter the alleyway at hand
instead, a shoulder leans curve of muscle against grimey brick
dully shined boots arrange themselves to cross legs at the ankle
raggedyman becoming the very portrait of casual curiosity at the sidestreet's mouth
aimless dig of fingers into pocket on habitual search for cigarette pack
dread tips playing absently over t-shirt's cling and stretch over frame
dark eyes are peering down into the trash-filled shadowswaiting
(ratchet)
soft the click that continues, absent, as fingers poke and prod before there’s a low rumbling sound, a hum of appreciation, click stopping all together as fingers examine the prize found. head cants, slight, examining the piece and parts of what once was a coocko clock, before it’s cradled close to skinny chest, other hand grasping the edge of dumpster and with a flare of coat of many pockets, flurry of movement sees the little one crouched on filthy alley floor once more.the coat settles around her, pockets filled here and there with conglomeration of items, things of no importance to anyone but the looter. dark eyes look up, knit had pulled low over ears, nostrils flare. (sniff. sniffsniff) until the raggedy man is seen.
frozen.
(clickclickclickclickclick)After a moment, however, recognition sets in, and she gathers the treasure close to chest, stands, and skittering through shadows near the wall, quick steps bring hunched form close, only to settle into crouch near James, and set treasure on the ground, where fingers seem to work of their own accord. “hi, elderman.” the soft acknowledgement.
(imogen)
Chicago is, apparently, a city that is considered for its tourist capacity. It has Chinatown, with its lovely ethnicity. It has Grant Park, though some parts are darker than others. But maybe, if a tourist kept to the beaten path, did not miscalculate or mistype, Chicago could be an interesting, if intensely urban, place to visit. It has a charm in its big city size, if you ignore the underbelly that shudders beneath, working away at it all.Difficult to see it that way, from this end of the city. Public housing, factories, gangs. Dead bodies, blood smeared against a wall. The police here are perhaps a little more diligent than in Jersey. Someone walks her to her car, across the street (...coincidences are shocking, sometimes) and a building or two away from James. The officer casts a baleful glance toward the tall man's back before shrugging slightly...
(A little more diligent. It didn't mean much)
... before turning and starting to walk away, waving carelessly over his shoulder, meaty hand lazy in the wind.
The redhead watches him go as she divests herself of badge and security pass, pocketing them, her gaze flicked toward the familiar back. And maybe as she tilts her head she can hear the clicking, too.
(james)
she leaps out of the dumpster in a move that'd make Zorro proud
she clutches priceless prize close to skinny chest
she freezes..... and James doesn't do a thing
aside from the wind's play through ropey hair
and the rhythmic heave of breath-drawing chest
nothing moves save the track of deep umber eyes
following as she moves towards him at her own speed"Hiya Ratch'." the escort across the way suspects the raggedyman of being nothing more than another anonymous derelict slumming on the most convenient corner in wait for the night's most convenient crime - the soft, almost warm tones of his greeting define something that's anything but "Wha'cha fine?"
brow lifts towards dreadlock frame
it's only curious interest in his gaze
not possessive greed(ratchet)
the very fact that he remains as he is was the deciding factor of her moving closer. Steven says elderman good, and gut feeling is rarely wrong in her experience too. combined, makes skinny form crouched, as usual, but not completely hiding this time.fingers slide over the clock, testing moving parts. brow creases in thought, ragged nails lifting to scratch at shoulder, neck, back of hand scrubbing under chin before quick making sure hat covers ears. bracelet looped twice over skinny wrist dangles ratchet bits as charms, and without looking one is plucked free, slid into favored tool and the dismantling begins. screws worked free, the clock fast becoming a selection of pieces and parts. “clock. ratchet fix for Jo.”
(james)
second brow lifts to join the first
intrigue evolving into an element of surprise
attention drawn by the intricate movement of her hands
distant streetlamps casting but the merest flicker of reflection
haphazard accounting of what pieces and parts the clock becomes
dreads slipslide across shoulder and chest when his head cranes for a better viewhe doesn't doubt she may possess the ability to fix the clock
Gnawers, after all, the last to judge anything by appearence
he's just, well, impressed at the show of dextrous mechanics"Who's Jo?"
timed to keep the conversation flowing without providing unecessary distraction
(ratchet)
head cants, looking up at him brief, before turning back to work, the click now become purposeful, the sound quick, dexterity shown in the way little fingers handle little pieces and place them in some semblance of order that makes since only to the skinny little rat. chin rests on knees, bit changed smoothly, but only when bit is shined clean again is it added as charm – the little rat may be filthy [monster] but favored tools are spotless.“Jo’s beta. make ratchet have bath. ratchet say sorry for growling when combed hair.”
sheepish the duck of head lower on shoulders. hair silken smooth, clean, tangle free over coat so caked with dirt and grime no one remembers the original color anymore.
(james)
the recollection of her apology brings a soft laughter from the Ahroun's chest
deep rumblygrowl of tempered amusement"Leas' you c'n still comb y'r hair."
it's only when she looks up to question the comment that he finally moves of note
reaching with that lopsided grin to tug on a roped strand dangling from his brow
while he is quite capable of taming the vined headdress into a semi-reasonable facsimlie of order when necessary
and his hair resembles a mop more than some frantic tribal 'fro of tangles
dreadlocks are not particularly a hairstyle one can maintain with conventional styling tools
much less approach with a comb without some gut-clenching cringe of remorse(ratchet)
the look up does come, head canting, hands pausing in movement, before head ducks again, sullen expression softening into amusement just for a moment before hands are at work again. “steven makes me. when can catch me.” which isn’t very often if she can help it. that first bath highly traumatic, except for the lufa for all the itchy parts.ragged nails pause to dig at hip, knee, grubby under torn jeans, and ankle, before going back to work. hand dips into pocket, seemingly at random, though the screw looked for materializes as if by magic, and is added to the pile as pieces and parts slowly begin to reform. “this thingy here broken. why no work. ratchet fix.” idle commentary as fingers test the mechanics of the cuckoo function itself.
(james)
even in the joke's breif interim
his attention really hadn't strayed from her handiwork
pretty obvious the Elder's impressed with her ability
especially to do such things on whim without the luxury of a workshop
(even if that screw's magical materialization makes him think she carries her workshop with her)"Less itchy if ya lettim catch ya more of'n."
he's noticed the random stray of hands to scratch
both tonight and at their initial meeting
and not chalking it all up to nervous, fiddly habit
but it's a mused obvservation instead of ranking order
and given that the Ahroun wears the scent of soap beneath musk of man and animal
he's probably speaking from experience more than anything"Where ya learn a fix clocks?"
(ratchet)
gaze snaps over, fingers pausing mid reach to scratch. moment’s hesitation, judging observation vs. order, then with skinny shouldered shrug, chin lifts, neck of dirty t-shirt pulled aside a little, showing patch of red blotchy skin, white dead skin flaking off, like a massive case of dandruff but all over, not just on head. “itch anyway.”idle observation. even jo’s medicine only made it a little bit better. but still itches. all the time. question shifts back to the clock, and there’s a hum of amusement, perhaps, sliding through constant sound. nimble body rocks slightly, heel to toe to heel again before. “fix anything. see it, take apart, see what’s wrong, make better. have since little.....er.”
almost a joke. glance up to see if he caught it, before watching fingers work again.
(james)
gaze flicks to the shown patch of skin
chin dipping in a nod of acknowledgement
though diplomacy's tact dismisses further comment
(point made. understood.)almost a joke - but still it inspires soft (if crooked!) smile
the Ahroun rewarding hesitant efforts
(the humor? the glance? both?)"Useful talen' a have."
(ratchet)
nod, sharp – animalistic, quick movements, without waste, as if determined beforehand. instinct. from pockets, new screws to replace broken, missing ones. always the right size, always the perfect fit, always from different pocket – coat of many pockets a wealth of miscellaneous items. as quickly as the clock came apart, it now fits together, the face carefully put back on after checking to see the gears worked, the hands moved.settling back on heels slightly, lifts the clock, studying it. from depth of one pocket, a used battery is found – just enough juice to check. nimble fingers slip it into place, and it is with a pleased hummm that the seconds hand starts to move. dirty fingers set clock close to the hour, and when it chimes, cuckoo pops from it’s home to announce and retreat as if never broken. “there.”
satisfaction.
then, curious. “elderman need ratchet fix anything?”
(james)
brows lift again
after having watched the entire process
he's seriously impressed"Goo' job, Ratch'."
then her question causes his head to tilt in thought
conversation's lull filled by the clock's reborn tick
lower lip pulls beneath flat bank of white teeth
then his head slightly shakes"Nah righ' now..... but th' boys have a habit a breakin' things, so may be callin' you f'r tha' soon'r'n we think."
speaking of, gaze drifts away towards some place out on the horizon
a distance created in just where his attention currently lies
Totem Phone..... ringring
and split second later his expression wanes to resolved amusement"Duty callin'..... but here...." weight pulls from the wall, and the lanky Fostern sinks to crouch down at ratchet's level, hand dipping into BDU cargo pocket in route ".... came 'cross this 'n though' you may like't."
fist rises between them, slow enough to show it's no threat
fingers splay as hand turns to reveal a small thing of variegated greens
held on open palm in offer
only when - if - she takes it does form reveal itself in transit
dangly legs unfurling on the little bean-bag frogit's a small thing, really, probably a pocket-sized toy included in some fast-food kid's meal
promoting this or that collection of soon-to-be-pricelessly-collectible beanie babies
but between the two Gnawers, it's a mini token of friendship and trust
the Ahroun's gesture in a gift to show he means her no harm
or maybe he noticed her clutched toy the other night and simply wanted to make her smileregardless of what she makes of it
another lopsided grin crosses his features before James straightens and turns to walk away(ratchet)
a nod, slight, denotes that he can call on her to fix anything anytime. he’s elder, but mostly, he’s nice. and soft hum and content slow turn of ratchet clicks her appreciation of the compliment. head ducking shyly.he crouches, head cants, slight, watching, before skinny fingers reach, then pluck the toy from his hand, holding it a moment, before clutching it tight to chest. there’s almost a smile there as head ducks, caressing little token of trust and friendship along cheek. softest murmur following retreating elder. “thank you...”
treasured, it’s held against chest, the fixed clock held close as well, watching elderman walk away. only then does she stand, and hunched form moves quickly through the shadows back toward home to show steven her newest treasure.
and the gift for Jo.
Posted by james at May 20, 2004 12:00 AM