June 08, 2004
.06.08.04. - make him pretty [ratchet]

[southside]

(ratchet)
every monster for him(her)self.

steven working later then usual, then home with alex in fancy bed. jo doing what jo does. tucker doing what tucker does, and by amazing coincidence, this leaves ratchet to do what ratchet does. scrape of metal along cement as skinny form pulls dumpster away from wall, grunt of effort escaping as it is heavier then expected, until runtish waif squirms into the filth and grime to get at what caught the eye. something shiny, something glinting in the depths of darkness pre-dawn.

gaunt form scurries back out from depths of dirty shadows, to sink to crouch and examine treasure found. brushing off on edges of threadbare denim that barely covers knees despite the patches jo attempts to keep sewing on a little hmmmm of pleasure at what has been found, steady click born in other hand, absent, content.


(james)
every monster for him(her)self

that would place James taking a stroll from somewhere to somewhere else
he could just as easily be on his way home from this week's job
or simply out for a meandering stroll to clear his mind

funny, that
the city - even pre-dawn - is filled with the endless white-noise of civilization
countless strings of musical interlude combined all at once
engines, horns, airplanes, nightclubs, and other nameless machinery
cacophany buzzed into singular hum of population
even the dingey hours before the sun chooses to wake aren't silent
there's always something going on that's practically maddening if one concentrates on it
probably why most Garou are always slightly uncomfortable in the scab-world
it does not possess the silent serenity so oft found in nature

then again, James is a Gnawer

and to him, this noisy city is home
not exactly the quaint timlessness of Albany
or even the glamorous hubbub of NYC
but it's as close as the Ahroun's going to get these days
and when it all boils down, one city is generally the same as the next
it's only the little things that make it personable
and sometimes, those little things don't even matter

sort of like now
in which the Fostern's found just strolling down this avenue
one hand lazily tucked into a pocket
the other currently employed flicking the ashes from his Camel

(ratchet)
endless cities she’s been in, each much the same as the next. the bottomfeeders are always the ignored, the forgotten, the hated, the abused. she has been all of these and more, yet still she survives, still she managed to find chicago and all the new ideas that fester here, in a gritty underworld the likes of which she’s never seen.

in the scheme of things, however, it is always the little things that matter. when one has nothing, the smallest kindness means the world. when one knows only pain, the touch of affection is something both feared and craved, each little thing treasured, coveted, held close and appreciated for what it is – the reminder that sometimes, someone, on occasion, finds her almost... human.

back to the dumpster, and skinny form shoves dumpster back into place with angry screech of metal against cement, before little form scurries forward toward the street, to examine treasure better under filthy streetlamp. mouth of alley vomits gaunt waif, who sinks to crouch almost directly in James’ path, oblivious it would seem, as dirty fingers disappear into random pocket, and handful of such shiny items are found and spread across the sidewalk, examined closely in the halo of yellowish dingy light that spills from above.


(james)
dumpster screeches
waif shuffles
Ahroun..... stops

Corcoran IIs reflect the dingey yellowish halo
testament to the shine they once held
at least in the toecaps poking out from frayed cuffs
soon catching a tiny spot of orange strafing across one boot
the ember of his smoke going from pause in midstep to recovered inhale
pinpoint highlights carrying to her examined shineyobject surfaces

"'lo Ratch't."

slur making her name sound past tense action - ratched - instead of the tool
tones low and even as if the exhaled smoke spoke instead of rugged Warrior

(ratchet)
head snaps gaze upwards at that, having been so engrossed in making sure tonight’s loot is acceptable to her, and thus to the one she forages for, she did not hear him come near. duck of head is sheepish, as she folds tighter into crouch, fingers still moving through the little handful of colorful glass and plastic and metal she’s been collecting. random, the pieces of the pile, yet a kaleidoscope of shimmering shape under yellowish glow.

“lo, elderman..” as fingers scoop up the handful, only to spread them again, much as someone plays dice, or tosses bones, reading futures in each little fissure of broken material.

glance up again, shy, before nails dig at shoulder, along collarbone, before falling around knees again.


(james)
"Wha'cha got th're?"

curiosity tilts his head
dreads swinging to rest against opposite shoulder
the construction of shadows changing on his face
but not enough to reveal the almost healed bruises

(ratchet)
a soft hmmmm of content as she scoops them up again and holds hand filled with little glittering treasures, lips tugging into almost a suggestion of a tiny grin. “presents for hermie.”

fingers pat pocket close to heart, before peeking inside, though knows he can’t be seen on this side. hand cups, as if the little crap were actually there, physically, as she pulls the handful back down. “he likes the little glass bits the best. fix his shell, make him pretty...”

a pause, and shyly asked... “elderman like to meet him?”

[paused]

Posted by james at June 08, 2004 12:00 AM