-= Erin and Pike =-
Hip dance clubs and upper scale restaurants line the streets of New Town, everything from the newest teenage fad to old style swing dancing being seen easily on these streets. The young to middle aged crowd seems to frequent this area, a culturally diverse area with everything from the preppy high school jock to the pierced stoner hang out on the strip to find the new coolest spot to go on the weekends. The billboards seem to have taken notice of the party society in the area as well, various ads for entertainment places and items showing up more frequently than in other sections of the city.
To the side of the area a rather pleasant mini-park has formed, a statue of Zeus standing proud. At various times during the day and night, automated sprinklers go off to make sure that every plant receives the nourishment it requires for perfect blooming. Speckles of colors ranging from a deep violet to a cottony soft baby blue line the edge of the statue for a quaint place to stop and indeed, smell the flowers.
Contents:
Artus
Lily
Obvious exits:
The Pulse
Artus shrugs resignedly. "I try the occasional sketch in the privacy of my own home, but I typically become distracted by shadows cast by leaves, or water splashing over a stone, and lose my interest in the endeavour." He turns a corner onto Pike Street. "Creativity is my forte only so far as my appreciation of its rigors, products, methods." He smiles, perhaps a bit roguishly (though at what is slightly uncertain), and says, "Thank you, though."
Lily trails along at Artus' side, playing with a silver lighter. Up, catch. Up, catch. She'll drop it if she isn't careful, set her fool self afire. Her reply to the gentleman at her side is quiet, very quiet indeed, but the afternoon crowd is thin enough that perhaps it carries. "You are quite welcome. And I would be interested to see some of these sketches, if you keep them."
A rare clear afternoon breeds foot traffic through the downtown area, even on disastrous days such as this. Drawn to this area of commerce, out of hunger or fiduciary necessities, is a healthy smattering of homeless. Hoping to reap the rewards of a generous public on this fine day. The blue skies encourage the spirit of charity.
So it's easy to lose Cash here, easy to mistake him as another beggar. Or drunk. Well drunk he might be, but his wandering sneakers carry the hallmark of a traveling handyman rather than a sedentary bum. In his hand a half empty bottle, his march eastwards an absent shuffle. Moving away from the setting sun and headlong into darkness.
Perhaps by the very virtue of his aura of abandonment, the woebegone, tattered vagabond attracts the attention of Artus Cimber. "Perhaps I spoke in haste," he tells Lily, though exactly which conversational tidbit he's referring to is unclear. He stops suddenly, having just passed a public mailbox, and opens the drop slot as though to make certain his mail was properly deposited. Reaching in as though to dislodge a stubborn envelope, he passes a few idle remarks, then, satisfied at last, withdraws his hand. Keen observers would note he now holds something, when previously he carried nothing. Gently, he alters Lily's course so as to intercept the wandering man with the run-down shoes.
Lily envinces no surprise at her partner's behavior, receptive to the new course and instantly scanning the afternoon crowds for the likely reason. Up, catch. Up, catch. The silver lighter flashes one last time before she slips it into a pocket, clasping her hands behind her back in the timeless manner of the absent-minded academic sort. "It does not due to be too hasty, I suppose," she murmurs absently, still searching the sidewalk. Cash? Possibly. Her brows lift in mild curiosity as she wagers he's the reason. "One can do a good dead now and then, if one is careful not to boast. The gods hate overweening pride."
The soles, just as worn as the man who wears them. Chin slightly angled upwards, as to point his dull brown gaze towards the neon signs that are just starting to come alive in the time before dusk. A few small rivers of alcohol clinging to his chin, sending a hundred proof droplet towards the thirsty cement every ten steps. Cash. Absent and wandering. It's a wonder he didn't stumble directly into the fire hydrant he just passed. Or the waitress moving with intention towards her second shift. His fingers, a loose spider grasp upon the neck of his glass feeder. He says something about 'socks' and how they never come back in pairs. But who pays heed to the ramblings of street folk.
Artus manipulates the object in his hand with deft rapidity; the motion looks somewhat like a shuffling of cards. Finished in a trice, he keeps it hidden against the palm and underside of his arm. Having crossed the street, he regains the sidewalk and approaches Cash from behind on loud, obvious footsteps. He calls out in a voice obviously British: "Pardon me, my good man."
Lily rolls her eyes Heavenward, murmuring something in a foreign tongue and shaking her head in a long-suffering manner, but she follows Artus, several careful paces behind. Despite her initial response, there is something keenly wary about the way she approaches, ready for anything; her hands are no longer clasped behind her back, but held loosely at her sides. "He is harmless," she offers reassuringly to Cash. Her own accent is from a good bit East of the UK, calling to mind a Bela Lugosi impression. "Best merely to humor him."
Overhead, the sky starts to darken to amber as the sun begins its westward descent. Soon it will be full night.
Still locked in his internal debate on foot ware, Cash doesn't stop immediately. Instead, his pace slowly grinds to a halt as the realization sets in, he's being addressed. And not by his inner voice. He turns to peer over a shoulder, just above the upturned collar of his jacket. Normally, that'd be a nice ward against the harsh chill of this city. Today though, its function is purely aesthetic.
Eyes are suspicious and squint at the albino tracking him down. Cash's grip upon the bottle tightens. Protect the assets first. "Uhhh... hey… man." That's the best he can manage. Count Lily; he keeps in the corner of his watch, brushing aside some of his hair that obscures a blurry gaze. He focuses and defocuses, the way drunk men do.
Artus, to his enormous satisfaction, is not telepathic, nor is he an albino, and thus a point of possible contention is done away with before it even becomes an issue. His smile is mild and genuine, his face is expressive and seems to change often, as whim or weather dictate. "I'm frightfully sorry to disturb your meditation on this brisk afternoon, but certain circumstances compell me to intrude when otherwise I would simply acknowledge your presence with a nod and continue on my way in deference to your obvious high station among devotees of the Tao." He turns up his palm, displaying a brown leather wallet--hardly a thing to carry every adjunct required by a gentleman, but certainly sufficient for simple excusions given the efficiency of modern currencies. "To whit: you dropped this during your shuffling."
"Indeed, you did," Lily murmurs. Her expression is less open than that of her companion, but her lips curve in an implied smile, though it may be directed as much at Artus' back as at Cash. "Terribly clumsy of you, sir. You should be more careful. There are footpads about."
The random threads of fate that brought these three together carry with them a certain deliberate nature. A predestined set of laws that seem to hover above Cash, pressing and trumping the natural order of things. To those who can sense such aberrations, there is something not all together Kosher about this bum, despite the Star of David hanging upon his neck. A curse, a charm, a blessing from a one eyed Gypsy. Or a charge account the size of the eastern seaboard ran up upon Miss Cleo's line.
Chapped lips hesitate a response, and his brow rises in a Vulcan like fashion to regard the offering. "Wha'... I 'aven't carried a wallet for four years... man. Whaz' tha' catch." Cash leans back to drench his innards with a gulp of whiskey.
Artus considers the situation with nonchalance, as if never had it occurred to him there might be some difficulty. "To a true student of the Tao, a year is as a day." He puts on an expression as of one ransacking his memory banks for the necessary information. "I disctinctly recall saying nothing to the effect that it happened just now. And, as you will notice--" he says, flipping open the wallet "--there is no proof of ownership available to refute me, though I confess in my haste to return this property, it may have departed for parts unknown. Still, it would seem to be an aspect to the situation with little weight for consideration." He indicates the wallet. "Here is the wallet." He opens the billfold. "Here is the money contained in the wallet." He indicates the crowd of afternoon shoppers. "Here is the crowd, manifestly deigning no search for its missing property." He straightens. "Therefore, I now tender you the wallet and all its contents, free of charge, wholly and forever, in full and in total, with neither disclaimer, nor yet corollary expectation." He proffers the item in question to Cash.
"It also may be that the Tao has less to do with it than does Marx," Lily opines mildly. "Perhaps my friend merely wishes to reapportion the capital reasources currently within this wallet, so that it no longer lines the pockets of those content to profit from the exploitation of others but rather rewards Labor, isolated from the work of his hands and bleeding, ever bleeding, to oil the wheels of capitolist hegemony. Or," she adds, "Maybe he is a crazy person."
The barrage of words find their home in an accepting recipient. Cash takes them all, in full, and without protest. The wallet, however, is still viewed with suspicion. Words are free, even fancy ones. And as Artus and Lily assault him with the Queen's English, there is no lack of understanding. But the manner with which he is approached is suspect even in it's self. Never mind the wallet that's most likely filled with a deadly nerve agent. It seems obviously a ploy of some sort. But living out here, one gets used to three card Monty. Cash thinks himself smarter than the average shell game. So he takes it. Opens it. And inspects for Anthrax.
"Yer both like... fucking nutz… man." He comes to that conclusion in a roundabout way, without sugar coating. Still holding the magic bullet, Cash looks back up between the generous duo. Waiting for them to pull badges. Or to pull their faces off and reveal the alien circuitry beneath. And suddenly, he finds this situation funny, as his smirking lips betray.
Artus brightens. "Your imputations mock us, sir!" he says, laughing to show he comprehends the joke. He looks as though he might pat Cash on the shoulder, but restrains his boisterous demeanor... either by reason of decoum or the aforementioned infectious diseases. The contents of the wallet are very crisp and very green and boast very large numbers. "After four years of emptiness, it must be gratifying to once again hold the wallet which has so long served you." With a sigh of contentment, he steps back, mission accomplished and perfectly executed. "And please take no offense if you notice the contents to be organized in a fashion at odds with those in which you left them. So long away from its owner has made this wallet a little eccentric and I may have slipped in a reimbursement or two where I noticed a lack." He tips an imaginary hat.
"And we are not /both/ fucking nuts," Lily adds in her precise manner. "I can tell a hawk from a handsaw." With that, she turns and begins walking along the former course she shared with Artus, fishing the lighter from her pocket again. Up, catch. Up, catch. Hand to hand, back and forth. Maybe she's teaching herself to juggle. "Coming, Karl?"
Well, the spirit of generosity is alive and well in Erin's Vale. This is good for those who live off the kindness of strangers. Someone call Blanche. Cash, convinced the moment of entrapment has faded, slides the wallet home into the back pocket of his greasy jeans. The denim scarecrow turns slightly to watch the woman juggle away. Perhaps being called 'nutz' by an untouchable is amusing, and surely it was meant almost as a compliment. One which fingers the odd couple out of a sea of hegemony.
And back to Artus as he's not completely out of view yet. Cash returns the nod. His smile says 'I see you, seeing me'. "La Chiam." A Jewish toast, the bottle is tipped in his direction. The encounter over, his shuffle restarts. Something new to ponder.
Artus reaches up to adjust the set of the shirt on his shoulders, then puts both hands in the pockets of his pants. He falls back into step with Lily, sweeping to one side of the disaffected vagrant... or Taoist master. It's all a matter of perspective. "Take care, sir," he calls over his shoulder. "It was a pleasure meeting you after all these years of searching." As he passes a trashcan, he throws something in, then continues on his way, seemingly in the highest of spirits.
