Another WTF moment. I really think I'll stop logging in.

You push open the firedoor and head out to the hall.
Pool Hall - Pool Hall

+time
========================| +IC Time |================================

Current Time: Sat Jul 24 10:22:54 2004

Time of Day: Morning (Daylight) Weather: Clear
Moon: Waxing Crescent Temperature: 76F (24C)

====================================================================

Dennis approaches the table where Lori's seated and slips into it without another word. He's carrying a satchel with him, which is a bit unusual--Dennis isn't often seen toting a pack. "Hey," he offers to her in monosyllabic greeting.

Lori says indistinctly, "I thought we were going to stop seeing each other like this." There's a note of irony in there somewhere. Be sure of it. She drops her boots off of the end of the booth so she can sit up like a normal person and look at Dennis.

The door to the office opens and shuts pretty quickly, once. It opens again, slowly. Propped open by a toe and a shoulder, the door shakes in its frame as Penny backs out into the bar. Dragging an overstuffed black plastic bag of something foul-smelling, she hardly notices there are people in the joint.

Then again, it /is/ ten a.m. or thereabouts. Not exactly business hours.

"You just wake up?" Penny asks apropos of a proprietor "Give you ten minutes, then you gotta go."

TWENTY MINUTES LATER

Lori says, "Sorry, stuff going on RL. Will try not to be quite so slow. ;D"
Dennis says, "Penny, I'm sorry that our poses aren't going to be allowing you much room; they're conducting some private business. :("

Penny says, "Uh. It's 10 am and my pc & others run this place. You'll need to respond to IC time and continue your business elsewhere."
Lori often hangs out here with Pobble in the mornings, but... whatever, we can go.

Lori has the door opened for her, and heads out onto the street.
Lori has left.
Dennis stands and leaves Booth with no light.
Dennis has the door opened for him, and heads out onto the street.
Dennis has left.

The opportunity for a scene was there and yet.. "RL" was conveniently in the way. And then they tell me I won't be able to scene with them? I wasted 32 minutes of my life on this. I think I'm just about done with these losers. If there were a way to negative-vote them, I would. If there were an easy way for me to /gag their existance, I would.

Fuck it, not logging in anymore.

What the Fuck?

Outside the Pool Hall, Dark Alley.

Bob hears the door opening and quickly shoves whatever he was holding back into the trashcan.

"Aha," she nods slowly, a flare in her eyes almost draconic before it disappears and he has a chance to glance back her way. "They couldn't take a woman giving Arthur his sword ta do right, and had ta come up with all sorts of allegories. Lies. Ladies in water, swords in stone. Clearly its yours. Though I'd keep it out of plain sight." Ailsa stands in the mouth of the alley, watching Bob root about in the trash to pull out a shotgun.

The trash won't take it's self out. That's what Cash is for, his lot in life for the day. Domestic in nature, though still a grave necessity. It comes in the form of two black glad bags, stretched to their limitations by a misshapen clump of bottles in various states of breakage. Cigarette dangling in his worn lips, leaking whips of smoke into his face. If that cherry gets any closer to the hilt, he'll be in danger of setting his hair on fire.

Notting two others present, Cash muffles a 'pardon me' as he moves towards the large bin to make a deposit.

Bob steps back and smiles in a way that indicates he's very nervious, "Morning! Afternoon. Evening. Whatever."

Ailsa's gaze lingers on Cash for a moment, again that faintly greenish flash that must be a trick of the light. "Oh, bother," she murmurs in a tone mere shades above disgusted. "Figures. Why are the lessons always so pungent?"

Wait. Mental rewind. Cash is now by the large bin, both hands occupied by trash bags and a cigarette obscuring his vision and muffling his words. But did he just see a shotgun in the trash? Sneakers pause in the wet center that runs down the alley. Eyes shift between Ailsa and Bob like an interrupting parent.

"Wha' th' 'uk 's goin' on?" He asks, words falling clumsily around the smoke. Bending at the knees, one bagful is dropped so he may pluck the offending butt from his lips to speak clearer. "... like uh, who brought the heater to the party, man?" The editorial 'man' in this case, Cash is mostly focused on the nervous suit.

Bob blinks and looks at cash, "What pray tell are you talking about?"

"Our young hero has found his sword," Ailsa says smoothly, nodding once to Bob. "As his self appointed witch in the forest guide, I'm encouraging him to let destiny tug him along by the short hairs. Since she will anyway, its better ta walk with company than alone."

Bob blinks, "You two know each other?"

A double take towards Ailsa, if he were drinking it would qualify as a 'spit-take'. But nothing to dribble out his chapped lips save the remains of his cigarette and the last drink he had. Cash, now changes, ever so slightly. Feet move minutely farther apart from one another centering themselves directly under each denim shoulder. Brows furrow under the veil of hair and the other bag's allowed to join it's contemporary on the alley floor. He does in fact; look into the large trash bin. Is there a shotgun there?

Oddly enough, no. Said gun you swear you saw Bob stuff in the dumpster just a few moments ago is inexplicably gone.

Ailsa mms cautiously. "Not in so many words, no. But one storybook character can recognize another when they're beside one another on the shelf, no matter how dusty or disreputable. Are we done here, Mr. Messiah? There are places in the woods I'm not sure its safe to linger after dark, so far off the path."

Bob says, "Umm... Sure. just let me..." He looks into the dumpster over Cash's shoulder, then blinks alot. He moves the trash around alot then looks puzzled, "But... it was... right here." He frowns a bit and steps back. He looks at Cash, then Ailsa, "Yes... moving on might be good." He turns to walk over towards Ailsa rather quickly.

The young woman purses her lips, never looking away from Cash. Low, "Its truly not wise to meddle in someone else's story. It makes them want to turn your pages with greater attention. The sort of thing one presumes, living in such a location, you're interested in avoiding. Do you want to rethink that particular relocation, in the interests of fellowship and a kindly word?"

This will definitely require a long drag as Cash returns from the bin without the prize he was seeking.

"Hold the phone, man..." Cash says with east-coast spice. He looks to Ailsa and points two fingers with movements like maple syrup. "This is someone's backyard yer playin' dungeons 'n dragons in. I expect a... 'mother may I?' first, ya know? 'Specially from a cultured broad like yerself."

Bob looks at Ailsa like she's a total fruitcake, but comments nothing, insted heading for the end of the alleyway where he pauses to wait for her to join him.

"You don't have any house signs up," Ailsa remarks rather frigidly. "Nor were you apparently aware of someone waking up in your vicintity after a long nap. Therefore you've rather missed your bus. But if you insist upon this sort of path, its yours to walk." And turning, marches with a set mouth out of the alley to join Bob. "Come, then. There were seven swords of Wayland. We shall find you another."

Bob nods to Ailsa and heads out as he comments, "I don't know what's wierder... How

"My bus says 'College' on it. Look it up, ya wacki fuckin' broad..." Annoyance salts Cash's tongue and ash falls into the dirty alley water. Content to watch the two leave, this unlikely dawn pair. A wandering odd couple, perhaps on their way to get some breakfast crack. So it's with a laugh at that thought, Cash cracks a smile.

"Have fun stormin' the castle'" Cash does his best Billy Crystal and deposits the bags of trash.'.

Working the Lori angle.

Suburbs - Bella Figura Ristorante

Italians have an exuberance for food not matched by many. Carefully and lovingly prepared, it's elevated to the same level as lovemaking and religion - and Italians know how to eat and savor their food. Meals in Italy can begin at noon and sometimes find people still gathered around the table at six in the evening, lingering through the last course of pastry, wine and conversation. Their philosophy is, if you eat well, you feel well - and if you feel well, all's well with the world.
The perfect romantic ambiance can be found here at Bella Figura. That same detail to the food can be found in the dark woods that panel the walls where gas-lit torches flicker providing dim lighting, and cozy intimate seating becomes reality in the use of potted plants that seem to enclose some of the tables into their own little world. Once seated, your server will light the candle set in the middle of your table before taking your order from a menu of elegant and fine Italian cuisine. Soft music is often provided by a wandering guitarist who will gladly serenade your table for a few minutes as they circle the room.

'places' Set

Contents:
Lori
Obvious exits:
Private Door PD Out O

Lori is already here, picking at a piece of bread that was set before her when she was seated. She seems a wee bit spacey... But otherwise mostly all right. There's a coke in front of her since she couldn't produce the necessary ID. Of course, you won't be able to see this until you get to where the table is in view.

Pobble wanders into the restaurant, looking almost sharp eyed. Not that his bleech blues aren't glossy, but some combination seems to be keeping him focused as he strolls purposefully across to the hostess, murmering quiet words to her. In response she guides him across to Lori's table where after flashing one of his more charming smiles, he slides down into the space opposite her. "Evenin'."

Lori smiles up at Pobble. "Hey, you made it... Try the bread, it's really good. I was doing my level best not to tear into it. I'm starving. How're you?" Lori reaches for her soda with a slow motion as though she might be a bit stiff.

Pobble's elbows rest on the table, a lazy silver tipped hand reaching for the bread as recommended. He eyes you curiously as he moves a plate over, pulling off a chunk with a spray of crumbs. "I'm decent. What about you? Everything alright?"

Lori nods and sips her soda. "Yeah... not bad." She smiles beatifically for a second at him, clearly not a hundred percent sober to the trained eye. "How's life as an outlaw?" She reaches for a piece of bread and pops a bit in her mouth.

The waitress appears, enquiring about drinks and appetizers. Pobble gives you a sidelong questioning look before turning to the woman with a warm smile. "Wine, surprise me. A good red." A quick glance to the menu at his side and he adds, "Motzarella sticks. Anything for you Lori?"

Lori thinks about it, "Calamari, please," she tells the server and gives her a brief smile before focusing on Pobble again. Her elbows are on the table too, and when she gets done munching the piece of bread she props her chin on her hands.
The server heads off, picking her way towards the kitchen and Pobble's attention returns to the girl opposite him. His smile is crooked, considering her in silence for a long moment as he absently pulls apart the bread. "I wasn't aware that I was an outlaw."

Lori shrugs at him. "Y'look like one. Y'act like one." Her voice is somewhat lazy, posessed of a distinct southern drawl at times. Lori's brilliant green eyes blink serenely.

Pobble waves his glinting fingertips dismissively, reaching for the plate of garlic and liberally dousing it with oil. "Nah, not so much. Used to with my modified trashcan on me noggin, but those days are long gone. Bloody Aussies got wise to me." A small smirk at the deadpan humour, bread soaking up the extra virgin fluid. "So, Miss Researcher. He ask you to pull me over and dig a little, or is this a purely social visit?"

"Miss Researcher...?" Lori looks a little confused but continues slowly, "A little bit of both, but mostly me wanting to hang with you. Both of us are really curious, though." She shrugs and watches you as if you were a particularly engrossing film, the little glints of light coming off of your fingers and such catching her attention.

Pobble nods slowly, taking a bite from the dripping bread and half smiling appreciatively. Settling back he retains a pensive look, twisting the loaf fragment between his fingers. "I see." he murmers distractedly, again lapsing into silence as he tries to figure you out and not seeming to make much progress. "What about me makes you curious then?"

Lori drops one of her hands to the table so that she's just leaning on one, her cheekbone braced against the heel of her hand. "Uhm... mostly? I don't know. I think that's what drives me crazy." Shrug. "You're kinda nice to be around, is all. I mean, not... /nice/, because nice is boring... But, uhm." Shrug.

"I see." Pobble seems mildly amused, finishing the last of the hunk and not going for another quite yet. Adjusting his seating, any reply is delayed by the arrival of his wine and the appetizers. Once the server has gone, he repositions his elbows on either side of the plate before him, pulling his glass slowly across the table. "Just my incredible charisma then eh?" he asks, grin widening.

Lori frowns at him. "You're making fun of me."

Pobble laughs quietly, "Not at all." Pale eyes roll, wine lifted and swilled carefully around the glass, brought back over the plate in contemplation of drinking it. "I diddn't take you as being so uptight." he teases, a nail tapping against the glass with a strange sound. "Sorry."

Lori sighs. "I'm not uptight, it's just..." She shakes her head, causing the pigtails to bounce about enthusiastically. "Forget it. Hard to explain." Finally she sits back and grabs a fork to start digging into the squid. Mmmm... squid.

Pobble doesn't seem too eager to pick at the sticks, taking a long sip from the wine instead and nodding appreciatively, the tip of his tongue pulling a stray drop from his lower lip. "See now you've got me curious." He grins lopsidedly, but lets the subject drop. Wine is set back down. "So.."

Lori shrugs her shoulders and says, "Look, people assume lotsa stuff about me, and some of it's true and some of it ain't. I'm not that hard to figure out... Well... maybe." She offers an uncertain smile. "About as hard as you, I figure."

Pobble smirks, "From what I gather you're having a hard time of that so it can't be that simple." He shrugs, lazily leaning back against the booth. "I'm not assuming anything, that always spoils the surprises." His finger curls around the stem of the glass, wrist resting on the edge of the table.

Lori nods her head a few times and dips some calamari into marinara. "Not hungry, particularly?" she asks, green eyes peering up at him unabashedly for the moment.

"A little I guess." Pobble is prompted to acting, selecting one of the fried cheese sticks and lifting it towards him. "I'm on a diet." he adds, unable to supress the smile. A bite is taken, cheese stringing out as he pulls the morsel back. Chew chew chew. "Not been here for a while.. Not bad is it."

Lori snorts at you. "Diet... like hell. If you get any skinnier I'll be able to beat the crap out of you. Then you'd be all embarrassed you got your ass beat by a girl." She pushes the plate of fried squid forward in offer in case you want some.
Pobble shakes his head, the peice in his hand waved in a help yourself-to-mine gesutre. The last of the chunk is popped between his lips, the pause resulting from chewing the thick and chewy cheese goodness. "I just can't help it. Blame it on a hyperactive metabolism."

Lori mumbles, "...or a really keen smack habit." She's at least halfway teasing you. "No offense, but I'm blaming the smack." Her fingers snake out to snag a mozarella stick which she promptly dunks in marinara.

"Never been a big fan of the smack." he half grins, "Although once I hit middle age, slow down and start to balloon I'll probably consider it." Either way, he doesn't seem in much of a hurry to continue his food, taking the wine in hand once more. "What about you then Lori? From what you said the other night, I take it you're a clean straight arrow?"

Lori snorts softly. "Yeah... I'm a real straight arrow..." She shakes her head and looks out at the restaurant, what she can see of it from here. Fingers absently rub crumbs from each other. "Not anymore. Used to be a bit."

Pobble raises a brow, "You used to be a bit straight?" Amused he shuffles along the booth to the corner, resting a thigh along the seat and placing his glass upon it. "How come you and Sam don't get along?" he enquires nonchalantly.

Lori reaches up to use the fingernail on her pinky finger to brush aside a couple of wisps of hair not caught up in her pigtails. "Because she's a whore and she pisses me off," Lori answers easily, reaching for her coke. She shrugs and adds, "She's Damian's girlfriend, so it's like having Yoko fucking Ono in the house all the time."

"You all live together?" Pobble asks, only a mild trace of surprise in his tone. Boot hanging in the air shifts to tap against the table support, the movement bringing ripples to the surface of his wine. "Sounds like a recipie for drama."

Lori just rolls her eyes and makes a frustrated sound in her throat. Hauling off and screaming obscenities right now probably wouldn't go over so well with the management. "Fucking hell it is," she agrees quietly.

Pobble tries not to smirk, but doesn't do a terribly good job of it. A lazy free hand rises to scratch a patch of tattooed skin at the edge of his goggles. He continues to stare evenly across the table, ignoring the usual conversational choice of looking away every now and then. Manners aren't his strong point after all. "Why not find a place of your own then?"

Lori shakes her head. "What, and live in some rathole I can barely afford eating ramen noodles every night and going to sleep praying that the stray bullets won't clip me in the head while I sleep? No thanks. Did that, and I didn't like it."

Pobble raises a thin brow, not ceasing the tapping of his foot. A swig from the wine proceeds the question, "Doesn't pay well then does he?" Subsequently the beverage is drained, empty glass set down unevenly and wobbling before it comes to rest.

Lori shrugs. "He pays fine. It's not like it's all about money or anything either. We're friends. That counts a lot more. I know if something goes wrong, Damian will never leave me hanging. And I'll never leave him hanging, either. You can't buy that with money."

"Very true." Pobble seems intrigued, musing quietly as he studies you. It's maybe one of those awkward silences, although the blue haired chemist doesn't look awkward. He steeples his hands in his lap, the beat of his fingertips tapping in counterpoint to the rapping of boot on table leg.

Lori watches you unblinkingly from across the table as you dissect her and try to take her apart and put her back together again. She's fairly used to that kind of thing, but the silence starts getting to her after a while. "What? What're you thinkin?"

Pobble shakes his head, a braid sliding over his shoulder and the sharp point of a cable tie poking at his neck. He doesn't seem to care, smiling wryly as he offers a shrug. "Just trying to figure things out." he murmers in reply, glossy pale blue eyes unrelenting in their stare. He blinks, a cue to change his position, straightening back out and setting elbows back on table, idly touching the edges of his plate with glinting fingertips. "So, where'd you guys come from before swaggering into our quiet little town?"

Lori murmurs with a smile, "Nah, I ain't gonna talk all day about me and them." She looks kind of sad for a minute then reaches out to pick up her coke to sip at it in a thoughtful silence.

Pobble's brows moves towards a frown, not at the reply but the moment after it. He doesn't seem to care about the rebuttal, the plate before him slowly rorating with the pressure of his fingertips. "Fair enough." A brief pause before the follow up. "What's the matter?"

Lori sets her glass down then scrunches into the corner of the booth and starts digging into her pockets. She shakes her head and gets a pack of cigarettes out. Once she gets one out of the pack she throws the rest down for you to take one if you want. Now she's gotta hunt through a bunch of other pockets to find a lighter. "I wish there was a fucking Hallmark card to say what I was thinking. It just gets so goddamned stupid after a while. 'Roses are red, violets are blue. I'm never honest. How about you?'"

Pobble laughs, only briefly. A zippo is easily pulled from his jacket pocket, handed over and taking one of your smokes with the same movement. "That seems to be one thing about this place. It's full of secrets." The smile that forms on his lips is a curious one, pensive yet entertained, as if mulling over some hidden intrigue that proves his statement.

"Blah blah blah," Lori answers, taking the zippo so she can light up the smoke. Afterwards she hands the flame back across to you. Two on a match is okay. "The whole world is full of secrets."

Pobble puffs the smoke to life, holding the nicotine laced haze in his lungs over long before releasing it from his nose. "Maybe." Eyes search lazily for an ashtray as he already moves for a second drag. Another one of those pauses finds a way to break into the conversation, "If your lies make you uncomfortable, why not just be honest?" The expression on blue-hair's face makes it obvious that he doesn't see this as a likely option, but it's something to fill the dead air.

Lori shakes her head. "Never said I lie, just that I ain't honest. And that's a different thing." The girl licks her lips, tasting the nicotine. "I dunno, I don't expect you to understand." Frown. "I'm a sorry sack 'o shit, ain't I. Oh, well." She ashes her cigarette at the ashtray and says, "Well, Doctor Steve, thanks for coming out and having a snack with me." She reaches into a pocket to pull out some money and starts flipping through it. "Probably I oughta go so I don't depress the shit out of -both- of us."

Pobble waves a hand at the attempted payment, "I got it." he murmers amidst a slow exhalation. "It was certainly.. interesting? Thanks for inviting me." The Doctor looks more perplexed than anything, entirely unsure of the whole event. "Next time we'll stick to less depressing topics eh?" The small pillar of ash is removed from his cigarette, barely making it to the ashtray. "You can come talk to me anytime you're depressed though, that's what Doctors are for right?"

Lori stubs out her cigarette after a last drag and shoves her money away except for a few dollars for a tip. There. And she wriggles out of the booth, but instead of walking off she swings around to the other side of it to sit next to you.

Pobble raises a brow, half confused, half amused. Bemused is probably the word. Angling himself around, he looks at you with tilted head, a strand of stray blue hanging over his goggles to tickle above his eye. The brow twitches but his hands stay in his lap. "You came back soon."

Lori shrugs and smiles up at you. "I needed a new perspective." She looks across the way at her vacated seat for a few moments before focusing on you again. Her voice drops down low and she murmurs, "I'm sorry I can't give you all the information you want. I don't even know if you're trying to hurt him or not. I think maybe you are, and that kind of upsets me, but... nothing I can do about that right now. I like you, Pobs, but I'm real... scared, in a way."

The topic change definately straightens Pobble out, shoulder resting against the seat back as he frowns. Fingers seem uncertain of what to do, almost tapping but not sure if they should. With the cigarette hanging precariously from his lips, the smoke curls up around his head, a thin hazy veil between the two. It's plucked after a moment, allowing speech. "I'm not Trying to hurt him." he admits, his tone quiet. "But, why are you scared?"

Lori stuffs her hands together in her lap, wedging them between her knees which makes her slouch forward some. "I don't know. Isn't that crazy? I think it's because everything's in flux. My life is pretty clear in some ways, but in others I get really seriously confused." She lifts her head so she can look at you, those green eyes looking mildly bloodshot up close though no less luminous.

Pobble lightly taps your arm with the back of his hand, smiling trying to be reassuring maybe. It's passable. "I'd ask what confuses you but I doubt I'd get any comprehensible answer." he says slowly, seeming resigned to the facts. "Aren't things always in flux in this line of work, at least to some degree? Or is this something else?"

Lori reaches up to scratch at her temple with a few long fingernails that are somewhat chipped and could use a good emory board. "Well, yeah, I mean you're right about that... Things are generally always in flux. But I mean me, personally." She sighs and rubs the table surface, digging the texture there. "See, this is what happens when I don't work enough." She beams a quick smile. "I start thinkin'." She lays her head on your shoulder unless you just dodge out of the way. "I also shouldn't go around this high, but I can't seem to help it lately. I just wanna float away."

Pobble's smile is small and secret, out of view of Lori with her head rested down, formed around the pulling of the last drag on the cigarette. An arm is extended, keeping his back against the booth to stub the butt. Back in his lap, fingertips fidget against the gloves that half cover his hands. "What's so bad to think about?" he coaxes softly, sounding concerned.

Lori lifts her head once more and yawns, pushing some strands of hair away from her face. "Fate," she says, stretching her spine. It cracks a few times, and she winces. "Ungh." One hand reaches up to rub her shoulder. "Cause sometimes even when you know something's gonna be bad you do it anyway. Dumb, huh?"

Pobble studies the girl's motions as if somehow the examination will bring some clarity to the vageries. Doesn't seem to, but he appears to get the gist of the sentiment if not the details behind it. He doesn't move that much, apart from the uneasy drug afflicted shifting of extremeties. "That's human nature." he comments, a flicker of amusement pulling at a corner of his lips. "We're all fucking stupid on some level."

Lori looks up and laughs at his comment, finding that to be funny and apt. "Nice. Yeah, we are. But you're pretty cool, Pobble. Oh, well. If you get bored, or need a date or just want someone to get high with, you can call me." She nods at him and starts wrigging out of the booth. "It's cool."

"Maybe I'll do that." Pobble replies, half smiling, distracted by thoughts. As an afterthought he adds, "I guess you're alright." this pushing his smile wider. He twists again, leaning back against the far wall of the booth, stretching a leg out into the space of your absence, apparently not intending to leave quiet yet. "Be good."

Lori snorts at you in amusement. "Yeah... I'm alright..." She shakes her head at you and lifts her hand. "See you later, Pobble. Pretty sure I'll be seein ya soon." She shrugs and stuffs her hands in her pockets and starts moseying for the door. Before she gets out of earshot she says, "Thanks for the dinner." And there she goes, wandering off to god only knows where.

Waving the Flag

To those asking around, it's not too uncommon to find Damian here, particularly when there's new art up. He's here now with Lori and Jerome - and of the three, the seven foot Jerome really tends to be the one that draws the eye at first. Damian's currently eyeballing a painting of a shipwreck with a critical expression, and Jerome's looking fairly bored but well-behaved.

The door opens, admit one Pobble. Or half admit. A second taken to hastily suck the last from a cigarette including a small burn of the filter before he flicks it out past the dirty fella he has in tow. Stepping fully inside the gallery, he lightly adjusts the sit of his top hat as he holds the door for Cash, peering across with a sharp and determined expression. His thin lips are set in a crooked line, silver tipped fingers tapping against the door as he scans the room.

In comes those that don't belong. Unless perhaps, this gallery's patrons tend to be low end. Damian and company prove this theory false. And so Cash and Pobble's entrance goes noticed. Cash, the more sluggish of the two, follows in tow with denim collars propped up against the relentless foul weather of Erin's Valley. Relaxed, slumped and stumbling in alcohol steps. He's concealing a bottle in that jacket of his, no doubt moonshine of grandpa's ripest variety. Hard to follow his gaze behind the drapery of hair that covers. But he's behind Pobble in a purely heterosexual fashion. Eyes fix on the array of free beverages, but he stays the course lain before him by his contemporary. Into the gallery proper.


Lori is actually interested in the art. Her arms are folded across her chest, a bag slung over her head so that the strap lays across her body, boots planted firmly on the ground. "...and nobody does those really great huge, big fucking sea ship scenes anymore where the waves are like 30 feet tall and there's some poor motherfucker hanging from the rigging on the mast and the ship's like hanging in mid air at the top of a wave at a seventy-degree angle n' shit? Man, I love those. They're not ART, but I love them."

Must be that time of day, when people stop by the Gallery for either a looksee of new art, or perhaps a triple espresso from the cafe. For the redhead that soon steps inside, it's for the latter. Kirra is needing her caffeine fix, seriously. Graceful steps take her from the front door towards the cafe where she smiles at the guy behind the counter, "Hey there, Billy. The usual, please?" In hand, she's already got the correct change laid on the counter for him, sliding it across when he hands over the paper cup, "Thanks, Billy. Don't let 'em stress ya too hard today." As she turns away, words are over-heard, and peering into the gallery proper, she sees the trio before the ship picture. "Hey there. " That's directed it Lori with a brief smile before she takes a sip of the strong brew from her cup.

Damian glances down at Lori for a moment, then looks back up at the painting, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "They have movies about that these days, so no one needs it in art anymore. Attention spans like guinea pigs. In ten years, we won't have galleries at all, more's the pity." Though not directed at him he glances Kirra's way, then looks at Lori questioningly.

Lori says, "Géricault? Fuck Géricault, man. Romanticism is a waste of my goddamned time..." The rest of her thought is cut off, and she turns to look where Damian's looking. Monkey see, monkey do. "Oh," she says, "Kirra." This for Damian's elucidation. Lori lifts a hand to wave at her."


Pobble continues to hang near the door, side stepping to stand next to Cash, inclining his head towards the man as his gaze lights on the trio with the obvious bodyguard affliction. "Intrestin'. You know, I asked that old guy about buying that entropic peice. He never got back to me though, the fucker." His attention flicks briefly over Lori and Jerome before settling on Damian, lips pursed in consideration. "Think that might be him?" he murmers to his comrade.

A solemn nod, that's the answer Pobble gets as Cash reveals the libations he's been hiding badly under his coat. Lazy eyes follow a passing gallery goes before his worn sneakers get side tracked by the crackers with the brie. Cheese is good. Cash's spidery grasp scoops up a few appetizers as he passes the server. One is hidden in his pocket, presumably for the never ending winter. And when the chewing's done, he pulls from his dingy and unlabeled bottle. A few small rivers of one million proof run down into his bearded chin.


Kirra's smiles is a bit brighter as Lori speaks her name, a nod given as if to signal the other got it right, "How's your friend? Everything turn up ok with him?" She questions, seriously concerned before she looks to Damian, her head nodding in greet, "Nice to see you again, sir. I hope your day has been pleasant?" Polite is the redhead as she stands there gripping the cup of caffeine, sipping from it at times. Hand lifts, a brush of fingers to tuck away a dark lock, the light shimmering against the few studs in her ear. Cash and Pobble are spared a glance, shadowed green eyes skimming over them both before she turns back to Damian and group.

Damian regards Kirra for a moment, then nods with a small smile. "Pleasant enough," he agrees. "And yourself?" The rest of the room is given what was intended to be a quick glance, but his attention is caught by the rather odd pair that's just arrived. Pobble is merely studied for a moment with a curious look, but then Cash is given a mild but still fairly plain look of disgust. "Lovely," he murmurs to the two standing near him.


Lori shrugs at Kirra, "He's as fine as he's going to get." And that doesn't necessarily answer her question. Lori lets Kirra have at Damian, the pleasantries being exchanged and all. She turns to eye the wall of dark meat behind her and is about to say something but is distracted by Pobble and his hat and his coat. She lifts a hand, waves limply, but glances at Cash. She lifts her arm and glances at her watch. "Whatcha say, huh? Five minutes to the cops get here? Pick a number..."
l

The blue haired Pobble raises a brow at the implication, whispering loudly to his companion. "I think she's talking about us mate." He doesn't look away from Damien though, a mildly amused smile forming. With a somewhat glacial pace he begins to head across towards the man, hands sliding down into the oversized pockets of his yeti-like coat. Although eyes are slightly glossy, there is a definate clarity to his expression.

And backing the skinned Polar-Bear, the drunk, having lost his shyness at being less than sober. Though it's only notable by the criss crossing path his sneakers march him. Cash, wiping the remains of munched cracker crumbs clinging to the mop of hair that grows with a will it's own. Bottle now corked, and stuffed back under his coat. Worn like a shoulder holster, complete with form fitting strap. A quick draw on the Bushmills. Fastest drunkard on the west coat. Somewhere behind Pobs, Cash stands. Looking extra casual about their approach.

Kirra nods once to Lori at her answer, no words given to try and say sorry or give condolences. To Damian, the redhead chuckles lightly, her voice an easy alto, "Pleasant enough, yes, even with the weather." Shoulders are given a slight shrug before Lori's words call attention back towards the other two strange men. A quick study, and she asides back, "Ten if they're lucky and the cops are busy."

Damian lifts an eyebrow as he sees the two coming his way, turning to face them, expression going neutral but still slightly curious. Jerome's showing more interest; the man can't really help but loom, gaze fixing as well on the approaching men with more of a warning glare. "Suddenly I appreciate Drew that little bit more," Damian notes idly to Lori. "I suspect I know where this might be heading."

"Well you're the only fucking one," Lori tells Damian, her brow drawing into a delicate scowl. "What gives, Pobs?" Lori asks of her acquaintance. To Damian she says, "This is Pobble." The other . . . gentleman . . . is ignored. Her hands move to adjust the strap of her bag.

Paying no heed to the imposing figure of Jerome, Pobble's smile grows just a small ammount. "Right. I forgot you all had a dress code. I was hoping to find Artus and negociate a deal." he offers, a dry and transparent guise in response to Lori's query. Given the casual hostility, he remains calm and confident, hand removed from pocket to scratch lazily at his chin. Smile becomes a mild smirk as he comes to a halt a short distance from Damian. "I don't suppose you happen to be Griffin?"

Large man, that Jerome. Small man, that Cash. They're now in close proximity, the smaller of the two looking upwards. Though unimposing, he shows no sign of being intimidated by his counterpart. On the contrary. He pulls one of the cracker he pocketed, offering it up between long nicotine stained fingernails. "You wan' a cracker, man?"

A sip, a look, and the redhead sighs, curiously watching the proceedings, yet slipping to the side out of the way. From a painting on the wall, to the gathering group, Kirra looks, brows furrowed slightly as she studies both Cash and Pobble, then the better outfitted ones of Lori, Damian, and Jerome. Hmm.


The name 'Pobble' gets Lori another glance from Damian, and a look of some recognition; precisely how much isn't particularly clear. He looks back at the man, then past him at Cash for a lingering moment. Distaste registers briefly again in the form of a faint sigh. "I am -a- Griffin," he agrees, looking back at Pobble with a small, amused smile. "I'm sure I am not the only one, even in this city. And no, I don't have any spare change. Or cigarettes. Or drugs."


Lori glances around very briefly, satisfied that noone is approaching the extraordinarily odd group of people. Her hands absently adjust the strap on her bag once more while she peers up at Pobble. When Damian speaks, her luminous green eyes flick up at him but soon return to 'Pobs'. Amazingly, she doesn't speak. One may note the position of her stance. That is, she is a step back and to the side of Damian, having given sufficient room for him to maintain his personal space yet remains near enough to touch.

Ooh. Burn. Pobble develops a wan and almost hurt expression that quickly dissapates. "Tres dole, mon ami." murmers the cockney, in a badly affected accent. A silver nail taps his chin before the hand returns to the pocket whence it came. "Damian Griffin?" he asks in clarification, a small glance given to Jerome, perhaps to see if he does in fact want a cracker.

Jerome doesn't seem to want a cracker. The man folds his arms across his chest, dipping his chin and looking down at Cash with a frown. Maybe he doesn't talk.

"Suit yerself, man." And so ends Cash's generosity. The cracker finds its grave in the drunkard's maw. The folding of arms is a distinct gesture of intolerance, impatience, or anger. Take your pick, Cash isn't phased. His callused hands dig into dingy denim caves as he munches up the cheesy snack. And he slouches, dull brown eyes drifting to the art hanging for its life.

"I'm partial to movies, kinda.." His artistic commentary, though it's unlikely to make the latest version of Art Speak. Cash, there's an economy of energy to his movements. Perhaps he stores it in some internal vat, ready for the tapping should a fitting situation arrive.

Glancing up at Jerome nearby, Kirra spares a momentary grin at a thought, head shaking a bit as she holds back a hint of laughter for some reason as she studies the tall guy. Dropping her gaze, she turns back to the two who question Damian, studying them further, listening to the conersation that comes. Espresso is sipped upon, slowly savored by th redhead who doesn't deem words from her important at this moment.

Damian looks back at Cash as the man speaks, and the distaste shifts for a moment into something more ponderous. But not too long, not long enough to be rude or dismissive, before he's looking back at Pobble. "Yes. Damian Griffin."


Lori watches Pobble, waiting. A thumb is stuck under the strap of her bag, potentially ready to pull it over her head. Kirra is forgotten, alas, in favor of the more compelling pair in front of her.

"Interestin'" murmers Pobble quietly. His expression becomes neutral as he slowly slides a hand into his coat, the motion similar to the one he might take pulling a gun. A crooked smile snaps back to his lips, "Been wanting to talk to you, we have."

Lori purses her lips and stares up at Pobs. One hand is extended to the side toward Kirra, a 'come hither' crook of her finger motioning her over. Lori's eyes never leave Pobble.

Inch by inch, attention shifts. Cash is used to glares, though he's the aura of a man accustomed to his lot in life. Kirra, Lori, Jerome, Damian, he's been given those looks one thousand times over, and they've lost their weight. From the mediocre art to the beefcake that stands sentry near him. A lazy transition and he takes his time about.

"You like Kung Fu movies, man?" This, more than anything is disappointing. "You ever seen Enter the Dragon? I've seen that movie four thousand eight hundred times...." Fingers come out from their hidey hole to wiggle in demonstration. Cash caught, fishing for a reaction deeper than arms crossed.

Kirra narrows eyes as Pobbles moves, his hand reaching into his coat. The motion of the finger crooked her way by Lori does gain her attention, the redhead moving behind Jerome and over towards the other female with a quiet step, keeping out of the way of the others as she does so. The look that's given to Lori is of a questioning nature, gaze divided by the other girl, and the guys.


Damian merely continues to regard Pobble evenly, although Jerome slides a hand into his jacket in a mirroring gesture of Pobble's own. The large man is splitting his attention between both Pobble and Cash, though with slightly heavier focus on the former. "So," Damian replies smoothly, "You've found me. Not exactly a huge achievement, but go you all the same. Bear in mind that attempting to shoot, stab or otherwise fuck with me in here would be really quite stupid. Or anywhere else, actually. If you have something to say to me then by all means, you have my full attention."


Lori moves her arm back by about half a foot, extends her index finger and holds it there in a 'wait' sign. Her head is turned to the side just enough so she can watch Pobble and keep an ear canted toward Kirra.

Pobble rolls his eyes, the needle point pupils loosing their fix on the man for the briefest second. "You think I'm some sort of fucking retard?" A terribly oversized boot taps at the floor. "The appearance of a crackhead does not a crackhead make." That's deep philosophy for you, spoken in tones that mock the underestimating statement. He snaps his hand from his coat, fingertips glinting around a crisp eggshell white business card. He twists his wrist, offering the card to Damian face down. In contrast to the sharp style hinted at by the glimpse of its front, the once plain back has been marked with a red sharpee in a ragged X. The smile that accompanies the movement is precise and professional, "We need to talk. Not here. Do call and we can do lunch or somesuch."

"Hey man" Lazy words from chapped lips concealed by overgrown hair. "Like, take 'r easy. 'N I won't snap that elbow out..." Cash obviously now looking a few clicks south of Jerome's face. Mainly towards that hand that so obviously tucked under his jacket. Though he looks anything but threatening, with eyes fluttering on the verge of a drunken black out. Still, his callused hands remove from their denim pockets to dangle on either side of his form loosely.

Kirra strangely obeys the silent command from Lori, her steps paused to the side where she might keep both the other and the men in her sights. Too curious is this whole scene, and Gods know the redhead is the curious sort.

Damian gives a rather disparaging laugh, though it doesn't seem aimed directly at Pobble so much as the conversation. "I don't know you from any other man on the street, and frankly, the majority of them -are- fucking retards. I like to err on the side of caution. So much easier for everyone involved. Lori." There's a command in that, his intention made relatively clear when he inclines his head towards the card the other man is offering. Paranoid, or just an arrogant jackass? Probably both. Jerome curls his lip in an aggressive leer at Cash; the hand doesn't slide back out of his jacket, but he doesn't look like he's right about to whip anything out and start firing wildly, either. Still doesn't say a damn word. Damian's gaze continues to linger on Pobble, then he nods. "A question for you and your companion, since we move in similar circles. Does the name Harbringers Inc ring a bell?" His attention shifts to include Cash as well as he waits for an answer.


Lori leans forward and reaches out to take the card from Pobble quite easily. Damian's command goes into her head, through her nervous system, and into her spinal cord, it seems, so that his will appears to move her slender body rather than her own. The ugly thing is that it's so natural, kind of graceful in a way.

The card relinquished, Pobble's hand returns to his pocket. He goes slip a glance at Jerome, seeming almost dissapointed at the lack of action from the bodyguard, lip pushing out slightly as if he's willing the big man to do something. As he turns back to Damian, his gaze lingers on Lori, a thin peirced brow heading up towards his hat in what could be amusement. Still, he doesn't question, attention fixing once more on Damian. "Harbringers Inc." he repeats pensively, "No immediate tingling of bellage. I can pry perhaps."

"You don' like... talk much, eh? Farrr out." Cash observes, returning the scowl he receives by Jerome with a needy expression. That need, another pull from the bottle stung under his jacket. And so it's uncorked again for a pull. Cheeks filled with whiskey make for a funny smile. One that's wiped by a dingy denim sleeve, tugging with it a few errand strands that are nearly trapped in his lips along with the gulp. His mouth smacks at the sensation. He enjoys it.

Relaxing a touch once the card is offered over, Kirra continues to nurse the cup of espresso, careful sips taken of the still steaming brew. Quiet she remains, at least for now, yet she does straighten, her gaze turned to study Damian's profile from where she stands as he mentions Harbringers. From him to Pobble she trains her gaze, that curiosity growing now as she listens in on the conversation.

Damian nods once to Pobble, though he waits for Cash's reply - or rather, lack of one in regards to his question - before his attention resettles fully on the top-hatted man. "Ahh, well. It's nothing of import, really. I was merely curious." He glances to Lori, hand lifting for a moment to absent-mindedly brush some loose strands of her hair back behind one of her ears, then the hand slides down to take the card from her so he can have a better look at it himself. "I'm sure I will be in touch," he tells Pobble in a more off-hand fashion.

Lori's head tilts about ten degrees to the other side as Damian touches her so he can better access to touch her. She doesn't look at him but looks at Pobble instead, her luminous green eyes affixed on him, trying to see past his third eye and into the contents of his skull, no doubt.


"I hope so. I'd hate to have to track you down again." Pobble replies, as if the tracking was something he'd considered unnescessary to begin with, the tone carrying a subtle implication. He stares in silence for a moment, finally nodding and as his lips once more comform to the proffessional and curt smile template. He steps back, boots heavy on the floor of the gallery. "We'll be seeing you Griffin. Do take care." he states, nudging Cash in the universal Time-To-Go manner.

This signals more wiggling of Cash's callused fingers. To Jerome and Damian mainly, the females of the royal court neglected. A messy spin of his rubber heels and Cash follows in tow. Not as an underling. More of a silent partner. And of course, his path out the gallery passes those tasty cheesy crackers again. One for the road.

Make that two.

Slightly distanced, yet seemingly a part of Damian's group, Kirra remains there behind him, shadowed green eyes watching still. As it appears this little meeting is coming to an end, she relaxes further as she moves another step to the side to now stand at Lori's other side, her gaze attracted by the painting there.

Garou fun at The Pulse

The Pulse - Main Room

The Pulse seems rather aptly named, for as soon as one enters it becomes obvious that the name was given to the establishment for the resounding rhythms that echo across the club. Even from the outside, the vibrations can be felt if one places a hand against the wall - a pastime that is quite popular among the younger crowd that isn't allowed entrance yet.
The entryway to The Pulse is well guarded by two bouncers that check ID of those entering the establishment, a stamp being placed on the hands of those that are actually old enough to drink while those between the ages of sixteen and twenty get in without.
To the left of the club is the bar, although small it holds the basic stock standards. The prettier bottles are pressed up front although occasionally Jell-O Shots and other drinks are set up for the young crowd to sweep up in festive joy. On the counter side of the club, lays the dance floor that bears the amazing resemblance to a mosh pit more than anything else, a sea of bodies twisting and turning to the hard-handed music. Towards the rear of the club, a few tables and boots are set up, for those that actually come here for the conversation.

Contents:
Lori
Alabaster Smith
Kirra
Drake
Andrea
Obvious exits:
Out O

Alabaster Smith sits down at Large Table.
Lori is looking at you.

Andrea starts to pick up her drink for a swallow, pausing with it in half tilt towards her mouth as she looks to the man across from her in the booth, "Need?" The word carrying with it a tone that half says she's not sure she actually wants to get an answer.

Small Table (#1) has 3 empty places.
Large Table (#2) has 4 empty places.
Present is: Alabaster Smith.
Dark Booth (#3) has 4 empty places.
Long Bar (#4) has 7 empty places.
Dance Floor (#5) has 15 empty places.

Alabaster Smith steeples his fingers, and nods. "Oh yes. Ah tend to peoples' spiritual needs, and crises of conscience."
Pobble enters with a small crowd, waiting his turn to flash ID and get his hand stamped. He scratches absently around the mark with a glinting nail as he steps out of the influx of clubbers, fishing in an oversized pocket of his yeti like coat for cigarettes as he's caught in the unfailing gravity of the bar and drawn towards its promises of hard liqour.


At the bar, Kirra listens to whatever Drake tells, her, and then shakes her head, turning to slip from the stool she'd been sitting on. Another comment is made, words lost under the beat of music to any but the man they're told too before the redhead turns and heads for the door, weaving her way through the crowd that's entering, disappearing outside.

Kirra makes her way out of the club.
Kirra has left.

Andrea doesn't move the glass from its halfway journey towards her mouth, the contents teetering on almost dribbling out the top. "Ah. Well. Thats very nice of you." She gives Alabastar another smile, "You must be very busy."

Alabaster Smith beams at Andrea, apparently quite sincere. "Ah'll admit it keeps me on my toes. Even though many people don't think they need it, everyone sooner or later needs help."

Lori is on the sidelines sucking soda through a straw, evidently, since there are no stamps on her hands. Her body is bouncing gently to the beat of the music while she enjoys the cold liquid. As soon as she finishes the soda, though, she abandons it and plunges back onto the dance floor to learn some more kewl movez. She certainly is an energetic little thing.

Drake listens to whatever it is Kirra has to say, then shakes his head. Runing fingers through his hair, he sighs and follows her out, absently pushing his way past anyone who gets in his way. The bulk's good for something at least.

Drake makes his way out of the club.
Drake has left.

Pobble slides sideways onto a stool, easing his coat out behind him. Despite the warmth of the club, he almost appears cold as a slightly shaking hand lifts a smoke to his thin lips. A request is mumbled to the bartender, and repeated a little louder before it's understood. Once the glass of clear liquid arrives, he rotates slowly on the stool top, leaning his furry bulk back against the bar to survey the crowd, one giant boot tapping against the footrest.

Andrea is quiet for a long, drawn moment, a glance given as Drake makes his way out after the girl, the corner of her mouth quirking back up into another half grin. Looking back to her table mate she nods slowly, "I bet. Never hurts to have someone watching out for ya."

Lori gets run over by Drake and winds up on her ass. She's hollering something out there on the dance floor as she tries to pick herself up, and the words "dickhead" and "fuckwad" are prominent during the tirade to those close enough to hear it.

Alabaster Smith nods solemnly. "Ah can be a very good friend," he says profoundly, regarding Andrea.

Lori stomps back toward the bar. Stomp, stomp, stomp! "Goddamnit!"

Andrea watches him carefully, even the most stoic would likely get the bit of edginess to them that the topic of conversation is clearly starting to work into her. "Well...ah, thats good. Great even. I'm sure there's just bunches out there that could use, ah, that kinda help."

Pobble swills his liqour around the glass as he digs for a lighter, body twisting to search the other pocket and comming up trumps. A tiny neon pink number is sparked and a deep breath taken as he tries to focus on the tables and floor, his attention finally managing some form of clarity as it comes to rest upon the stomping girl heading towards him. He seems to tense up, as if convinced she's comming for him.

Alabaster Smith grins toothily at Andrea. "Oh relax, Sister. Ah wouldn't force my beliefs on you. Just remember Ah'm here if you ever need me, or the help Ah can give."

Lori is coming for Pobble... in a way. Or at least near him. "Hey, did you kill that polar bear all by yourself?" Lori asks as she gets to the bar. She sits on a chair and flumps, dropping her chin in the palm of her hand.

Pobble narrows his one eye, while the brow raises above the other. "It's dead? Fuckin' awesome." He leans a little towards the girl, to whisper conspiratorially just loud enough to hear. "It tried to eat my monkey." A silver nail taps the glass harshly before he lifts it to knock back half of the noxious liquid, eyeing Lori sidelong. "Something the matter then is it?"

Andrea clears her throat slightly, "Thats cool. So, um." She pauses again for a second, taking a drink before continuing. "You been, ah, helping people around here long?"

Alabaster Smith nods. "Ah've been here for a few months now, ever since Ah decided to make this city my new home. It's been an interesting time."

Lori looks at Pobble equally sidelong. "What? With the coat? Fuck all if I care," she says loudly enough to be heard over the music and shrugs. "I bet somebody spraypaints it, though!"

Andrea can't help but grin at that, scooting in her seat to cross her legs, "Good interesting or bad interesting, because I've learned there can be a vast difference."

Pobble frowns, confusion apparent on his face. "Why would someone spraypaint a dead polar bear?" He shakes his head before knocking back the remainder of the drink and plonking the empty down on the bar. He waves a hand in a circular motion, trying to wind his thoughts back on track. "I meant the stomping and Goddammit."

Alabaster Smith smiles at that. "Ah fear it's actually been quite a mixture of both."

Andrea shrugs, "Thats how its supposed to be though right? Too much good and the good doesn't seem so good anymore." It must make sense to her at least. "Keeps you from getting biased."

"Oh that!" Lori says, "Some dickhead pushed me down on the dance floor, that's all. I didn't see him coming, and he just brushed me off like a mosquito. Somebody's always got to ruin it."

Alabaster Smith chuckles, nodding. "Oh yes. It keeps us busy, at the very least."

Pobble nods glumly, peering across at the writhing mass of bodies. "Bastards." he agrees, "Seems alright in here though, I guess." His foot is still caught in the infectious tapping cycle, much to the chagrin of his leg which he tries to push down to stop it from jiggling.

Lori puts her other elbow on the bar so she can set her chin in both hands and watch people or something. "Yeah, it's all right. I can't drink, though, and I don't have any friends... so I guess all I can do is dance or something. Mleh. Hey, you got an extra cigarette? Can I have one of those?"

Andrea grins a bit more at that, "Well, you know what they say about idle hands." She stretches a bit, looking over at the belongings stuffed into the seat next to her then back to Alabaster, "If you'll 'xcuse me I think I'm gonna jet out, migrate around and find myself a place to crash."

Dennis comes into the club from the streets outside.
Dennis has arrived.

Pobble pulls out the mysterious extra cigarette that happened to come free with his regular pack, offering it over with a lopsided smile that fades as he considers. "Don't have any friends? How comes?"

Alabaster Smith grins at Andrea. "By all means. It's been a pleasure chatting with you. Ah hope we'll meet again soon."

Lori explains to Pobble, "I just got here. Hey, can I have a light too?"

Andrea reaches over to grab her backpack, sliding out of her seat as she slings it over her shoulder, settling it into place before reaching for the guitar that was nestled closest to the wall to keep it safe. "Yeah, I suffer from bad penny syndrome, it's bound to happen." She grins at Alabaster. "Have a good one." Turning to make her way towards the door.

Andrea makes her way out of the club.
Andrea has left.

Pobble hands across the pink neon flame. He flashes a grin, swivelling slightly on his stool to face the girl. "Well, Welcome I guess. Dr. Steve is me, pleasure t'meetcha."

Lori dips her head down with the cigarette jutting from her pink lips so she can suck on the flame. She takes a big ol' lungful of smoke as she rises back up again. "Lori," she counters. "What the hell is that doctor thing all about?"
People don't see Dennis enter so much as they perceive a shift in the air. Whether it's directly attributable to him or not is up for debate, but there's a distinct feeling of unease in the room, as if something had changed in a way both subtle and difficult to pin down. It's the air of change, radical and swift and random, and perhaps that's what's so frightening: because most people, their protestations to the contrary, want nothing so much as some social guarantee that tomorrow will be a lot like today was, even if today was miserable. There are no guarantees anymore except change, and that might perhaps account for the unease which seems to follow Dennis around. Grizzly Adams, Mountain Man of Washington, Agent of Fortune, Butler of Chaos. Or, then again, maybe the uneasiness has nothing to do with metaphor and everything to do with the nigh-homicidal scowl on his face. Different philosophers, different ideas, all that.

Zoe comes into the club from the streets outside.
Zoe has arrived.
Zoe is looking at you.

Pobble shrugs just a touch, raising a hand at a passing bartender to indicate he's in need of service. "If y'earn it you may as well use it right?" Uncertainty flickers across his features as he pulls the last from his cigarette and stubs it into a nearby ashtray, blowing the smoke upwards away from Lori.


In the beginning, people didn't go to Washington State; they wound up in Washington as a way of getting away from other things. It led to the state's original population being self-reliant outdoorsy types who have become increasingly more rare as the state has become overrun with Starbucks and Microsoft. Most of the Lumberjack Brigade has already left Erin's Vale for Alaska, but there are still some holdouts, people who still seek self-reliance amidst the espresso and traffic jams. Dennis Larson is one of them. He may not be dressed like one right now, but his mien, his build, his air of self-confident self-reliance, give him away as clearly as day.
He's not a large man, being of average height with an average build. Yet for all that, his average build is solidly built, his torso a gymnast's wedge shape and his muscles lean and well-defined. He's quite fit, fit in a way which is rarely seen nowadays; it's the fitness that comes from exertion and work, not time on Nautilus equipment. Scars on his hands and forearms attest to a life of manual labor, and his thirty-year-old face alternates between tanned and sunburnt depending on whether or not he remembered to pack sunblock. That, too, is rare nowadays; in an economy where most people work indoors, Dennis clearly works under the Wenatchee sun.
His hair is cut in a short low-maintenance style, the Nordic yellowness bleached to white-blonde by the sun, with eyes so pale a gray they evoke nothing so much as bleach. Dennis is dressed differently than he usually is; his flannels and jeans have been traded for a suit and tie. It's not Giancarlo Ferre or Giorgio Armani, certainly, instead just some cheap off-the-rack thing that's barely had any tailoring done to his form. In some sense, the unassuming dark suit makes him all the creepier. If he wore designer threads he'd be less unnerving, because after all, who'd want to start a fight while wearing a five thousand dollar suit?
A two hundred dollar suit, on the other hand...

Dennis says, "As an FYI, if you're a mortal or a mage with a WP < 6, you're going to feel distinctly uncomfortable around Dennis. If you're Fae, you're probably wondering what all the hubbub is about. :)"

"Yes, I'm sure that's all very interesting, but what /kind/ of doctor? Or are you the ooh-spooky-mysterious type? Like, what gives?" That's from Lori. She's gazing up at Pobble nicely enough, but the words coming out of her mouth are pretty unpleasant in contrast.

Into the club slips yet another figure looking to enjoy dancing the night away. After having her ID checked at the door, Zoe moves further inside, steps slow and graceful as she begins to make her way towards the bar. Lips hold a smile, and there's more than a few she stops to greet and speak with at times before continuing on, the skirt of her dress swaying with each step she makes.

Pobble delays the explanation to request another drink, and as he does so a mild shiver takes him, causing him to tense briefly inside the warm expanse of his yeti covering. He turns back to Lori, "Chemical engineering." Not so spooky or mysterious. Not even terribly interesting. A sheepish little smile is offered, as he glances to the side, needle point eyes scanning for something.

Lori looks all excited by that. "Chemical engineering? Rock!" She sucks on the cigarette again, licking the taste of nicotine from her pink lips. "I oughta do that, but life is too short to spend it in a classroom all the time, don't you think? I don't even have my high school diploma. Hah!" This amuses her greatly.

Pobble nods agreement distractedly, seeming unsatisfied in his search and turning back to his conversational partner. "Yeah, seven years is a long fucking time. Still." he trails off, lips curling back into a crooked little smile. "It was an interesting time."

Dennis heads over to the counter for a drink, albeit not without incident; some people are eager to get out of his way and some people are eager to get into it, usually college fratboys who've substituted liquor for courage and want to show the world they're not afraid. Dennis walks by them in stone-faced silence, taking contemptuously no notice of either those who edge away or those who remain. He finally comes up to the counter and growls out an order to the barkeep, one which does not carry over the din of the room.

Lori tilts her head away from Pobble to look at Dennis. It's just a big flop of her head, pigtails and green tubes bouncing with the sudden motion. Her big green eyes look at him pretty openly, sizing up the guy that makes everybody skuttle out of the way like cockroaches.

Who would think the tomboy could clean up so well? Surely no one that knows her and has seen her in her usual jeans and boots, grubby from digging in the garden. And yet, tonight Zoe seems to have taken special care with her dress. If she notices the path Dennis has made towards the bar, it's not obvious as she waves her own way through people, laughing at times before nodding to the bar before continuing onwards. Once there, she tiptoes, leaning against the bar, and making her order, giving the bartender a smile before he moves off to fix her drink.

Pobble faces away from Dennis, but his arrival at the bar definately unsettles the man. Silver nails tap together with a quiet clacking lost in the overwhelming beat of the music. He turtles down in the high collar of his enormous coat, pausing the tapping to toss a bill on the bar and take up his drink, clutching it with both hands.

Well, someone fits in here like a Preakness winner in a glue factory. Dennis's total lack of fitting-in is almost painful: he's wearing a suit and tie, not fashionably goth attire. He's wincing at what he'd call the 'noise', apparently enough of a cultural philistine that he doesn't grok the magnificence of Einsturzende Neubauten especially when played at high volume. He just remains silent and mute as the barkeep hands him an iced tea (what, no trendy booze and forty-dollar quintuple-distilled vodkas?) and--why, is that the sound of teeth grinding, barely audible over the noise? Yep. He turns to give Zoe a faint nod of recognition, and then turns to give Lori a scowl. "What the f--" He stops, shakes his head, starts over again in a concerted attempt at remaining civilized. "What're you looking at?"

Alabaster Smith has staked out his table like a little independent fiefdom in the middle of the chaos, and from it, he watches the drama of the other people with vague interest and amusement.

"I knew you were going to say that," Lori says. "Goddamnit, they always say that." She shakes her head in disappointment and looks away to have a drag off of her smoke, flicking ash on the floor absently.

Pobble indulges in a mix of ostritch and snake avoidance behaviour, keeping his back to the imposing figure while remaining still. Teeth pull in the corner of his lower lip, finger tapping uneasily against his glass still, being the only movement besides breathing. He almost looks like he's not exactly sure why he's entered this strange mood, but given his glossy pinpoint pupiled eyes it's not unreasonable to blame it on an acid flashback.

Wine delivered, the tomboy passes the money to the bartender before lifting the glass for a sip. It's then that Zoe sees Dennis standing off to the side in his suit and tie, a brow raised as she looks at him from over the rim of her wineglass. His snap at the girl seems to amuse her for some reason, lips quirking into a smile before she turns her gaze towards the dancefloor. Unconsciously, she sways to the music, the silk of her dress following each move she makes.

Dennis bites down an acerbic response to Lori and downs a rather large fraction of his iced tea in one long gulp. Mmmm, cold and bitter, just like his heart. A few of the bouncers are beginning to gather closeby, as if anticipating trouble brewing, but Dennis pays them no heed. Apparently he gets that reaction enough that he's become inured to it.

Lori stabs out her cigarette. Stabby, stabby, stabby! "What's the matter with you?" she asks Pobble without a drop of apparent empathy.

"Oh, nothing." replies Pobble in a tone that lacks anything that even vaguely resembles conviction. He knocks back his liqour sharply, smacking the glass back down on the counter. "Cold." he murmers as an afterthought, sliding hands into pockets and pulling the furry mass tighter about his body.

Zoe glances around, watching people, taking note of those reactions around her, and the bouncers that seem to be edging closer. Pushing away from the bar, she actually moves closer to the suited Dennis, and pausing near him, she lets her glance travel over him before returning to his face. Chuckling, she says lightly, "What's got your undies in a twist tonight?" Ok, so she might be dressed all fancy, hardly looking like herself, but the tomboy is still there and forthright as ever.

Lori reaches out to fluff Pobble up. "You should eat more! Put some meat on those bones... no wonder you're cold--wait, now I'm beginning to sound like... nevermind." She yanks at Pobble's coat, as if he's not warm enough in it.

Pobble should be warm, it is after all sweltering in the packed club. The close proximity of the bouncers seems to make him all the more edgy, pressing his side up against the counter top as he scratches his forehead just under the rim of his hat. "I shouldn't wear my coat inside, else I'll be cold when I go out." he murmers, mantra-like.

Dennis's scowl is the sort of thing which would be legendary if he didn't make it look so easy. "Same thing it ever is," he answers as he drains the rest of his iced tea. He looks around for the barkeep, getting visibly annoyed when it's clear the barkeep's trying very hard to pretend he doesn't exist. A bellowed order consisting of more vulgarities than prepositions later, the barkeep hurriedly comes over with a refill. Dennis doesn't pause to watch the scurrying: he returns his attention to Zoe. "People are idiots. That's what it always is."

Zoe cradles the glass of wine in her hand as she watches Dennis go bellowing for the refill, shaking her head at him quietly. When his attention returns, she replies lightly, "Some are, but you know, if you didn't doom and gloom glare at everyone, they might not be such idiots." A shoulder lifts in a shrug, a sip taken from the wine in her glass before her gaze slips towards the dance floor again, the music gaining another roll of hips before she shoots the angry man a look and grin.

Lori pauses in her conversation with Pobble to turn her head and grin sharply at Dennis. Something he said must have pleased her because she just has that kind of look on her face. "Hah!" Soon her gaze is back on Pobble and she chucks him a few times on the shoulder. "You don't look so good. Maybe you should come outside and get some fresh air. That's a good idea. Come on, get your narrow ass out of the chair already," she says, hopping off of her own chair. Sproing!

Pobble considers for the briefest of moments before nodding, sliding off the stool in a way that only moves him further from Dennis, oversized boots thudding down onto the floor. Hands push immediately into pockets and with a stooped pose he makes for the door in a roundabout path, almost scuttling through the crowds with only a quick glance back to check to see wether Lori is following.

"This ain't my Doom Glare," Dennis announces. Note that he doesn't protest. Protests indicate that one party is in the weaker position. The majority never protests the minority. The large do not protest the small. An oak does not protest a sapling. Dennis /announces/. "If it was my fuckin' Doom Glare, some poor sumbitch woulda already experienced what we like t' call an embarassin' loss of voluntary bladder control." He's not shouting, per se, but people are definitely doing the back-away-slowly thing and the bouncers are doing the creep-ahead-while-thinking-they-aren't-getting-paid-enough thing. "No, people are stupid, that's all, an' I'm fuckin' tired of it." Ah, at last, proof that he is human: is he not echoing a universal human feeling?

Lori is laughing at whatever Dennis is saying as she walks away from him. Yes, indeed, she is following Pobble but at a leisurely pace. What, like she's going to miss the big white coat in the crowd? She'd have to be retarded /and/ blinde.
Or even blind.

Pobble wastes no time in making his exit, a wan smile given to the door men at their half hearted comments regarding the enjoyment of the rest of the evening.

You leave The Pulse for the streets outside.

Downtown - New Town District(#433RJs)
-= 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.

Obvious exits:
The Pulse TP North on Pike N South on Pike S West on Erin W East on Erin E

Lori comes out from The Pulse's doors.
Lori has arrived.
Lori comes wandering out of the club after you, not looking at all like she's fleeing or otherwise upset.

Pobble is waiting just next to the door, already having lit a pair of cigarettes, one between thin lips and the other dangling precariously between his fingers. He glances across as a clubber exits, catching Lori as she follows and his brow creases into a frown. "Hey.. sommatter?"

Lori reaches out to snatch the cigarette from his fingers. "Huh? Speak up. You don't look so good." She resists patting his face, though, but only just.

Pobble shuffles back against the wall, still huddling in his behemothic coat as he draws a slow drag from the cigarette, letting the fumes drift out from his mouth to coil around his hat. "You look miffed is all, something the matter?"

Lori takes a deep drag from the cigarette he gave her and shakes her head. "Nope. Yes. Maybe. I always look miffed. Usually." She frowns at him, but not unkindly--if such a thing is possible. "Fuggediboudit." The girl looks him over very carefully, not missing much of anything. "So, Doc, what do you do with this PhD of yours?"

"Oh, stuff and things. You know how it is. The life of the freelance chemist is a dull and boring one." Pobble smirks at that, sharing a private joke with himself as he ashes the cigarette onto the pavement. "Fuggediboudit." he adds, mimicing your tones with a lopsided grin.

"Ohhhhhhhh, so you're a dealer!" Lori shows him a sharp grin. "No, you're not a dealer; you're too much of a pussy to be a dealer." Ow. She has another drag off her smoke, flicking ash negligently aside on the sidewalk.

Pobble smirks, "Right. I studied chemistry so I could better explain to customers how their shit worked." Glossy eyes roll as he pulls on the smoke. "Yes, I'm a pussy and a dealer." A laugh escapes him as he shifts against the wall.

"Better explain to customers how their shit worked?" Lori looks confused. She shrugs, however, and steps closer to Pobble, turning at the last second to lean up against the wall next to him. "A pussy -and- a dealer. You know, pussy dealers don't last long."

Pobble stares across the street, fingering the filter of his smoke. "I noticed." he murmers absently, "Fuckers." His reverie ends with a start, almost twitching as he glances back to the girl at his side. "I'd say I'm neither, but the former is possibly subjective given recent incidents."

Lori tilts her head so she can gaze at Pobble. Her hand lifts, putting the cigarette to her lips briefly. "Oh yeah? Interesting. You know sometimes I get it right. Anyway, what about recent events? Someone try to shake you down or something?" Lori reaches out and plunges her fingers into the fur of the coat. Oooooh... soft and plush! Okay, even if it's not real, it's still like a big teddy bear.

Pobble doesn't seem to mind the wandering fingers, "You could say that." He nods slowly, flicking away the half smoked cigarette into the gutter, gaze following its arc. His lips open as if to elaborate further then decide against it. "Well.." he says finally, turning back towards Lori with a bright but apologetic smile. "Would love to stay and chat but I need to get back, feed the monkey and lie down." A card is pulled from somewhere inside his coat and handed over. It's a crisp number, eggshell white. The name Dr. Steve and the address of an alley way in the Tackett Slums, completed with a cell number. Nudging your arm with his elbow he pushes off from the wall. "Call if you get bored, no-friends girl."

"Hah, cool," Lori says. "Hey, I might just do that. Thanks for the number. You take care now, okay? Don't get into any trouble..." She babbles on, waving at you with your own 'business' card.

Girls of Future Past

Naoko pages: Late last night, around 2:30 am, a really bizarre paradox ripple fluttered over the town. The epicenter seemed to have been from somewhere far off in the woods, about 10 miles outside of town.
Naoko pages: Is that bait enough?

Gabbi State Park - Park Entrance(#675RJs)

The tall buildings may be seen off in the horizon, but obviously this area is not one of static business. Instead, the only real remains of city life are seen in the often crowded parking lot of the state park, vehicles of all sorts packed into the small parking spaces. It is one of the few parking spots that automobiles of every price can be found, everything from the latest BMW to the old Honda with a rusty bumper.
Up ahead, adjacent to the parking lot the actual entrance to the park is visible. A small ranger station is the first thing visible, where a ranger can be seen at all times manning the station and answering any question that may come up. Smaller booths are set up as well, selling various overpriced camping gear, t-shirts, as well as maps of the area.

Contents:
Naoko
Obvious exits:
Gravel Road to Cabin GR South S East E North on Gabbi N

It's night. It's breezy out. It's a bit chilly. Of course, the gal walking up the street seems to pay no heed to this. She's wandering, a bit confused, stopping from time to time and looking at the sky. When she does, she holds some sort of weird-looking binoculars up to her eyes. A frown, and she shakes her head. "God! Another five miles, at LEAST." Japanese accent; English definately not the first language.
Naoko is looking at you.

The stillness of the night air is threatened by the sound of wet gravel being displaced from the road. Halogen brights tear the darkness apart as a behemothic Hummer meanders into view. The rain slick roads are no match for its traction but the driver doesn't seem to be the most competent, swerving and meandering over the road for no apparent reason. The vehicle slows as it nears the gates, a window lowering to allow the crisp air to enter and consequently push out the stale noxious smoke from within the cabin.

The girl leaps and almost drops her binoculars, catching them at the last minute. "Ohmigod. A car!" She stuffs the binoculars in the large duffel bag at her side and goes running, top speed, for it, waving her hands wildly. "WAIT! WAIT!" she yells, at the top of her lungs.

There is a crunching as brakes engage, the SUV grinding to a halt just in front of the woman. The interior is dark, windows tinted. Up close and out of the direct view of the blinding lights its easy to notice that the relatively new vehicle is banged up, scratched and not in the best of states. Smoke is exhaled through the open window and a tired voice calls out from within. "Awright there?"

The girl gasps, a bit out of breath, and takes a moment to get her bearings. "Yes.. no... I mean.. I guess so... Uhh... Hi." Naoko smiles oddly. "I.. uh... " She stops, and her eyes roam toward the sky, "Could I get a ride? I... I am kind of stuck."

Brilliant! That's the first word that usually pops to one's lips upon looking at this spry teenager: brilliant in her actions, brilliant in her speech, and, my god, brilliant in her appearance. Wherever this girl goes, she's always walking on sunshine. First, the basics. She's young, a teenager, around 15 or so years old. The heritage is clearly Japanese, for all of the features tell it true - the warm shade of her skin, the delicately sloped eyes of deep brown, the pert and gentle nose. China Girl, at first glance one might think, but unmistakably, she's Japanese. When she speaks, her accent most certainly confirms the ethnicity, while the times that she has to pause for her words confirms that English isn't her first language, either. A gal of small stature, she's only about 5'1" tall, and can't weigh more than 95 pounds, dripping wet. However, she more than makes up for that with the bold manner with which she presents herself. The jet black hair is cut short, feathered in the front like a flock of seagulls, and with an unhealthy amount of serious gel, she wears it spiked in every which direction, so that her silhouette looks like a starburst. Furthermore, the hair is streaked with vibrant electric blue, adding color to the mix. Her every action seems as if it were driven by a live current, with the setting cranked all the way up to "hyper-manic."
The future's so bright, you gotta wear shades - and the same is true for her clothing. She's dressed like she's ready to party like it's 1999. A white ringer t-shirt with the Pac-Man logo on it, and the words "Pac-Man Fever" is worn across her chest, decorated with red rings at the neck and sleeves. Over that, she wears a screaming neon yellow shirt, patterned with aqua blue swooshes that look like they were streaked on with quick strokes of a paintbrush. The skirt she wears is a bold black-and-white checkerboard pattern, and it flares out from her hips, reaching down to a few inches above her knee. Looking lower, she's got matching yellow leg warmers, pulled up to her knees, and stopping just above a pair of very retro-looking Keds - white with neon pink stripes, and neon pink shoelaces. The accessorizing is mostly in neon pink, from the Swatch Watch on her wrist that tells the time with artistically crooked hands over a light-up face, complete with a clear pink jelly-style wristband, to the giant neon pink plastic hoops that dangle from her earlobes. On each wrist is no less than 50 jelly bracelets in a rainbow of colors, intermixed with a few hand-woven friendship bands. Finally, the outfit is completed by blinding you with science: the overcoat that sweeps airily down to her knees is made of that technologically-innovative HyperColour (TM) fabric - the kind that changes color with changes in temperature. This one is in screaming orange, with spots of bright purple on it, indicating the warmer spots, and it's finished off with a chartreuse button on the lapel that reads, "Doc Brown was an amateur!" And that is Naoko - more fun than ninety-nine red balloons. Well, what do you expect? Girls do just wanna have fun!

The door opens, and the driver hops out. A cigarette hangs precariously from between his thin fingers and is ashed with the movement, grey rain floating down across his coat. He wrinkles his nose as he looks the girl over, then peers past her towards the sky with a curious expression as he takes a long slow drag. "Folks go home without you?" he enquires distantly.
View items have been set on the following objects in your area:

If it were possible to shade such a sunny disposition, it did just happen. A wave of distress over her face, and the young woman nods. "Uh.. Yeah.." she trails off, reaching over to zip up her duffel bag. "Something like that."
Pobble nods slowly, needlessly tapping his dwindling cigarette. He seems preoccupied with the night sky, staring up at it past the girl. The clouds are pregnant with heavy rain fall, and he steps past you towards the gates slowly. "Awful that is mate." he mumbles. Strangely, smoke continues to drift from the hummer, as if another ciggy had been left burning within. Or maybe there's more people inside. "Where'd you live?"

Her wide eyes shiver a little. "Uhm... Reno? Nevada?" Spoken as if she, herself, weren't sure about the detail. "I... yes, that was the last place I lived.. I.. I do believe."
"Christ on a bike." murmers the man. He's tapping his cigarette in a rythmic pattern, silver tipped thumb hitting the filter where the four corners of a square about it would be. As he does so he shifts it up and down, up and down. "Maybe they left you here on purpose." he observes, the blunt suggestion being stated with the same dreamy air. He's not really paying full attention to the conversation. Something else is more interesting.

Pobble rolls 3 (3 dice) at a difficulty of 4:
9 5 9
Achieving 3 successes, resulting in a complete success.

OOC Naoko says, "what is that for?"
OOC Pobble does a Prime sense, to check for anything going on in the foresty area. You could make an Awareness roll..
About ten miles to the south and west of here, there's the fading away of a source of primal energy... like a battery draining the last of its juice.

Naoko rolls perception+awareness vs 6 (3 dice) at a difficulty of 0:
8 7 9
Achieving 3 successes, resulting in a complete success.

OOC Naoko says, "weird. it only rolled half my dicepool. ah well."
OOC Pobble says, "Hrm. Either way"

The japanese kid shakes her head tightly, "No. They'd never, ever, ever do that. My parents love me very ... very.. much..." And she can barely choke out the last word, before tears start streaming out of her eyes.

Crying teenagers. The sound of sadness seems to draw Pobble from whatever trance he was settling into and he sucks the last from his cigarette before flicking it into the night. It skitters on the wet road and fizzles quietly. Turning, he moves to stand next to the girl, going to put a hand on her shoulder but seeming unsure and deciding against it at the last moment. "Hey. Sorry." He looks about sideways, searching for backup. Finding none, his lips twist into an uncertain grimace. "It'll be okay?"

Sniffly and still sobby, she replies, "Truth... truth is... I don't know where they are... something terrible happened... and... I don't even know where -I- am. In a big stupid forest or something... I don't like it out here."
In the vehicle, something scrabbles at the rear window. It's impossible to make out a shape inside with the darkness and the tinting. Pobble ignores it and settles back against the wet Hummer. "So eh.. How did you get here?" he asks, sounding almost curious.

She turns and peers at the window, taking a step away to try to glance inside. "I.." She sniffs. "I sort of... sort of.." She chews on her lip for a moment, "Wrecked my car." Not a very good liar.

A small shillouette vanishes down away from the window. Pobble just stares, looking close to sympathetic but mostly confused and awkward. He's obviously not used to crying teenage girls in the middle of the road at night. "Where at? Want me to call the police?" he asks after a few moments silence, and not sounding too set on the idea.


Pobble rolls 3 (3 dice) at a difficulty of 4:
5 4 10
Achieving 3 successes, resulting in a complete success.

She's clearly all sparkly. That much is obvious. But the most prevelant emotions are confusion and fear. Confusion, specifically. This girl has no idea where she is, what she's doing, what day it is... none of it. She's afraid, really afraid - afraid of what she'll do next, what'll become of her, and especially afraid for her parents. Underlying it all is a clearly highly creative and intelligent young woman who far surpasses most her age with her innovativeness.

Naoko shakes her head tightly, and says, "No... No sir... I... I was driving without a license, see... and... I don't want to go to jail." More terrible lies, the kind that she can barely keep a lid on. "I.. I just want to go someplace where.. where I can make a long-distance phone call, and... and figure out what to do."

Pobble looks less confused. Just a little. Silver tipped fingers fidget and to counteract this, they're sent on an errant into a pocket to pull out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. "Look, kid." begins Pobble evenly, "How about we make a deal?" The tiny figure is back in the rear window of the hummer, just an outline. "You tell me the truth, and I'll give you a phone and sort out anything you need to get yourself back on track?" He spreads his gloved palms openly, after popping a smoke between his lips and replacing the pack in pocket.

She rocks from foot to foot, and shakes her head tightly. "You'd not believe the truth if I told you, sir... no disrespect or anything meant, but... " Naoko smiles oddly, curiously, and then says, "I'm not a kid. My name is Xenon."

Pobble smirks at that, "Well, I am Dr. Steve. You can call me Pobble if you like." He sparks the cigarette, taking his time with the first inhalation. "You'd be surpised at what I'd believe." He smiles, but it's a serious smile. Cigarette is jutted out towards the invisible anomaly. "You'd also be surprised to know that other people will probably have noticed that, and they're definately not as nice as me."

"But... it..." She bites her lip again, and then forces a smile. "They won't find anything. In less than two hours, it'll all have reduced itself to its base elements anyhow, and sunk down into the ground."

Pobble shakes his head sadly, "Just because something isn't there anymore, doesn't mean people can't see it." The way he says this makes it sound obvious. Noting that he's maybe being harsh he manages a smile, trying to look reassuring. "I'm no stranger to bizarre shit. Trust me. You should come clean though Xenon, I can help you. Honest like."

She draws a deep breath. Her eyes roam skyward. She folds her hands at her waist. "I'm from the future..." she breathes, letting those words hang in the air, all dramatic-like and everything. "The future, Pobble." She looks to you and waits to see what you have to say to that. PLease please don't take her to the loony bin.

The shocking revelation leaves the Doctor looking unphased. "Right." he says, much like someone would say 'Fair enough.'. He nods, taking another nicotine dose and flicking ash off to the side where it sticks to the wet yellow body of the hummer. "How did you get here?" he asks, cigarette still between lips and waggling up and down as he talks.

Naoko shakes her head and draws back a little. "You don't believe me.. do you?" she asks, with that same wide-eyed expression. "I'm from the future. January 23, 1985," she tries to explain, and then looks down at her hands. "This is stupid. There's no way in hell you're going to believe me." Though every word she says is completely earnest. This broad must be out of her gourd.

Pobble laughs, inappropriately. This causes the cigarette to fall from his lips and fizzle out in a puddle near his feet. No loss. Someone inside the vehicle laughs too, a higher pitched but muffled sound. "I hate to break this to you," Pobble says honestly, "But 1985 is not quite the future." Standing up for this long is causing him to become a little unsteady, and wobbling to the side he twists and resteadies himself on the bumper.

Naoko looks you over once again, and says with a certain amount of certainty, "Sir," and waves a hand over your clothing, "Given your general apparel and demeanor, it is most evident that we are in the Vietnam-war protest era. Such people as you I studied in my American History classes."

There is sniggering from within the SUV. Pobble rolls his eyes, "Xenon.. When you were studying your American History classes, I was learning what fractions were." He shakes his head, smiling crookedly. "Also, being English I diddn't really give a fuck about the Vietnam war. I was too little to care about it."

"What time is it then?" she asks, now further confused at it all. "Funny. I thought... well, nevermind what I thought..." She regards you in a most curious fashion, and adds, "I... I've had...a hell of a day. I apologize. I'm.. I'm having a bit of trouble with my reality today."


PROVE: Naoko has the stat or ability echoes at or above level 2.
OOC Naoko says, "From that, and all that she's been through, timepieces malfunction terribly in her presence."

Pobble pulls a phone from his pocket. It's a bizarre thing, like a borg cellphone that started out mini and then assimilated bits from other things to increase its size. It's wrapped in a cross of neon yellow tape and maked with strange patterns. He glances down at the screen and frowns. "Bloody phone is screwy." he mutters, and tries to think. "It's may something, 2004. Night time." He shrugs apologetically, "Sorry I can't be more specific."
Naoko quirks her head to the side, and then her eyes nearly pop out of her head. She jumps, about a foot in the air, and smacks her hand against her forehead, causing the blue spikes in her hair to wobble. "2004!!!??" she squeals, surprised, delighted, confused, all at once. "I have to get to a phone. Immediately! The future of the free world may well depend on it!"

Pobble offers the contraption in his hand. Although it may be unrecognizable as a phone. He smiles, perhaps at your enthusiasm. A whisper from the depths of the vehicle says, "She's fucking crazy mate. Loony. Maybe she's.. y'know. One of them."

She eyes the phone, and then goes "Ahh! My father was working on one like this! Let's see... now... if I can... just..." Naoko sets the duffel bag down on the ground and unzips it. Dig dig dig. She finds this weird thing that's a tiny monitor with wires sticking out of it, and sets that on her lap. "Red... red... blue goes with blue... yellow and yellow... " The girl is now unwiring your telephone.

Pobble wrinkles his nose, looking uncomfortable at this. "You should be careful with that. It ain't normal. Doesn't.. oh never mind. I can always patch up a new one. Don't fuck with it too much and it'll be a secure line." He sighs, and the voice inside reiterates, "Fruitloop."

"Shh. I know what I"m doing." The kid starts wiring the device into the phone, and then pulls a simple 9-volt battery out. She slaps that into the socket on the monitor, and flips a switch on the side. An eerie hum as it powers up.

Naoko rolls 3 (3 dice) at a difficulty of 5:
5 5 8
Achieving 3 successes, resulting in a complete success.

Pobble quirks a brow, which dissapears under the beanie. He doesn't look too suprised, but just leans there watching. Something moves in the open doorway, a tiny figure peering from the shadows. "Whatcha doing then?" he asks quietly.

"Shh..." There's an image that forms on the screen, for a moment. A bunker, like an old army base, out in the middle of the desert. She taps a few buttons on the side of the monitor and it zooms in. Cobwebs. Dust. Broken beakers and destroyed machinery. There's a big big gaping hole where some large piece of machinery was ripped out, and only the cords and connections left. The whole compound looks like it was a battlefield. Her face falls... and falls.. and falls some more... and she flips the image off. "Oh... my god... they've got it..."

Rising up on his toes, Pobble attempts to see what's on the screen better. The critter in the truck begins to creep out too, becomming visible in the backwash of the headlights. Dave Monkey clutches a cigar and the smoke trails up around him and back into the air conditioned vehicle. "What?" they ask in unison, "Something wrong?"

"The second prototype of the Tachyon Field Multiplexer... they took it... " Whatever this is, this is BAD BAD BAD, judging from the expression on her face. "The Russians..." she trails off, after stating the name of the most frightful boogeyman she can name.

Pobble half smiles despite the situation, "The Russians aren't so bad anymore you know." "Right." Agrees the monkey with the cigar. Pobble does look puzzled however, tapping his silver fingertips together with a hard almost metallic sound. "I have no idea what that thing is though.. is eh, that what bought you back here?"

"But they have it... that's... that's... oh god, the future of the free world... THe Russians.. the bomb... Oh god... It's all so... so... bad... " And that's enough stress for Naoko. The girl gets all flustered in her cheeks, and stumbles to the ground, planting her hand there so she doesn't completely bruise herself up. "I need to eat. I haven't eaten in over two days..."

Dave Monkey scampers back into the SUV and returns with an opened jumbo bag of potato chips. They scatter about as he offers them across, from his perch up on the seat.

Pobble sighs, becomming confused and awkward once more. "Look, kid. Lets get you out of here, in case anyone else comes along. We can get you settled and then figure out what we're going to do about it all.."

OOC Naoko says, "can we say she fell asleep in the car? I need to go."