An Encounter With Gina and a Fenrir

[Gina McClaren] *Cabrini was no place for a girl like Gina to be walking alone. Thugs prowled the streets like predators in the long grasses of the savanna, scenting for prey that was weaker or sickly to bring down. Pimps cruised slowly in low-riding caddies, eyes on their women, minds on their profit. And the women, oh the women. Stalking the streets in boots as high as their self esteem was low, spreading venereal disease to overworked housewives with every hasty slam of a john’s car door.

Gina shouldn’t be walking alone. Gina isn’t walking alone. A pair of stiletto thin blades tucked in the sleeves of her jacket keep her company, and give her the confidence to walk back to her hotel from the home of the Get widow she was visiting. Red jacket a beacon, but no more so than the whisper of strider blood carried along with each swing of wide hips. Road dust, spices, and the faint underpinning of owl to accompany dark skin and long hair. Kohl rimmed eyes taking in her surroundings carefully. Confident – not stupid*

[Remy de Tournieres] Sunday night’s not a traditional night for drinking, but then very little about Remy is strictly traditional. So there he is, under a blown-out streetlamp — his big grey-and-blue ski jacket mostly grey in the shadows, the collar snapped up to his nose and the hood pulled forward over his head. He’s facing the wall, one hand planted on the icy brick. He ignores the lowrider rumbling past behind him, ignores the calls of a hooker down the street hawking her wares. He might just be too plastered to realize they’re there.

Even if it weren’t for his distinctive wide-legged stance, the positioning of his free hand, it’d soon be unmistakable to poor passing pedestrian Gina to notice Remy’s taking a good long piss against the foot of the wall. He’s also humming tunelessly to himself under his breath, muttering a word or two here and there as they come to him. And occasionally, he snickers at himself.

Any woman, particularly a confident but unstupid woman who’s seen her share of trouble, would be crossing the street to get away from him now. Before she gets a chance to step off the curb, though, Remy abruptly throws back his head and bellows:

Fuck ME, I needed to piss! YEAH!

[Gina McClaren] JAYSUS.

*One word, in a voice that on a person from a more respectable background would slot them for a life as a songstress or politician. It slips out in shock before Gina can call it back. Remy’s pure joy at his own urinary release startling a pikey. She’s unsure whether to be alarmed or impressed, taking a blind step back in case the drunken fool turns and marinates her well worn boots, and knocking over a dented trashcan with a clatter. *

Jaysus fookin christ.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] You know, when you put a bullet in a giant squishy suckery wurm thingy and it just so happens to be the bullet that put said thing down, you tend to get a confidence boost. (Let’s not argue over the fact that she basically tapped the thing after three ahrouns had ripped the shit out of it. That’s TOTALLY not the point, and besides, who the hell are you to say? You weren’t there. So nyah.)

Anyway, where were we? Oh, right. So yeah, kill a wurm monster thing, get a confidence rush. And when your confidence is already near the point that people call you foolhardy (if they’re high-talking Silver Fangs, anyway…most just call you fucking nutrs), that confidence boost is probably NOT a good thing. It’s liable to get you killed.

Hey look! Walking target, making her way down the street. Sarita’s dressed in her usual duster and a little bit of extra OOMPH in her “I own these streets” walk. She doesn’t really own the streets, but she’s willing to lease. That can be negotiated later. She takes a drag off her cigarette, humming that new Lonely Island song about having just had sex…even though she didn’t. It makes it ironic, see.

As she walks along, she heard Remy’s roar, and looks that way. She also sees Gina and hears her, and she crosses the street without looking both ways (see? FOOLHARDY!) to get over to her kinfolk. “Hola, you.”

[Remy de Tournieres] [btw folks, don’t wait on me. i’m operating on 3.5 hrs of sleep and wonky as shit *LOL*]

[Gina McClaren] Och, fookin hola.

*Gina’s accent mangles the spanish word into something closer to “Hula”, pikey not caring one wit as she puts a trashcan to rights. Streets were filthy enough without her dumping a full can across the road – still, she doesn’t exactly tidy what fell out so much as put the thing upright. There were needles in there, she was willing to bet her shirt on it. The slight chill of cloudy night has caramel cheeks pinking coral, annoyance setting a brightness to dark eyes. Steamy breath puffs from her lips, a loop of deep chestnut hair rising and falling as she attempts to huff it away from her face. Belatedly, the pikey looks to traffic, and back to Sarita.*

Gintae gi’ yerself het by a damn car. Ye kain tha?

[Remy de Tournieres] Remy’s back stays turned. He doesn’t seem to care that he scared the Jaysus — the Jaysus fookin Christ, to be exact — out of some passing Pikey, either. He finishes his piss, and when he’s done there’s a sizeable patch of melted snow at the corner of the building, which he looks at with some pride.

Hah.” And he laughs at himself, uneven little chuckles under his breath, swaying. “Nice.”

Then he’s tucking away, zipping up. When he turns around his gait is loose and heavy: too much strength, not enough coordination. He looks at Gina and Sarita with some surprised.

“The fuck. Haven’t you heard of — of giving a man a little privacy?”

A yard or so sideways from his makeshift urinal, Remy lets his back thump heavily against the wall. Tugs the collar down from his mouth and pushes the hood back. Even completely wasted he’s a sight for sore eyes. The world’s too blurry to look at with two eyes, though, so he closes the left one, peering at the females through the other.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She grins widely to Gina as she crosses the street and gets scolded. One imagines that the Latina woman wouldn’t mind getting hit by a car. It’s just another adventure after all, and she’s all about adventure. Besides that…

“Let ’em hit me.” She winks as she hops up on the sidewalk. “If I’m lucky it’ll be a Porsche, and I can dent their Eurotrash piece of shit AND sue them for bookoo bucks.”

She takes a drag off of her cigarette and looks over at Remy. The grin widens, and she gives a light shrug. “I have, but I don’t believe in it. I’m a priv-atheist.” It comes out sounding like prive-atheist.

[Gina McClaren] *The curvy strider kin snaps her head around in a double take. Well now, the man looked like a drunken slug from the back, but from the front, he was hardly unpleasant to look at. That was a shocker, like realizing your dreaded highschool math teacher was actually a part time stripper, and was good at it. Sarita is spared whatever else the churlish kin was no doubt going to cluck at her about, as Gina darts a dark eyebrow up at the drunken hotness.*

Lookin like ye dae darlin, reckon ye dinnae need any privacy. Asides, tha’s why thes area yer takin a wizzer en es called “Public”. Awn account o ets nae “private.” Ye catchen wha ah’m sayen tae ye?

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] Gina scolding the pretty Fenrir man seems quite amusing to Sarita. Not that the category of “Things that Amuse Sarita” is a particularly exclusive club, but…okay, misisng the point. The point is, she grins a little and shifts her weight to one hip, exhaling a drag of smoke.

“I think the kids today call that ‘being pwned.’ That’s what I hear, anyway.”

[Remy de Tournieres] The Strider kin’s mouth opens…

…and what comes out may as well be gibberish to Remy. Shoulderblades heavily to the wall, feet planted wide for balance, jacket still rumpled up where he’d fumbled it aside, he sort of just stares at her blankly. A few seconds go by after she finishes. Then he computes that last sentence, at least.

“No.” He shakes his head for emphasis. “I have no idea what just came out of your mouth.” He turns that one dark eye to Sarita — the other’s still closed, as if too much depth in the world would result in his harfing up his cheap booze — “Is she one of yours? She smells like one of yours. Can you translate?”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] A little shrug to Remy and she chuckles. “I think I can do that, yeah. Rough translation, chico… ‘You wan’t privacy, don’t drop trou in public. No matter how much some of the lay-dees may appreciate it.”

[Gina McClaren] *There’s a certain fire to Remy that Gina’s only just beginning to register. Coupled with his comments to Sarita as to her smell, a goodly portion of the gutter-snipe’s own incomprehensible snark rings in her ears as folly. When next she singsongs, its calmer, and slower.*

Och. Reckon, ah’d best be gi’en along soon, aye?

*A glance up to Sarita, Gina’s smile gone thin.*

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] The grin fades, just the tiniest bit. Dark brown eyes roll upward and right for a second as she searches her brain to backtrack over the last few moments. She’s coming up empty, but she knows something happened.

“I….said something wrong, didn’t I?” She’s not above asking.

[Gina McClaren] Nae darlin. Jes nae sooch a beg fan o’ trueblooded strangers these days.
Easier tae ‘ave em die when ye dinnae kain their names.

Ah’ll see ye aroond, aye?

*Hearkening back to a conversation the two striders had shared previously, Gina offers Remy a half apologetic smile, and it would seem thats that. A wiggle of fingers to Sarita and the buxom pikey is headed to the nearest bus stop. Making her escape.*

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She watches Gina go, sighing a little. Well, you can’t win ’em all. Sometimes you can win most of them…a fair amount of the time you can win some of them, and it’s not that tough to win a few of them. Winning none of them is unfortunate, but it happens. But not all of them. That’s how the saying goes…and as everyone knows, ALL sayings are correct, right?

Once her kin is gone, she looks back at Remy, looking him over. “So, hola. S’up?”

[Remy de Tournieres] While Sarita is ‘translating’, Remy’s tipped his head back against the brick. Is staring straight up at the orange clouds over the city, closing the right eye now and opening the left. He wonders which eye it was Odin gave for the gift of wisdom. Someone taught him that once, surely. Beat it into him. Lost it a week later like he lost everything else, over and over again, eight years of that bullshit running until finally someone managed to cram his head full of enough things, enough wisdom and knowledge and tricks and spells, that they could rush him through a Rite of Passage before it all leaked out his ears again.

When he lowers his chin Gina’s gone. Remy looks a little surprised, a little disappointed. “You scared her off,” he says accusingly. “What a shame. Fine-looking piece of tail, too, and she was totally into me.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She looks him over, amused. The New Mexican normally loves hanging around guys who are wearing eau de oblivous…but only really when there’s someone else to help her enjoy the whole thing. On her own, she has WAY too much tendency to try and get the potential target in on the joke, and that usually results in her ass being served up fricasseed.

Still, there’s no one else around, so instead of being disappointed, she stays amused. Remy gets a sympathetic look. “Aww, don’t take it too hard there, cowboy. I’m sure there’s several young lasses who will be all sorts of into you that can take her place.” She walks over, even if she very clearly is NOT one of those particular young lasses in question, and extends a hand. “Sarita. Nice t’meetcha.”

[Remy de Tournieres] Remy shifts, rolling one shoulder off the wall to extend that arm, that hand. The final outcome of that heavy, felt motion: his gloved hand wrapping around Sarita’s and giving it a staunch shake. It’s hard to see much of him under that big ski jacket, but there’s strength in that hand. He moves like someone’s who’s strong, athletic.

“Rémy,” he says, the accents French, not English. He’s apparently too drunk to follow that up with the usual warning not to mock the name. Settling back against the wall the way the truly exhausted settle into a comfortable armchair, he eyes her through his one open eye. “What kind of name is Sarita? Doesn’t sound Egyptian to me.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] “Yeah, that’s ’cause it’s a special dialect of Egyptian. We call it, ‘Spanish.'” She grins and performs a smooth side step, 180 degree body rotation and then backward lean so that she’s against the wall right next to him. “I’ve never been Egypt in my life. Or Africa, for that matter. Or east of the Atlantic.”

She shrugs, chain lighting a new cigarette off the old one. “My mother was Mexican and Navaho, and my father was…I think full-blooded Mexican. You’d have to ask Amy about that to be sure.” She looks at Remy. “I’m a rebel, and I break the rules. We don’t need no steenking Egyptian names.” A little wink and grin follows.

[Remy de Tournieres] Special dialect, she says. Both of Remy’s eyes open. For a second, he looks genuinely intrigued. “Really?” — she informs him it’s called Spanish, and he scowls. “Oh, ha ha.” The left eye closes again. She takes up position by the wall and he eyes her new cigarette, holding his hand out for a drag. If she offers it, he takes it, sucks on it like it’s a bong, and then explodes into a chain of coughs.

“Awful,” he chokes out. “Thought it was a joint. Guuh.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She does offer when he asks. When he takes a hit off it and starts hacking up, she grins a little. The Strider certainly knows the difference between the two and she knows his confusion before he vocalizes it by the way he tries to get a hit off of it.

“Shit, dude.” A light chuckle comes from her throat. “If you’re looking for that, lemme know. I just donated more’n I probably should have to a good cause, but I still got some left.”

[Remy de Tournieres] Privately, Remy is glad Sarita doesn’t ask how the fuck anyone could mistake a cigarette for a joint. It’s not even like he has some deep dark secret to blame it on: I’m a metis and I was born with NO NOSE! I lost all my olfactory cells in a horrible accident involving a toaster and a broomstick! It’s just that it’s cold. And his nose is running a bit. And he’s pickled every last brain cell in his head. All one of them, if that slick fuck from the cafe the other day is to be believed.

His thoughts float randomly along, pinging off one association after another like a pinball. Remy’s still coughing a little as he hands the cigarette back: low little coughs in his chest.

“I don’t trust you anymore,” he rasps. “But if you want to donate more to a good cause I live at the Brotherhood. Room … shit, I don’t remember. Four or five.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She takes the cigarette back, shaking her head with a smile as she takes a drag. She’s not really the donating kind as a rule…she’s gotta make some scratch somehow, and Amy’s been too busy recuperating to pull her usual money-making schemes. But Sarita’s also a smart enough girl to know that it’s wise to make nice with the locals–or at least, the more-local-than-her-at-this-point–and she gives Remy a light shrug.

“Well, if I’m feelin’ charitable at any point, I know to stop by. I’ll just knock at doors until I hear you yell at me.” That doesn’t seem like something she’s unused to–getting yelled at, that is–by the way she says it.

She gives a sigh and looks around. “On that note…I should go make my rounds. The pot-smokers ain’t gonna give their money to the air to get high.” She pushes off the wall and grins to Remy. “I’ll see you around, ey?”

[[Gettin’ late-ish for me. Thanks for the scene!]]

[Remy de Tournieres] “Yeee-ah,” Remy says, like her goodbye was actually a question to be considered, pondered, and responded too. “I’ll see you around.” A pause. “Just in case I don’t recognize you when these beer goggles come off, don’t take it personally, okay?”

He returns something that looks sort of like a grin. White teeth … a smile that might be even otherwise, but is crooked as all hell right now. He snaps his collar back up to his nose to protect himself from the chill, then dunks the hood back on his head. Without further ado, he heads off in the opposite direction. Or maybe just in some random direction. Sarita can hear him singing something as he goes — both the melody and the words are slurred beyond recognition.

[same here, falling asleep at keyboard *dies* thanks!]

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] [[Laters! *Poof Flees!*]]

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