bus stop.

wolfman

Hardly seems like the same person, next time the girl meets the wolf. Limousine is gone. Driver is gone. The suit is gone, and the cufflinks, and the shined shoes. Replaced by sturdy old blue jeans, a white t-shirt of the sort sold six to a pack at Walmart, battered old workboots and an even more battered old leather jacket. Cracking at the elbows. Suspicious dark stains here and there. Thousand-dollar haircut's still there, but ill taken care of; all tousles and cowlicks now.

Explains something though, doesn't it. Explains why he was so uncomfortable in his skin that night. Explains why the driver didn't open his door. Maybe even explains why he was out in the bad part of town, trawling for a cheap fuck. Maybe it was his birthday. Maybe he killed someone and stole their credit card, bought himself a little taste of the good life. Maybe Chase Manhattan shut that account down, dumped his brutish ass back where it belongs.

So here he is now. Sitting with his feet apart on the back of a creaky old busstop bench. Still warm during the days, but nights have a bit of winter's bite. His rough hands are clasped together. He blows into the hollow of his palms for warmth.

Flashy ring on his right hand, though: parked on his middle finger, big enough to serve as a brass knuckle. An impressively cut blue stone dominates the piece. Maybe he pulled that off a body, too.

witch

Devon @ 4:42PM[Recognize Garou: using Occult like a mortal instead of primal urgediff: guessing it's 6 (for Rage 5 or 6)]Roll: 7 d10 TN6 (2, 5, 5, 9, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 4 )

witch

[trying anyway. again.]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (3, 4, 5, 6, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 4 )

witch

The bus, a 15, is blue and white. Rainbow-striped banner on the side says in big white letters: EQUAL RIDES. Beneath it, little hearts in between BUS * BIKE * TRAIN. The doors fold open with a jarring slam to one side and one person gets off, wearing leather of a different color this time. Camel or caramel, with tawny fur at the wide cuffs and thick collar. The leather isn't finished to a sheen and dyed black and studded here and there with buckles or rivets or buttons. Soft, but for the undone zipper. Dress underneath is black with muted flowers like fading watercolors. Scooped neckline and a long pendant, a clear bauble wrapped in a web of wire. The dress is thin and ends above her knees. Her boots are leather, too, a slightly darker brown than the coat, with dark knee-high socks showing a few inches above the cuff of the shoe. Shoulder bag is made out of old saris, all panels and stripes of intricately embroidered silk chopped up to make a white girl a purse.

Tonight the dark hair isn't teased and the makeup isn't quite so heavy or quite so abused by the night, but: that dark hair is still thick and that eye makeup is still dark, ringing and accentuating her eyes. She keeps the front lengths out of her face with a braid across the crown of her head, the rest hanging free. This time there's no smoke on her from a cigarette or a nightclub. The lack of something else is all the more evident with less to compare it to. For a few moments after she steps down out of the bus the scent of other passengers lingers on her but then the door snaps shut, the bus pulls away, and when the exhaust is gone, so is the illusion that she has any scent of her own at all.

When she noticed him sitting on the bench she did not recognize him; she recognized the feeling of him, of one of his kind. She paused, but continued down the steps of the bus. That's where she recognizes his face, and perhaps the cut of his shoulders, as there is little else to mark him as the same creature from the other night. As her feet touched the sidewalk she regarded him: the glint in his eyes and the heaviness of his brow and the snapping, twitching energy living silently and motionlessly in his jaw.

Now she stands there, instead of turning and walking on her way. And she says, after a few moments:

"15L doesn't come this late." It's the only other bus along this route: the limited version of its brother. It's a helpful bit of advice, perhaps. Might also be a question.

wolfman

The bus the girl gets off wasn't the bus the wolf was waiting for. So he doesn't come off his seat, and the bus is ignored as it squeaks up to the curb. His eyes are looking away down the street when the doors open. Something must cue him off, though. Not her scent, because she doesn't have one. But something, some presence or sound or motion, because his attention swings sharply back when the girl comes down the dirty bus steps in her boots.

Steam of his breath escaping his cupped hands pauses for a beat. Heavy eyebrows coming together. He stares at her and she stares at him. Bus roars as it pulls away.

"Not looking to leave yet." He lowers his hands, straightens a little. Soundless shift of massive bones, thick muscle. Couple seconds later and there's a few more words of explanation: "I hunt here." Pause. "You live here?"

witch

Her hand is wrapped around the strap of her purse, which is also made of cloth, slashing across her body.

He hunts here. "Explains the camouflage," she says, tossing her wrist, fingers flicking in his direction like someone throwing a skipping stone, dice, runes.

wolfman

Head lowers a second. Eyes flick over his rough, sturdy clothes. Rough, sturdy body. He looks at her again.

"This isn't camouflage. The suits and the ties are."

witch

One of her eyebrows lifts, much as it did the last -- first -- time he saw her, spoke to her. "Where does paying for sex fall, then?"

wolfman

Flex in his jaw. A beat of discomfort where his eyes flick away. Then his chin lifts; he levels a hard stare, unflinching.

"Easiest way about it." He's callous. "You buy your cigarettes, I buy my fucks." Tilt of head, shrug of shoulder. "Same thing."

witch

Not what she asked. But she ignored his question about her living around here. Fair is fair. That he flinches, though: the flex in his jaw, the flicking of his eyes, the way he has to consciously look back at her, stare back at her. This surprises. She just goes on watching him.

"Nah," she says after a beat. "That's a good. Not a service. But I get your meaning."

She pauses for a moment, awareness and wariness mingling in her regard. Looks down the street, then up the other side, toward her destination. Brings her eyes back to him. "See ya," she says, and that is that, lowering her previously crossed arms to her sides to head on her way.

wolfman

His teeth catch his lip a moment. White teeth. Sharp incisors. A nod --

"Night."

The girl goes her way. The wolf watches her a while, until she disappears into that shop. His eyes mark the crescent moon, the name. He makes a sound, huh, and a little later he comes off the bench easy and smooth and heavy, heads into the darkness.