Awakened Payote [Wehya]

So, thus, we have one streetrat, close to home. She’s made it down to the steps in front of the building. We won’t say how long it took her, just that it is where she is now, enjoying the heat of the day as it starts to fade a bit into evening. She’s settled on the top step, her feet on the one below her. Her feet are bare, and her boots are on the step next to her, with her socks shoved down inside them. Because of the heat, she’s wearing what looks to be a pair of boxers – not her own. She’d stolen them from Will, and they’re pinned at the side so that they stay up. Over them, an oversized t-shirt – the one she sleeps in, likewise stolen from Will. She swims in it.

It’s probably the first time anyone other than her… uh… roommate? sugar daddy? fuckbuddy? lovah? something… has seen her without her hoodie on. It’s nearby, draped over her boots, in all it’s dingy (and bloodstained) glory. There are bruises fading on her legs, a bandage wrapped around her left thigh, and who knows what injuries are found under that shirt. Her cut lip is healing, and the bruising across her cheekbone is angry, though fading purple to blue to green to yellow..

She’d clearly been at the wrong end of whatever scuffle she’d gotten herself into. SHe sits with her head down, her face hidden by her hair, as she takes a drag off of a joint she’d managed to score somewhere, pulling the smoke deep into her lungs. And hold….

A grunt chuffs from the flared nostrils of the short man that shuffles out from around the building, possibly the cause of all the chaos that just happened. He brushes bits of cabbage off the long coat worn around his torso, the thin cotton wife beater stretches across the lean cut of wiry muscles of his chest. He heads over to the lid of the garbage can, bending at the waist to pick it up, and straightens. He turns it over in his hands, glancing up and down the street to see who all played witness.

It really shouldn’t be a surprise after what she’d been through, but the noise causes her to flinch, and instinctively grab for her things. She watches as the cats come aflying, only to be attacked by flying garbagecan lid. She exhales a slow “Fuckin’ELL…” as it’s beginning to hurt like hell to hold it in and her free hand pulls back from her things, wrapping protectively around her ribs, ribs that are bound under that t-shirt to help support, yet not hamper her breathing. She then watches Wahya as he comes out of the alley, and a flick of her gaze to the door behind her judges that to jump up – even if she could – would not keep her from his notice.

So she remains. The waifishly thin streetrat, huddled on the stoop protectively, doing her best not to be noticed as she takes yet another drag off that joint, and holds it, shallowly. It’s not very effective when you can’t breathe, but the pain pills aren’t cutting it, and she’s almost out, anyway.

His head bows a little, long matted braids slither across his shoulders into his face, masking his features. There was something in his dark eyes, naturally sunken in and hooded, squinting into narrow slits. The thin line of scar tissue twitches and pulls the skin on his face, running over the cheekbone from the temple to the curve of a flat nostril attached to a hooked nose. His weathered bronze features spoke of a mixed ethnicity.

The right hand comes up, stained red as if it’s been dipped in kool-aid or blood, hard to say. It gestures in the air at Maija, fingers snapping together. “You.” He says to her.

…she watches him, and exhales shallowly once more, the grayish plume of smoke slipping past her lips to be carried away in the ever present Chicago breeze. She arches a brow slightly, her hair still framing/hiding much of her features, as if being without the hoodie is just too much for her to quite handle. She drapes her arm across her knees, the joint held lightly between her fingers.

“What ’bout me.” Her voice is low, soft, and a mixture of anywhere and everywhere – but mostly broken English, without a way to pinpoint where she’s from. She’s still considering just going back inside, too. It’s there somewhere in her dark eyes.

“Maija…” the name draws from some place in his mind, matching the name to her face. “See before. Place of thieving brothers.” His English is just as broken as hers; his hands remain curled around the trash lid, arms relaxing at his sides, pressing the metal lid to his belly.

He looks away briefly, scanning the street before coming back to her. “No Mrena with you?”

Who he asks for – which may answer the above question. She feels naked, but it’s too damn hot to pull that hoodie on again. So she drags her hand back through her hair, before letting it fall to shield her features as much as it is able too.

“Ain’t seen her in a while. She an’ I ain’t exactly hang out buddies.”

The single word is formed with the small purse of his mouth to make the sound. It seems heavy coming out, followed by the long draw of breath as he sighs. He looks a little lost after that, unsure of what else to say. He looks away from her once again, as if the action of constantly glancing over his shoulder will produce something new.

His eyes swing back her way, lifting up to study the girl hunched up. His face hasn’t relinquished the frown, which now begins to darken once more. “What happen?” raise up his red right hand once more to gesture at her.

Speaking of, she takes another shallow hit, her brow furrowing as she her arm wraps around her torso tighter for a long moment. She doesn’t answer for a moment, her brow smoothing as she closes her eyes for a second or two, then exhales slowly.

“Mugged. Ain’t run fast nuff.”

The word is unfamiliar to him; he has never seen a mugging or if he has witnessed one, didn’t know the proper word to identify the event. The tips of his fingers begin to drum against the lid of the trash can, a soft rapping of dirty nails on metal.

He shuffles his weight from one foot to the other; the smell of the joint keeps him at bay for now, hovering on the sidewalk. He eyes return to sweep over her, drinking in the details of her healing injuries. His tongue clucks against the roof of his mouth, shaking his head. “No see one about that?”

She shakes her head, just a slight motion that is barely registered really. She lets her arm fall across her knees again, and searches the street in front of them for a moment. Even now – especially now – she is aware, hyper aware of her surroundings.

“Was in th’hospital a few days, surgery n shit.” But she ain’t seen no one since, and likely won’t neither. Fuckin’ paper trails.

He is not very rageful like most of his kind, but it is there lurking under the man-skin. Most of his aggression had been taken out on the cats in the alley, the trash can lid still in his hands has become like an extension of him now; moving from his belly to under his left arm, biting into his ribcage under the press of his arm.

“Wahya not re—tar…” grunting, “Wahya not dumb.” He declares, a little offended by this. “Wahya is not from Scab. Scab-healers do crap job on Maija’s injuries.”

Scab. Weirdly appropriate, that name. She reaches down to put out the joint against the stoop next to her bare foot, then tucks it under her hair behind her ear once it’s cooled, in order to save the rest for later. She ain’t got no never-ending supply, after all. She shifts her position on the stoop, then wraps her arms around her knees, carefully pulling them to her chest rather then hunching over, a brief flicker of pain in her eyes as she does so with a sharp inhalation. She finds a position that will be comfortable for all of 2.5 seconds, and then shrugs, slightly.

“Ain’t no miracle workers there. Ain’t nuthin they can do for th’ribs but let’em heal on they own. They fixed th’insides though so’s I ain’t gun bleed t’death afore I heal up.”

The young wolf and his stubbornness continued to keep him here. He shifts his position, slowly dropping down to crouch on the sidewalk in front of the steps, his head tilting up to keep his eyes on the injured girl. The small flickers of pain finally break the strict formation of the frown that has been marring his features, changing into one of concern. “Peyote will only numb pain for so long. Leave one hungry afterwards. Good for spirit talks, so-so for distractions against pain.”

He sets the metal lid down on its side, propping it up against the edge of the step. Wahya begins to search the deep pockets of his coat, turning everything inside out looking for something. He eventually finds it, in the inner left breast pocket. Fingers dig deep, scissoring around a bundled up bandanna. He tucks it into the palm of his left hand, stretching out his arm to extend it to her. “Here.”

He offers her something, and she just watches him, closely, until she reaches out to take the bandanna.. “What is it?” Suspicious, at best.

He clears his throat, coughing into a fist. “Awakened peyote.” He points to the bundle. Maija will feel the small aluminum tin nestled inside, formerly meant to hold breath mints. It was small and square, peeling open with a little flick. “If smoke, use small amount. Strong…” coughing again, “very potent. Wahya chews it, rarely smoke. It help.”

He glances upwards to the sky, squinting against the city lights that reflect off the buildings. His nostrils flare breathing in and out in a slow rhythm. He brings his eyes back down to her, “Hard to find bear in Scab, Wahya will bring Maija something else for pain, to heal wounds if Maija wishes.”

His left arm lifts up pointing a finger at the sickle moon, “Wahya’s moon.”

She reaches to the side, setting the bandana next to her boots, so that she won’t forget them. Maybe it’ll help her get some sleep tonight – it sucks when the bruises fade into dark circles of insomnia, ya know? He continues and she studies him. Her gaze is direct, heavy even, and while she ain’t never been a beauty queen or a scholar, there is intelligence in her dark eyes, and something about her sharp features make her almost.. but not quite… pretty. Will calls her unique. He thinks she’s beautiful. He’s also delusional, but that’s beside the point.

“Yer moon…” then, almost instantly. “oh.” Like Mrena. Like her. “I ain’t got nuthin’ t’give ya in return, but if ya come cross some bear an’ he can make it quit hurtin, I’d certainly not so stupid as t’say no.”

After all, ya can’t run, if ya can’t breathe.

“Awaken…” a pause, skewering his face up in thought, “—is word you use to—“ he begins to frown once more, struggling to think of the word, she can see the look of concentration. “Ah! Enhance!” features brighten, eyes grow wide and so does his smile. He nods to himself. “Effects is stronger, yes. More….” Looking around again and then back to her, “more brilliant or vivid or…enhanced, awaken make peyote more potent than usual.”

Wahya grins, is grinning at her when she realizes what he is. He nods again to her words, “Will find help, come back in day with something for Maija. But Wahya need to go now.”

He stands, and she tenses, but doesn’t flinch this time, not so much as she had the first time when he made his rather loud appearance. “Yeah, alright.” She gestures to the building behind her. “I’ll be here.”

A beat, and then. “G’night, Wahya.”

Once he is out of sight, nestled into the shadows of a building. Wahya makes the cautious look around to see if no one watches him. Reassured he pulls out a round woman’s compact mirror from his pocket, clicks it open to angle the dual mirrors just so it caught the sickle reflection of his moon and disappears in the blink of an eye.