[Elliot] Elliot, for the first time in longer than she’d care to remember, is clean. There is no discernible smell about her except, perhaps, the smell of skin. She did not stay the night in The Brotherhood of Thieves that Lukas showed her, but she did make use of their facilities. She cleaned herself. And she cleaned her clothes.
Her hair, when clean, and dry, and brushed, is bright red and falls beyond her shoulders. Her skin is almost disturbingly pale. Her clothes are still ragged and stained, but they are no longer packed with dirt. She’s wearing layers above and just the pair of shredded jeans on her long, spindly legs. Her shoes are old and incredibly worn. The Gnawer could do with new things, but she doesn’t. Maybe when these things she has have worn away completely, but for now they suffice.
She’s sitting on a swing in Seward Park. There are huge, bulbous sunglasses on her face that hearken to the age of Katherine Hepburn. Even though it’s dark. It’s quiet. For a member of a tribe that clings to the fringe of society and civilization, Elliot likes parks. She likes the wilderness. But for some reason she has not left this city with its stench and its noise. For some reason, after several weeks, she’s still here. Still sleeping wherever she stops, like this swing.
She’s sitting leaning forward, her shoulders pressed to the chains as if she’s dropped where she sits, but she is not asleep. Every now and again, she shifts her feet, nudging the swing into the tiniest bit of motion.
[Rory] She likes Cabrini Green. In the little nooks and crannies there are old antique shops, thrift shops, and places where one with her particular delight in fixing things can find a wealth of Stuff to shove into her backpack. She could still use a warmer coat, but Chloe says the City will provide. And provide, it will – she has seen that.
Her jeans aren’t quite as worn as Elliot’s, and are dark wash. Her t-shirt underneath her jacket is free of holes, the knit hat that tries to contain her curls is relatively new. She shopped at the Y – with the five finger discount in the lost and found, last time she took a shower. Walking keeps her warm though, and she’s too busy messing with the old radio in her hands to notice it much anyway. They said it needed a little work. It needs a total overhaul.
She’s chewing on her lower lip, in concentration when the squeak of the swingset chain gets her attention. She jerks her head to the side, green eyes wide, before she recognizes the figure, even clean. She turns and makes her way into the park, toward the swingset.
“Hi.”
[Elliot] She hears her long before another, even of their kind, might. When Rory is within range, Elliot can hear the swish of denim on denim as her thighs rub together as she walks. The wind isn’t with her, she can’t smell her until she’s almost upon her. The swing chain squeaks one final time before Elliot stops. She doesn’t move her head, doesn’t appear to move at all for several minutes. It’s not the stillness of a wild animal that catches the scent of a predator and hopes that remaining immobile will save them. Elliot is just. Still.
The silence begins to drag on beyond the normal span of time. And then the head turns, and Rory can imagine that Elliot is regarding her silently. It’s difficult to know for certain, what with the sunglasses that obscure her face, but there’s no denying that there is no expression there. The pale face is impassive, seems immobile, incapable of movement.
“‘Lo,” the tall woman says at last.
[Rory] Her sent is an odd thing. There is the breeding that is noticeable, and there is the scent of her clothing, the dirt, the fact that she’s sleeping in an alley. But of her own scent, there is none. There is no oder to her body, nothing to detect that leaves a memorable stamp that says that she is there.
The silence drags, and Rory doesn’t seem to mind. Her fingers slide over the little radio, but she doesn’t take her own swing until Eliot returns the greeting. She settles to an empty swing, wrapping her arms around the chain so she can still occupy her fingers with the radio.
“You ok?”
Some words are easier.
[Elliot] The head does not turn to follow the curly-haired girl as she moves to take an empty swing. The whole park is empty at this time of night. This is a part of town that is not so nice. It’s where the poor live, where weak-willed villains prey on weaker-willed innocents. And some not-so-innocents. There is a pack that guards this area, or a small pocket of it, but there is still crime. The Wyrm’s presence is still strong.
Elliot doesn’t move until Rory is all the way on her other side. Then she sits up, arching her back in a stretch, the pop and snap of vertebrae muffled by several layers of shirts and an oversized sweater. Her overcoat is somewhere, or it’s gone, taken by someone greedier than Elliot. She doesn’t care. The coat was just a coat, after all. It was not Stuff. It’s been a long time since the Gnawer had Stuff.
She’s asked if she’s okay. Elliot is facing forward, facing straight ahead. From this angle Rory can see that, yes, the woman has eyes behind those glasses. As she may or may not remember from the Chinese restaurant.
“You fight well,” she says, which is not an answer to Rory’s question. Her voice, up until now only heard as a low rasp, is clear. Someone has been talking lately. Perhaps to Wyrmbreaker, or the residents of The Brotherhood, or simply to herself. To get used to the feel of words again. “You’re in a pack?”
[Rory] She braces a toe in the dirt, and uses it to move herself back and forth in the swing. She looks at Elliot when she speaks, then back down to her radio. Shes itching to pull the back off of it, to see how it works, to see if she can fix it. It’s almost visible in the way her hands slide over, move knobs, play with what is there and what she can do without breaking out her tools and a flat surface.
Elliot says she fights well, and she checks to see if it is genuine. It is. She nods. “You too.”
Her voice sounds better, and Rory notices. She notices the little things, sometimes more than the larger. She tinkers, she works with small pieces, she fixes the small things so that the whole is stronger. When she asks of Pack, her spine straightens and she smiles, a little, though it’s still hidden by the duck of her head. “Fe Thorgotten. Chloe is Alpha.”
She’s clearly proud to follow the redheaded Gnawer, that accepts her as she is.
[Elliot] Rory says You, too, and Elliot does not scoff. She does not laugh and point out that when Elliot clawed her way back from death (again, so many times again and again) she also clawed at those who were her allies. She does not tell Rory that last Friday night was not the first time Elliot has encountered war wolves, the genetically engineered monsters created by Pentex.
When Rory tells her Chloe is Alpha of Fe Thorgotten, it only takes a moment for the Gnawer to decipher her words. She hasn’t been around the girl much, but enough to notice the way she mangles her words. And she does it so sweetly, as if she doesn’t even realize that she does it.
Elliot nods. “Good.” It’s all she says for a while. She raises a hand and inspects her nails. It’s been a long time since she’s seen her fingers so clean, since she only picked up the barest traces of her own scent.
She pulls herself out of the swing, steps just beyond the boundary of the sand and stops. When she speaks, she’s still turned away. “We should hunt.” She twists her upper body, and Rory has those sunglasses aimed at her once more. “Your pack and I.”
[Rory] She doesn’t notice the way she speaks, what she does to her words. It is a hard thing to fix, when she only knows it happens when others question, or scoff and make fun. She speaks in short clips, in phrases rather than long sentences. It doesn’t always help, but it’s an attempt to curb a disability that she cannot control.
They should hunt, she says. Rory nods. “Ok. We fought well together, at the Shinese Cack. We would hunt tell, woo.”
There’s something under the words, an invitation, a mutual respect. Perhaps Elliot would find a home with them, with her and Chloe. They would be stronger then, and people would begin to remember The Forgotten.
[Elliot] Rory thinks they fought well together. At the…ah. At the Chinese place. It’s possible Elliot thinks this, too. It might be why she brought up the suggestion.
There’s an invitation beneath Rory’s twisted words, and mutual respect. An invitation to join The Forgotten, perhaps.
It’s difficult to tell what Elliot thinks, with that impassive face. She nods once, and then she’s turning away again. “If I hear of something. I’ll find you.” There’s a scuff as her shoe hits pavement, and then her steps are more silent, as if she can’t bear the sound of her own footfalls in this quiet, almost sacred place.
[Rory] She nods, slightly. “Ok.”
Elliot goes to move away, again, and Rory doesn’t stop her. She’s hard to read, with her impassive face, the large glasses, though perhaps they think alike, or close enough too it. A trial hunt, to see how they work together, a hunt to fight to wyrm, to cleans just a little more of Chicago for as long as they can.
She watches her go, and then nods, slightly. Chloe’ll be pleased – and that pleases Rory in turn.
“Ok.” This more to herself, before she stands, and moves over to the nearest bench, settling to sit on the ground so she can place the radio on the seat in front of her, dig out her tools, and get started on tonight’s project. Just to keep her hands busy, to keep them warm.