skulking about at night

She ain’t much to look at, really, a thin figure huddled in an oversized sweatshirt, the hood pulled up to where dark eyes barely show from under the rim – specially as they’re aimed down at the beat to hell hiking boots she’s wearing. Her hands are shoved deep into the ‘roo pocket of the hoodie, ‘cept when one reaches up to reset the shoulder strap of her backpack into a more comfortable position.

She could be anyone, most likely she’s no one. Either way, she rounds a corner, and shuffles onto the block where the ‘Cuda just stopped down the way.

There are things about Decker that Sophie cannot sense, but Matthias will know almost by instinct. It’s in his carriage, his bearing; the very cut of his bones.

Matthias can read the Full-Moon’s bloodlines from it, and they are his own: stark and raw and unforgivingly northern. His ancestry is as northern as his drawl is southern. Matthias can also read his rank there, and that he is the alpha of his pack. It’s something about his stance; something about the lift of his chin, the silent confidence in him.

Decker eyes the big, long-haired viking for a moment. Then, “You Matthias?”

And, as Sophie exhales a mouthful of what is unmistakably weed, his eyes flicker to her, then to the house. “Yer kids sleepin’?”

“I am…”

A brow raises curiously on the stern expression, the unspoken question of how he was known to one he did not know clear upon his face. After a moment, Matthias reaches to the six pack of Budweiser resting on the ground nearby, and after withdrawing an unopened and cold bottle, offers it to Decker. He says no words, the guesture of holding out the beer clear enough by Matthias’ estimation.

Whatever Decker was, it held a greatness to it. Sophie was simply Kin and she could see it as obviously as she could feel the air in her lungs. The blue of her eyes never strays toward Decker’s face for very long. Oh, it skirts and flirts with the idea of looking him in the face…of taking inventory of what he actually looks like…but each attempt is thwarted by her own common sense.

Now, she’s casting her eyes down the block toward the hooded figure…then back to Matthias as if she were almost eager to her the interaction between the two men.

It was probably stupid to come here anyway. A fools errand. An idiots journey. But she had nothing better to do, right? And it would prove once and for all if what he said was true – a stiff wind would knock her on her ass. What better place to land in the Chicago, right?

A whisp of hair escapes the confines of her hoodie, and long thin fingers lift to slide it back into place, tucking the hair behind her ear. It also gives a quick glimpse of her features – sharp chin, the line of her jaw, the curve of her ear, before she tucks the fleece back into place again.

One foot before the other – closer to the trio, but still a ways away.

Decker can remember moving school districts only once in his life. The circumstances surrounding that were rough; having to go to a new school was the least of his worries. Then again, from what Sophie said last night, half-heard at the bar — my late mate — he could assume her kids were in a situation not entirely different.

Whatever. That wasn’t why he’d asked, anyway. He asked because of the joint in her hand.

“Bum a hit,” he says; it’s a question, albeit unlilting. If she passes it over, the Modi clips it between thumb and forefinger, raises it to his mouth and takes a long, expert drag off of it. The ring of combustion pulls back several millimeters on Sophie’s joint. This is definitely not the first time he’s smoked a J, or even the first time this week, most likely.

When he passes it back he’s holding the hit in. This keeps him silent for some time. Finally he exhales, slow and even, a plume of heavy grey smoke swept away by an errant gust of wind.

“‘m Decker Rohl,” he says, to Matthias now. ” ‘Silence’. Adren Full Moon’a Fenris. A Fang kinsman told me ’boutcha while back.” Matthias’ unanswered question answered, at least.

I am Matthias Jorgenson, called Odin’s Eye. Cliath Full Moon of Fenris. Modi to the Cackling Shadow.”

He offers the introduction in the same manner it is given, following it with a long swig which drains the remaining half of the Budweiser in hand. Folding the cap neatly in half between two meaty digits, Matthias puts the empty bottle in the six pack carrier and drops the cap inside.

After a few moments, he speaks again.

“Sam Modine told you?”

The two men continue to talk in a stand-offish way that she’s only ever seen Modi’s talk. Her eyes trail once more to the hooded person gaining ground on her small house. While her ears are honed in on the conversation between Matthias and Decker she is, causally, watching the approaching figure.

She does tilt her head a little bit, though, to glance up and place the three on the stoop, where they stand, sit, and which one is casually watching her. A slight shift of weight and her walk puts her on the very outside of he sidewalk, so that when she passes, it is as far away as possible.

Then, after a few brief moments spent measuring his words, perhaps even longer than before, Matthias’ answers…

“We follow Goblin, yes. Milo is Alpha.”

Reaching down, Matthias withdraws another beer from the six pack and unceremoniously twists the cap off.

Listening to the Garou speak she offers Maija a smile. It’s an easily given smile. A motherly smile.

Sometime in the middle, the joint comes back his way. He takes another hit and then no more: two and that’s it, before he gives a shake of his head the next time Sophie passes it.

There’s nothing but ease in his posture. His lower back against the rail. One foot crossed over the other at the ankle. The way the porch rail slopes, his left elbow can rest higher up, and it’s that hand that holds his beer.

His eyes flicker over Odin’s Eye’s face as it closes up. Decker is a Modi, and he can be startlingly blunt, startlingly obtuse. What people don’t realize is more often than not that’s deliberate; a deliberate and calculated response to shit he doesn’t give a fuck about, and doesn’t care to put effort into giving a fuck about.

When he wants to be, he can be perceptive. Startlingly astute.

A moment goes by. Then: “Funny. Y’axe my packmates ’bout who they Alpha is ‘r what they totem is, they don’t grind they teeth none.” He knocks the beer back again; bubbles rise and burst against the glass. “So why you so tense when I axe ya ’bout yers?”

And then there’s the thickening of the air, the feel that there might just be a bear hidden under that porch, something that causes the hair at the back of the neck to raise. Two modi’s in close quarters – folks are bound to notice. And folks that have felt it before, are bound to do what she does next.

Curse. Under her breath.
“Shit.”

Indeed.
See? Motherly smiles precede something far worse. Always.

Measured words flow haltingly, as though each were tested for its accuracy and precision before the next was spoken.

“It is an internal matter. I would not speak of it.”

Then, steel eyes flit to the girl in the hooded sweatshirt and then back to Decker, in such a way that Decker would realize it was no involuntary flitter, but an unspoken signal… An indication that not all ears should hear such things.

“Fair ‘nough.” He lets it go, perhaps far more easily than Matthias would have expected. Or maybe not — “Do wonder why one’a ours is followin’ a path’a dishonor though. Let’s talk ‘gain, Matthias. Soon.”

On that note his balance shifts; he straightens up, turns his attention to the girl on the street, more curious than invested.

She doesn’t say anything, because it seems it would probably be a very stupid thing to do.

He nods, removing a final beer from the six pack and leaving it for Decker. Then, standing, the large Fenrir makes his way down the street, and into the night beyond… His brow furrowed in thought.

((*fade Matthias* Thanks for the rp folks; I had fun))

“Hold on a minute, girl,” he raises his voice only a little to call after the girl; quiet by nature, it nevertheless manages to get heard. “If yer makin’ this house so’s you ‘n yer friends kin come back later ‘n rob it, ‘m tellin’ ya now. ‘s tha worst fuckin’ idea y’ever had. Understand?”

For Maija, it might be an obvious, though erroneous, assumption that Decker was romantically involved with the woman on the stoop. The effortless, confident way he stands in the yard — the warning he issues, more lazy than threatening — it all points to a sort of ownership; a sort of protective instinct that could easily be mistaken for something more than it is.

Which is: kinship. Which is: blood ties.

She looks at the ground a moment, at the toe of her right boot which is scuffed all to hell, just like the last, before she takes a breath, and squares those shoulders, and shakes her head, slightly, jaw clenching as she spits out the first part. “Ain’t a fuckin’ thief.” Then a shoulder lifts in a minute shrug. “Ain’t know anyone here anyway. No friends, no worries.”

Finally, she answers. Perhaps surprisingly, it’s honest. “Safer to walk at night, sleep during the day. Cops ain’t kick ya out the park so quick during the day.”

They watch each other a moment, the Modi measuringly, the girl — well. She doesn’t really watch him at all.

Abruptly he puts his hands into his pockets. Feels around until he finds a scrap of paper — a gas pump receipt — and comes down to the sidewalk.

“Ya got a pen ‘r pencil?”

She looks up at him at the request, as he steps down to the sidewalk, and her back stiffens, wary. But after a beat, she nods, and lets go of the item in her hoodie pocket, so that she can slip her backpack off her shoulders. A minute’s dig in the front pocket and she pulls a small notebook – journal type – with a pen attached. She pulls it free, and offers it to him, without a word.

Which is, in fact, exactly the case.

He doesn’t, though. He writes in it, big block letters, fairly shitty penmanship. It’s an address. Specifically, it’s the address of Hill House.

“That ain’t no homeless shelter ‘r state-run ins’itution,” he says, clapping the notepad closed over the pen and handing both back, “‘case yer avoidin’ ’em fer a reason. But I think they’ll put a roof over yer head ‘n give ya three squares if ya pitch in with they — ” he almost calls it coggie shit, averts at the last instant, ” — treehuggin’ hippie shit.”

She takes it back, the sharp glance up at his suggestion that she might be avoiding state run places giving away the fact that she is, indeed, avoiding them. Even this close, with that much rage flowing around her, clawing at her, looking for purchase, she stands her ground. Ain’t easy, and she sure ain’t relaxed, but she stands her ground were others would have already stepped away.

“…thanks.” She caught the slight avert too, and there’s brief flash of something, maybe amusement, but it’s really, really fast and then it’s gone. “…distant family, then?” May as well address the elephant in the room.

The modi’s eyes flicker sharply up, though, when the girl brings up ‘family’. His head was bent to write, and he looks at her from under his eyebrows for a moment. Then he lifts his chin; looks down his nose at her instead, appraisingly, thuggishly.

“Real distant,” he replies. “Why? What kinda ‘cousin’ is you?”

This close, it’s clear she ain’t very old, all told, despite the fact that being family ages you quickly more often then not. 16, maybe 17, but with eyes that have seen far more than her share of shit. If she’d ever let him get a clear look at her face, that is.

She clears her throat, before she can answer. “Distant Streetrat. Ain’t been around any for a long while.” Been avoiding all – including family. That much is clear. And here she stumbles right up on them again.

This time, it’s for the Brotherhood.

“Go there ‘stead, then. ‘s a restaurant out front, but go in through tha back. ‘s run by kinfolk. Look fer a woman named Jenny. She’ll putcha up someplace, maybe help ya git in touch with yer blood if ya want. If ya don’t, she won’t axe no questions neither.

“Me, tha big guy ya saw leavin’, ‘n tha lady on tha porch behind me, we’s of a more northern breed.”

“There’s…” She hesitates. And then, when she gets her pad back again, she flips back toward the beginning, until she finds the page she wants. It’s a profile, of a kid in a cowboy hat, driving. From the size of the wheel, it’s a truck, maybe big rig, but the details are saved for the face, the almost pretty baby faced kid that she happened to see again recently, the face that saw her decide to hit Chicago next. “…this guy. Seen him around anywhere? Name’s Shephard…”

Shot in the dark. Sometimes ya hit, sometimes ya miss.

“Nope.” He hands the pen back too. “Axe Jenny. She might’a.”

“Thanks. I appreciate the info.” She glances at the woman, then back again, and there’s that brief flicker of amusement that flits across her face again. “And if I hear of anyone casin’ the place, I’ll tell ’em to steer clear.” Streetrats tend to hear things, that’s all.

As she turns to go, he calls after her again. “Name’s Decker.”

It may, or may not be her real name, but it is one that rolls easily enough of her tongue to suggest she’s called it her own for long enough to be comfortable with it.

It serves as a sort of goodbye. She leaves in one direction. He, after something of a nod up in the direction of the lady of the house, leaves in the other. Behind Maija, the 425 horses of the Hemicuda rumble noisily to life. Decker swings a wide U-turn and drives off in the direction of the Cabrini-Green projects.