Concrete Jungle v2.0

[DrStein]

Varg Blackstone. Such an unusual young man. Those who met him got an uneasy feeling about him. It could have been his intense, unblinking stare. Maybe it was the color of his eyes, a bright yellow. It may have been his obvious strength that seemed impossible for such a slender frame. Perhaps it was the tattoo on his right arm and the branded mark on his left. It could very well be the way he carried himself, seemingly afraid of nothing.

Of course, the truth was Varg's heritage. He was a proud werewolf of the Moonscar clan, the mongrels of the lycanthropes. Despite his lowly social station, Varg carried himself with pride and superiority. He was perhaps the most promising warrior of his generation, and he knew it.

Varg had a reputation throughout the city, but not by name. Rather, by deed. Varg patrolled the streets every night on his motorcycle, looking for evildoers. He lost his parents at a young age, and could now barely remember them. Demons. None of the three demons lived through the week apparently. The werejaguars gutted them like fish.

However, since then Varg made it his mission to bring justice. Of course, his idea of justice was that might makes right. He earned himself the status of an urban legend. Some told stories of a giant who rode an equally massive motorbike and fought criminals with a hacked off parking meter as a sword. Others told the story of a kung-fu master who was seeking atonement for a past wrong. Still others believed they saw an escaped mental patient seeking out some arch nemesis from the past and was going through the city's underworld one-by-one to find him.

It was amazing the kind of stories humans could make up. Varg mused on the bemusing stupidity of it all as he rocketed down the streets of the city well after dark. The bike was something he had built from scratch, and he was quite pleased with the results. On the back of the chassis was painted on the word "PREDATOR" in crude letters that gave it a rather feral look.

Over the roar of the engine, Varg picked up the sound of a struggle. He smelled the stench of alcohol and tobacco, two of mankind's most useless products. Time to go to work.

 

[Jewelskye]

Keaira Blakely

The sound of her boots resonated in her ears. Far more than the sound of rubber soles on pavement should have. Funny, how hyper-sensitive her hearing had become. At first, it started at puberty. Small noises seemed much louder to her than to others, and she was plagued with migraines for much of her early teens. She'd never told anyone, of course, always kept it to herself.

Which wasn't hard, given her loner nature. But these days sounds were just sounds, loud they may have been. Allowing her mind to focus on the sounds of her own footsteps and the steady beat of her heart, she kept her eyes down for the most part, only glancing up occasionally as she walked along the side walk, bound for the tiny studio apartment she had on the outskirts of the artisan section of the city.

It would be a long walk, for sure, but the flashing lights and roaring sound of the streetcars on the subway were too much for her to bear. Besides, she enjoyed these long quiet walks home from the library where she worked.

Taking a deep breath, she was forced to let out a quiet cough, her hand lifting to her nose and mouth in an effort to shield them from the obtrusive smell of alchohol. Eyes watering, she used the edge of her turtleneck's sleeve to wipe the tears away from her ice blue eyes. Must be a bar around... she reasoned with herself as she moved along, tugging the sleeves of her black form fitting turtle neck lower on her arms, to cover her hands.

The black slacks she wore were form fitting until they reached the knee, there they flared out just a bit, falling around the tops of a pair of black sneakers.

Her dress wasn't anything special, but it did fit the fact that she lived in the artistic section of the city. A tiny hand came up to run through the long pale blonde, almost white locks of her hair, shaking it through her fingers a bit as it fell freely to around her hips. Her hair wasn't thin like most with blonde hair. It was thick, silky, and rarely seemed to become tangled. Indeed, she was blessed in that aspect. She reasoned, however, that she'd cut it if it ever did get hard to maintain.

It didn't occur to her as she moved down the streets with only the streetlamps to guide her, that the smell of alchohol couldn't be coming from a nearby bar. The nearest one was atleast four blocks away, on the outskirts of the city itself.

It also didn't occur to her that she wasn't just hearing her own footsteps anymore. Another set had joined her... and another and another and another. It wasn't until she was passing an ally she realised she could be in very real danger.

An arm wrapped around her waist, a hand moving over her mouth as she was tugged from the sidewalk into the darkened ally. Despite all her struggles, she wasn't strong enough to hold them all off. Screaming against the hand over her mouth, she squirmed and struggled, kicking and screaming as her bag was ripped away from her hands and she found herself being dragged toward the back of the ally.

Her heart beat faster in her chest and instinct seemed to take over. Curling her fingers slightly, she brought her hand up and dragged her nails down the side of one man's face, leaving deep bloody scratches behind.

He cursed, jerking back for a moment before delivering a hard back-handed slap to the side of her face, making her vision go blurry for a moment. The smell of alchohol and cigarette smoke was thick in her nostrils now, making it hard to register anything.

Until the feel of cold metal rested against her temple, almost as soothing to the now bruising skin as it was frightening to the mind of the young woman who lay there, staring with wide blue eyes up at her captors. "You're gonna lay here, and you're gonna be quiet, or I'm gonna blow the top of that pretty little head off, got it bitch?" one man hissed.

Keaira could only nod, whimpering against the hand pressed over her mouth. There was a click, and she didn't see it as much as she felt it... a tug at the bottom of her shirt, another tug, and soon the fabric seemed to give way. The cold flash of steel from the blade of the knife lit up her vision as they began to systematically cut away her shirt, then snapped the middle strap of her bra with ease, exposing a pair of full, perky young breasts.

She whimpered again as hands found the fleshy mounds and the man with the knife began to move lower, trailing the flat of the blade over creamy white skin until he came to the waist band of her slacks.

Oh gods... I'm going to die.... she thought, mind whirling as she lay there, wanting to move but too afraid to do anything.

 

[DrStein]

Varg pulled the bike into a hault at the mouth of the alley. He saw the men look up at him as he removed his helmet, and fixed his burning eyes at them. "How's it goin'.... hog fuckers?" His voice was a throaty baritone, almost a snarl. He had a tone of menace that could put the movie previews guy to shame.

He stepped off his bike as the men assumed defensive positions. Two of them had knives. One had a gun. Pathetic. The gun wouldn't kill Varg or even stop him, but it would hurt like all get out. That is, if the bastard could get a shot off.

"Back off, asshole!" the gunman threatened.

Varg scowled in digust. The smell of cheap whiskey reached him fifteen feet away. If evil had a scent...

Varg raised his hands and pretended to get down on his knees in a submissive gesture. As he lowered himself to the ground, he picked up a stone and in a lightning fast motion, chucked it at the gunman. A crack and a scream rang out as the rock shattered the man's nose. As he reeled back, he fired two shots into the air harmlessly.

Even as the shots were fired, Varg was in motion. He sprang up from the ground with a snarl. He grabbed the wrist of one of the men wielding knifes, the hand holding the knife, and a quick twist broke the wrist and fractured one or possibly both of the bones in the forearm.

He thrust out a sidekick to the other man, sending him staggering back into wall.

Three right uppercuts to the gut and a left elbow strike to the back, and the first knife wielding asshole fell to the ground out like a blown light.

Varg moved quickly to the gunman. He grabbed his arm holding the gun at the wrist and bicep and pulled him into a knee strike that broke the elbow. It would heal... maybe. A punch the broke his jaw silenced the man's screams and sent him into merciful unconsciousness.

Varg grunted as he felt the non-pain of a knife blade sinking into his back. It was drawn out a second later and he turned to face his now-stunned attacker who was awe-struck to see this young man less injured and more pissed off by getting knifed in the back.

He probably never saw the punch that sent him flying at least six feet back and two feet off the ground. He'd be feeling it once he regained consciousness, though.

Huffing once, Varg, turned to the girl and kneeled beside her. "You okay?"

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Mabh Fallon

Mabh (why couldn't anyone ever pronounce that the right way? Meev. MEEV, for crying out loud!) Fallon wandered through her lair, better known as "Research and Archives" and sometimes just "The Library", of Lykos Corporation™. Over time, she'd come to understand why newspapers referred to departments like hers as "The Morgue" -- most times it was certainly as quiet as one.

The diminutive, raven haired, blue-eyed woman was the first of her family to have been born in the States. Granda and Muime had come over with their son, Michael, her own Da, a mere babe in arms, in the thirties from the Aran Islands near Galway, Ireland. He'd married late to a much younger woman who hadn't survived the birthing, and so Mabh was raised an only child by Da and Muime when she saw fit to interfere.

Growing up, Mabh had appeared almost antisocial, but truth was that she preferred her own company, and that of her immediate family. Not that she had much choice, they lived on an isolated farm -- their nearest neighbor more than ten miles distant. As a result, it didn't seem strange to anyone who knew her -- or of her -- when she chose to become a librarian.

The position with Lykos came as a godsend three months ago, if you believed in a god that is. Muime and Granda were long gone, and Da had passed six months ago. The farm was hers now, though she had no desire to work it. Loath to let the homestead go, Mabh needed to generate an income sufficient enough to keep up with the taxes if nothing else. And so here she was...

Mabh was feeling inordinately restless today. She had just finished collating a series of documents, followed by putting them on microfiche and also into the Corporation's extensive computer database, and there were a million other things to do -- but she just couldn't seem to settle.

It had happened again last night. In fact, more and more frequently since she had begun working at Lykos. Mabh didn't like to think about it. Or even consider the ramifications, let alone put a "name" to IT.

Muime and Da always just called it her "spells" and assured her that it wasn't uncommon for girls to have them during puberty. Having no reference, she took their word as law. Until university -- when she found out that it wasn't as common as they had made her believe. And now...

 

[Jewelskye]

The second they'd released her, Keaira had moved as far back into the ally as possible, until her now bare back was pressed to the cold brick wall. She'd watched in horror through still blurry vision as the young man, so strikingly feral and wild looking, dispensed of her attackers as if it were second nature for him to break bones and tear muscle and flesh.

She wasn't crying, only staring wide eyed, still in too much shock to be able to bring forth tears. The men lay broken and tattered around her and now he turned... turned to look at her. Her heart skipped a beat, then sped up as he neared her and knelt down.

This man was like no one she'd ever met. He was... so different. He looked different, carried himself differently, he even smelled differently. A short breath from her and she took in his scent, masculine and full of pheramones that left her almost dizzy trying to comprehend their meaning.

Wait a minute... she was smelling him?! Wow Keaira... that blow to the head must have shook something loose she told herself, staring in wide-eyed silence at her saviour.

Her arms were clasped over her bare breasts as she fought to stand up, for the first time noticing the pain in her right ankle. Sprained, at the very least, something in the back of her mind registered. "I'm... fi-" she started, but her voice trailed off in the middle of the word.

Her knees buckled, arms fell limply to her sides, eyes rolled into the back of her head as she fell. It had all been too much. The blow to the head, the overwhelmingly sensitive reactions to smell and sight and sound, and the pain. Oh gods the pain...

 

[DrStein]

Varg sighed in resignation. He couldn't leave her here. He took off his jacket and wrapped her up in it. As he picked her up, his eyes widened. The scent.

If anyone looked into alley now, they would find an unusual sight. They would see a young, dangerous-looking young man with long hair sniffing an unconscious, half-naked young woman like a dog.

No doubt about it. She was a lycanthrope. Though as to what kind, he was uncertain. Yet.

He walked out of the alley, checking to make sure no one was around. He sat astride his motorcycle with the girl in front of him. This was going to be tricky. He pulled off his belt and put it around his waist. He slide the ends through the two front belt loops and fastened it. A tight fit, but that was best anyway. He put his helmet on her head, zipped up the jacket, and drove off down the road.

He had no idea where she lived. Her scent trail was cold, but he could still follow it as long as he drove slowly. He belt and the support of his arms at the sides kept the girl from falling off.

Varg just hoped that he'd find where she lived soon.

 

[Jewelskye]

Even as Varg followed the scent, he'd find himself traveling in a bit of a circle. First down the road toward the small library that was just one of a few branches connected to the central library at the heart of the city, then back down the street to a small coffee shop then looping around down a short side street, then back in the general direction he'd come, only two streets over, as if she'd taken a few detours during her walk to work that morning.

Finally, however, the scent trail would become rather cold just outside a small bookshop with a set of metal stairs leading up to what was presumably an apartment above it.

While the trail he followed would fall cold just outside the building, a strong smell and a strong sense of... her would emanate from the place if he got close enough to check.

Sitting infront of him on the bike, Keaira was still out, though she had somehow shifted to rest against him, her head, helmeted though it was, rested comfortably against the wide plane of his chest, and she seemed turned inward, almost as if snuggled against his warmth.

Upon investigating the apartment he'd find it locked, and... he'd left her bag back in the alley. It had been over an hour however, and it was pretty safe to say someone had probably lifted it by now. She had no keys on her that he'd be able to find, but the place was definately hers.

 

[DrStein]

It took Varg the better part of an hour to track down her home, and when he finally got to what he was certain was her apartment, he found it to be locked. And no key was anywhere to be found. "I'm about to become very, very violent..." he muttered to himself.

He stood in the hallway for about five minutes weighing his options. Finally, he decided to bite the bullet. He grasped the door knob and with a quick twist, destroyed the lock and latch, causing the door to swing in at the gentlest touch.

Varg looked down at the girl he still carried in his arms. "I'll fix it in the morning."

 

[fukensploogin]

Manitu-Tan

Name: Manitu tan KaWi CaSa (he goes by Manny) (name poorly translated from Sioux)

Manny is a Lakhota Sioux. He is a direct descendant of Crazy Horse, and carries the curse that made Crazy Horse such a feared enemy on the battlefield: lycanthropy.

Manny has just completed his Vision Quest, successfully returning with an intimate understanding of the power within him, and his name: Wolf-Man. He left the reservation and made his way to the Big City. A great evil was gathering itself, and it was important that Manny join with others of his kind to combat this threat not just to themselves, but to all life on the planet. He had seen, during his Quest, what would happen if he failed, and it haunted his dreams every night.

Manny is most powerful when the moon is at its fullest, and weakest during a new moon. He is 6'2", deeply tanned skin, long braided silky black hair, green eyes, and is a powerfully built man. He is quite hirsute, the hair on his arms and legs and chest dense, furry even. He moves with grace and confidence at all times, trotting as often as dancing, always very light on his feet, in perfect control of his 230 pounds.

Manitu-Tan can alter his form at ease from a wolf no different from any found in the wild, to a larger, more powerful and intimidating dire wolf, to a seven-foot tall Wolf-Man, covered in fur, the head of a wolf and a human's body, covered in fur, lethal claws at his fingertips and supernatural strength. Manitu-Tan can change the color of his fur in the blink of an eye.

Manny is just nineteen years old, yet his lycanthropy gives him the appearance of a thirty year old man. In a way, it has made him older and wiser beyond his years. He has a keen sense of justice and will not hesitate to play judge, jury and executioner.

He has arrived in the City today, in his human state. He wanders through it on foot, searching for secret signs he has known all his life. He is wearing only a black leather duster, brown denim pants, a flannel shirt, a black bandana covering his hair, and steel-toed cowboy boots. Under his duster, hanging on his back within instant reach, was the Hatchet of the Wolf, a holy weapon, long passed down from werewolf to werewolf among the Sioux, only given to one who requires it for a sacred quest. His quest, having taken him to this foul, dirty, chaotic, ugly city, worried him. The air here was thick with soot and grime. Everyway he turned there was alcohol, smoke, trash. He focused on his mission. There are others, like him. They needed to gather, for a powerful force was aligning against all life on Earth.

Suddenly, he picked up a scent he recognized immediately: another lycanthrope; no, two. He heard the motor-cycle coming from behind him; it blew past him in a blur. He watched them go, already knowing it was too late to try to catch them. he continued walking on, certain that soon he would find a sign, and he would find his brothers and sisters.

 

[Jewelskye]

The door of the apartment swung open and Varg found himself standing on the thresh hold of a simple, but well-kept one room home. Even in the dark, he could see the care the young woman in his arms but into keeping her home in the order she prefered it. The place also held her scent, distinct in its way of being able to lull the senses gently but at the same time make one want to stay alert, less it miss something in the message the smells put out. All in all, it had an alluring pull to it.

To the right of him was a light switch, and when flipped, the apartment was lit by the glow of several low-wat lamps scattered throughout the place in a pattern meant to give as much light as possible but still not make the place seem cluttered.

To the right side of the room he'd find the small kitchenette, tidy and well kept, and the living room with its soft, plush couch and small 25 inch TV and modest stereo system.

To the left side of the place was a japanese styled screen pulled partially around what was presumably the bedroom area, and he caught a glimpse of a rather large bed covered with a white down comforter and deep blue silk sheets.

There was also a doorway leading into what he could see was a small bathroom.

All in all, the girl kept a modest place, but seemed to allow herself a few comforts such as the lavishly made bed.

In his arms, meanwhile, the girl gave a soft murmur, but her posture said she was still unconcious, probably slipping from a comatose state to that of one sleeping.

 

[DrStein]

Varg stepped cautiously into the apartment. The scent and care of the apartment convinced him that she was a werewolf. And he knew damn well just how protective his people could be of their homes.

He set her down on the bed and went over to the couch. TV. Strange thing humans invented. He wondered what the appeal to them was. He spotted the remote and after a few minutes figured out what most of the buttons were supposed to do.

He turned on the TV and started flipping through channels, trying to figure out what the appeal to the various channels was. The sports intrigued him for a while, but he grew bored with them after realizing he could probably take most of the teams by himself in a fight. The only sport he really liked that much anyway was boxing.

 

[Jewelskye]

A soft whimper left the lips of the girl laying on the bed. For a moment, she only knew that wonderful weightlessness the body had when waking to find itself laying on what felt like a cloud beneath their body.

Sighing softly, she turned her head to the side, only to give a sharp cry of pain as any pressure was put on the side of her head. Her hand lifted and as her tiny fingers tenderly touched the bruised area, the memories of the hours before came flooding back to her.

Men... they grabbed her, dragged her into an ally, hit her... One of them had a gun... They'd cut her shirt off and...

Her shirt! Eyes opening quickly, she looked down to find herself still shirtless, but now with an incredibly oversized jacket hanging from her tiny, curvacious body. But where had the jacket come from?

Again her memories came back in a flash. They'd been about to relieve her of her pants as well when a motorcycle had been seen at the end of the allyway and a large, feral looking young man had climbed off of it.

Blinking slightly, she lifted her head and looked around her apartment to find him sitting on her couch, flipping the channels in a bored, though somewhat curious manner.

Climbing to the edge of the bed, she tried to stand, only to find pain shooting through her leg from her ankle. Then that memory returned too.

Giving a shuddering whimper, she fell back onto the soft solace of the bed and curled into a ball, laying perfectly still. She could feel the scratches and bruises all over her back from where she'd been pushed into the concrete, and the bruises forming along her upper arms were becoming increasingly darker from her assailant's fingers.

 

[DrStein]

Varg heard her whimpering. Something didn't seem right. She was a werewolf. Why was she putting up with her injuries? A transformation would easily remedy everything. The only reason Varg hadn't changed yet to deal with his knife wound was because he was a Moonscar warrior. The scar that would result from the flesh wound would be a mark of pride.

She couldn't be a Moonscar. She had no markings. So what was she doing?

Varg got up and walked over to her. "You okay?" She was bruised badly, but that should be nothing more than a temporary nuisance. Unless...

 

[Jewelskye]

She lifted her head, looking up at him through wide, frightened eyes. Their hue was icy blue, and they were surrounded by long black lashes set into her pale, creamy white skin. "I... I dont know..." she whispered honestly. Any empathy his heritage might have given him would tell him she was speaking the truth, and the fear she was showing was real, anything but acting.

Sniffling, she lifted herself up on her hands and tenderly wiped the tears from her cheeks. "Thank you... for saving me... I owe you my life..." she said softly. She'd never been in debt to anyone... Granted, she'd never been so afraid in her life before either. What was she supposed to say? To do?

And there is was again... that smell. That all too apealing smell. Masculine, gruff, dominant in a way... It was oddly attractive, but she shoved such thoughts away, imagining she was just imagining the smells. There was also something else about him... something... commanding.

Lifting her eyes somewhat shyly, she met his only briefly before looking away. She stumbled slightly over her words as she spoke, inching her way to the edge of the bed again. "I should go clean up..." she said softly, moving to balance on one foot, holding the other one up precariously.

Her arms out to either side, she balanced herself before beginning to half hop, half walk toward the bathroom.

 

[DrStein]

Varg moved to help her. "Is this the weakest phase of the moon for you?" There were only two explanations. Either she was under the opposite phase of the moon to which she was born...

Or she didn't know about her heritage and had never transformed. She'd be easy pickings if any demons or vampires ever found out. If that were the case, anyway.

 

[Jewelskye]

She balanced herself, using his arm for support as he helped her along. "Is this the... what?" she asked, hopping along quite proficiently only to find herself loosing her balance and tumbling right into his waiting arms.

His reflexes are so quick... she thought, blinking as she looked up at him and attempted to right herself once more. She leaned against him some, a blush coloring her cheeks as it occured to her that she was nearly naked and pressed rather close to a man she didn't know from Adam.

Despite her bashfulness, however, she wasn't playing coy. She'd never been close to a man before, not even in highschool. Most that she had gone to school with thought she was a freak because of her odd coloring, and kept their distance from her.

She'd prefered it that way anyway. It kept people at a distance, which is what she liked. But now... somehow... some inner part of her, some part buried deep within the recesses of her mind, told her she liked having this one so close.

Shaking her head, she tried to clear her senses as she found her footing again and began to hobble toward the bathroom, making a strong attempt at ignoring his nearness.

Little did she know, her mind wasn't the only thing responding to how close he was. Her body was as well, putting off its own pheramones into the air, the ones that would call out the urges inside of a male if he so found her alluring.

 

[DrStein]

Varg tried to ignore the pheromones. Jesus crack-smoking Christ, this wasn't making things easy. Moonscar law forbade taking advantage of strays. And she seemed to be a textbook case of a stray.

He stood outside her bathroom, trying to subdue his libido by stuffing his hands in his pockets and clenching his fists to the point of pain. "My name's Varg," he offered. "It's Norwegian." The tone he said it with indicated that he didn't understand either. It was pretty obvious that he wasn't Norwegian, and unlikely that either of his parents were.

 

[Jewelskye]

She left the bathroom door open just a crack as she stripped the remains of her clothes and ran the shower water. "My name is Keaira... I think its Gaelic, if I remember correctly from the time I'd tried to look it up..."

She climbed into the shower carefully, gasping and giving a whimper of pain that almost... almost sounded animalistic as the hot water hit the tiny scrapes and cuts on her back. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she closed her eyes and began soaping herself down, inspecting every bruise she found, and trying to wash her hair without aggrivating the bruise to the side of her head around her temple.

"What were you talking about earlier? About the moon?" she asked, trying to keep him takling. Honestly, the fact that he was just outside the door that hid her nakedness from him was something that made her at once excited(as her pheramones would speak volumes about) and nervous, so she tried to cover it with small talk.

 

[DrStein]

"It's... nothing. Are you from out of town?" Fuck, she was horny... Probably not a great choice of words either.

Varg decided to keep her talking. If he gave in, he wouldn't be doing her any kind of favor. Clan laws could not be broken.

 

[Jewelskye]

She took her time with her hair, sure to check it as she went along, wanting to be sure she got any bit of dirt or blood out of it that might have been there. At his question, she pondered it in silence for a moment before answering. "I just moved here a few months ago... Why? Is it really so obvious?" she asked, a small smile on her lips and a slight laugh in her voice.

Her hand reached out and turned the nob on the shower, switching the water to cold. A small squeel of surprise left her, but it wasn't a pained one. She let the water run over her, and it helped to soothe the heat she felt building up in her body.

As her thoughts moved to how cold the water was and how good it felt on her abused skin, the pheramones died down a good deal. It was obvious, however, by the length she took to get rid of them that she likely didn't even realise they were there, let alone how her body reacted to him being around.

"What about you? Where are you from? You dont look Norwegian to me..."

 

[DrStein]

"I just moved here a few months ago... Why? Is it really so obvious?"

"You could say that," Varg muttered under his breath. There was no way a stray could have been around for more than a few months without one of the tribes stepping in to teach them. Figured though it had to be Varg.

"No, I was born and raised here. Live with some relatives on the other side of town." Was there a tactful way to test her?

"Hey, quick question..." Ah hell, screw tact. "Do you... believe in magic?" That sounded really good until he said it out loud.

 

[Jewelskye]

Despite the sound of the water, she picked up on his mutter and couldn't help but let out a small chuckle. "Yeah I suppose it is pretty obvious, huh?" Shaking her head, the smile as still on her face as she shut the water off and climbed precariously out of the shower.

It was as she was dressing herself once more that his question came to her. Do you believe in magic? She blinked, finding it an odd question but at the same time... it didn't seem so odd at all. She'd never thought about it, but part of her had always wondered if there really was something supernatural in the world around them she just couldn't see.

She grabbed a towel, "What? You mean like hocus pocus watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat kinda magic?". Toweling herself off, she grabbed a brush and began to run it through her long near-white hair.

"Or do you mean it was written in the stars and its fate that makes the world go round kinda magic?"

She wasn't sure why she needed him to clarify, but she did. In her mind, it would seem, at some point, she'd drawn a very clear line between the two.

Wrapping the towel around her lithe body, she grabbed a white cotten strip bandage from the medicine cabinet and used it to bind her ankle as best she could, biting back a cry of pain as she did so.

She stepped infront of the mirror and her stomach fell. A large, angry purple bruise covered much of her right cheek and the side of her forhead before dissapearing into her hairline. She looked awful.

A sigh left her lips and she shook her head, soon turning to the door and opening it fully. One hand braced on the door frame while the other held her towel shut, and she began her ginger walk to the dresser on the other side of the room.

 

[DrStein]

"Uh... the rabbit thing," Varg answered off-handedly. "This city has a big night life. Kind of a... an exclusive thing."

Fuck, he hated this subtlety shit. "What I'm saying is... ah, fuck. Look, I'm not really normal. You saw me beat the living shit out of those pindicks back on the streets. Can you tell me that was normal?"

 

[Jewelskye]

Keaira paused at his words, frowning some as she pulled a pair of soft, stretchy cotton pants from her dresser. This was joined by a dark blue, stretchy tank top.

Her back still to him, she tugged the shirt on, not bothering with a bra. Afterall... she wasn't going anywhere right? Momentarily, she'd forgotten there was a strange young man behind her.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, she kept the towel wrapped around her waist as she bent to tug on her pants, trying to be careful not to let him see anything that might be deemed private, not meant for his eyes.

"No... not that wasn't normal, I'll admit..." she said softly, unsure where he was going with all this.

Once her pants were on, she tossed the towel into a hamper before turning to look up at him. "What are you getting at? That magic helped you do that?" She almost looked amused by the idea, though in the back of her mind she found herself wondering if she had a madman in her house.

 

[clan_destine]

J.W. Stroheim

The knobs and treads of the specialized street tires hummed as they streamed over the pavement. Cars passed on both sides of him as he powered through the street traffic, or, more properly, the cars were passed, since he was actually able to keep moving through the gridlock as the drivers in their metal coffins had to wait for traffic control and human behavior to get them to their destinations.

Not him. He was free. Free to change direction or lanes as he needed, free to shift from street or sidewalk as needed, free to follow or ignore the road rules as he felt was appropriate. Drivers and pedestrians might not appreciate his freedom, but the bicycle and the messenger bag meant that he had a certain level of autonomy in the street rules. Plus, if the bag and the bike didn't give them a reason to ignore him, his appearance should. His clothing was a combination of trucker and goth - a seed corn cap and tired looking tee-shirt topping off heavy black shorts coated with metal studs and chains, and a menacing "Back Off, I Bite!" message across the back of his beltline. Only his specialized gloves and shoes were proper to the trade, not only the padding and pedal locks, but the company logo carefully placed along their lengths.

His eyes scanned the buildings he was approaching with a practiced ease, and he spotted the number he was looking for. A shift across two lanes, a short hop over the curb, and a grab at a street light, and he was at his destination. He twisted out of his pedals, hopped off, and snaked his lock from the case within the messenger bag. City dwellers sometimes didn't appreciate certain nicer things in life, but a bicycle left unattended usually meant a windfall for someone. His lock was a massive affair, three feet of snake and ball cable with an imbedded tumbler system. Ugly, heavy, and weird, but effective.

His bike dealt with, he spun and raced into the building, his hand reaching into the bag as he reviewed the directions.

Now, he just had to find the company morgue.

By business standards, he was arriving late in the business day, but that hardly his concern. The sender had waited until late to send out the request for a messenger, and even in a company of crazed psychopathic masochists dedicated to pitting their health and lives against the reflexes of a city full of drivers, few of his co-workers had been eager to grab for this job. What with evening coming on, rush hour happening, the general weirdness of a city's wretched refuse coming out to start their nocturnal explorations of the world.

It was good to be in one's environment.

The elevator rumbled and groused as it pushed for it's destination. The car finally shuddered to a halt, and the doors cycled open. J. W. stepped out, his eyes shifting left and right in brief sweeps, searching for signs that might suggest where "Research and Archives" might be.

He stopped suddenly as his nose told him that there was something else of interest. He snapped from his brief reverie as someone behind him cursed and shouldered past him, but his senses were on fire.

"Very interesting.." He muttered to himself.