[Feb 13, 1997]
[Harbor Park]

It is currently 16:32 Pacific Time on Thu Feb 13 1997.
Currently on this breezy and cold winter late afternoon in the general St. 
  Claire area, it is 33 degrees Fahrenheit (0.6 degrees Celsius). The wind is 
  coming from the south-southwest at 5.85 mph. The ground is wet. Skies are 
  cloudy with a probable chance of precipitation.

Harrier makes his way through the tall grass of the south.
Harrier has arrived.
        This animal has found a comfortable place between dog and wolf. He's 
  lean and rangy like his wild forebears, with the same long legs and wide, 
  heavy paws, but he carries a broad muzzle and deep chest. His eyes are dark 
  like a dog's too, but shine with a sharp awareness. Steel gray fur covers 
  most of his body, darkening to black around his face and down the middle of 
  his back, fading to white along the underside of his chin, down across his 
  chest, and underneath his belly. He's obviously seen some rough times too, 
  by the marks in that hide: a long, wide scar runs the length of his right 
  thigh, another leaves a thin line on that same side of his snout, and one 
  ear is tattered and flopping sideways.
        The dog may rule his body but the wolf owns his motions - he moves in 
  the smooth, cat-like manner of the lupine, fluid and with even steps, and 
  his gaze is steady and unnervingly intelligent.

Harrier comes trotting up from the southern half of the park, tail flagging 
  high behind him and nose into the breeze. He barks once at a fat, lazy 
  squirrel, then veers away from the river, toward one of the benches near the 
  flagstone court.
Hazmat's head comes up, ears swiveling forward toward the stranger dog. 
  Curious, she pads over, tail raised in an alpha's banner.
Harrier chases a trio of pigeons from the bench-back, leaping up onto the seat 
  as they flap quickly away. He growls at them, too, tail sweeping happily 
  behind him. He probably hasn't noticed the new dog behind him.
Hazmat utters a sharp, low 'wuff' to announce herself and pads around into 
  Harrier's view.
Harrier's tail slows, eventually coming to rest in a completely neutral 
  position. Ears pitched forward, he hops, stiff-legged, from the bench and 
  sniffs a few times at Hazmat. I don't know you.
Hazmat holds herself tall, tail raised and ears up as she sniffs back at the 
  male. I don't know you, either, and I've been around much longer than you. 
  Who are you?
Harrier is new here. The gray wolf-dog's ears move back along his head and he 
  licks his nose submissively as he sniffs around the other's tail. Sometimes 
  I am called Railwalker, too.
Hazmat examines him minutely, her manner becoming more friendly as the other 
  acknowledges her dominance. I am called lots of things, usually Tips-Cans.
Harrier waves his tail pleasantly, barking once, Good name. Too bad this is 
  Chugs' place - there's a lot of good stuff to sniff and chew and chase. He 
  barks again to emphasize that.
Hazmat's hackles bristle momentarily, and then subside. You know Chugs?
Harrier met him the other day. He cocks his head to the side, curious about 
  Tips-Cans reaction.
Hazmat shakes herself. We don't always get along, Chugs and me.
Harrier flicks his good ear in affirmation. He was... bossy.
Hazmat snorts in irritated agreement. He is always like that.
Harrier steps closer, sniffing Tips-Cans again, getting acquainted with her 
  scent. Is everything around here really his? He said so. I think it's more 
  than one dog can protect alone.
Hazmat utters a slight growl. He isn't a real dog, he *thinks* he can claim 
  everything, but he's stupid that way. And the park belongs to many.
Harrier could smell that, but not a 'real' dog? He's curious again, and he 
  pads away from the other dog, in a tight circle, then comes back on her 
  other side. What's that?
Hazmat turns around as the other mutt circles her. Well, it's hard to explain. 
  But he is not really a dog, not a *real* dog. He thinks like an ape, a human.
Harrier whuffs in a surprise and more curiosity. I know ones like that, where 
  I come from. Is he alone? Or does he run with others like him?
Hazmat blinks, and sniffs at Harrier again. He runs with some who are even 
  *less* like dogs. Hrumph.
Harrier lets Tips-Cans sniff to her heart's content - he knows his place as 
  the intruder here. Are they... ? The question starts and ends right there, 
  but he looks closer and snuffles at the other dog again.
Hazmat pushes her nose into the other's ruff, then pulls back and sits down, 
  scratching behind an ear. Are they what?
Harrier circles again, restlessly, and sniffs at a passing bum. I know these 
  dogs back where I come from that are like humans, too. And some humans 
  that... are like dogs. You know some like that?
Hazmat's ears prick. Oh. You mean Garou?
Harrier whuffs again, even more surprised than before. He moves off a little 
  ways more and turns back, body tightening up and mouth pulling back in an 
  anxious line. Yeah, but... yeah.
Hazmat splays her ears in amusement at the male. Chugs is a Garou, yes. Are 
  you?
Harrier paces a few times, left, right, left, then drops to his haunches. A 
  hind leg scratches rapid-fire at his flank, but he doesn't seem any more at 
  ease. Are you?
Hazmat tilts her head to one side. Yes. Bone Gnawer. You?
Harrier sweeps his tail a few times over the snowy ground behind him. Yes. Get 
  of the Great Wolf. Moon Howler, too. He demonstrates, leaning back and 
  letting loose a hybrid barking howl.
Hazmat is surprised. You don't look like a Get. You have dog _and_ wolf, like 
  me. But you're a real lupus, I can tell. Right? Not man-born.
Harrier isn't man-born. He adds a low growl - not aggressive, just asserting 
  his position. The elders didn't want me to have the dog and wolf, and I 
  left. To be with Bone Gnawers.
Hazmat thumps her tail against the ground, welcomingly. Then you're like me, 
  except I've always been with the Bone Gnawers.
Harrier lolls his tongue, grinning foolishly, and he thumps his tail too. Are 
  there many others? I've fought lots of dogs here, but none were Bone 
  Gnawers. I won too easily.
Hazmat scratches behind an ear and huffs a sigh. All the good ones are gone, 
  dead. Shakes The Can is a good Gnawer, though, and so is White Eye.
Harrier isn't surprised Chugs is not one of the good Gnawers.
Hazmat huffs another sigh. There used to be another elder, named Father Mac. 
  He was very good, very much a Bone Gnawer. Chugs is as much Bone Gnawer as a 
  Silver Fang. The sound and sight is there, but the smell is not right. You 
  know?
Harrier cocks his head to the side but flicks his good ear forward. Yes, I 
  think I do.
Hazmat licks her chops happily. Good, good.
Harrier comes forward again, snuffling. Who do you run with? Where do you 
  mark? The shift in conversation is abrupt, but he seems to think nothing of 
  it.
Hazmat rises and pushes her nose into the other's fur. My pack is still 
  forming. Let's play! Abruptly, she gives the male lupus a light nip on the 
  butt and bounces a few feet away, tail wagging.
Harrier stands, watching for a moment, tail slowly starting into motion. After 
  he warms up he splays his forelegs, his backside held high, and he tosses 
  his chin up and sideways - classic play gestures. The pack subject is 
  forgotten easily enough, apparently.
Hazmat lolls her tongue, tail wagging. She bows her fore-end down and barks.
Harrier hasn't done anything but fight dogs since he got here. This is more 
  fun. He's up in a rush, bounding high in the air, pouncing at Hazmat like 
  she's a mouse in the tall grass.
Hazmat allows herself to be bowled over by the big male. Scrambling to her 
  feet quickly, she nips him in the rear again and dashes off in a circle 
  around the fountain. Catch me! Catch me!
Harrier is off after her, ears laid back along his skull and tongue hanging 
  out the side of his mouth. He nips at the female's tail, I got you, then 
  turns and races the other way.
Hazmat skids to a halt, comically throwing up snow. Then she's off and after 
  Harrier, barking loudly and scattering pigeous leftf and right.
The homeless woman on the nearest bench begins to laugh, a little too wildly, 
  and she mutters, "Good dog, good dog, good dog," over and over. Harrier 
  wheels around behind her, barking at Hazmat that she can't catch him.
Hazmat chases Harrier all around the park, and then suddenly stops short, 
  looking crafty-playful all of a sudden. She pounces to one side, grabbing up 
  a stick. Ha! Look what *I* have! You can't have it!
Harrier skids in the snow now, turning, tail flagging wildly. I'll get it, you 
  watch. With that, he charges forward, snow flying the other way now.
Hazmat races off, holding the stick high in her mouth, tail a joyful banner.
Harrier chases and chases, but finally lets his attention wander toward a 
  mangy, feral cat that's prowling along the chainlink fence.
Hazmat drops the stick and flops down next to it, panting heavily.
Harrier growlfs at the alley cat, getting closer and closer until it turns and 
  hisses at him. Tail swinging back and forth quickly, he looks back over his 
  back at Hazmat. Come over!
Hazmat perks her ears. Leaving the stick behind, she gets up and pads over 
  toward Harrier.
Harrier keeps his attention on the still-angry cat until Hazmat is within a 
  few feet, then he spins, lunging at her playfully. Tag, you're it, ha! He's 
  off toward the stick as fast as he can.
Hazmat utters a bark of surprise and, too late, dashes off after Harrier.,
Harrier has the stick now, and -you- can't get it! The mutt-Get's off, toward 
  the river's edge.
Hazmat mock-growls a challenge back, tearing off after Harrier.

[They goof around like that until Harrier leaves.  Later...]

Pete Barlow makes his way down the disintegrating cement path, leaving the 
  road behind.
Pete Barlow has arrived.
Hazmat lies half under a park bench, looking tired but happy and chewing on a 
  stick.
Pete Barlow walks casually into the fountain area of Harbor Park, his hands in 
  the pockets of his thick jacket. He seems focused on something inward, a 
  question perhaps or a puzzle. At first, he doesn't see Hazmat, stopping near 
  ruins of the fountain.
Hazmat yawns widely and flops over onto her side. A pigeion lands near, and 
  she barks, low and lazy, at it.
Pete Barlow turns as he hears the bark, seeing Hazmat for the first time... in 
  quite a while. The big Gnawer's first reaction is to look around the park as 
  if scouting for someone or something else. That attempt proving fruitless, 
  he walks toward the park bench giving a nod to Hazmat as he approaches. His 
  voice is low enough not to carry far beyond the immediate area. "You been 
  gone for a while."
Hazmat rolls over onto her other side and blinks grey eyes up at Chugs. My 
  pack and I have been very busy, Chugs. Shakes the Can says you had some news 
  for me.
Barlow gives a nod, putting a foot up on the bench. "I'ld think you had some 
  news for me... If you've been so busy."
Hazmat pauses to scratch behind an ear. We were questing for Cockroach's 
  favor, and ran into some trouble. It's nothing that should affect this city 
  too much. The Ragabash looks sharply at Chugs. I met Harrier today. He says 
  you're claiming the whole city again.
Pete Barlow shakes his head as the Ragabash brings up Harrier. "No. Just my 
  normal digs around the Rialto. Same old. Folks read too much into what I 
  say," says Barlow in reply. "You find Cockroach?"
Hazmat sighs and flops back onto her side. No.
Pete Barlow hmmms and nods, watching the raggie flop down onto her side. 
  "She's not an easy one, Cockroach," offers Pete casually as he pulls some 
  licorice--red--from his pocket. "I gots a question for you."
Hazmat peers at the candy, but doesn't take any; then again, she never _has_ 
  taken candy offerings from Chugs. What's up?
Pete Barlow munches the candy, his offer only casual, before asking, "Who were 
  those folks you were with the other day, couple weeks back? The blond guy 
  and the akita-bitch?" Barlow's watching of Hazmat as he asks the question 
  betrays the casualness of the asking--he's intensely interested in the 
  answer by the looks of it.
Hazmat seems momentarily confused, and then her expression clears. Oh, them. 
  She wrinkles her muzzle a bit in obvious distaste. I don't know. Some guy 
  and his dog. I didn't like them much, really, so I left that night you saw 
  me with them. Why?
"Who were they?" asks Barlow with a frown and a darkening of his mood. "You 
  seemed pretty fucking chummy with 'em that night."
Hazmat's hackles bristle. I can't repeat stupid homid names in wolf form. The 
  bitch called herself something like Alpha-of-Everything, or something like 
  that. She was stupid. But I'm not. Shakes The Can said you were spreading 
  rumors about me, just because I was gone, Chugs.
Pete Barlow looks at Hazmat, the bristling hackles, and nods. "That stupid 
  bitch may be more than just that," says Barlow straightforwardly. "I ain't 
  met too many 'stupid' bitches that had her breeding who also went around 
  marking the fucking territory of a big dog like me." Pete puts another piece 
  of licorice in his mouth. "Where did you run into that pair anyway?"
Hazmat's good mood has soured considerably. Somewhere around here. I told you, 
  I wasn't with them that long, just for the hell of it, but if I'd liked them 
  I would have stayed. I didn't, so I didn't.
Pete Barlow watches Hazmat's mood sour, cocking his head at her response. "You 
  make a habit of running around with homids just for the hell of it, Haz? 
  They were homids weren't they?"
Hazmat's flicked ear expression, quite clearly, that she finds Chugs' 
  high-and-mighty Philodox demeanor irritating, but she answers frankly. You 
  know I do, sometimes, or you would if you weren't so busy with your own 
  scent. And how would I know if they weren't really just an ape and his dog? 
  I don't have those Gifts.
Pete Barlow snorts at the response. "How many half-wolf, half-akita bitches 
  you know that ain't one of us? And one who's been out marking territory 
  around here like there ain't no tomorrow."
Hazmat looks at the bigger Gnawer, very hard. Only one pup in ten is born a 
  Garou, Chugs. There are lots more who aren't Garou than who are. Do you go 
  around assuming that just because some ape is pissing you off, he must be 
  Garou? That's stupid.
"She isn't a damned ape," responds Barlow low in his throat. "And if she's 
  kin, then I'ld expect you to have half a fucking clue to suspect more than 
  that she's just stupid." The big guy glances around the park again.
Hazmat pushes to her feet and sits down, scratching vigorously at her 
  neck-ruff before continuing. Whatever. I haven't seen or smelled either 
  since that night, anyway.
"She's been around," says Pete quietly as he thumbs something from the edge of 
  one nostril. He looks over at Hazmat again. "You said something about me 
  spreading rumors?"
Hazmat scratches at her ruff again. Shakes The Can implied that. Either you, 
  or someone. Hruh. If you're that worried, you could always get someone to 
  scent me for Wyrm.
Pete Barlow looks at Hazmat for a bit. "Scent you for Wyrm? What would that 
  tell me?" The big Gnawer shakes his head. "No, I know better than that. A 
  Dancer of the Black Disco can mask the Wyrm well enough." Barlow looks 
  square at Hazmat. "If you want to clear yourself and your pack, then we can 
  meet out at the Park with a half-moon who can Truth check you." Pete shakes 
  his head, scratching the back of his neck. "I hate to be a shit about this, 
  Haz, but we gots Dancers in the city. We're all fuckin' at risk."
Hazmat pushes to her feet again, pointedly turning her back on Pete and, as an 
  added gesture, kicking up a bit of snow at him with her hind legs. You don't 
  hate to be a shit, Chugs, because if you hated it you wouldn't be a shit so 
  often. But I'll tell my pack. Excuse us if we're slow about it. We have a 
  packmate to Gather for, too.
Pete Barlow growls at Hazmat, bringing his foot down off the bench. "You're 
  pushin' your luck, girl. Pushin' it hard." Tension sets into his shoulders, 
  though the moon's thinness doesn't seem to be pushing on him too hard 
  tonight. "Until you clear youselves, we can't do anything but be suspicious. 
  You'ld understand that if you didn't have that fuckin' lupus chip on your 
  shoulder."
Hazmat pauses to turn and look hard at Chugs, her bloodshot eyes like chips of 
  stone. Pot. Kettle. Black. That said, she simply turns again and pads out of 
  the park.