East River
The East River is a dangerous place for people who fall in or attempt to swim through it, although the water is cleaner now than it has been in decades past. The channel is swift, with water speeds that can push casual swimmers out to sea, if the pollution doesn't get to them first.
Several long piers stretch out from here, but they are quite a bit fewer in number than the ones found along the Hudson River. While the river separates the boroughs of Queens and Brooklyn from the island of Manhattan, bridges and not ferry boats appear to be the way to traverse the channel.
Characters
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| Drew Clark | Elliott Grey | Sera Roche |
Drew hates his job. He's rather vocal about hating his job. He'd be happy to be vocal about it at this point because he doesn't enjoy spending the evening waiting under a pier for a contact. Especially not when the water is getting into his shoes.
God fucking damnit all to hell my shoes!
It's the second pair he's lost in the last few months, and Strange Truths barely pays him enough to cover rent and groceries. He can't afford to be buying new shoes every time he steps in a dead body, or in some rather gross water.
"I'm telling you, she isn't fucking here. I've been waiting. Right where she asked. If I don't get a story in soon, the boss is going to fire me. So find the god damned contact and tell her to hustle her ass down here for the story, or I'm going to grab dinner and go home."
-
Elliott is walking on the Pier that Drew is currently below. His footsteps echo hollowly on the planks of the pier. He looks like he's had a rough month - his stubble has long passed the rogueish shadow, and is now into hobo terratory. On top of that, his right hand is covered in a somewhat dirty looking bandage, and he looks peakish, like he's in some serious withdrawal. He walks a little unsteadily - his footsteps becoming irregular as he watches the boats moored to the dock bob up and down in the distance, making him feel like he was bobbing up and down. Suddenly queasy from the perceived motion, and feeling of late, fairly terrible, he stops right above where Drew was, and loses his lunch down through the crack between the planks.
-
SPLAT
"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!" Jumping back really doesn't help Drew in the least. Not only are his shoes soaked from the stagnant water beneath the pier, he's just been barfed on.
He doesn't bother wiping it off either. Instead, he pulls what he needs out of the pockets of his jacket, slides the items into his pants and curses more profusely. Dropping the jacket in the water he tries desperately to clean it off as much as he can.
Just my luck. I can't fucking believe it. Who the hell vomits on a pier?
"No, I'm NOT okay. I'm letting you go now so I can was the puke out of my hair. It's a fucking joke. I'll make up some story about a garbage Loch Ness living in the East River with the damned mermaids."
-
From above Drew, there's the sound of Elliott catching his breath. Elliott spits off the side of the pier, and looks down with surprise at the shout. Instead of apologizing, he says, "What…what the fuck are you doing down there?" All thoughts of going back to work checking tickets at one of the cheaper, slightly sketchy ferries that scammed tourists into trips to the Island were gone.
-
"What the fuck are you doing up there puking on me?" Drew grabs something that looks like it was once a boat hook and slams it up against the boards of the pier. "Are you fucking drunk or just stupid?" He can barely make out the male shape above him. He's been in New York a while, and it's rare to hear a Canadian accent unless it's with a bus load of tourists.
"Seriously, dude, barfing on people just minding their own business and doing their job? Very gross."
Dropping his jacket back into the water, he stomps on it with his already wet shoes and curses again.
Really starting to hate this fucking city. Going to need to start wearing a hazmat suit to go out of the apartment.
-
"You're the one standing under a fucking pier!" Elliott says. From afar, he looks like he's holding a conversation with the pier itself, shouting at the wooden planks, as Drew isn't really that visible. Elliott is standing over a small puddle of vomit - because most of it has fell between the cracks.
-
Slamming the old boat hook onto the boards again, Drew makes a face. "I am. Point?" He's in a mood. A foul one. Fouler than when he first arrived and waited an hour for the contact who hasn't shown up as of yet.
"Free country. I'll stand where I want to stand." Lifting the jacket out of the water he finally looks satisfied that he's got the man's bile and bits out of it. Giving it a shake for good measure, he begins to ring it out.
"I'm not the one that's drunk and puking everywhere."
-
"Just because you're free to stand there doesn't make it sm - " Elliott's retort is cut off by him reching again, but he doesn't have anything left to throw up, except a thin stream of spittle. He wipes his mouth off on the back of his sleeve. Elliott looks slightly wired, with an unhealthy sort of glow.
-
With the sun sinking beneath the horizon, it's safe for Serafine to remove the hijab-like headscarf and lose the long sleeved dark blouse. Both are tucked away in the bag over her shoulder, and the woman walking toward the pier looks quite comfortable in her dark jeans, low boots and short sleeve t-shirt. Her hair is pushed back with a head band, but still whips at her face in the breezes kicked up along the pier.
This isn't a place that Serafine typically goes, not even to people watch. However, she might be off chasing a lead of her own. She might have heard something about a small, gang of vampires (young ones at that) who consider themselves to be 'off the grid' and gather here to strut. They're fringers, like the Trevos, but sometimes that means that they might know something without knowing that they do.
Voices from the end of the pier draw her atention and her green eyes narrow as she gazes in that direction. The vampiress blinks. It takes a moment to realize that one of the voices is coming from under the pier.
Drunk and puking? Serafine's nose wrinkles in distaste, but she can't deny that that's precisely the sort of prey that would attract the wanna-be anararchist neophytes and she heads down the pier toward the commotion.
-
"Jesus! Stop that!" Drew bangs the stick on the boards one last time and takes a look at the jacket. If he washes it carefully as soon as he gets home it won't be worse for the wear.
"If you're planning on dying can you at least wait until I move out of the way? Getting puked on once is more than enough for a lifetime."
Especially considering he's definitely NOT my type. Hell, the last time I got puked on was in college and at least she had nice tits.
Slogging through the sticky water at the inner part of the pier, he finally steps out from under it and runs a hand through his hair to make sure he got all the chunks out.
-
By the time Drew has slogged out from under the pier, Elliott has straighned up from the sick dog crouch of a man throwing up in public. He hasn't noticed Serafine, but he can hear the sound of Drew moving through the water, and says, facing the other man, and says the less than inspired: "Well fuck on off then." He, on the other hand, didn't look like he was going to move anywhere for a little while, sitting down on the side of the pier.
-
She's not so far down the pier when the wind shifts again and the scent tickles her nose. Lots of scents, really. Salt and sea, fish, people, wet wood and sand, fresh bile and stomach acid, and wolf. She can't tell which voice is the wolf, but there is a wolf nearby. A young one at that.
Two choices. Walk away, or keep forward. The neophytes will see a young wolf as a trophy and a badge of prowess, and as long as it doesn't get back to Jessup …
Of course, she won't change direction. She likes the peace in the city, and she really wants to see if the young vamps can tell her anything.
Coming closer, she stops downwind from the man on the pier and peers over at the one beneath it. The one above is definitely the wolf, Sera can tell that now. The one beneath, just human. Both unknowingly wearing signs that say 'Dinner.'
"You don't look too good, sugar," Serafine says in that soft, southern Louisiana drawl as she looks over at the wolf. That is an understatement. If she's not mistaken there's a hint of sick about him too. Like infection. Not that it'll matter after Friday night. "Maybe you shouldn't be out here on the pier."
-
The rotten luck just keeps on coming. Drew's just fished out a piece of something that COULD have once been bread, or it could be part of a person's finger, from his hair. He's got it between his hand when a gorgeous woman steps up and starts talking.
Groaning, he shakes his hand out and turns around to give the guy up above the finger. Crouching down he rinses his hand off in the sticky water and wipes it on the wet jacket. At least the jacket is already going to have to be washed.
"You wouldn't look all that great after someone barfed on you either," Drew mutters under his breath.
"I don't suppose your name is Rosa?"
-
Elliott returns Drews finger with a thoroughly Canadian, "Fuck you too, eh." He pulls out a Lucky Strike and a beat up BIC lighter. He doesn't smoke that often, but right now, he was upwind of Drew. He watches Serafine curiously, and in his surprise, doesn't light the cigarette.
-
Serafine looks down below. Her eyes rake over the partially wet man and she laughs softly and melodiously. "I didn't mean you. I meant your friend sitting on the end of the pier." The wolf looks like he's going to topple off the pier and possibly fall over dead at any moment. He won't. There's no sense of death about him, only slight infection, which is telling. He's very young. A werewolf would fight off an infection like that easily. This little pup hasn't even had his first transformation yet.
Oh to be able to see the fun he's going to enjoy at the full moon.
She shifts her attention and smiles down at Drew. "No, it isn't. Sorry."
-
"With my luck, I really didn't think so." Drew runs his fingers through his hair again just to make sure that there's nothing left in it. Happy when there's not, he gives his head a shake and then sighs.
"Damned Rosa was supposed to show me where a supposed nest of vampires was living so I could take some god damned pictures and write a stupid article. Does she show? No. What happens instead? My fellow Canadian over there barfs all over me unceremoniously."
You do realize that you're ranting to a perfectly nice woman who's good on the eyes right? The thought is quickly followed by a loud, SHUT UP..
-
"Taking photos of a nest of vampires. That's about as smart as standing in the water under a bridge." Elliott says to Drew. It was likely a combination of poor medical care and living conditions, neither of which were conductive to fighting off an infection. He raises his eyebrows at Serafine, and doesn't try and impress her. He's ragged looking as fuck anyway. He looks wholy unaware of his status as a potential vampire prey. He says to Serafine, "I'd bet that that guy would say that that's one loose definition of friend you have."
-
The vampiress looks between the two men, a smile turning up the corners of her mouth. Yes, she is amused. Yes, she stands out like a sore thumb on the pier with night falling - an attractive woman alone - but she wears her confidence and unconcern like a second skin.
She arches a perfectly tweezed brow at Drew's words. "A nest of vampires?" It's hard to tell if she believes him or is humoring him. Giving a nod toward the wolf, she comments, "He's right. The part about it not being very smart to try and take pictures of a nest of vampires. Assuming that there are such things as vampires."
Beat.
"I heard they sparkle." Yes, now she's just being facetious.
Standing down wind of the wolf is good. She's sure he's too young to identify her by scent, but not too young to not notice hers is different. Then again, he might not have sorted his senses out.
-
"Supposed nest. It's not like those things are real," Drew snaps with a roll of his eyes. He knows that such things factor highly into human mythology. It doesn't mean there's a nest of chest sparklers sitting around waiting to have pictures taken of them. More likely than not the contact was going to show him to an old warehouse filled with couches and old oil barrels used for fire and warmth. A homeless hovel.
"It IS a god damned loose definition of the word friend. I have no idea who you are. You're apparently ill. Infected. And you barfed on me. I'm going to need a decontamination shower at the local hospital."
-
"You're some guy who lurks under piers. Why don't you do a report on bridge trolls," Elliott says, "Might be a better story than a nest of vampires." He couldn't sort out his senses. Sometimes things seemed too bright, or he caught scents from miles away. And he felt tense, though he couldn't describe why, just a vague, insistant feeling of being wound up. He lights the cigarette.
-
The vampiress has to bite her lip to stop from laughing. Live long enough, and you'll find yourself in odd situations. She wishes she was recording this one because she's not certain Bryn and Kieran will believe her otherwise. She is good at embellishment, after all.
"Oh, damn." Serafine bites her lip again, but her eyes are sparkling with laughter. "I did always want to meet Lestat. He's crazy, but he comes off as sexy-crazy."
Serafine points a manicured nail at the wolf, "Those things will kill you."
-
"Correction. A writer who lurks under piers waiting for a contact that doesn't show." Drew can't be at fault for the location. He's happier meeting people in broad daylight in the middle of Central Park to hear their ridiculous stories and get their fifteen minutes of fame. It's not his choice of a job either. It just pays the bills until he can get something better.
"Really? I don't know. Tom Cruise ruined that role for me. Louis was better."
-
"I'm the kind of man that would stay away from something like that, and not ask it for an interview," Elliott says to Serafine, and picks at the bindings on his hand, with the lit cigarette between his teeth. "Well you did come up with a really good one for being under a bridge," Elliott says as he inhales deeply, trying to get rid of that terrible sense of the full moon rising, even if he didn't know what it was.
-
"The book was better." Serafine walks to the edge of the pair, and drops with a surprisingly fluid and near feline grace into a sitting position, legs dangling over the edge. All in one single movement. She gazes down at the tabloid reporter (because who else writes stories about vampire nests?) and then glances over at the wolf, dividing her attention between the pair. "If we're going to talk the movie, then my vote goes to Antonio Sabato Jr for Armand."
She kicks her legs like a school girl, "But what's life without a little bit of danger? Sometimes a writer has to sacrifice and go out on a limb for their craft." She wrinkles her nose at the cigarette smoke. It's not all she smells, but it's a very human reaction.
-
"Most books are." Drew snorts at the woman and shrugs his shoulders. "Pretty sure Armand was Antonio Banderas. Wouldn't Sabato Jr. be a bit young to pull off Armand with a younger Brad Pitt?" He has noticed the way she moves and the fact that she's not at all afraid to be on the pier with two guys she doesn't know, one who's bandaged up and infected, and potentially patient zero in a zombie uprising.
"Holy fuck. You're Sera Roche."
-
"I just want to sit back at my cabin by a river, in the Swiss Alps," Elliott says, and sits back on the pier. "Danger, I don't need it," Elliott says. He looks at Drew about the surprise. "Sera Roche?" He has absolutely no recognition of the name. "Sounds like a chocolate."
-
"Oooh! Your pop culture trumps my pop culture!" Serafine laughs and tosses her hair over her shoulder. She taps her chin, "Now how did I confuse them? Aside from equal amounts of hotness…" Kieran would be disappointed, but he's the one with the odd quirk that includes collecting vampire books and movies.
She blinks in surprise, and then, for the sake appearances, lets a hint of wariness wash across her features for a few seconds before she settles to comfortable relaxation. "You … know who I am?" She's both flattered and curious.
The wolf gets a smile. "It's French. And I like chocolate, though as far as I know, my family has nothing to do with them."
-
"My boring life trumps your interesting one?" Drew snorts at that. "Antonio. It's a simple mistake." He'd figure. He really only knows because it was required watching the previous night for this contact. So he could write more eloquently about vampires.
Whatever helps you sleep at night, kid.
"You're a writer. Romance novels. You wrote one about a vampire recently." Required reading.
"Look, I don't think it's safe here for you. Do you want me to call you a cab?"
-
"It's a really good chocolate," Elliott says. He watches the conversation between Serafine and Drew, an expression of reconsideration crossing his face briefly, before it returns to his normal, totally uninteresting expression of not paying attention at all. He hadn't actually seen Interview with a Vampire, and doesn't really have a lot to add to it.
-
"You do know who I am." Serafine beams a bit, turning up the charm, simply because she can. She does like to come out and play sometimes, she just doesn't take it to the lengths that her Maker does.
"I took a cab to get here, sugar," Sera winks at Drew. "I'm hardly ready to go home yet."
Beat.
"Research," Serafine says before he can ask. "I heard that there was a gang of goth wanna bes who are into the whole 'vamp culture.' They meet out here sometimes. Probably the same 'counter culture' types your source was talking about."
-
"Are you equating this woman with chocolate simply because of her name?" Drew's agitation rises a little, but he doesn't make a move toward the injured stranger just yet.
"Researching at night, in a place like this? It's not safe." He can't really say much about it though because he was hiding under the pier waiting for his contact.
"Probably. It doesn't matter. I've got plenty I can write about, with or without pictures."
-
Elliott gets up, swaying slightly as he stood up, flicking the cigarette into the dirty water. He scratches his arms, and says to Drew. "And because it's French," he says to Drew. "Can't forget that part. Anyway, I have go get back to work." He doesn't really look like he ought to be working. "I need to pay the impound fee."
Elliott walks off in the direction of one of the tourist trap ferries.
-
"Such interesting characters," Serafine remarks watching the wolf wander off. "This is what I love about the City."
Beat.
The vampiress turns her attention toward Drew and tilts her head consideringly. "Well, wanna be vampires aren't going to come out in daylight." She smiles brightly, like a child with a secret. Or a new toy. Or both. "Want to go find them?"
-
"My shoes are soaked, my jacket's soaked, and that fucking son of a bitch puked on me." Drew glowers after the young man, trying to figure out what the fuck his problem is. He's pretty certain that in lieu of writing about a vampire nest, he's going to write about a zombie disease hitting the city.
There is a fucking gorgeous woman asking to spend time with you when you stink like someone's toilet. Are you an idiot, or just oblivious?
"What the hell. At least my stench will keep vagrants away from you."
