Summary:Jimmy meets the leader of the Pride. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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So as not to be quite as obvious to folks, and so as not to overtax the resources of the shelters and food kitchens in the area, the Pride tends to move around from site to site, day to day. They also tend to come in dribs and drabs, a few to perhaps a dozen at a time, which allows them to blend in and seem more 'normal' amongst a homeless population. But there are things that stand out amongst them, for those that pay attention.
The members of the Pride help one another as a matter of course; younger or stronger, healthier members support and carry for those who are less steady, less strong, or less able. And members of the Pride invariably - no exception - find ways to help out at the kitchens and shelters that help them, cleaning, stocking, cooking, serving, whatever they can offer. And then there's the fact that they all seem to know one another. They meet each other's eyes - a rare thing amongst homeless - and they know street names. For those who are the most observant, there are also signs and signals, subtle hand gestures and the like which seem to communicate amongst the groups.
Of course, there are a few other signs. One is that shelters sometimes receive 'care packages'; anonymous donations, left inside despite their security precautions, with thousands of dollars in cash. All the notes every say is, "To support your good works — P". But most demonstrable, for those who pay attention outside such shelters as well as inside, is the presence of the watcher. There's always one, though it takes a keen eye to pick her out. She's always there, watching over them. Up on a rooftop. Tucked in an alleyway. Leaning against a building wall. Never inside. Never interacting directly. Never looming. But always there.
The last sign is the curiousity of the attitude and activities of the wild or feral felines in the area; when the Pride is near, they tend to come out, even in daylight, and converge somewhere, almost as if they are drawn there.
Today, as the Pride's members entered the food kitchen, the cats could be seen migrating across the street, milling about at the mouth of an alleyway that faces the kitchen. There, tucked into those shadows, a lone figure crouches, watching, shrouded in oversized, faded, well-worn military fatigues.
Jimmy doesn't travel among the shelters the way the Pride do: he just has the one where he volunteers, as time permits. But he's still seen them come by every now and then, seen them enough times to start putting things together. That sense of familiarity among them, that community. He definitely appreciates the work they put in, and he directs them as best he can.
But he's also seen them enough times to know about their watcher, too. The one who never comes inside with them. With how important privacy is to them, he doesn't directly ask about her, but he does make sure someone brings something out to her.
And tonight, that someone is him. Jimmy gets an extra bowl of the night's stew, and comes on out to that alleyway. He doesn't meet her eyes, doesn't look right at her; he just approaches, his side facing towards her, and holds out the bowl in offering.
As Jimmy draws closer, there are some things that he would notice that others might not, or at least not as directly as he can. The watcher is tense; not just the nervous tension of someone who is afraid, but a sort of hyperaware tension that communicates all through the body. The tension of someone always riding the razor's edge of lethal combat awareness. The other is a presence, an aura, of something More. Something Other. It seems to be the reason why most of the other civilians in the area avoid that alleyway; some so much so they cross the street to go around it as far away as possible. It prickles at the base of the skull; a sense of impending danger.
When Jimmy approaches, the cats mill around his ankles a bit. Then the watcher offes a short 'ssst' sound, and they scatter a bit. They don't run away, but they leave him a bit less molested than he was a few moments ago. Curious eyes peer out from the mouth of the alleyway at Jimmy, and there's a hint of something … like reflected light, amber with a green tint, in the shadows. Then a hand extends out, covered in a ratty half-glove, and settles underneath the bowl he is extending. The hand does not tug the bowl, try to take it away; just positions itself to hold and support the bowl, waiting for him to release it.
Most people avoid the alleyway, letting that hindbrain instinct guide them into something which feels safer. But if Jimmy were concerned about being 'safe', he wouldn't fly around fighting crime, now would he? So he proceeds, even as the cats mill around him.
When the woman stands ready to take the bowl, he passes it, and lets his hands fall to his sides. He still doesn't look right at her, giving her the privacy of a little inattention. Instead, he looks where she had been: towards the shelter, watching the Pride members who've come to visit. "They're good people," he says. "A good, strong community."
When Jimmy lets go of the bowl, the woman quickly - but not sloppily - tugs it cloee against her body, watching Jimmy cautiously. Then she looks around herself - all around herself, quite incisively and thoroughly - before glancing down at the bowl, sniffing at it carefully. Then she looks back up, watching Jimmy intently; as if weighing him. All this, before she takes hold of the spoon and ladles some of the stew into her open mouth.
When Jimmy speaks of the Pride, the woman nods. She doesn't try to speak; she's busy eating. But she clearly agrees. After a bit, she pauses her eating, chewing, swallowing, and lifts out a tiny bit of beef with the spoon, lowering it down to only inches above the concrete. "Sss sss sss." she hisses, and the cats swarm towards her. Oddly, they order themselves a bit, the smallest, oldest and weakest forming the first rank around her as she shares a tiny bit of what she has been given with them.
The watcher does not look up at Jimmy. But she does finally respond. "Are." Just one word. But it has weight to it, almost as if it were an entire sentence, all by itself.
The bowl, however closely she might peer at it, is just what it seems to be: beef stew. Maybe a bit heavy on the potatoes, but Jimmy doesn't decide the recipes. He seems to process her nod even without looking at her, perhaps just catching her in his peripheral vision.
The way the cats move — actually seeming to line up and take turns — that does get him to turn his head. He blinks, watching them each in turn. "That's impressive," he says. Then, a moment of hesitation, but… well, why not introduce himself? "I'm Jimmy." There's no need for her to introduce /her/self; she can keep as quiet as she likes in response.
For a moment, the woman pauses, very still, when Jimmy offers his name. Only after a bit - a real and pregnant pause of delay - does she glance up at him, and nod again. Not a nod just of acknowledgement; from Jimmy's senss, he would come to the conclusion she knew that. That she perhaps keeps as close an eye on the inside as on the outside, if through other means.
"They." she offers. A few moments later. "Call me Hunter." The implication is pretty clear: that's not her name. Not even close. But it is what the Pride have come to call her. It is a word laden with meaning, a title; watchful guardian; protector; and one who knows the application of violence. It is perhaps frighteningly appropriate for her.
Having spoken, she looks down and away immediately, concentrating instead on offering more meat to the cats; she makes do with the potatos for now.
Names are important things. Many of those who come to the shelters go by street names instead of anything their parents had given them. Caped crusaders and masked heroes choose new names for themselves, defining who they want to be rather than how they were born. Hell, codenames aside, 'Jimmy' isn't even the name his father gave him — not that terribly many people would know that.
"Hunter," Jimmy repeats, nodding. He'll remember that. "They're lucky to have someone keeping an eye out for them, like you do. And, you're welcome to come inside." It's a statement of fact. She is welcome, and probably already knows it, but it's important to state it openly. "And I should go in again soon, myself."
Hunter shakes her head slightly. "Welcome, yes. Good, no." she offers. She doesn't explain, but she clearly has her reasons, her thoughts. "Watch. Out here." Clearly this is her mission, her purpose. And if that sense of impending danger is anything to go by, it is one to which she is quite well suited; perhaps it is good she found a constructive outlet. "You … good. Too. Be safe." Hunter offers softly, as a means of gentle dismissal.
Hunter finishes the bowl, and sets it down to let the cats clean it and the spoon, before offering them back. Both may need washing, but they look completely clean now. Not the tiniest scrap of stew remains.