It was snowing.

Sort of.

It was more of a slush quality. It was slush masquerading as snow. Snow was much better than this (but then again Cort thought snow was better than anything). It clung to everything like a needy orphan. It was a wet, heavy mess that made the air feel sloppy and dirty.

Not to mention the splashing. If you walked too close to the curb, you tended to get splashed by passing cars, indifferent to your plight.

Cort's pants were soaked nearly to the knee.

All of this was not the worst part of the slushsnow, no. The worst part was it's dampening attibute. It didn't just cover the smells, or wash them away; it obliterated them. It throttled them and then went after their families. It made sure no one ever heard from the smells again.

It wouldn't have been so bad if the slushsnow had stopped falling. Then at least new smells could go out and make a new life for themselves, repopulate the air.

But no.

The slushsnow grabbed the scents as it fell, bodyslamming them to the ground and pinning them. They were down for the count.

Sure, he could smell stuff that passed close by (mostly people) but that was boring.

It was like being blind, only worse.

This was not helping Cort's mood. He'd woken up with two black eyes, ribs that felt like they'd been hit by a brick, and various other bruises, mostly on his head and shoulders. Not to mention the taste of blood. He had had to brush them three times to get rid of the stain.

He was out today mostly to get away from his mother's questions. These questions mostly consisted of, "what the hell happened?!" So he left.

The boy shoved his hands into the pockets of his black wool jacket, hunching his shoulders against the cold.

He felt the wolf wonder where its fur was.

ooc| Oooooh, you better be happy that this is all in public. Otherwise, I'll do Unspeakable Things to you, I would.

WHORE.

bic|

Chloe managed to somehow get home relatively in one piece. How she did it still eludes her. She remembered waking up an hour after passing out because the cold, hard parkway isn't quite forgiving to the back. And neither is the February weather.

She laid there for a while, trying to collect her wits and walk to the car. How is it that walking's so difficult?

And she remembered there being some wolf creature. It came after her. Attacked her -- bit her in the shoulder, and she has the scar to prove it, she does, but what happened to the expectant hell-unleashed pain? Her scrubs were ruined, indigo fabric darkened with rusty red and she smells like a butcher's trash can and vomit.

And then she was stumbling to her feet, pain forgotten (or nonexistent?) with shoe laces untied and body reeking. She tripped once. Got up, walked her way to the car, sat inside, and had a private mental breakdown.

Everything was in auto mode. She drove home. She took a shower. She went to bed. She woke up the next morning, tidied herself up, went to work, had private mental breakdown #3 ("Are you okay?" Her assistant asked, concerned at the second outburst of vomit.), and has now taken the day off at 2:00 PM because she can't handle today for some reason, and she wants to know why.

Chloe's walking down the sidewalk now, dark eyes troubled by something she can't see, confidence and sanity shaken, and just generally being an emotional wreck. She hasn't changed out of her faded-green scrubs, just yet; her hair's tied back in a sloppy ponytail -- something that, on a usual day, would make her look younger if not for the the 'ragged, homocidal mother' demeanor she's sporting.

She also can't see.

She bumps into Cort, dazed and full of jittery apologies.
"Oh, God, I'm so sorry, I didn't see you there, and are you all right? You look -- "

She refrains herself from saying that he looks like shit.

((Sure. Sure you would. You'd like that, wouldn't you?))

Cort was bumped into, and as a result stepped into a slushsnowdrift.

At least his pants were already soaked.

"Watch it," he grumbled, readjusting his glasses and peering at her."I'm fine." It sounded vaguely like a growl.

The wolf, oddly, retreated. Cort paused and looked at the woman; the wolf didn't normally, if ever, retreat. Especially in a situation such as this. From past experience, the wolf would have jumped to the offensive, battering Cort's precarious humanity with demands to attack, kill, rip out her throat.

Except it backed up, laid down, and was quiet.

"Who are you?" He inhaled, and she smelled... familiar? Possibly. Maybe in a dream.

Shivers run down her spine and she trembles violently. Must be the cold, she thinks to herself. She wraps her arms tightly around her chest and tries very hard not to be offended by the kid's tone. Whatever happened to the whole 'respect your elders' thing, these days?

Which brings about a depressing subject about how old she is and how she really shouldn't be following that tangent.

She looks up at him, and that familiar feeling of deja vu spasms through the haze of stomach-flipping anxiety.

"I -- why should I tell you?" She asks, suddenly on the defense.

"Because I --" Because I think I've smelled you before. Yeah. Good one.

"You seem familiar."

Did I maybe rip your throat out?

She wrinkles her nose -- a habit she thought she'd gotten rid of during her high school years.

"No. I -- well, maybe. I don't know. I own a dental clinic a few streets from here."

Curt, concise, the guy makes her leery and discomfort from a total stranger (is he?) doesn't help things in the slightest.

Pause.

"I don't go to the dentist."

Well, besides not having the time, he doesn't really need to. Lycanthropy does have some perks.

Some.

Cort tried prodding the wolf, but he couldn't seem to find exactly where in his head it was.

She stares back at him, aghast. Maybe it's because she's spent a good quarter of her life training in medical school. Or maybe it's because she's met patients that've never been to the dentist since birth and, boy-howdy, do their teeth look nasty.

She finds herself staring at his mouth all of a sudden.

"You really ought to," she says, catching herself. "It could lengthen your life, you know. And it's part of a proper hygeine."

Not that Cort's life-line looks promising, what with those god-awful bruises.

Cort lets out a grunt that could pass as a laugh. A very jaded laugh. A very humorless, jaded laugh.

"I don't have to worry about that."

He sniffs again. Maybe the wolf will cooperate.

Nope.

But she does smell kinda... hurt? Injured?

"What happened to you?" Sure, there's a few minor injuries in sight, but nothing really. He's bluffing. Very bluntly.

Coming into contact with Death will do that to a person.

Her hackles rise and there's a sharp, painful sting in her eyes.

"What do you mean by 'what happened to you'?" She snaps. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Chloe's a little touchy from the guy because you have to think in her position: Who's this guy, why is he prodding in her business, and why won't he just go and drop acid or whatever gangsters do, nowadays?

...oh, fuck.

"You're not going to rob me, are you?" Her voice's a touch hysterical. She's having a bad day and a daylight mugging from a flimsy, beatened-up white-boy won't make her day any better.

"Do I look like I can mug you?" Forget that he can, does he look like he can?

"And I mean why are you hurt?"

Good point.

"You look desperate enough to do that," she grits, suddenly noticing how her grip's cutting off the circulation in her arms.

She gives him a wary look, something that wouldn't quite kill, but would launch a heavy load of crippling shots, anyway -- assuming that it could.

"Why," She begins. Then changes direction. "What makes you say that?"

"So do you," he retorts, glancing at her hair. "But mugging me wouldn't do you any good."

Cort choses his words carefully. Mostly, he avoids anything like, 'you smell like you have a big boo-boo.' Instead, he says, "You look like you're all beat up, that's what."

Chloe's mouth goes open and close, resembling a frazzled goldfish as she stares back at Cort. She's going livid at the Cort's impudence. Or maybe it's the fact that he's making a valid point. She doesn't know what's what, but the former idea is more lenient on her ego and so she swings to it.

"This isn't about me," she says, jaw tense and tight. "I was the one who -- oh, for fu -- forget it."

She wonders if she should lie. 'My husband beats me and I'm just running away'. In scrubs? Sure, why not.

She brushes coldly past him, tight-lipped and pale.

Cort let out a very teenaged "pfft" and let her go.

What did he care? She'd knocked into him, and then she got all huffy. Let her go.

He did.

The boy kept walking, quickly (mostly) forgetting her.