[John Barrister] There's a dingy little pawn shop on 17th and Oakland. The entirety of the store is smaller than some public restrooms, and about as sanitary - though, thankfully, the stench of urine is confined to the alley outside the shop. The inside of it is badly lit with a few fluorescent bulbs that cast a pallor over everything, and comprises of eight shelves arranged four by two, cordoned off with one glass counter-cum-display case with guns and knives on one side, jewelry knick-knacks on the other. The four shelves in front of the counter hold sundry items for purchase: lamps, books, a dusty stereo, a vacuum, a small wooden jewelry box, all arranged in some sort of haphazard order depending on which part of the house they were most likely to be found in. The four shelves behind the counter are heaped with more mysterious things that have yet to be inventoried, or perhaps are too interesting to set out with the rest.

Business is slow tonight. John Barrister stands outside his store, leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette. When he grew up, it was still cool to smoke. This isn't his quiet Lakeview neighborhood and he's dressed the part: in worn old Levis and a darkish, uninteresting shirt, the sleeves rolled up on his furry forearms. Rather conspicuous in its shoulder holster is Bronzeville's version of a small-business security system. The permit for carrying it was probably somewhere in that big overstuffed wallet of his, too.

[Princess] "You have a permit for that," a familiar voice says, from not too far down the sidewalk. Not too far down the sidewalk is 24 hour laundry mat.

[Princess] (( laundromat. even. sheesh. ))

[John Barrister] John, who had his shoulder to the wall and his back slightly turned against the wind, looks over his shoulder, furrowing. Then he sees Thaney-aka-Precious, recognizes her, and the lines on his brow dissolve into crinkles around his eyes when he smiles. "Don't tell me this is where you live in the city?"

[Princess] Princess-aka-not Precious, thank you, offers the man a smile. She's drowning in a jacket three sizes, maybe four, too large for her; man's jacket with a history. First, Coll's; then, Kendra's; finally, Princess's. Difficult to see anything except the jacket. Well, and a pair of pajama bottoms, cotton and girly. The smile's all edged in solemnity. "Won't. It's National Poetry Month, yannow. Got anything for me?"

[John Barrister] He eyes her pajamas, holds his tongue on the sudden and absurd urge to scold, turns away to ash his cigarette and exhale smoke. It's a small politeness she doesn't need. If anyone gets lung cancer, it'll be him.

Turns back: puzzled. "Any -- what, poetry? Nope, but there might be an old Whitman inside." He nods at the grim little pawn shop. The electric signbox over the shop is blank; taped over it is a piece of butcher paper with something written on it. It's too dark to make the words out.

[Princess] "What's that? Some kind of poetry machine?" She left home early on to pursue to open road and life full-time as a vigilante monster. She didn't exactly get an education, and what education she has; well, it's eclectic. Princess slides her hands into the pockets of her jacket, lifts her shoulders; walks over to John, leaving behind the promising warmth of the laundromat. Inside, it's a whir of machines, all whispering dirty secrets, all whispering stains on the heart as well on the clothes, for those who know how to listen. She doesn't. He doesn't. Shake it off. "Do you work here?"

[John Barrister] Mild surprise raises his eyebrows, which are dark and thick, just this side of bushy. "Whitman," as she approaches he pushes off the wall with his shoulder and goes over to the front door of the nameless-pawn-shop, pulling it open for her, "is an American poet. Lived in the 1800s. Wrote a lot of patriotic poetry with a heavy homoerotic bent." The last, with a wry sort of grin.

He follows after she presumably takes his minor invitation and goes inside. The pawn shop is not very warm, but then it's only 60 or so outside. There's a tiny slatted window that runs along the side wall, opening on the alley. Perhaps thankfully, it is closed. The ceiling fan is still; a space heater roars behind the counter. It smells like old things in here. Not unpleasant, but distinctive.

"Sometimes," he replies to her second question, edging around a pile of boxes to go behind the counter. Inside, the walls reverberate with his voice; the bass in it is very apparent. "I own it. It's a sidejob." He spreads his hands over the counter and smiles at her. "I'll see if I can find you the Whitman." And he turns to file sideways into the dusty shelves, rifling through a stack of worn books.

[John Barrister] (correction: "It's something to do on the side.")

[Princess] She does take his invitation. She does walk inside, although the close confines causes her skin to prickle; the hair on the nape of her neck to lift. She touches the first thing that comes to hand, which is an old and war-battered fedora. There's a bullet hole that goes clean through it, and she pokes her finger through the hole. As she surveys the place, her eyes are serious, even almost grim; if she were to be pegged as any Norse creature, it would probably be one of the norns. Verdandi. Necessity. (American girl. None of that matters.)

She follows John, then, still holding the hat. Follows him, to lean her elbows against the counter and say, "A sidejob? What's your real job?"

[John Barrister] "I don't really have one right now," comes his roughish voice from behind an old desk, the sort with the covers that came down over the tabletop and locked. "Just dabbling here and there."

[Princess] "I get it. Why a pawn shop? Aren't they kind of, uh, seedy?"

[John Barrister] "Sure, a little. But they're interesting." Now he's one shelf over. Something clatters onto the ground. He stops it between his hands and replaces it with infinite patience. "People bring you all sorts of things."

Case in point: right in front of Princess is a small porcelain figurine. A closer look reveals it's a copulating pair, stylized, vaguely oriental -- the sort of junk you find in chinatowns everywhere. The price sticker reads $1.50. Next to it is a set of crystal salt and pepper shakers, big, with pewter heads. Its price tag is heftier: $45 apiece, $85 a pair.

"Aha," Barrister has found what he's looking for. He squeezes out from the shelving and pulls up a stool behind the counter, laying a battered tome of Leaves of Grass on the glass.

[Princess] "Do people ever come back for their things?" she asks, for, after all, a pawn shop is just that: a shop where things are pawned off. Sometimes not forever. Sometimes just for some quick cash, just for a time, to tide one over until next Friday. When John sets Leaves of Grass down on the glass in front of Princess, her eyes drop, and her head follows. Long, exceptionally girlish eyelashes conceal her dual gaze. She reads the title. Then says, "Are grasses really leaves? I thought they were 'blades'."

[John Barrister] "I don't know," he muses. "I bought this shop off someone else. I've only been at it two or three weeks, and I've mostly been buying." Barrister smiles, "If this keeps up this won't be a very profitable sidejob."

When she comes over he points a three-legged barstool out to her, shining and swanky amidst all the antiquity. It's not a conversational piece; he's just giving her someplace to sit. "I think it's a pun, actually. He was writing about the common folk of America -- common as grass. And he was putting it in a book, where a page is a leaf. So." Barrister sits on his stool and folds his arms on the edge of the counter, his wide shoulders hunkering. "Leaves of Grass."

[Princess] "Huh," she says, after a reflective minute. Before she says anything else, there's another pause. She doesn't sit, yet; flicks her eyes up at John, without actually shifting her body. Doe-look. Deer-look. Because it's not like she hunts Bambi when she's really hungry and there's no money and she feels like it. "So, who are the common folk of America? What makes someone grass-common, in the poet's book?"

[John Barrister] Barrister unfolds one hand from the crook of the other elbow and paws the book toward her. He has an easy smile, slight but warm, and it shows itself often. "Read it and find out."

[Princess] "Maybe I'll come back," she says. Because, well, she's not going to buy the book, even if she would like to help John's business out; she rather likes John. "But I should probably go check on my clothes." Here, a smile that has - glimpse it - an edge of feral about it. The moon's high in the sky. "In case someone tries to steal them. Again." She leaves the hat on the counter, and pushes herself back. "Nice to see you again, JB."

[John Barrister] Maybe I'll come back, she demurs, and he cuts in -- it must be rare, even for a Garou of relatively little rage like Princess, that someone dares cut in on her. It must be rare that someone dares look her in the eye and crinkle a smile at her; rare that someone might look at her PJs and considering telling her that wasn't the sort of image she wanted to project in a place like Bronzeville, and hold back only because she could take care of herself. There's iron in his spine, no matter the patience and the warmth; just like there's iron in his jaw and lead in a holster against his side.

Anyhow: Barrister cuts in, "Take it with you. I don't need the," he looks at the sticker, "seventy-five cents this is going to sell for." He's holding it out to her. But she should probably go check her clothes, in case someone tries to steal them. Again. He laughs, "Goodnight, Thaney."

[Princess] So she takes it, and her gaze loses its easiness. She's a creature of intensity, although that intensity doesn't find an outlet in fire -- no, nor even ice. He's probably never seen someone take things as seriously as Princess, all truth. There's the shadow of something: maybe a smile, but just as maybe a frown. Mouth twitches. "Thanks, Jaybee." Then, book tucked under her arm, she leaves. To go make sure her clothes are all still there. Before she vanishes entirely, "Take care." A wave.

Finis.