******************************************************************************
                               Today's Weather:

In the bitter cold daylight, a slight snow falls, blanking out the ground
in a cottony layer of white. The sunbeams catch the snowbanks and reflect
harshly back from their white surfaces. Salt trucks drive lazily up and
down the streets, attempting to save the roads from entrappment.

******************************************************************************


Beacon Park

        Corner Lane follows a long, lazy curve, circling the northern half
of the large plot of land set aside for the Beacon Harbor Park. Old
Schoolhouse Road circles the park along the southern half, meeting Corner
Lane at two points to provide a "moat" of roadway around the vast park.
Two parking structures, one on the north outside rim of the park, and the
other on the south side, provide parking for Navigator Stadium home of
Beacon Harbor's own baseball team which sits between the two structures.
Most of the park is filled with roughly landscaped lawns and concrete
sidewalks that follow the semi-hilly terrain. There are a lot of trees in
the park, creating a thick canopy of green over this part of the city, and
blocking most of the buildings from the sight of the park's visitors. In
the southern corner of the park are several public tennis courts as well
as a place for volleyball.



The park's actually pretty in the last couple days' snowfall; the
weather's nice enough, comparatively, that there are a few people out
walking where the concrete paths are clear. One of them's a girl bundled
up in hat and scarf and gloves (though her coat's merely a leather jacket
over a heavy sweater - here's hoping it's lined), meandering slowly and
pausing to take occasional pictures. Hurray for digital cameras.
Apparently she really, really likes snowscapes.

And another's a tall blonde man, hatless despite the cold, and stumping
along the paths with the air of a cat forced to wade through puddles.
Someone here doesn't like snow at all. At least, not down here at sea
level. He's making use of a walking stick to keep his balance, which
clicks softly against the concrete, though it pauses as he notes the
picture taker. "Miss Pryde?"

The camera's lowered at the sound of the name, and familiar brown eyes
peer back at the hatless wanderer. "Jack? Hey." There's another reason for
the camera: it helps hide Kitty's paleness and the dark circles under her
eyes. Of course, next to the way Celliers has been looking lately, she's
doing just fine. "What brings you all the way out here?"

He shrugs, gently. "Merely being tired of sitting in my flat?" he offers,
lamely. "You - you look unwell, if you'll pardon my bluntness," he notes.
Pot, kettle, black, anyone? He still looks like twenty miles of bad road,
himself.

"Drank a little too much Saturday night?" Kitty offers by way of
explanation. "You oughta see poor Erik. He looks like he got hit by a
truck."

Celliers's lip curls. "He didn't literally, I hope?" he wonders, resting
leather-gloved hands on the head of the stick.

Kitty tips her head to one side, amusedly. "Seen the news at all?" she
asks. Walking stick. Absently, she wonders if it's secretly a weapon; in
this bunch she wouldn't be surprised.

Of course it is - hardened aluminum rather than wood, and a good two and a
half feet of live steel within. A touch out of date and swashbuckling, but
he doesn't trust himself with firearms at the moment. And it's very
clearly not merely an affectation; that limp isn't feigned. "The
terrorists? Yes," he admits, with an inclination of his head.

"And the Hulk," Kitty completes, nodding hers back to him. "Probably the
best media weekend of the year. No, Erik wasn't literally hit by a truck."
A truck would've been smaller, she suspects.

"Indeed," he admits, glancing away. "But he'll be alright?"

"Should be. In a lot of pain for right now, but - should heal up okay."
She tips her head to one side, and offers the usual question. "How've you
been? Relatively."

He looks at her levelly for a moment, lips thinned out. "IT continues much
as it has, I fear, though the physician I visited has prescribed a few
things that seem to help on the physical level."

Kitty gives a quick half-nod again. "Three cheers for modern medicine. I
guess - well, at least it hasn't found any ways to get /worse/."

Celliers drops his gaze to the trampled snow at the edge of the path.
"Thankfully. The dreams seem to be proof against any chemical help. At
least, any that I've tried," he admits.

"And our usual source of non-chemical help isn't being very much like
'help,' I bet. Why am I even bothering to call him a /usual/ source? His
giving up /anything/ is unusual." Chatter, alert and bright, but aware of
how well sound carries over snow.

HE grins thinly at that. "That is certainly an accurate assessment. He's
more of an information sink than anything else, I should say."

"A walking event horizon." Kitty pauses and looks momentarily chagrined.
"Uh - sorry. That was agreement." She shifts the camera between her gloved
hands.

"I beg your pardon?" he wonders, curiously. "A walking what?"

Kitty grins. "A walking piece of evidence that I'm a geek? Sorry. An, ah,
point past which it's physically impossible for anything to escape, even
light. In /his/ case, possibly especially light."

Celliers laughs softly, though it turns into a cough, quickly stifled
behind a gloved hand. "That does sound about right. He's recovered from
his little fugue - the healer took care of that, yes?"

"Yeah," she confirms. "I told you about that - I think I did? I can't
remember. Still a little scrambled, haven't really caught up on sleep
yet."

Celliers nods firmly. "Indeed. Something you might want to do?" he
suggests. Ooh, his turn to be chiding - an opportunity long looked for, no
doubt.

Uh oh. Jack's revenge. Kitty ducks her head a little, evading his gaze as
well as she can. "Well - it's not like it's easy to be hanging around in
the house, with Pete being all surly at the weather and everything. He
/hates/ the cold, and snow is clearly a personal insult..."

Not hard, considering that Jack still doesn't like to keep his eye on
people for any length of time. He's currently examining the icicles on the
nearest lamp-post. "I can sympathize."

"It's not like it's /that/ bad," Kitty offers, but even she can't quite
manage cheer on the subject. "I mean, the wind could be a lot worse,
right? It's not like we're in Minnesota or something."

Jack shudders at the idea. "Indeed. That's a part of the States I have
absolutely no interest in visiting. Anywhere where doglsed is generally a
viable means of transport." He sighs. "Too bad Arabia won't issue tourist
visas."

"I thought there was some Middle East tourism," Kitty muses, glancing
aside at Jack perplexedly. "But - /oh/. Okay, me, stupid; I never looked
into it here. Not past what makes the news, anyway."

Celliers grins, crookedly. "There is. But Arabia does not, with the
exception of the Hajj. I'm in the lottery for the next one, though,
happily."

"Congratulations?" Kitty offers uncertainly - and there's amusement at
herself for the uncertainty, too. "I don't know if that's exactly the
appropriate sentiment. It seems kind of ... overly mundane."

"A rather odd way of doing so, but there are so many pilgrims. And I'm
rather lower priority, as I've been before," he explains. "Though not in
this century."

"That could complicate all kinds of things," Kitty admits. "Does it still
count if you made your pilgrimage in another universe? - don't think about
that; it's giving /me/ a headache and I'm not the one it'd affect."

His face falls. "I don't know. I suppose it does, as Allah is known as
Lord of all the Worlds. It's the same God, no matter where you start from.
But still...."

"Well." Kitty shifts the camera again, studying him. "If it does count,
then you've fulfilled the obligation. If it doesn't - then you have the
/unique/ privilege of getting to fulfill it /twice/. Right?"

Celliers looks vaguely sheepish. "Indeed. THough it's not unusual for some
to go more than once in a lifetime, as it is." He waves a hand, looking
directly at her again. "You and I end up on the oddest subjects, don't we?
I suppose it's a hazard of living in this city."

"Or," Kitty teases back, "a sign that I talk too much. Which wouldn't be
to anybody's surprise, would it." Amazing how nice a shield words can make
to hide behind. "And that sometimes it feels like a challenge to /get/ you
to talk. Not the same way as with Sigerson, thankfully."

There's bemusement on his features. "A challenge? In what manner?" He's
not being defensive - merely curious.

Kitty shrugs, though the gesture isn't all that visible under the layers
of clothing. Snow's started to collect on her that, clinging to the wool.
"What's normal etiquette to you is pretty formal by local standards. So
there's something /like/ a challenge in getting you to talk about - almost
anything, really. Trying to get a look past the manners."

His expression turns thoughtful. "Indeed. The openness expected in this
area, at this time, is shocking frankness, bordering on indecency, by the
measure of the place I came from, I do allow. And airing personal matters
unless it was of utmost urgency was utterly frowned upon." He grimaces.
"The contrast between the two has caused problems more than once, I do
confess, especially between Kate and I. There were simply things one did
not discuss, even with one's spouse."

"Where here," Kitty completes, "conventional wisdom says you share
/everything/ with your spouse, or else." She pauses. "Yes, that was a
small W." Occasionally there are disadvantages to their names. "And I
suppose trying to talk out a workable compromise isn't all that helpful an
idea, either, considering that talking is the source of the problem."
Another pause. "Wait. Am I providing an example of the situation right
now?"

A tiny grin twitches the corners of his lips, as he tucks his walking
stick under his arm like a marshal's baton. "Precisely. We do discuss
what's necessary when it gets raised, but there are subjects that it would
simply never occurr to me to bring up on their own. And that she would
hardly think to ask about." There's a pained look there, for an instant -
the whole affair in Rumania comes to mind, though he glances away.

At least this time Kitty knows not to ask what he's thinking about. "With
the kinds of things we get involved in, too - there are subjects it
wouldn't occur to /anybody/ to bring up on their own. And sometimes it's
pretty hard to take a step back from the shock and remember the bigger
picture." She's studying the snow now, not Jack. It's sort of privacy. In
a way.

Celliers is also watching the snow, politely. "There is that. Especially
when one considers the occasional unavoidable sort of intimacy - witness
the previous set of incidents with Miss St. Thomas. Where's the etiquette
for dealing with the deepest, most hidden parts of a heart and mind, when
they're brought out into the light that way?" His voice is musing.

"There isn't one. There can't be; etiquette depends on form and ritual,
and that kind of situation is by definition not the orderly one you'd need
to be able to apply those. The best you can do is try - try to do the
least harm you can. And try to stay aware of /all/ of the person you're
dealing with, not only the part you've just been shown." Kitty's tone
mirrors his, reflective - if the pun will be pardoned.

He nods, eyeing her sidelong. "Indeed. Like last week," He pauses,
embarassed. "I sent the Host a note and gift - but how does one apologize
for inadvertantly provoking a temporary posession?"

Kitty's silent for a couple of seconds, then offers, "Sincerely?"

Celliers gets that lip-pursed smile that means he's stifling laughter.
"One should hope so. Especially with someone who can't easily be fooled."

Kitty shrugs, but she's grinning. "Seriously, I don't know. Find some way
to do him a quiet, non-obvious favor, maybe. The same general principles
should apply as for any other unintentional accident - just ... with a lot
more caution about personal contact in the meantime, I guess." To avoid
the chance of it recurring, among other things.

"Oh, I included a gift voucher for somewhere here that will search for
rare music, since I thought that that might be something of use to him,"
he notes, gracefully. "And of course - how odd, though. I wish there were
a way to find out more about the - the posessor, without running the rsick
of it happening again."

"There probably is." Kitty's quiet for a moment. "John mentioned having
read things - there might be some kind of hint in them. And Claire - she's
been trying to help all along. She might have told us more already."

"Yes, she has," A pause, before he speaks again, and now it's reluctant.
"I fear for her. I don't know - the way I can see. It's as if she's
consumed from within - Even without her other injuries...I wish there were
some way we might help her."

"So do I. But - I don't know what /would/ help her. Not the same things
we're used to." Kitty turns her head, glancing away. "The first time I saw
her, she said ... she wanted a taste of every season. I thought she just
meant before somebody caught her and took her back to the hospital. Then
she talked to Pete ... I think she's almost out of time." Her gaze sweeps
over the park as she falls quiet.

"Yes, she is," he agrees, somberly. "And I don't know that there's
anything we can do, for that."

"If we can get her to spring, at least... she can see the flowers." Kitty
shrugs, glancing back to Jack. "And maybe somebody'll come through a
portal who /can/ help her."

"Amen," he murmurs, bringing his stick down to the pavement again.

The word prompts a faint, very brief smile. "We'll see what happens, what
we can do," she says. "We're still in the game."

Celliers nods, quietly. The question remains there, if unspoken: how long?
For Claire? For him?

For Claire, for Jack, for Pete and Kitty. She doesn't have answers. Just
an equally unspoken confidence, determined and almost calculated. There's
hope. Claire showed them. There's still hope.

"I should be going," he notes, quietly, "Before it gets too late."

"Same here," Kitty admits. "I - good luck, Jack." She reaches out and
touches his arm hastily, with a gloved hand, then turns and starts to walk
back the direction she came from: roughly south, toward the university.
She does, however, glance over her shoulder at him.

The last glance he gives her has none of the hope she holds, but he does
offer a little wave of a gloved hand. "Good evening, Miss Pryde."