Winter in New England

January 16th, directly after "A Different Approach" Open to Scamp, Rourke, and well...anyone else who happens to be wondering Marceline's snowy streets.

The grey furred mongol crashed through the doggie door and onto the back porch. His head whipping side to side as he examined his surroundings. As soon as Jim Dear vanished into his upstairs office, Scamp all but scrambled out from under the writing table in the vestabule. Who was that man that met with Jim? More the point, what role did he play in all of this?

The snow was gently falling in the fenced in backyard. In the arch of light from the house's windows and porch light, Scamp could easily make out all the features of the yard. from the kennel in one corner, to the greenhouse in the other. Laying half buried in the snow toward the center of the yard, stretching out from an eye bolt set into the front of the kennel, was the old dog chain. The yard was a familiar place, tied to plenty of warm and happy family memories. At one point, he saw it as a prison, it's white fence being a wall between him and the rest of the world.

But now, he saw it as a potintal battleground. A thought that made Scamp's blood run as cold as the night air. He was now no longer just one of the Dear's house-pets trampling the garden...he was now a solder in Simba's army, and he was on a mission. One of Bambi's Scouts, far removed from the Pridelands.

Plodding over to the gap in the fence posts, Scamp raised his muzzle, and closed his eyes, taking a deep whiff of the air. Trusty would be far more apt to this sort of task then he would have been, but waking the bloodhound and dragging him into the night would take time he may not have. The man had to have just left the home, and his scent should have been lingering in the air.

Passing through the gap, the dog marched through the slush and around the side of the property, to the sidewalk. Sure enough, a set of bootprints where visable leading from the doorway. Allowing a coy smile to split his maw, the dog almost chuckled. An ready made arrow, set into the snow. It wouldn't be hard to tail, and the canine quickly set about fallowing. Leaving alongside the big man's path his own trail of paw prints.

Rourke was moving with a brisk but measured gait. Between his thick coat, and many years of living in rough locations, he hardly felt the cold winter air. And what he did feel, he ignored as his thoughts raced. He had planted a well-reasoned hook in front of Jim, and he had set the groundwork for a more organized team of marksmen back in Agrabah. On top if that, there was his involvement in the ongoing political maneuvering going on among the HV ranks.

While he had currently allied himself with Frollo, as always, if a better offer came his way, things might change.

As he walked, he made no attempt to hide his footprints. He was here as a guest, after all, and there was no way he could keep from leaving a distinct trail through this snow. But, as he continued through the night, he found himself thinking once again of that odd shadow beneath the writing table inside Jim Dear's house. He couldn't hake the suspicion that there had been someone else inside the house.

But he continued walking, keeping his senses peeled for anything out of the ordinary. Instead of heading straight for the lodgings he'd secured for himself for the night, he headed towards the town center, just to be cautious. His gut instincts had saved his life more than once in the past, and he knew better than to ignore them.

The game had begun, and the only question was who was the hunter, and who the hunted?

It didn't take long for him to catch up with the man. Scamp hung back a bit, letting him march ahead. But never letting the man, or his path out of sight. One of Bambi's instructions being to use the advantage of the terrain. To that effect, the mongrel did his best to put a sight block between him, and his quarry. Be it a wall, a post box, trash cans, or really anything he could slip behind easily. Never mind the obvious paw-prints that would draw an eye to whatever hiding spot he chose.

The pup plodded along as an even gate, favoring his good leg. Even with the bandages finally removed, he could feel the cold aggravating the healing wound. The snow crunched slightly under his paws, and he could hear the man's footsteps ahead of him. The whole town seemed to be muffled under the blanket of snow. Every so often the silence was disturbed only by a passing gas-buggy, or the trotting horse. His sharp ears could just pick up the sound of the switch locomotive in the train yard.

He took this chance to size the man up. Despite having grown the last year, he was no match for the man if it came to a head to head fight. He had no doubts that their visitor could lift him up and possibly toss his body should he have to. Add insult to injury, the man's thick winter clothing would more then likely prevent the use of his teeth.

 It felt like the man was leading them towards the town center. The nice homes and well groomed yards slowly giving way to store fronts and streetlamps. Smoke rose from the chimneys of each shop, and the dog could see his own breath in puffs in front of his muzzle. However, as he focused on the man, his attention lapsed, and he found himself no longer putting sight blocks between them. The distance between the two growing smaller.

As Rourke moved down the street, his eyes swept from side to side, although he didn't turn his head. If he got lucky, a convenient window might provide a look behind him. It wouldn't do to give away any hint that he suspected he was being followed. But, so far, he had no such luck. And if anyone was behind him, they were managing to keep quiet. And, between the sound of his boots crunching in the snow, the passing motorcars and buggies, and the snow itself, the chances of his hearing anything were slim.

Especially if whoever was following him was small enough to hide beneath a writing table.

As he walked by several shops, he slowed, and turned his head to glance through their large display windows, while at the same time, he familiarized himself with Marceline's layout. He did so instinctively, even when he didn't plan to stay anywhere for very long, and he suspected he'd be back in Marceline more than once.

As he drew even with one of the shops, he stopped abruptly, and turned to gaze into the shop fully, taking care not make it look like he suspected he was being followed. While his eyes were riveted on the various cameras, and photography paraphernalia behind the glass, his ears were open for even the slightest sound, and he was paying very close attention to whatever he might glimpse from the corner of his eye.

"Hide in plain sight, and stay your blade."

The dog kept pace with the man, moving from sight block to sight block as time and space allowed. Doing his best to keep the man, or at the very least his trail, in sight. However, here sight-blocks where becoming scarce. In fact, this particular street corner was all but a barren desert.  The dog slid under a set of long fruit stands, empty and canvased wrapped, that lined against the outside of the sidewalk, facing the street. Positioned so that anyone on the sidewalk would have to walk between the buildings and the stands. On a summer's day this would showcase all the fresh produce on display. But this evening, they formed a perfect hidden pathway.

Under the canvas, he was invisible, making his way though a chilly tunnel. But he could still hear the snow crunching under the man's boots. he had caught up with him, and was almost alongside him under the camouflage of the grocer stands. But the stands did not go one forever, ending at the next door way. Scamp let the man get ahead of him a bit, and poked his head out expecting to see that he had walked further down the street.

Both ears perked and eyebrows rose, slightly confused. The man had stopped at a shop window, which was full of photography equipment.  The sound he though was his boots crunching away, had been in fact him turning to the window display. Slightly confused at what exactly would have caught his attention, he slowly pulled himself out from under the canvas. So that his head and shoulders where exposed. He stood directly behind the stout man. The mongrel was able to even see the reflection of the man's face in the glass...he was able to see his eyes.

Wait...see his eyes?

Sure enough, there, reflected back in the glass in the background, just behind the man's own reflection, stared back Scamp's own tousled face. The realization that he had fallen into a trap starting to spread over his own maw.

Sure enough, his sudden maneuver revealed that he was indeed being followed. He kept his gaze fixed on the camera equipment, looking for any sign of a camera with a good amount of zoom to it. If he could get some good, quality photographs of Marceline and the landscape around it, he'd have a leg-up over anyone else new to the area.

At the same time, he paid close attention to the small, grey mongrel peeking out at him from beneath a grocer stand. His brow almost furrowed as he noted the similarities between the mongrel and another, quite similar mongrel he'd encountered in Paris. But Rourke's rigid self-control prevented him from betraying any recognition, or even any signs he'd noticed the dog who was trailing him.

Hook set, he let a small sigh escape him as he turned away from the window, shaking his head slightly. It wasn't entirely for show. If the shop had any of what he had been looking for, it was tucked away out of sight. He doubted he'd have enough time to stop by before he departed. A small drawback. He'd be certain to bring along the necessary equipment on his next visit.

He pulled a pocket watch out of his coat, and glanced down at it, picking up his pace a bit as he tucked it back inside his pocket. As he walked, he spared only the occasional glance through the shop windows, as if he was hurrying to meet someone. Once he spotted a dark alley, conveniently deep enough in the shadows to prevent any wandering eyes to see him (which was the main reason he hadn't confronted the young dog upon first sight) he entered it after pausing to look around a bit.

He walked deep enough into the shadows to be out of easy sight, and drew his handgun, ready to pull a quick ambush. Now all he had to do was see if his pursuer would take the bait.

Scamp ducked back under the stand, hiding in the shadows of the canvas. Silently berating himself for making such a stupid mistake. The man must have known he was being tailed, why else would he have strategically placed himself in what was otherwise a mirror? The dog braced himself, waiting for a hand to reach under the stand and pull him out of cover.

Yet, this did not happen. Scamp slowly relaxed as he head the sound of snow crunching, and the pace slowly continue down the road. Maybe he didn't see him? Perhaps he lucked out! Still, he remained hidden in the shadows, watching his own breath erupt from his black nose is huge puffs. His ear's perked, tracking the sound of snow crunching. Once he felt the man had journeyed far enough down the sidewalk, he slowly emerged. Poking his muzzle and face out from where the canvas met the snowy sidewalk, then slowly pulling himself out in a half crawl. Looking first one way, then the other, it seemed he was alone. Bringing a paw up to settle his beating heart, he sighed in relief. That was close.

It seemed their visitor had vanished into the winter's night. But his tracks where fresh, indicating which direction he went. Looking around, Scamp felt the urge to give up this chase and head back to Jim Dears. It was bad enough to be out on his own, without his collar he was prime pickings for the dogcatcher, should the man decide that the streets where clear to patrol in. Still almost unsure in his actions, he stepped forward in the direction of the boot trail. He had gone this far, might as well continue.

He was so busy debateing the merits of continuing that he did not heed that the trail was leading him past the entrance to a dark alleyway.  The sides of which where lined with snow covered creates and barrels. He stopped just inside the shadow, and rose his muzzle to take a deep sniff of the air.

The scent was strong...very strong. In fact, and here Scamp's brown eyes widened as he realized it, it smelled as if the man was right on top of him!

"Oh...damn."

Sure enough, his ruse had worked, and his little follower had taken the bait, hook, line, and sinker. Just as the young dog realized his mistake, and completely gave away any chance of even trying to talk his way out of his error with his exclamation, Rourke chambered a round in his Luger, the metallic click almost echoing in the confined space, and stepped forward, aiming right between the young dog's eyes from scarcely a step away.

"I'll give you points for your tenacity, if nothing else," he said, almost as if chiding a subordinate. He knelt down on one knee, still keeping his Luger leveled, and retrieved a lighter from a coat pocket, striking it to illuminate his face, and so he could take a better look at the young dog. Sure enough, the family resemblance was evident, despite the fluffier, and shorter, legs on the younger dog.

"First thing's first, does the name Lady mean anything to you?" he asked. The grey mongrel he'd met and shot in Paris had been no 'Lady' that was for certain. So the collar he'd worn sure hadn't been his. he had some suspicions about it, between seeing Scamp, the collar, and Jim's subdued sadness. It was all becoming clear. He focused on the young dog's face, looking for even the slightest hint of recognition.

Between what Jim Dear had revealed, and the presence of this Hero...messenger? Spy? Wannabe spy? It didn't matter. All that mattered was that Simba, or his generals, had taken an interest in expanding into the Americas as well. And now, he had their sole representative in town in a dark alley at gunpoint. More fortuitously, the young dog was out without a collar. Already, the gears in his head were turning. There was quite an opportunity here.

Scamp took a defensive step back and the sight of the weapon. Claws and teeth he could avoid, even blades where something that could be dealt with. (He himself having tried to wield a sword at one point, to much avail) but a firearm was a very different story. The dog knew that at that range, he would be dead before he left the ally. Eyes darting side to side as the man brought himself to his level, his ears flopping against the sides of his head in disappointment.

"First thing's first, does the name Lady mean anything to you?"

A small twitch of the eyebrows, otherwise the dog put on a perfect poker face. This man did not play around, but what a strange question to ask. Not who the mongol was or why was he fallowing him...but a quandary about his dead mother! His eyes narrowed, and mouth cocked into a slight snarl. But no teeth where bared, nor lips pulled in the classic canine growl. Just a putrid look.

"Whats it too you?" 

His voice was feisty, obviously annoyed at having been stupid enough to waltz into this trap like a fly drawn into a spider's web. His gaze was planted firmly at the barrel of the gun. All four lags braced as if ready to pounce.

If he hadn't been paying close attention, he might have missed the twitch of the eyebrows, quick as it had been. But attention to detail was high on the list of Rourke's personal axioms. It was enough to show he was close to his mark with that question. Even the evasive comment was an answer in and of itself. Despite the obvious self disgust writ large in the young dog's body language, the way he kept his surprise so well hidden belied plenty of intelligence and cunning.

If the mongrel wasn't a key part in a plan forming in his head, Rourke would've ended his life then and there.

"So, yes," he stated in a completely deadpan tone. His own features might well have been carved from stone as he gazed back into the dog's eyes. Eyes that were so alike a certain other grey mongrel's. He remained silent for a moment longer, unblinking, unmoving, before speaking again.

"Who sent you? Simba, or one of his generals? I know it was one or the other, so don't bother to deny it," he said, knowing full well he had the upper hand here. No matter how fast the dog might be, Rourke's finger was resting lightly on the trigger of his handgun. The mongrel would have a bullet in his brain before he'd moved even the slightest bit.

"Then I won't."

The mongrel snorted, his triangular ears flopping as he did so. There was no point denying it. Even though his heart was in his throat, and he once again felt the rush of adrenaline from being in some form of danger, he held his cards close and kept his voice at a stage of self control.

"My name is Patch, and I'm a messenger for Simba's army," He leaned forward slightly as he spoke, stomping a for-paw in a sign of aggression. "Before you put a bullet in my head, know that this town is officially neutral. By shooting me, you are provoking an act of war. Something I know you don't want to do."

It was a long shot, but the dog was determined to remain in control of the situation, even under the shadow of a gun barrel. Given Jim's attitude and the warm and friendly way this man was conversing with Scamp's master, he hoped the threat of soiling that relationship was higher then the need to eliminate a simple messenger.

"So my turn to ask a question. Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

The little rapscallion had balls, that was for sure. In a way, haveing broken off with 'Tani, and the situation with Angel, he suddenly found he had nothing left to loose. Still, he gave out his alias, rather then his real name. The only forethought put into his outburst,

Rourke couldn't help but smirk at the mongrel's defiant attitude. He had guts, that was for certain. Not much by way of caution, or foresight, but guts. Not that courage would help him in this situation.

"Trailing me is the act of a spy, not a messenger, and spies in wartime are fair game. Besides, you're out without a collar, so I simply have to tell everybody I shot a stray that was attacking me," he retorted, a cold grin crossing his face. As he spoke, he reached beneath his coat, and the shirt beneath it to draw the sturdy combat knife he kept concealed there. "Or I could simply kill you silently, and nobody will ever know what became of you," he added, teeth bared in a cruel mockery of a smile.

"You know, you remind me a lot of another mongrel I crossed paths with in Paris. Same coloring and everything. Right down to the eyes. And the same cocky attitude. Called himself Tramp," he mused, almost as if he was rambling. Then he shrugged. His name wasn't anything 'Patch' couldn't learn on his own. He suspected Patch was an alias. Nothing at all about the grey mongrel suggested he was a Patch.

"Commander Rourke. Lyle Tiberius Rourke. And I came here to meet with Mr. James Dear," he said, once more completely stoic. If the young dog thought he could get any useful information out of him, he was entirely mistaken. He had no leverage whatsoever.

Eyebrows furred and brown eyes narrowed. Despite the threats, the dog held his ground. Funny, how just a year ago the very sight of a weapon or blade would have sent him running. Too meany battles for that.

Still, his heart pumped and the dog could feel blood rushing to his extremities. His own legs begging him to turn and run. Still, the sight of that strong finger against the trigger kept him planted. He was just one dog, and it would not be hard to hide a small furry body. Especially without a collar.

However, upon hearing the Tramp's name spoken, Scamp visible recoiled, taking a step back. His ears perked and a brief look of surprise spread across his towsled muzzle. This man knew both his mother, and his father! By name no less. Inside his mind all sorts of thoughts tumbled around. What was going on while he sulked in his own misery for two months? The last he had seen of pop, he had told the street dog that untull he faced his own demons, the pup wanted nothing to do with him.  What else did he know? Mooch, Angel, or any of his other close friends?

"Just...stay away from my home, and stay away from my family!"

 It was a weak threat, almost laughable in it's vocalization. But the dog felt a sudden anger hit him. With a snarl, and a splash of mush from under his feet, he leapt forward, and opened his jaw to snap down on something. Going for the man's exposed wrist. No way he could run away from a bullet, but maybe if he was quick enough he could get under the gun's range. If he was close enough, the man couldn't shoot him, otherwise he might shoot himself. Mind you, the knife was another story. But this was now about survival. A moveing target was harder to hit then one that was ridged.

(OOC: Well, Scamp's gone and escalated things. You're welcome to fight him back, just nothing permimint.)

The old soldier could practically feel the rising tension in the young dog. In response, he readied himself to act, or react, as need be, just in case 'Patch' tried something...foolish. When the young mongrel flinched, and took a step back, Rourke shifted his weight slightly, ready to spring to his feet, dive forward or to the side, or backwards if needs be.

The step back was to Rourke's advantage when the young mongrel lunged at him, snarling. As the dog leaped, Rourke's finger slid smoothly, swiftly, off the trigger as he raised the handgun, and his wrist, up several inches before he brought the metal firearm smashing down, aimed at the young dog's head. he leaned into the blow, intending to strike with enough force to at least knock the mongrel senseless.

The young mongrel had been right about trying to get close to neutralize the advantage of facing a gun, but Rourke had dealt with animals trying to go for his guns and limbs before. And Lyle Tiberius Rourke wasn't one to fall victim to the same tactic more than once.

Fury is blind, or so they said. All Scamp knew is one second he moving to place Rourke's wrist in his jaws, the next something heavy had come down just behind his left ear. A glancing blow that through him off target and blurred his vision. No doubt he would have a hefty knot there for some time. As a result, instead of hitting the man's wrist, he felt himself crash to the ground, digging a furrow in the snow. That hurt, like really hurt! He didn't think he was bleeding...but at the moment he couldn't be sure. As cold as it was he would have felt the warmth of blood in his fur if he had been.

For a millisecond, the dog lashed out blindly, forepaws skidding in the slush as he part turned, part twisted, himself back around. All he had was his teeth, and he saw the burly man's leg just ahead of him. Scamp made his move, practically flipping himself over to snap his jaws at the man's thigh. Somewhere in his head, he knew that the thick overcoat would prevent him from really digging in. But disorientated and in a fight or flight mode, he went for the first course of attack he saw.