Winter in New England

Like father, like son Rourke thought to himself as the dog crashed to the ground, only to struggle back to his feet. Just like in Paris, he hadn't landed as straight a shot as he'd planned. As a result, he was still crouched when the young dog lunged at his thigh. He grimaced when he felt the pup's teeth dig into his flesh. But the thick coat, and sturdy trousers, he was wearing prevented the young dog from really getting a good grip on his leg.

In response, he brought the handle of his combat knife, clenched in his fist, crashing down, aimed once again at the dog's head. At the same time, he gathered his feet under him, and straightened up, adding a sweeping kick towards the young dog for good measure. He tried to aim the side of his boot at the mongrel instead of the toe, but not out of any sense of compassion. He merely intended to end the fight without causing any unnecessary damage to the mongrel.

Scamp yelped when he felt the handle of the combat knife hit him astride the face. But it was the kick with the side of the boot that really rang his bell. The dog grunted as he was "swiped" to the side, taking a chunk of cloth from Rourke's overcoat with him as well as digging whatever flesh his teeth had found. Still hurting from the knot forming in his head, her tumbled over and slid on his side into a small bank of snow against two trashcans, sending one trashcan onto it's side and the lid from the other flying.

Stumbling to his paws, he released the patch of cloth, and shook his head. His vision was still blurry and there was a sharp ringing in his ears. No doubt in this fight he would be the one who would take the most damage.

However, as he struggled to retrieve his breath, he noticed that amongst the debris now scattered from the overturned trashcan, an old bent fireplace poker. The dog's paws dug into the slush as he belly flopped for the potintal weapon. Clamping his jaws around it so that he held it lengthwise in his maw. Spinning around with the poker in his maw, he stood on all four legs braced, gnarling threateningly as if ready to attack again. However, the dog slowly backed away...continuing to snarl. While a bullet would no doubt end this battle, he was making it clear that he would do his damnedest to be sure he took something of Rourke's body out before he fell.

So there he stood. Fire-poke in his maw, cloud of breath before his maw, head lowered ready to charge...slowly, taking a step back.

"Ho wee heally want ta do dis?" He wheezed around the bronze shaft. Chest heaving.

Rourke took a brief moment to examine the tear in his great coat, ignoring the lingering pain in his leg. The dog's teeth hadn't even drawn any blood, though he'd likely have a bruise there. He looked back up at the young dog when he staggered to his feet once again, this time grasping a fire poker in his jaws. He smirked as the dog snarled at him, and stepped forward even as the mongrel stepped back, keeping the distance between them the same.

"Tired, Patch? I can keep this up all night. You're the one who wanted to fight, remember?" he retorted, once more keeping his handgun trained right between the mongrel's eyes. Now, since he'd been attacked first, it would be all the easier to justify shooting him here and now. Of course, that was still not the optimum outcome of this encounter.

"You shouldn't start something you can't finish. You'll live longer that way. But what happens next is up to you. We can have a civilized discussion since this is, as you pointed out, neutral ground. Just drop the poker, and I'll lower my gun. Or you can run, and try your luck at dodging bullets," he stated, smirking a bit as he spoke. he sheathed his knife, and rested his free hand on one of the garbage cans nearby, ready to toss it right at the young dog if the fight resumed.

"So, the question really is, do you really want to do this?"

For a good solid minute, Scamp stood there. His chest heaving, legs spread and braced, and tail raised defiantly. The fire-poke clutched whiten his teeth. Chocolaty brown irises focused on the cold barrel aiming right at his bang. Each heave of his chest and a cloud erupted from his nostrils. He was truly trapped. The fight had actually put him behind Rourke, with the man blocking his only exit out of the ally. He would not stand a chance...he never would have.

"So, the question really is, do you really want to do this?"

His jaw slowly relaxed, and after what seemed like an hour of deliberation, the bronze rod dropped from his maw. It landed with a soft "plop" in the snow at his forepaws. Vanishing in it's own impression. His head bowed and tail curled between his legs. It was a fight he could not win.

"Okay....I give." Triangular ears flopped, defeated, to each side of his head and a look of displeasure spread across his muzzle as he raised his sight to the man who held the firearm.

"So...what are you going to do to me?"

Rourke stood as still as a statue as he waited for the dog's next move. He didn't relax until the iron poker slipped from between the mongrel's teeth. He allowed himself a small smile at his (admittedly quite small) victory as he folded his free hand behind his back, while he lowered the Luger to point at the ground, but still somewhat in Scamp's direction.

"Nothing...as long as you can take your lumps like an adult, and not take all of this personally," he stated. "And since, if you're going to be in town for any length of time, we'll likely be seeing more of each other, there's no reason why we can't act civil to one another," he added. Of course, personally, he'd like to teach the young dog a lesson in manners he'd never forget, but he very rarely allowed his personal feelings to affect his actions.

"Besides, like you said, this is neutral ground, and I'd like to keep it that way," he said, abruptly grinning a bit. Truth was, he really did hope the war wouldn't reach here, if for pragmatic reasons over any sense of loyalty to his country of birth, or sentimentality. "So, do we have an understanding?" he asked, still grinning a bit, although his eyes were still cold.

Next time he came here, he certainly wouldn't be alone. And he suspected there would be more Heroes around besides a single messenger. Right now, there was little point in interrogating the dog. Even if they weren't on neutral ground, he had no reason to expect the dog to tell hi the truth, after all. Especially since he was already lying about a couple of things.

Scamp kept his eyes pinned at his forepaws, as if focusing on the clumps of snow that had stuck to the fur of his legs. His trianguler ears remained flopped forwards, and his maw wrinkled in displeasure. But he slowly nodded his head in agreement. But the dog took a breath, and raised his head to look up the the man. He was still smarting over the knock to his head, and he would be feeling that kick for the next few days. But at the moment, he ignored the discomfort, and when he spoke, his voice was solid, sure of himself, and tinged with ice.

"We do. But they will know you where here. I'll be sure of that!" A low growl, not so much threatening, more akin to an underlay of anger. Could be heard below his words. "So whatever it is you, and Jafar, an-and whomever are planning, you better watch your back!"

Weak words from a small dog. But despite his cold exterior, inside the mongrel was gratefully relieved that he was being let go. Inside he felt it was a small victory. The man could still shoot him however, and the dog carefully started moving towards the entrance of the allyway as he spoke. Almost bounceing with his words. he kept himself facing Rourke as he moved. Although letting it be know he was standing down, he was ready to pick up should the man give him a reason too.

Rourke casually took a step to the side, blocking the young dog's escape route, a disdainful sneer on his face as he raised his handgun a bit, aiming just in front of the mongrel. He just couldn't let it go, could he? Rourke's eyes were as cold as ice as he gazed down at the grey-furred mutt.

"If I didn't want your army to know I was here, I'd kill you here and now. And I always watch my back. You should've figured that out on your own, by now," he retorted, his voice as hard and cold as stone. He raised a gloved hand, and ran it over the wooden fencing running alongside one of the buildings. "We haven't forgotten Agrabah. And, before any of you think about trying anything, remember, wood burns better than stone," he added softly.

With that, he abruptly holstered his Luger, and turned on his heel, striding out of the alleyway. He stopped when he was back on the sidewalk, out of the shadows, and glanced back at the young dog. "Give my regards to the Tramp, if you see him again. Tell him what happened in Paris was nothing personal," he stated, then strode down the sidewalk, remaining alert, as always, as he continued on his roundabout route through the town.

One ear perked in curiosity, and s light bit of dread. What did he mean by all that? What had happened to pop in Paris? He had not seen his father since he tried to apologize to him back at Priderock. Inside, the mongrel wanted to leap at the man's throat, and threaten to tare out his jugular unless he spoke. As much as he disliked his father, he was still family. But the man's weapon held the dog at bay, and he silently watched as he vanished into the night. Already the knot on his head was throbbing, and it would for some time to come.

Snow was starting to fall again, and Scamp felt a real chill echo down his spine. Suddenly, Marceline did not feel like home. The world he and his sibling had grown up in seemed to vanish in a matter of hours. Sure, this was the physical place. The buildings, the park...the Victorian house on Snob Hill. Looking out into the streets he recognized landmarks that he and Angel had danced around one July night in a haze of love.

But it was not that world and it would never be again .

The mongrel grit his teeth and surprised the urge to let out in a string of vulgarity. He had lost his family, lost Angel, and lost his friend to that wretched war. He was not about to loose his home.

He set off quickly, practically shooting out of the alleyway as if from a cannon. Setting his direction for Jim Dear's and the warm basket in the kitchen. He knew sleep would evade him that night.