"If I thought I could do it safely I'd call 911 for you."

Harbor Park -- Fountain
Situated in the center of a large, open meadow is a clustering of six trees, a flower bed, a few steel-and-wood benches set firmly into concrete, and a flagstone courtyard that is dominated by a large fountain.
The fountain is a wide circular pool of water some fifty feet across and about five feet deep in most places. The sculpture in the center is a mix of old and new, traditional and modern: eight concrete-and-stainless-steel slabs about six feet high are set in a rough Stonehenge-like circle around the center of the fountain. Water flows from their tops, cascading in bright mesmerizing sheets to the pool below. Rising above the steel circle is a large marble statue of the Water Bearer, an androgynous figure draped in robes of flowing water. It bears a large jug carved with various Greek symbols, from which pours a seething torrent of water into the pool at its feet.
Cars on the nearby street have an excellent view of the park as do any residents of the tall buildings which line the waterfront.
The murky waters of the Columbia River flow swiftly along the east side of the park. Bracketing the park to the west is First Street and the city of St. Claire. Recent construction work is creating an earthen berm several feet high all along the borders of the park in all directions.

It's good to be in a pack again, on the whole. But a pack has responsibilities as well as benefits, and Kevin isn't unaware of that, neither is he inclined to shirk his duties. And so it is that he comes walking along the road which fronts onto the river, sauntering at a quick easy pace towards the park, eyes flickering back and forth to look for anything which is out of place or abnormal in this, Vendetta's newly claimed territory.

The park is less active than it might be this afternoon, thanks to the steady rain that's been falling most of the day. Only a few umbrella-wielding dogwalkers and rain-heedless joggers can be seen. Them, and one single sodden, shabby figure sitting hunched on the lip of the fountain, head bent and arms folded close against his chest, muttering and mumbling. Nobody's near him; nobody seems to want to be near him.

A guy who's been burnt by balefire and castrated by silver isn't going to be disheartened by a little rain, or even a lot. Kevin strolls on into the park, looking quite nonchalant. Once inside, he slows down somewhat, walking towards the middle of the green space. At one point he pauses and stoops to pick up a small object from the ground -- a bird's feather.

An inarticulate cry goes up from the bum at the fountain, and then there's a splash as the man throws himself bodily into the five-foot-deep pool surrounding the concrete and steel ornament. More than one rainy-day parkgoer pauses to look in that direction as the man thrashes about mirthlessly, teeth bared in a rictus.

Kevin's attention can hardly fail to be drawn by that commotion. He pushes the feather inside his tracksuit and takes long strides towards the fountain, not quite running, but moving almost as fast as the average person's run, to investigate.

Some people point. Others turn uncomfortably away and hurry onwards, not wanting to get involved. Giles, paying no attention to any of them, continues to thrash about, grunting, grimacing, tearing at the buttons of his shirt and the knot of his tie. As Kevin draws close, the madman cracks himself a good one on the back of the head against the lip of the fountain and sags back in a daze, his prominent nose slipping under the surface of the water.

Kevin arrives just in time to see the tattered lunatic knock himself well-nigh cold in his fit. "Whoa," he comments, and jumping up onto the stone surround of the fountain, he tries to grab hold of the dazed man and pull him above water before he can drown. He looks round for a moment as he makes the attempt, either looking for help or checking whether people are watching, or maybe both.

Those who looked remotely concerned seem satisfied that someone is taking care of the problem and are relieved it's not them. Chalk one more up for urban indifference. Giles is a tall fellow, but bony underneath his cheap clothes, and Kevin has no trouble hauling his head above the water's surface. Gasping, Giles fixes wide, wide eyes on Kevin, his mouth opening and closing like that of a drowning fish.

Kevin grunts with the effort of hauling the madman out of the water. "Breathe, dude, breathe," he instructs. "Damn, how much have you had to drink?"

The man's breath is bad, worse than a dog's, but he doesn't smell of drink. He gawps at Kevin for a few more seconds, and then manages, "How, how-how, how-ow-ow--" Another thrashing movement nearly pulls him out of the youth's grasp, and he claws again at the front of his shirt with a cry, popping a few buttons as he rips it open like Superman. Only without the spandex. Or the muscles.

Kevin seems to make a quick revision of the soaking wet man in his hands, from drunkard to psychotic. "Oh man," he says, "I am so close to calling 911 on you... Get out of that water," he commands, pulling at him to try and extricate him from the fountain, "take a deep breath and tell me who the hell you are and what you thought you were doing."

"Out," gasps the madman, splashing away from Kevin, struggling out of shirt, tie, and suitjacket like the touch burns him but he can't quite remember how to get the damned things off. "How how, how... how out, out out!" The long 'o' words are barked out, ripping forcibly out of his chest and past his teeth. Underneath the soggy dress shirt, a secured, plastic harmonica case dangles from the end of a thick cord; free of its bindings, it swings with the violence of its owners motions. "Out-out! Out-out!" He gets one skinny, scabby arm free, and the limb is marked with long scratches, as if he'd been playing with a mighty big cat.

"Out, yeah," Kevin repeats as the man struggles out of his hands and starts tearing at his own clothes. "Out of that water before you drown yourself. God," he adds, as much to himself as to the crazed one, "I hope they didn't just throw you out on the street when the hospital went up."

Giles abruptly stops struggling with his attire and stares at Kevin, nostrils flaring visibly. "...Up," he says softly. "It went up, up, up, up, uh--" He claps his free hand over his mouth, muffling himself.

Kevin inadvertently looks up at the sky and gets a raindrop right in the eye. "Man," he grunts, "you are really on another planet." He makes a movement as if to leave, but pauses. "You got someone who looks after you?" he asks, reluctantly, as though talking to the madman is an unpleasant experience not to be prolonged.

Giles splashes his way to the edge of the fountain pool, leaving his shirt and jacket behind (the tie, somehow, manages to stay on, albeit loose and dead-crooked) and reaches a pentagram-scarred hand toward the young man. His expression is urgent. "The bus," he says insistently. "The bus is down."

Kevin looks at the man's scarred hand and his face twists in distaste. "Down? Down where? Downtown? Down with a flat tire? Down?"

"Down," Giles repeats, looking antsy. He looks around, past Kevin, and even up, toward where the moon would probably be visible if not for the overcast, drippy sky.

Kevin shakes his head in incomprehension. "You've lost the plot, man," he says in a voice of sympathy which overlies disgust. "If I thought I could do it safely I'd call 911 for you. As it is... don't jump into fountains and drown yourself." With another grimace Kevin turns to go.

Thankfully, the madman doesn't pursue, but he does continue to stand there in the water, in the rain, shirtless and shivering, looking vaguely helpless and lost. His lips move, but he speaks too softly for the departing Glass Walker to hear clearly. Something about the color yellow.

Kevin chews his lip very thoughtfully as he walks away. He too says something that's hard for the other to hear. It might contain the name 'Olga'.