Oh, Tig had always fucking adored a storm. And this one, more-than-pattering across the rusting-down steel, had the makings of a wicked night. A full moon, too! If he'd been half so fond of fate as he was of lightning and thunder and the blue-black whorl of the clouds, he might have called it that. Fateful.
But he'd rather call it fun, and leave the evening at that. Good fun. He was already half-soaked, and the horror roiling under his thin, human skin was gnashing its fangs, gleeful, ready to revel; Tig cracked his jaw, at least, and took a lean over the tower railing, head canted back to catch some of that lashing rain on his tongue. After a moment's squinting, he whipped a smooth desert stone into the lashing weather. Well away from wherever Graves - a fine, funny, surely far from fateful name - was likely to be cowering, still. Still! While the storm began to tear this black, lovely sky apart! "Come on, then!" He howled out, tossing another of his pocket rocks. "You'll miss the best of it!"
Sighing, downright beatific, Tig watched the dark dance. And weighed another rock, tracing its sand-smoothed edges. Then snapped around, quick as a cat, as another shout split the thick, thunderous air. That dreamy sort of girl, another new face - she'd appeared behind him on the ladder like a pale shadow, a surprise. Wasn't Las Vegas just full of them. He scowled, head cocked to her odd question and the reason for it: Boxy? A radio. One of those new ones. All staticky - he'd noticed, been annoyed, considered his first full moon act of violence, and decided to spare the thing. Now, though...
His hand twitched around that next stone. And jerked up to toss it away, catlike, predatory attention all on that radio. If he'd had hackles - he would, soon - they'd be bristling. As it was, Tig stared, brow furrowed, barely registering the thunk of his last throw making some sort of contact. Not with Elodie, anyway; he would've smelled the blood, even in all this. But it wasn't blood, for once, that had him so fucking entranced. Whistling? "No-o," he answered, slowly. "Not that..." More like - Tig sunk into a crouch, ear nearly to one of those speakers. Like catching a conversation through the trees, the walls, the tunnels. In a language he knew well enough to very nearly feel out the half-heard words, to find the shape of them on his own tongue. But not quite. Not - right...
