The rail yards. The impromptu pack's new stomping grounds. Close to a neglected looking rail car, an agitated looking man in plainclothes kicks a grey rock down the tracks. It skits and bangs once or twice on the metal rails before finding a new home in another pile of similar, grey rocks. Tristan's hands have found his pockets, and he doesn't seem inclined to remove them. Though whether from cold or dour mood, he probably couldn't say. Hell, he doesn't even do that a whole lot. His stepfather had always gotten on his case about it. Said that putting your hands in your pockets was a sign of laziness. Probably some relic of his brief stint in the Army. It brings a half-hearted smile to his face just thinking of giving the old man shit. Even if he isn't here to see it.
Viola Jones would show up. He didn't have to call her to know that. And thank God. They seem to get on better with as little talking as possible. Hector is another story. He's probably just as likely to 'go wolf' and chase his own tail than show to something serious. The man doesn't even have a phone, to Tristan's knowledge. He can't blame him. Which leaves Kid . Tristan can't begin to try and predict what that sly character could be up to. Probably gaining someone's trust to get some kind of edge on them. He still can't place the guy's motives... just that he could be dangerous in his own right. Regardless, Kid would be a sight for sore eyes. Hopefully he's not sore about Tristan staring him down over the kill on their latest hunt.
Another rock goes sailing. Tristan is restless. Whatever their ragtag group passes for, it's hardly a pack. Not a proper one. They would need to do something about that.