On one of the benches by the fountain, there's a girl. She's lying on her stomach on said bench, propped up on her elbows to read the book open in front of her, legs bent at the knees so her feet end up in the air. There's a mostly-full looking plastic trash sack by the bench, and indeed the park looks surprisingly free of litter. One of the flowers from the fountain area has found its way into her curls, tucked behind an ear. And she's humming, softly.

The breeze is just starting to sweep away the cool fog that hangs low over the Columbia river. The cloudbanks move like ghosts through the abandoned park, but Mark's passage is not stealthy. He approaches the fountain, and the girl, with a purposeful 'crunch-crunch' of bootsteps.

Bernie has, on closer inspection, a small pad of paper and a pencil, as well as her book, and she makes a note or two before turning a page. Also, a long wooden stick with a spike in the end lies beside the trashbag. She glances up at the sound of the footsteps, and flashes a quick, non-specifically-friendly smile of greeting toward Mark before looking back to her book.

Mark's hat covers his hair, but the voice is characteristic enough not to be missed. Sharp English accents, and a certain smug tone, "Well, well, well. What a pleasant little tableau."

Bernie glances up again, looking slightly startled, though it passes. "Glad ya 'pprove," she replies rather dryly, before making another scribble on her pad of paper. "H'lo."

Mark grunts in response. He heads off at a tangent, orbiting the fountain, so that for the next dozen seconds or so, he is out of sight. He's not looking at the girl so much as at the surrounding dark buildings. Once he comes back into view, he says, "Yeah. Right." A pause and he reaches to take the pad. "So what's this, then?"

Bernie rests a hand lightly on the pad, making the removal difficult a moment. "Aside from 'mine' an' 'a notepad'?" she asks mildly, arching a brow, and then shrugs, "Just travel notes, really." She releases it, letting him pick it up if he wants to take a look.

Mark's chin rises fractionally as Bernie's action provides a bit of resistance. Once her hand is lifted, however, he takes the notepad and begins to flip through the pages. Again the grunt, somewhere between disinterest and discontent.

"Thrilling, yeah?" Bernie asks, with a half-smile, and turns a hand palm-up, silently asking for it back. It's mostly blank, apparently new, and does, in fact, seem to contain travel notes, if slightly cryptic ones. And a few little doodles.

Mark continues to look for a moment. Names are foremost on his mind, specifically anything that would indicate the name of the notebook's erstwhile owner. In time he hands it back. "Yeah, You're a regular Jane Austen."

"Fuck. I was goin' for Douglas Adams," the girl replies, sounding genuinely disappointed. She breaks into a quick grin, then, though, and ruins the impression. Nothing on the notebook seems to be a name, or not hers, at least.

Mark frowns, "Who?"

"Who..." Bernie blinks. "...Is Douglas Adams? Author. Funny. British. Wrote Hitchhiker's Guide T' Th' Galaxy. Humourous sci-fi, cult classic, et cet'ra."

Mark asks directly, "You're Douglas Adams?" -- "Your father has a strange sense of humor."

Bernie laughs. "Well, yeah, he does. But I'm not. I'm Bernie. Hi." She shifts her weight slightly so she can extend a hand.

Mark leaves the hand hanging there, responding in typical Get-like monosyllabic fashion. "Mark." Followed up quickly by, "What are you doing here?"

Bernie shrugs, and pulls her hand back. Whatever. "Right now? Talkin' t' you," she replies. "And aside from standin' there an' interrogatin' me, what're =you= doin' here?" she adds, conversationally.

Mark grows a bit more hostile. "Waiting."

"For?" she asks, innocently enough. Apparently, to coin a phrase, two can play at this game.

Mark's eyes narrow now, focusing tightly on the Gnawer. "Not you, so scram, kid."

Bernie's eyes narrow a little in response, and she sits up slightly, regarding him. "No," she replies simply. "You don't wanna be around me, =you= scram."

Mark snorts, "Little Janey's got a bite, after all. -- But you are right, I don't want you around me. Here's a quarter; buy yourself some gum." Patronizingly arrogant, his every word.

"Keep the quarter; call someone who cares what you want," Bernie replies, briefly flashing a closed, tight-lipped smile that goes nowhere near touching her eyes.

Mark concentrates for a moment and repeats his suggestion, this time backed up with a bit of preternatural force, "Why don't you move along. This is not where you want to be."

"This," Bernie retorts, "is exactly where I wanna be. Or I wouldn't be here. So feel free t' wait over there," a vague gesture toward the other side of the fountain, "'f my presence so offends you."

Like a dog with a favorite bone, Mark does not let up, but does change tactics, returning to his interrogation from earlier, "Why?"

"Why what?" Bernie asks, with vaguely incredulous annoyance, "Why won't I be kind enough t' let you run me outta my park?" There's no emphasis on 'my' at all. "Why would I? I take care of this place an' if I wanna hang out here t' do whatever I happen t' be workin' on, I will."

The grin splits the philodox' face, "Very well. Enjoy your park." And he turns into the fog, continuing on the path on which he entered.

Bernie blinks once as Mark turns and heads off, and watches a few seconds, brow furrowed, before returning to her book.