[Martin] The offices of the Chicago Sun-Times are close enough to Grant Park that an overachieving columnist staying later than is absolutely necessary because there is far too much material to type up and condense into idiot-sized bites to be done before the five o'clock bell rings at the end of this Friday afternoon, should he or she decide to, could walk the point-seven miles from the river to the park to take in the sights of the city going through its seasonal ritual of sloughing off its leaves. It's a gradual process, something that baffles children and entrances those for whom the magic of the world has slowly been replaced by cynicism and a profound disdain for just about everything that doesn't contribute to feelings of peace and tranquility.
Children are satisfied by things like bubbles blown into the breeze, like hot chocolate with marshmallows, like watching the same mind-numbing movie for the eleven billionth time. Adults have to try a little harder, and some of them decide that it isn't even worth the goddamn effort after a while. They give up. They become addicts to something, something that takes the edge off: they're addicted to nicotine, to alcohol, to cocaine, to work, to sex, to shopping, to God. There is hardly a person living in this city who doesn't need something in his or her life to feel as though completion isn't something just spoken about in movies and trashy literature with covers depicting washboard abs and ripped bodices.
==========
Hollering down the hallway "I'm going out!" is a typical occurrence at these offices. It becomes more structured as the day goes on, as deadlines loom in the distance and people's blood becomes too pure for normal levels of productivity to be sustained. The graying film critic who a select few of them remember having worked here back in 2009 before moving to Florida for whatever ungodly reason was the last one to yell this before slinging on his peacoat and heading out into the afternoon.
Sometime before the hollering commenced, one Imogen Slaughter, MD, received a text message that said "The Gage. Shh just come."
[Imogen] Imogen's gaze flicked to the screen of her mobile phone, its message upon it, and turned without a beat back to the nervous looking medical student who sat in front of her.
"I understand this job is unpleasant, but for the duration o' yer rotation 'ere, yeh must learn to cope with it. And vomiting in the biological refuse container is not a coping skill."
--
Not much later, she stepped out into the cool autumn air, and pulled out her phone again, narrowing her eyes on the screen. There is a moment's pause, as she takes out her cigarette case, and removes a cigarette. Then, with the smallest of shrugs, she begins down the steps. It takes her longer than it would had she dropped everything and run - but one doubts he ever expected that.
It's a walk to South Michigan avenue. By the time she reaches the restaurant she is pale with chill, her black woollen coat closed over her body, her scarf a splash of colour at her neck.
She steps into building 'steps from Millennium park' as advertised. A well dressed young man greets her.
"I may be meeting someone 'ere," she says, her gaze flicking over the interior of the restaurant.
[Martin] Truth be told, he doesn't expect much out of Imogen. That is hardly a judgment on her, a sign that she is somehow deficient or lacking, that she has done anything unworthy of being relied upon. On the contrary: even when she hasn't wanted to, when it would cost her somehow, she has been there to haul his ass out of a phone booth or stitch up his head or keep him from wallowing by himself. But what it boils down to is, he does not expect that when he texts, or calls, or bangs on her door, that she is going to drop everything and come to him.
So, whether or not Imogen decides to leave work early and come down to have a drink with him, that is where he is going. He does not leave immediately after he sends the message. He has a paragraph to finish typing, a coat to gather, underlings to inform of his whereabouts and what to do if he does not call or return within a timely fashion. The likelihood of his ending up in a ditch somewhere is relatively high. Hence, he gives advance notice. There's a chance he'll get out in the fresh air and decide to blow off the office and go home. It's Friday, though, and he has to stick around longer than usual.
The syndicated columnists, the ones who have to pump out product every day or risk losing their spaces, fucking hate the film critics. It's mutual. The film critics think the syndicated columnists can't write for shit.
When Imogen gets there, there is no sign of the middle-aged Silver Fang. At least, not when she first arrives. She is in the breezeway for a matter of seconds, relating that she 'may' be meeting someone here. A moment later, he's walking in behind her, his voice arriving before the sight of him does.
"I don't know," he intones, "he's awfully unreliable."
[Imogen] Imogen casts a glance over her shoulder, a look of long-suffering wryness. The way someone looks at another, who thinks themselves funny or at least marginally witty, and is not quite willing to give them quite that much.
It is the only reaction he gets. She turns her head to look back at the maitre d' who is looking somewhat bemused himself, and the doctor says simply, "For two, please."
[Martin] For as long as that glance lasts--which, likely, is not long enough to do much more than result in a faint swiveling of her head--Martin has a mighty self-pleased grin on his face. He strolls into the restaurant, well beyond the means of most of the people who simply pass by on the street, dressed as though he's come from the office. Granted, Martin always tends to dress as though he's got someplace to be, as though there's a reason why he needs to be wearing expensive clothes that don't match his shoes. His shoes are make for hoofing himself from one end of the city to another.
It may very well take a few weeks to grow used to the fact that he is healthy, that he doesn't look like a reanimated corpse. Baby steps.
This place is appealing not only because it has an impressive list of libations, but because on that list of libations is a category devoted to drinks that don't contain a shred of booze. The maitre d' takes them to one of the only open tables left in the place. It's a Friday night, but it's early yet. They're open until two o'clock in the morning. The Chicago dining crowd is just getting started.
When they're seated, Martin shrugs out of his coat and drapes it over the back of the chair. He orders a grape soda and the poutine, keeping his banter with the server to a minimum. He's not rude, exactly, but he isn't his normal boisterous self. Their server is male. He must still be reeling from his Tokyo adventure with his coworker.
Once their server disappears into the kitchen, Martin says, "If I hear one more Aron Ralston joke today, I'm going to cut someone else's arm off." She probably has no idea what he's talking about. "Idiot out in Utah got trapped under a boulder and had to self-amputate his arm to escape to freedom. He's now an inspirational speaker. Danny 'Slumdog Millionaire' Boyle made a movie out of his harrowing story. Don't eat beforehand if you decide to go see it."
[Imogen] Imogen allows the maitre d' to take her brown leather jacket, slipping out of it to reveal her work attire, slacks and a blazer over a pale blue blouse. Her hair is pulled back as it always is, tendrils having escaped, as they always have.
She takes her seat, and orders the zucchini and olive ragout, and a glass of red wine. Despite the better pairing of genders (or gender preferences) she does not banter with the waiter, though that has more to do with her personality than any intervening circumstances.
He brings up Aron Ralston, and her eyebrow arches sharply.
"Americans will make movies about just about anything, won't they?" she observes. "Humans getting lost in the alps, and eating their comrades, now blokes cutting off their own arms because they couldn't ha' been bothered with a satellite phone."
[Martin] "I'll have you know," he says, "you can't blame this affront to human decency on the Americans this time. Boyle's English, darlin'. This is your people making movies about a mental incompetent getting himself trapped at the bottom of a ravine without modern technology to save his arm."
[Imogen] It's not often the good doctor is wrong and it causes her to stop, short, a small smirk flickering across her mouth. "Well, how should I know that? I don't even bloody own a television."
[Martin] Be assured, this incident is being added to the short yet growing List of Times That Imogen Slaughter Was Incorrect.
"Suuuuure, blame it on your Luddism. Next you're going to tell me you don't know who Lindsay Lohan is."
[Imogen] Imogen scoffs, "Don't be ridiculous. Lindsey Lohan made it to the papers. So did Paris Hilton."
[Martin] "It's a dying art," he says, "but to put your mind at ease, reviews of current cinematic releases do still appear in print media on a regular basis. Granted, they aren't usually accompanied by color pictures of their stars flashing their bare genitalia when exiting parked cars. We have to rely on other means to grab our readers' attention."
[Imogen] "Oh do they?" she enquires, her eyes on the menu as she appears to consider the next plate of her meal. "I must not have noticed."
She glances up, an eyebrow arching, "I tend t'avoid the 'soft' sections o' the newspaper."
[Martin] Their drinks arrive, the server carefully placing a small square napkin down before handing Imogen her wine. Martin cants his head at his glass, which is an artfully cylindrical affair much smaller than the sort found in diners and chain restaurants, and unceremoniously unwraps his straw.
"I'm telling ya, you're missing out on positively thrilling social commentary and gory dissection of the human condition when all you read are the obituaries and crime reports..."
[Imogen] "Sometimes I read politics and world news," she says, waving it away absently as she picks up her wine glass, twirling it gently to watch the drink swirl in its glass.
She takes her first sip, consideringly, then sets the glass down. "Besides, you can always fill me in, if I'm truly missing anything."
[Gwen Sullivan] The Gage was a fancy kind of place to be, right outside of Millennium Park. It was the kind of place that you had to have money and a nice blazer to be let in with a smile rather than a distasteful scorn. It was where people went on their lunch break if they worked downtown to get the cocktails they needed to get through their day, or where you went for a nice dinner to get away from the kids.
It sure wasn't the kind of place that opened its arms to the grungier, scarier people of the world.
There was a strict No Garou Allowed policy.
The only problem there was that Garou weren't inclined to follow policy that wasn't inscribed in the age old laws of the Litany.
By some twist of fate (heh), Gwen, Roman and Simon wound up together for another adventure. This time they'd tracked some abomination against Gaia, a wart-riddled toad-like thing that was leaving a trail of broken pets (and as of last night, one small child) in its wake, and caught it red-handed over the slumbering body of a homeless man. They'd chased it off before it had a chance to harm the drug-slumbering transient, and this chase had come to an end in the kitchen of this fine establishment's kitchen.
Perhaps they'd lost track of where they were? Maybe they got too caught up in the chase to realize they were running somewhere they shouldn't be. Thank goodness the sense of mind to stay in their human bodies had been present, because the chase had dipped out onto sidewalks once or twice, because Roman had been snagged by the back of the shirt, Gwen by her arm, and Simon had been straight up clotheslined by a particularly beefy line cook, one that put Andre the Giant to shame..
This was where the citizens of the Garou Nation all converged-- the fuss kicked up while the trio were being 'escorted' (that was putting it gently) out the kitchen and toward the front door. Andre the Giant had a hold of Simon, a stern looking average sized man was handling Roman, and Gwen was shuffling with a scowl and air of reluctant defeat with another cook's hand on her elbow.
In this place, who wouldn't notice this?
[Martin] "Oh, I will gladly--"
There's a commotion. This shouldn't strike him as strange as it does, but to put it into some sort of perspective: this kinsman, this purebred representation of the power and legacy of Falcon's chosen, the born leaders of the entire goddamn Nation, had lived a life of relative silence and stillness for eighteen months before returning to the battleground that is Chicago, Illinois. He spent a grand total of three months here. Black Spiral Dancers were killed, Fomori were run from, blood was shed. If it wasn't a fight from without, there was conflict from within. This place is not calm, is not a place to raise a child, yet they need the help.
So here he is. And as much as he wishes this were not the case, Ilari Martin has the rather unfortunate ability to recognize a werewolf for what it is. So when a small troupe of bodies is hustled out of the kitchen, it drags his attention away from the woman across from him not because it's inherently interesting but because the Rage tugs at his senses. An eyebrow lifts, and he takes a steeling slug of his soda before loosing a long, theatrical sigh.
"Shall we?" he asks.
[Imogen] Imogen, too, is watching the trio as they are frog-walked out of the kitchen and through the restaurant, to the murmurs of the patrons. Her brow furrows slightly, and her gaze flicks from them to Martin when he speaks.
"Yes," she says, her resignation more restrained as she picks up her wine glass and takes a healthy mouthful before setting it down and reaching for her purse and her billfold.
"I suppose we'd better."
[Roman Turner] He still had his hat on, a big no-no that his parents would surely have boxed his ears for but at the moment he was a little distracted. This place was so fancy he wasn't even countering the hold on him. Instead, his jaw hung slack, mouth open as he dug in his heels and stopped dead in the middle of the fancy joint.
"Woooooweee! Lookee here! I ain't never seen nothing like this. Now this is high on the hog!"
There he was in those danged stiff Wrangler jeans that looked like he steam pressed them every day. Cowboy boots, stetson, bolo tie and of all things, a full length black duster that was flapping around like the wings of an enormous crow with each movement of his body.
[Martin] Martin doesn't have much to collect. He keeps his wallet in his ass pocket, operating under the assumption that a stranger would have to be mighty secure in his masculinity to try and boost a piece of leather out of another man's ass pocket just on the off chance that he has cash or a signed credit card inside. His coat remains where it is, as though there is a chance that they'll be able to return to what it is they were doing before the Garou, none of whom the older kinsman has seen before, were forced to walk Spanish through the restaurant.
He approaches the six-person party not so much with authority as with confidence, which is quite easy for the average human being to mistake with the former. Any of the Garou can sense his breeding. It's not quite so remarkable as the Fianna kinswoman's, but it's there, marking him as one of the mad... as one of theirs, in a loose sense. Inserting himself straight into their path, the bouncers will have to stop or else run him the hell over.
Not that that would be a mean feat. He's hardly a feat of Gaia's engineering.
"I was wondering where they'd wandered off to!" says the kinsman, who's old enough to be any one of their fathers, to the largest of the men. "Here, you don't have to do that, I'm sure they can use their feet the rest of the way."
[Gwen Sullivan] "Dammit, kid, come on," the guy hauling Roman out gives his shoulders a shove to get him going again, shaking his head and frowning, doing his best not to make eye contact with the customers that gawked curiously at all the action. Simon, no doubt, is quite a handful, but sense will keep him from shifting in the middle of a crowded restaurant where everyone can see just to escape humiliation-- the moon wasn't nearly full enough to give his temper the fuel for that.
Gwen keeps trying to tug her elbow free of her escort's grip, but he continues to insist that she stay under his sweaty palm. He hated the vibe that these kids were giving him, he wanted them out fast and didn't want any risk of them going back to charging through the place like they had every right to. After all, there's this big beefy tattoo'd guy that made his throat tighten with anxiety, the boy dressed up like Oklahoma's own personal mascot, and the girl that was better suited to a drug party than a restaurant.
She wore a black wifebeater under a faded blue zip-up hoodie left unzipped, a pair of black jeans and similarly colored sneakers, and her hair (now dyed dark brown all throughout) was left down and tucked back behind her ears. She had a piercing in her nose, her upper lip, and her lower lip, and a relatively heavy application of mascara and eyeliner. She's more or less resigned to leaving, but actually snaps her teeth at the man when he seizes her arm again. "I said I'll go if you'd just--"
I was wondering where they'd wandered off to!
Gwen turned her eyes onto the pair that approached, immediately recognizing Dr. Slaughter, but having no idea who the fellow that was speaking was. Her brow furrowed, and she went still, even though the man took her elbow again, more intent on studying the new guy that was talking to the guy doing his best to handle Simon.
Andre the Giant blinks at Martin once, then speaks in a surprisingly intelligent, clear voice. "All these kids are yours?" Skeptical, to say the least.
[Imogen] It is hard to tell if Imogen had intended much the same charade or if she simply is quick on the uptake. Either is possible as she walks up - fixing them with a rather sharp gimlet eye.
Something Imogen is quite practised at; something Garou, one expects, are not used to from a kinfolk, particularly not from someone her size, at any rate.
She does not bother to say anything to them, instead turning to look at the larger man, offering sharply, "Ours. I'm sorry if they gave you any trouble they," and this she says with the skill of a mother making a pointed comment, "have a habit of getting into what they shouldn't.
"They didn't break anything, I hope?"
[Roman Turner] "Pa!"
The hat was snatched off and in the next moment he was grabbing Martin in a big ole hug as he rattled on.
" I swear we got lost. I mean, so we got a little confused and thought maybe the John's were through them doors. Then these here fellas got all touchy and ya know it ain't right for a man to be touching no teenage girl like these here fellas are."
That comment had him frowning at the man touching Gwen.
"I think that's called some kind of sexual deviant crime."
[Roman Turner] "Or is it a pre-vert?"
He actually had the gall to look at Imogen with that question before he sought back up from Gwen.
"Pre-verted, ain't it?"
[Martin] The sidelong looks and the attempts to figure out when it is that the warriors who are going to fight and die for Gaia got so damn young can wait until they're out on the sidewalk. Until then, Martin's being hugged by a Ragabash who couldn't be mistaken for his or Imogen's offspring unless one was willing to cite recessive genes or a forgotten tryst with the milkman or some other anomaly. He stiffly pats the kid's back as he rambles on about getting lost and the men getting touchy and the correct pronunciation of
"Perverted," he says. "Perverted. And yes. Yes it is." He extracts himself from the teenager's grasp, stepping back to look him over as if to judge for injuries or other unpleasantries.
Luckily Imogen either had the same idea or nothing Martin does surprises her anymore. He lets her handle the negotiations.
[Gwen Sullivan] "Pervert."
Gwen corrects him in the same sharp, sullen tone any teenage girl knows how to use and snatches her arm out of the man's hand, this time with an accompanying shove from the hand that wasn't being immobilized, thumping his fingertips with the heel of her hand as though she could hope to stub his fingers and, at the very least, irritate him further, make him wince and draw his hand away.
Well, he didn't yelp in pain or anything like that, but he did remove his hand and look relatively flustered. His hands dropped to his sides, and he opened his mouth to defend himself, but the big guy cut in instead. "Your boy's a liar. They came running in from outside, they didn't get lost looking for toilets."
One hand was still on Simon, just to be sure (he was the one that felt the worst, the most dangerous, he didn't want him unguarded until he was out the door and fifty feet from the premises), and he lifted his hand in front of him, palm out, to show he didn't want to hear any defenses or excuses. "But I don't care. I don't believe you, but I don't care. Just leave."
[Roman Turner] "Boy howdy, ain't he rude."
It was a statement, not a question and there was no doubt who he meant from the solid look he leveled on the big man. His voice dropped low and steely for a moment, just loud enough for the men to hear him.
"Y'all have fun with that mess in the kitchen ya left wandering around in there. He ain't gonna be half as polite or easy to evict as ya think."
[Imogen] He doesn't care, he just wants them to leave.
"Thank you," Imogen smiles - smiles, an expression strange on her face for anyone who knows her. It is not disorienting because it looks fake but because it looks so goddamned real and genuine, as if she were truly relieved. "I truly appreciate it."
The smile drops away as she fixes her gaze on the three. "Let's go," she says, jerking her head toward the door. "Now."
She grabs Roman by the shoulder, marking him easily the most loquacious of the group and forcibly turns him around before pushing him toward the door.
[Roman Turner] "Yessum."
A thrill had raced right through him when Imogen grabbed his shoulder. A thrill that went straight down, causing him to snap that duster closed right fast as a bright flush bloomed from the neck up across his cheeks like a sudden sunburn had hit him. It was sheer mis-placed teenage lust that had him dragging his feet just so she would touch him again.
[Martin] The smile Martin gives the Giant is forced, but it's just so damn pleasant, the sort of smile a long-suffering parent is inclined to give to anyone who has the pleasure of dealing with his progeny for longer than five minutes without throttling them. It's the sort of smile that silently assures the victim that once they're securely out of sight the spawn will be duly punished for his or her transgression.
But he knows better than to grab any of the teenagers and haul them out of there like they're actually his. He's never seen any of them before, doesn't know their names. Imogen handles the urban cowboy. Martin makes a swooping detour to snatch up their coats, keeping an eye on the other two stragglers until they're at the door.
[Gwen Sullivan] So Imogen seizes Roman by his shoulder and steers him out toward the door, Andre lets go of Simon, surprisingly without a shove or anything that would spark the Ahroun's Rage, but peaceably instead, with no hint of hard feelings or 'get the fuck out of here punk'. He just wanted them gone quickly, and he knew that angering any of those unruly, off-feeling kids would just prolong the entire situation.
The same went for the handsy guy accused of being a pervert. He tucked his hands into his armpits, anxious and shifting his weight between his feet, apparently lacking the resolve that the other two had. The guy that had been escorting Roman was already back in the kitchen. The other two stood to see them out.
Simon, with a snarl and some torrent of threats and promises of violence mingled together, headed toward the door after Imogen, and Gwen simply shoved her hands into the stomach pocket of her hoodie, ducked her head, and headed toward the door as well, waiting for Martin to grab the jackets off the table, waiting for him to get to the door as well. For some reason she seemed intent to bring up the rear.
[Imogen] Once Roman has stepped out the door (to his dismay, Imogen does not touch him again, though she does tell him in undertone to get moving), Imogen pauses at the threshold, holding the door open for the others to pass her. She keeps up the illusion as Martin passes her, then she follows, shutting the door behind them.
The front of the restaurant is glass. She gestures them around the corner.
When they're out of sight: "Do I want t'know?" a flick of her gaze around the group, resting longest on Roman, who has the most likelihood of answering her. "Or is it better I don't?"
Then, recalling herself, and the unfamiliar position as introducer, she flicks a glance toward Ilari, "Martin, meet Simon," the Ahroun, "Gwen," the goth-eyed, pierced girl, "and Roman," the bolo-tie, stetson hat wearing bow, with his coat drawn suspiciously in front of his body.
[Roman Turner] "Howdy Pa."
His smile was the height of pure impish youth at it's best when he turned it on Martin with a lift of his hat. He turned serious in a flash.
"They got a real mess in that there kitchen and it has nothing to do with the likes of us. If they'd just leave us be, we'd take care of it for 'em, but....well...."
He gestured at the alley they stood in.
"...here we are."
[Martin] At some point Martin hands off Imogen's jacket and climbs into his own. He doesn't bother buttoning it yet; it's a clear evening, and it's chilly, but it isn't the brutally cold sort of misery that he grew up with. The man has Russian blood coursing through his veins. Cold doesn't bother him.
Imogen takes on the dubious honor of introducing this crop of Garou to the kinsman, who looks between the three of them without appearing to make too much of an effort to remember which one's which. This will likely lead to him calling Simon 'Gwen' or Gwen 'Roman' in the future. This will also likely not bother him in the slightest, or be entirely accidental.
"Now, would this be 'a real mess' in the health code sense, or 'a real mess' in the affront to Gaia sense?"
[Roman Turner] "It's an affront to us and Her."
He included them all in the us with a twirl of his finger around the group. The her part was a discrete point towards the sky.
"We been chasing this thing all over the city and truth be told, we didn't notice we were coming in the back end of some fancy ole roadhouse."
[Gwen Sullivan] "The latter."
The teenaged girl that truly did look better fit to be hanging out in someone's basement smoking weed and watching her friends play Halo confirmed this grimly, hands in her pockets once more after she'd taken the moment to tug the hood of her sweater up over her head, so her hair was obscured all save for the bangs that swept over her forehead. She was clicking her teeth on her lower lip ring and glancing back over shoulder toward the restaurant, from the corner on which they stood.
"I wouldn't think it'd still be in there, would it? I mean, what would it hang around for if it was running from us? It'd be smarter for it to have escaped while we were distracted. No sense in staying if we could stake the place and flush it out once the doors closed for business."
Thank you for thinking out loud, captain obvious.
[Roman Turner] "It probably skedaddled on out."
He agreed and for the first time seemed to take a closer look at Gwen, blinking slightly in surprise when he leaned so he could see under her hood.
"Hey, when did ya change your hair color?"
[Gwen Sullivan] She looked at Roman, surprised apparently that he'd bother to notice what she did with her hair. Not necessarily because she figured he was the kind of guy to not give a damn (not that he should, really), but because no one ever did. It changed about as frequently as most kids' taste in music did.
"Huh? Oh, uh... last weekend, I think."
It wouldn't be a permanent change, she could very easily be a blonde by the end of the month.
[Imogen] She took her coat when it was offered to her, flicking her dark gaze toward Martin. "Ta," she says, pulling it on over her blazer.
A glance toward Gwen, "Not likely. They'd notice extra staff. Though tha' assumes it's sane enough fer rational thought.
"Regardless," she drew in a breath, "you aren't gettin' in there now, and I guarantee tha' if yeh go in after they close, yeh won't find it."
Roman peaked beneath Gwen's hood, and Imogen reached into her handbag, retrieved her cigarette case, flicking it open. She removed a fag for herself, and then tilting her wrist, offering the case to Martin with an arched eyebrow.
[Roman Turner] Surprise turned to a pleasant smile as he considered Gwen another long moment.
"I like it. And Miss Doctor Slaughter is right. If they notice it, they are gonna try and throw him out too. And like ya said Gwen, he probably done slipped out laughing his backside off while we were being manhandled."
[Martin] Martin doesn't answer his companion, in whatever capacity she fulfills such a designation, with words. She thanks him for the coat; he lifts his eyebrows in a silent You're welcome, then turns back to watch the exchange between the teenagers. Whether or not it would think it wise to hang out in a restaurant until it closes is the question. Imogen doesn't think so.
He takes a cigarette when it's offered to him, and says, without much mocking tone that typically accompanies his attempts to use words that came across the pond with her, "Ta." His lighter appears quickly, waking up Imogen's before he sets upon his own. An exhale, grateful for the nicotine, and he adds, "If it had the brains to evade the three of you rather than hurling itself blindly at your Gaia-blessed forms, I'd say it has the brains to slip out while you were otherwise occupied. Although..." Here he breaks off to address the doctor as though they're in private, as though two of the Garou's combined age being barely enough to dent one of the Kinfolk's grants them a cloak of invisibility when speaking. "If I ever start discussing the motives of the Wretched and I sound even remotely convinced of the possibility of what I'm saying making sense, please have me committed."
[Roman Turner] "Brains and fear can sometimes get all muddled up and confused."
For a moment he sounded like a soft spoken, southern Confucius.
[Gwen Sullivan] Her eyebrows lifted some, and the hesitant kind of surprise that crawled onto Gwen's face when Roman inquired about her hair was replaced by a small smile. "Ah, thanks." And the topic of hair coloring was passed over and the brief flicker-flash of a compliment, something she was finding rare in a world where she was nothing but an amateur without so much as a flashlight to guide her through the dark.
She nipped at her lip ring again in thought, looking from Roman to Imogen and Martin while they lit cigarettes, smoked, and while the guy she'd never met before that had posed as her father (he was nothing like Curtis Sullivan, mind you) rambled about the psyche of the bad guy and dipping into it.
There's a moment of quiet from the young Philodox, and she lifted a hand to tap at her upper lip ring with a short-clipped, blue-painted fingernail before she pointed at him, eyebrow raised in question.
"Frost and... spice. Is anyone else getting that from this guy?"
The poor girl, she still didn't really know how to handle breeding.
[Imogen] Martin reaches over to light Imogen's cigarette, but she lifts her own zippo in silent commentary, before thumbing the wheel and lighting up. She shuts the zippo with a snap, letting it drop back into her purse, as she inhales deeply, turning her head to exhale the smoke away from the Garou.
Imogen smokes a fine cigarette. She gets them from England.
"Noted," this to Martin before, "look," she says, "honestly, yeh can discuss the motives fer the rest o' the night. But it won't change th' fact it's likely gone, and it won't help yeh find him. S'why they don't teach Garou 'the Psychology o' the Tainted and Twisted'. At least, not as far as I know," she adds, arching an eyebrow.
"Are yeh goin' t'go after it, or no?"
Her gaze shifts to Gwen. There's a pause. "It's his breeding, I suspect."
[Roman Turner] The look he gave Gwen was sheer confusion, the furrowing of his brows a clear indication followed by.....
"He ain't gave me nothing. What kind of frosted spice?"
[Roman Turner] Imogen had asked if they were going to go after their quarry and he finally had the sense to answer her.
"Yessum, we'll have to see if we can pick up it's trail where it came out of the steakhouse and go from there. Or we can try sneaking back in through the back, but I got a feeling they are all riled up now and watching that back door a little better."
[Martin] Imogen smokes cigarettes that they don't sell over here. One would think that Martin would make more of a habit of poaching them from her when Dunhills cease to offer the same sort of experience, but surprisingly, he doesn't ask so much as he accepts when they're offered.
The matter of the sensation his breeding gives to the female Cub isn't remarked upon. Were she trying to smell him, then it would be cause for concern. This girl is younger than his daughter. Some effort of some sort has to be made to mind his language, regardless of whether or not she's old enough to fight and die for the cause. He looks like the sort of man who has children. There's a gravity to him, a sense of sleep deprivation that doesn't come from pursuing sins of the flesh and enjoying ample amounts of free time. He has gray facial hair. If the kids were to peg him in his fifties instead of his forties he wouldn't take it personally. That's what happens when one refuses to take care of oneself.
"Your odds of sneaking back in," he says, "are abysmally low. Eliminate that as an option. If I'm not mistaken--" This, coming from the man whose sister was a Theurge. "--the spirits that take over these things can be seen in the Umbra." He waves his cigarette hand as though to get rid of an errant thought. "Try peeking the next time instead of barging into a manned kitchen in the middle of the dinner rush."
[Simon Zahradnik] Simon looked around at the others and opened his hands to slowly crack his knuckles and fold them into fists. There was fury in his eyes, fury, and annoyance, and a slight look of hunger at the smell of food. He could feel a twitch in his eye as he stared at the building."I don't get why we even bother with games... If we've got a problem we deal with it right?"He asks while eying the building in the same way a man might size up a potential opponent.
"It's a good color."He says in response to Gwen's hair."I'd stick with it."He adds with another nod. Perhaps the single most important thing about being a badass was making sure you looked good while doing it right?
[Gwen Sullivan] Gwen glanced to Roman, and seemed to pause for a second, unsure of whether or not to be humorous before she smiled and tipped her head in his direction a little. "Kind of like Old Spice but less like deodorant."
Imogen gets a blink, then a bit of a frown and a nod. That damn breeding again. She had seen it all over the doctor but attempted not to comment, she seemed too upright, respectable, untouchable to have her scent and sensation commented upon. The girl popped her knuckles, one at a time, and looked up to Simon before jamming her hands back in her pockets. He'd started snapping his, that's what started her up. It was just like yawning, only it bothered people more.
"Thanks," as far as the hair color comment with. Apparently everyone like brown better than red. But her eyes flashed a little harder and she shook her head at the Ahroun's comment about dealing with problems. "We don't deal with problems directly if that's going to put a rip in the Veil. It's not a game, it's strategy. Granted we don't have a real plan just yet... But, man, we can't go charging after something through populated streets with claws and fangs out."
[Roman Turner] "See, she has sense in this, a taste for survival. And that why we play the game, survival of not just our own species, but as many innocents as possible."
His eyes were shadowed out here with his hat in place again.
"We got enough to deal with without confirming our existence so the governments of the world who would want to use us for their weapons and put us under their microscopes. How long before they freaked out and we went from predator to prey for the very ones we try to shield from our enemies?"
Only after responding to Simon did he respond to Martin with a polite nod of his head. After-all, Martin might be Kin but he was still an elder and when you were in your teens, anyone over twenty might as well be ninety.
[Imogen] Imogen's gaze moved over each Garou. She is still, her expression absent. Only a faint straightness to her spine betrays her tension.
"You need to find where it is, first," she says, "then yeh can make your plan. Otherwise, your plan will be useless. S'like scripting a conversation with someone else, before you even know how they'll react."
A glance to Roman. Briefly, a frown mars her brow - it's merely a line between copper eyebrows, a tightening around the eyes, then it's gone.
"I knew a no-moon who was quite adept at tracking," she says, quietly. "I don't suppose you possess the same skill?"
[Simon Zahradnik] He nods his head."You're right we can't... That would break the veil but this is Chicago. Do you have any idea how many murders happen on the street every night? Between muggings, to domestic violence, to apparent suicides."He eyes Imogen."Folks like the doc here are probably scrapin' 'em off the pavement twenty four seven."He shrugs his shoulders.
"I never said anything about breakin' the veil. I talked about dealing with a problem... Combat the Wyrm wherever it dwells and breeds right? Just don't break the veil while doin' it. Also don't fuck each other while doing it... Unless you're a fury then it's cool cause that's two chicks so it's always okay."He reaches down to his belt and pulls out a knife, which is folded at the moment and fits neatly in his hand.
"Streets get dark at night... And pretty damn quiet and I am sure as hell no fenrir. I only fight fair when it involves those who have earned that right. Even then it's a tossup..."He laughs a little then peeks back towards Martin."Who the hell are you again?"
[Roman Turner] "I have some skill in tracking, but I got a long way to go before I could be considered an expert. And I got a gift that would let me find most if I know them, but it's a slow process."
He responded to Imogen. Then his attention turned to Simon again.
"And yes, combat the Wyrm wherever it breeds, but use some sense in there. For instance, we wandered in to the busy kitchen of a big ole place full of humans. We were in such a lather we didn't notice till we were right in there. If we had started the killing in there? It would of been so much worse than this momentary delay. And consider this, our prey runs from us, but what does he run to? Might lead us to more of 'em."
His smile was one of encouragement for Simon.
"Just think, a real party."
[Gwen Sullivan] Gwen's lips part enough for air alone to pass through, this expression similar to going slack-jawed, as she stares at Simon while he speaks. Her eyes squint a little, disbelief swims over her face, and her head tips slowly to the side. Then, after a few seconds of quiet following up Simon's input, Gwen shook her head and lifted a hand to rub at the corners of her eyes.
"Oh my god..."
And she was choosing to leave the topic of Furies banging and it being okay because they were girls alone. She didn't want to have a philosophical debate about the Laws with this guy, he'd already moved on and was looking at Martin, asking who he was. The tribeless Philodox opted instead to turn around and look back toward the Gage. Again, she toyed with her lower lip ring, and piped up with a question directed to no one in particular.
"We have to track it as wolves, right? I know I can't smell as good this way as I do then."
[Imogen] "I sincerely hope you all avoid your wolf form in Chicago." Imogen smirks as she lifts her cigarette back to her lips, "That would cause nearly as much trouble as a public killing."
A flick of her eyes toward Simon. "The streets get dark at night, but it's Friday night. There are bars here and restaurants and folks just walking off the buzz, and on and on. I'm afraid you will not likely get a convenient isolation to neatly perform your killing. Furthermore, while the veil is important, so is protecting your identity. The police cannot arrest you, so don't give them a reason to try, if you please."
[Martin] Who the hell are you again?
Martin has been happily smoking his cigarette and withholding his commentary for the time being. Whether or not they're going to go charging after this thing isn't any real concern of his. He could offer to help, of course, but he can't fucking shift or cross the Gauntlet, and he wouldn't want to anyway. Imogen has seen him fire a gun exactly one time, and that exactly one time, he nearly had his arm torn off by a Dancer that had sent his roommate and Simon's tribeswoman running not due to her sense of self-preservation but because he'd yelled at her to do so before the thing had shifted heavier and higher.
No wonder Martin isn't too enamored with movies about idiots having to saw off their own arms to survive.
At any rate, the dark-haired punk with the fiery Rage is asking him who he is, and he raises his eyebrows as if to ask Excuse me? He could fire off his name rank and serial number, could give him the name of his mate, his sister, could tell him who his parents are. Not that he knows Simon is a Shadow Lord from looking at him, but... okay, that's horse shit. Simon has that look about him.
He doesn't answer. He keeps working on his cigarette.
[Gwen Sullivan] "Well then how the hell do we track it? It's not like it left bootprints clearly imprinted in the goddamn pavement, or knocked over trashcans recklessly every twenty feet when it left the building."
Her nose wrinkled with distaste at the entire situation, and her arms folded over her incredibly average sized chest, left hand cupping the opposite elbow so that her right hand could be lifted enough to twist and play with her recently dyed bangs. She didn't like the wait, the trying to figure out what to do. She was mad that they'd been stopped, mad that she was stupid enough to charge through the building like that rather than think to stop and go around. Mad at herself, mind, not at the other two. She wasn't responsible for their actions, only hers. Besides, weren't they supposed to be older and wiser and some shit? (Even though she was pretty sure she and Roman were the same age.)
It made her think back to two nights ago, how she was convinced of how sloppy her job on the kill was, how she was waiting anxiously, watching the news in the morning and reading the newspaper, expecting the story of a terribly mutilated by god-knows what kind of wild animal man found in a dumpster just off of Jackson Blvd.
But more than that anxiety? She was worried about what would happen since they let the little fuck get away.
[Roman Turner] "We're gonna have to use our noses and common sense I reckon. Let's go see if we pick up anything out back again. Who knows, we might get lucky. Gonna need it cause the rite I know would help me find one of you, but I know your names."
[Simon Zahradnik] "That or we stand around glaring at the building till our contempt finally brings it toppling to the floor."He laughs a little then shrugs his shoulder."No one ever said the job was an easy one right? No wolf form... No War form. Exercise restraint and subtlety... Don't be an idiot. Sounds like things we should all be able to handle let's go check it out."He says with a nod in Roman's direction before turning to look in Martin's direction. He watches the guy quietly for a second or two, before shrugging his shoulders and heading in Roman's direction to join him.
[Imogen] Her mouth twists despite herself as Simon speaks, "That's yer laundry list, yes. Best of luck," it is obvious she has no intention of joining them, "Roman," she raises her voice to be heard by the departing ragabash, "Do call me if yeh need clean up."
And she half turns away, taking another drag of her cigarette, a deep and filling inhale.
[Fire Claws] There were few parts of this scab that he found even remotely tolerable. The city was a rotting, festering cesspool of hatred and wyrm taint. It was poorly stocked with any game worth the kill, and those that he did hunt were not the kind he wished to feast upon. But there were other things worth hunting down, even if he had to suffer the indignity of wearing the monkey skin and enduring the overwhelming stench to do so, but he following her smell. He knew it quite well enough already, hunting in the woods along the stream made it all too easy to track. And he tracked it across the city, almost lost it among some of the overflowing dumpsters that lined the restuarant row near the park, but a quick detour from the god awful smell through the (relatively) cleaner park and he was back on it.
Her smell was not alone either, it was mixed with others he knew and some he did not. But he focused on the one smell he needed, the sloppy little girl that needed her head pounded in for being so stupid. And he thought that she was no idiot. Maybe he should re-evaluate that fact.
The southern wolf wore the skin of the humans rather uncomfortably, unsure of the whole dependant eyesight, standing so high from the ground and losing some of his grace and strength. Anyone who watched him move that didn't know, would think he was a sociopath looking for his next kill, waiting to abduct the next poor soul for his twisted experiments. He could not hide the predator in him.
"Pup"
When he called out from the end of the street, his voice was garbled, touched with being taught from someone from the mountain ranges along Tennessee or Kentucky. A slurred voice not used to such strange words.
"'Ere naw."
[Marni] Day 183.
...only 129308120910231234 more days to go. Or so it seems. She's beyond the point of even trying to hide the swell of her abdomen, not that she ever hid it to begin with. She is, after all, an irreverent little bitch. Just as the others - they love to tell it.
Right now, however, said bitch is far from little, having swallowed an ever growing watermellon back in May sometime, which she celebrates by eating even more than before. For two, you know. Which is why she's wandering here and now, with a giant slushie in one hand, and the messiest mess of hot dog in the other, which she's chowing down on with obvious delight.
Low, low slung jeans - so as to button under her belly - and an oversized t-shirt, under a light jacket that's unzipped. Well worn shoes on one end, and curls controlled by a knit beanie on the other...
And thus, Marni wanders, watching the group down the way, recognizing some, though not others. It doesn't make her quicken her step any, nor does she change her path. She simply moseys (doNOTsaywaddle!) in that direction.
[Roman Turner] "Lord knows we got glaring contempt down, I bet we could reduce that building to sand in just a few thousand years if we set our minds to it."
The duster's tails fanned out like a cape as he turned to take a look at Imogen with her calling out.
"Yessum, I surely will. Appreciate it."
He touched the brim of his hat with a finger in a salute that included Martin.
"Nice ta meetcha Mister Martin, sir."
[Gwen Sullivan] Gwen had opted for quiet after suggestions were given of how to track in human form- all of which seemed to amount to guessing and hoping for the best. Well, she didn't have any better ideas, so she couldn't exactly argue with them. She just hefted a heavy sigh and lifted her right hand higher, pushing her hood off her head and scratching the back of her skull with one hand while the other fell into her jacket pocket. Her shoulders turned to direct her along with Roman and Simon to finish the hunt, then--
Pup. 'Ere naw.
She stopped and turned to look up the street. She didn't know she was being called to, but sometimes when someone yelled 'hey!' you just reflexively knew they were talking to you. This was a case similar to that. She leaned back some, squinted up the street, and her eyes met Fire Claws's face-- but she didn't recognize it. She didn't know his face, his human body, or his voice. She couldn't smell him with a human nose to recognize his scent.
But he was there, staring at her like he was her dad or something. He may as well be pointing at the patch of sidewalk in front of him and tapping his foot expectantly. Her eyes squinted and she muttered quietly: "Who the fuck..?" But did not move.
[Simon Zahradnik] He walked with Roman, then paused to look in Gwen's direction and then in the direction of the man calling her."Roman and I will be in the back. Go ahead and invite him around back when you two are done speaking."The man seemed to be around her, he would assume the man was serving as her Mentor and he wasn't about to get between them even if they might actually need Gwen's help right now. Still they could live without her a minute or so. So he went with Roman to see what they could see.
[Fire Claws] His eyes focused on her and only her, dark brown eyes almost seemed to burn a hole through her as he stared her down. He almost looked like he was trying to growl at her, but the human throat just didn't seem to want to force out that noise. And the way his lip peeled back from his shrunken canines, well it didn't inspire nearly as much threat and fear that he was used to. But he was quite adament about dealing with her in less than respectable manner.
When she did not approach at his calling, he was near pissed now. The beast lapping at the surface to escape and reek havoc on anyone near by, let alone the poor little cub that had earned his ire. In a few moments he was annoyed enough to storm over to her, nearly looking to rip her head off.
"W'en I say com' ya com. Stoopid cub."
[Gwen Sullivan] Her eyes jumped over one shoulder to Simon and Roman who were wandering off, bewilderment and a half-assed cry for help somewhere that gray-blue gaze before she looked behind her, to Imogen and Martin who seemed prepared to walk off, go back to whatever conversation or date or what-have-you that they had had interrupted by the group of Garou. Everyone was moving away, and she was stationary, and this stranger with the muddled southern accent was charging her with his arms tensed, lip curled, and face solid with fury.
So what'd she do?
Why, she lifted her arms, hands curled into loose, haphazard fists, and spread her feet some to station herself more firmly on the ground. She turned bewildered eyes back onto Fire Claws now, her own body tight and tense, teeth gritted and heart thumping once more.
"Hey, pal, I've got no idea who you are, but you better calm your shit down quick."
[Roman Turner] He turned to regard the irrational Fenrir with a lift of brows.
"Pardon me, but to begin with, this here street ain't the place to air your differences. These matters should be handled in private. And add to that, she is with us at the moment on important matters. Now, if ya want to come along and help, you're welcome."
The cub had been with them from the start, he wasn't about to throw her under the bus. And just about them he saw Marni, so she earned a tip of his hat that invited her in.
[Fire Claws] (Rage check. You aint gonna talk to me like that biznitch)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 2, 4, 7, 8 (Success x 1 at target 5)
[Marni] Roman tips his hat, and she smiles at him, shoving another bite into her mouth as she closes the distance between them - still moseying, mostly, as she watches Fire Claws and Gwen and their little stand off, flicks a gaze at Simon then away again, resting briefly on the Doc with a nod, and the man she's with is treated with a sunshine-y smile.
[Simon Zahradnik] Somewhere along the way his eyes drift from Gwen to Marni and then back to the others. He takes a moment to return his attention to the much more pregnant Marni and smirks just a little but he invites her over with a quick hand gesture. She wasn't of much use but she might be able to assist them anyway... Even if she couldn't likely keep up with them.
[Roman Turner] He looked at Simon, then back towards Fire Claw and Gwen, holding a hand out to the cub.
"I got prior dibs, Yuf. Unless you prefer to air your problems now instead of taking care of a threat to our kind? There is strength in numbers and wisdom in choosing the timing of your battles."
[Fire Claws] His rage seemed to surround him like a cloud of angry hornets, maybe she did not recognize the scent because she didn't want to face the truth or maybe the reason for tracking her down left a part of her brain within that room, however he didn't like cleaning up messes and then being told in monkey speak to.. calm his shit down. She might now however recognize that Simon was not the only truly intense beast so near. He didn't focus on the pitiful little cub now, but over to Roman.
"Dis.. fuc'up left... err... evidence. And 'er scent. Ain't clean up 'er mess wit'out teac'in 'er a lesson too."
He paused a second more, giving Roman a slightly quizzical look before looking back at Gwen once more. Snarling at her now.
"We ain't finis'ed."
[Roman Turner] He canted his head with Fire Claws' words.
"Wisdom rules out. When we are finished, ya can have your teaching moments, yuf."
His attention shifted to Gwen then.
"In all things, at this point in your life, remember respect. You are here."
He held his hand out down low.
"It will take time before you can walk at this level."
He held his hand higher.
"Understand?"
[Gwen Sullivan] Simon and Roman paused, and it was the Child of Gaia who moved over to her side against the stranger (..something familiar, though...) marching toward her like he wanted nothing more than to see her blood trickle in the gutter. Her arms were still up in defense, her own Rage prickling like the hackles that the human body didn't have, muscles wound tight and trembling occasionally from pent-up energy. Roman held his hand out toward her, and she glanced at it, blinked once, then looked back to Fire Claws...
..and went pale, only to shift gears and reverse with a drastic color change, now flushing red with embarrassment.
"What the hell was I supposed to do? Hang around so the unconscious bitch saw my face and screamed and gave the cops a profile sketch? Or go back when she'd run away crying and clean the entire place? And even then, what--.." She cut herself off before drawing too much attention, flushing even more and hunching up her shoulders, glancing briefly to the pregnant woman watching them while slurping on a drink, appearing bemused by the whole situation, then down, roughly level with Fire Claws's stomach.
"Jesus," she breathed out finally, and looked up to Roman's face when he started speaking again. "Yeah, but...," was her answer, and then she looked to Fire Claws again, into his eyes for another second and a half, before clicking her teeth together behind her lips and lowering her arms. "...Ah, Jesus," that name again, "...I didn't recognize you."
Truth in fact, he didn't look a thing like she thought he would. She imagined gigantic bearded mountain man, or something else drastic. Definitely less normal.
[Imogen] Imogen watches the Garou as they gather, as they interact. The aggression is clear, and her gaze moves between the groups and the few humans that pass them by, giving them a wide berth. Marni passed, and had been greeted by a simple nod.
Eventually, she takes the last and final suck of her cigarette.
"Let's go find somewhere that'll serve us," she says, dropping the cigarette to the ground and crushing it out. "Gi' the Gage a try another night."
She flicks a glance once more at the Garou, something drawing her mouth tight before she tilts her head down the street and starts that way. They'll share a meal, he'll doubtlessly talk for most of it. Her wit is sharp enough for a match, for all her economy of words.
She'll wait for the phone call, and if she gets it, she will do what she sees as her duty. No more, no less.
But until then: dinner.
[Roman Turner] His voice lowered as he spoke to Gwen.
"You are a cub. Would you stand here arguing with your senior in rank like a child while our quarry runs further, or do your duty? Listen to me now. You will apologize and call him Rhya. He has every right to teach you a lession in respect and I have a feeling you will learn it the hard way. But for now, we are on the street and y'all will hold this till in a safe place. Regardless, at this point in your life Gwen, you need to walk on eggshells. Excuses and arguments are unacceptable. Ya don't even need to understand this, just believe me."
[Marni] Marni arches a brow, while shoving the last of the hot dog into her mouth, and wiping her hands along her thigh to clean them. She lets out a very indelicate belch, because she's ladylike like that, and simply watches and listens.
[Fire Claws] He didn't say anything when Roman spoke about respecting elders that have earned that right and that she would learn a valuable lesson soon. But just in case she didn't truly understand the message he gave her, the one he drilled in her head the other day, he gave her a quick smack up the backside of her head. A reminder that she was being stupid and should not do so again.
"Wat'ya 'untin? W'ere?"
[Roman Turner] Fire Claws smacked Gwen upside the back of her head and said something he didn't understand and once more Roman spoke low and urgently.
"Let me put it in terms you might understand. If you were a Marine, you would be a new recruit and he would be a Major that you just mouthed. If you were a child and you are in this case, you just spit venom laced excuses to your father, who will tan your hide because ya need it to learn your place. He is fully within his rights. You are a cub. We have all learned our lessons and you will learn your's one way or another. Now say the words, lower your eyes and show your throat."
[Gwen Sullivan] Gwen's teeth clacked quietly on that barbell jutting through her lower lip while Roman talked, her eyes laying even with his cheekbones, meaning they'd dropped only a degree or so, considering that he and her were precisely the same height. Again, she drew a breath through her nostrils, exhaled it through barely-parted lips, and muttered, "Alright."
She was about to turn to Fire Claws, but he was already beside her and laying one solid hand into the back of her skull, and she was pretty sure that the throw of that hand had to have come from the hip for how sharp it was. By reflex she ducked way too late, hunching her shoulders and curling her hands into the kind of fists that had fingernails biting palms inside of her hoodie pockets. Her teeth clenched and she turned her head, scrubbing the underside of her nose on her own shoulder before lifting her chin once more to look at Roman, this time in the eyes, to listen to him as he spoke.
I get that, I do, but what happened to 'dealing with this later'?
But, despite that, she understood that, again, this wasn't the time or the place. She could argue her case later, maybe, or she could just let it slide and forget that she even had a case, or a side to the story. Rather she did what he suggested, flicking her eyes up to Fire Claws for a second before dropping them again, so that mascara-heavy eyelashes touched her cheeks, and tipped her chin to the sky for the Lupus.
[Gwen Sullivan] "Sorry, Rhya."
[Roman Turner] He looked at Fire Claws, waiting for his acceptance of the apology and show of accepting dominance. For a moment he was proud of Gwen. She had not grown up with this like he had since birth, though her wolf would hopefully step up to the plate and guide her with instincts.
[Simon Zahradnik] Simon had been ignoring the entire thing, for the most part. he had been focused on sights and scents. However he heard people bickering behind him the entire time and it kept him from focusing completely at the task before him. He even tensed, and at some point the full moon paused and looked sharply over his shoulder at the others. However when Gwen threw out her apology he gave a slight smirk. He then looks at the others."There's a difference between respect and blind obedience... Girl's a cub not your fucking bitch."He says with a shrug of his shoulders. He had wanted to stay out but then he had also felt there was a little to be said before returning his attention to the task at hand.
"Anyone get a look at the guy's shoes?"He asks with a slight smirk forming on his lips already knowing the answer to that question. Still he knew if he could get something to work with, anything, he could manage to do something with it!
[Roman Turner] He waited and headed back towards Simon, shaking his head as he started the search again, murmuring.
"Ya want to make it harder on her? Fill her head with standing before she has her rite of passage and each lesson will come the harder. I admire her wits and will, but encourage her to argue and he will beat her every chance he gets."
He raised his voice to a normal level.
"Was he wearing shoes?"
[Marni] She watches a moment longer, then the direction they start in -when her phone rings, and she shrugs, answers, and walks away.
[Simon Zahradnik] He shrugs his shoulders."Then let him beat her... She'll fucking heal. What does not kill her makes her stronger right?"He asks with a slight smirk."We're wolves not fucking jackals... You fuck up... Fine. Face it, own it, and accept it. You're gonna get the shit beat outta you either way right? Might as well do it with your pride. She doesn't have any standing yet... But she's not gonna if she's beaten into submission. The point is to teach the young not to fucking break them."
[Gwen Sullivan] The guy had, in fact, been wearing shoes. Brown boots, as it turned out.
This is the way things turned out: Marni went back about her business, deciding that lessons of a cub from three people was quite enough, she didn't need to 'help' any. Plus, there was that greek kabob stand up the street, and the smell was calling to her...
Roman and Simon deem it best for the cub to just let her be with her mentor. She admitted to knowing the guy, once she recognized his identity it seemed her behavior fell right back onto precisely the line that it should have been on regarding him in the first place. Fire Claws appeared to have pressing business involving a shit ton of evidence being left strewn about with his student's smell all over it, so it seemed best to let that get taken care of.
After all, the Fomor was a little guy, Simon and Roman could handle it, with or without the cub slowing them down.
And so they did. Ironically, tracking the guy was almost as easy as Gwen had jokingly suggested. Out on the other side of the restaurant was a pile of trash, from which some bit of something juicy had leaked all over. There were sticky foot prints here and there, leading back deeper into the maze of alleyways in the heart of the city. The poor fiend didn't seem able to help itself, having been thwarted from its initial meal it had stopped ten blocks over and was caught red-handed (literally) by the Lord and the Coggie, crouched down and munching on the sucked-dry corpse of a tom cat.
It didn't take much to kill him, a few experienced swipes of claws and snaps of teeth and the toad-creature was a mangled mess on the ground. All that would be left was the disposal, which they would doubtlessly do right.
Because they were Cliaths, and this wasn't anything new to them.
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