[Gwen Sullivan] More and more, as the days of the month count up toward the new year, Gwen was beginning to separate herself from the atmosphere of her parents' house. They would have to get used to her not being around, as soon as she had her G.E.D. she'd be gone. Where? Well, that was still up in the air, a solid unknown factor. She might have to take up Ray's offer of help, and that could possibly be putting her up in some inexpensive studio apartment for as long as necessary, considering the kind of money a guy that wears suits like that must have. She might have to hunker down at The Brotherhood of Thieves, though that place just seemed like it was waiting to be bombed if you asked her, with all the people that the Wyrm wanted dead congregating there all the time.
So she was out tonight, as she was every night, trudging through the cold and the snow of Chinatown. She had her green canvas coat on, a black beanie tugged down over her ears, a cream-colored wool scarf around her neck with fingerless gloves to match, and had her skinny dark-wash jeans tucked away into a pair of calf-high boots-- not the fashionable kind, but the heavy duty weatherproof black ones that smart people wear in the winter. She'd just stepped out of a convenience store and was finishing off a questionable corn dog, plain, because she could afford it with the cash in her pocket and it would warm her up.
Aside from escape from the walls and making a solid attempt to get her parents used to the idea of her never being around anymore (again) she had absolutely no agenda, no reason to be in Chinatown aside from neon lights and a change of scene. She'd check out some opium dens first hand if she wasn't certain there was a solid chance she'd get dosed and wake up a prostitute or something.
So, instead, the young werewolf roamed.
[Cordelia] She missed her bus. As a result, Cordelia has been delayed. She hadn't ever considered herself to be a person in a hurry, but Chicago teaches people to worry about things like time tables and arrivals and departures. Not just Chicago, America. America makes people busy, but the kind of busy that holds no time. The kind of busy that does nothing. the kind of busy that keeps us from having to interact with other human beings. Such is the human condition in America. Busy, but purposeless. Like bees. Like drones. Like ants. Too many ants.
And queen bees and queen ants are rarities, but ultimately are nothing but bloated life givers. The thing which all these drones live for, if only to propagate themselves. Cordelia is no queen, not really. But she has never seen a lone bee. She has never heard of these insects to be solitary.
She would rather be a spider than a bee. She would rather weave some web and wait, but even then she would not want to be a spider. Spiders rely on mechanical design. There is little more than instinct in their hunt. Deceptions and camouflage aside, spiders are solitary but only slightly better than bees. Man is no better than a spider- with all their trappings and camouflage to trap and attract what they want. take what they need and consume and feed themselves. Propagate and die. Let the web break.
No, no she does not wish to be a spider no more than she wishes to be human. Or homid.
These are the things she thinks about while she walks toward the neon lights in Chicago. She goes to clubs here, and while her initial intention had been retreat, she finds herself dolled up again, with that large purse and that halfway decent coat and those awful, awful glasses. Cordelia seeks something to distract her. Something to remind her of how to be a bee- useful and toiling, instead of a kinswoman- prized and sparkling.
[Gwen Sullivan] Cordelia is dolled up, and Gwen likely doesn't even know the meaning of the word. She knows what make-up is, but she wears it obnoxiously like a teenager with a lip ring is ought to do-- in bright colors that are more stand-out than they actually are pretty. Tonight the colors were more neutral, but she went heavy on the mascara as always. Her clothes, however, never seemed to be any more feminine than a fitted T-shirt and equally fitted jeans.
Gwen spots the woman from a mile away--
(As do a pair of unsavories...)
--and reroutes to set course across the busiest street in Chinatown.
With the rest of the corndog jammed into her mouth, stick hanging out from between lips closed around food that she was trying to chew without choking on the aforementioned stick, Gwen hunched her shoulders, hands jammed into her pockets, and darted across the street. A cab honked its horn and skidded brakes in the snow, but (mercifully) didn't hit Gwen or a parked car. Gwen held up a hand in a hail of apology, and hopped up onto the curb some quarter of a block away from Cordelia and jogged half-heartedly through the slush on the sidewalk to catch up.
"Cordelia!" She called the name once, even though it probably wasn't necessary. Cordie probably would have glanced back to see if anyone actually got hit by a car or not and recognized the teenage ball of moderate Rage and awkward, inexperienced war-potential as she scuffed boots to catch up.
Once within conversational distance without having to shout, Gwen slowed the trot to a walk (or stand-still if Cordelia had stopped to wait for her) and adjusted her scarf, re-wrapping it about her neck and chin as she addressed the Kinfolk. Unlike most Americans, she'd managed the jog without becoming even remotely out of breath. Snowflakes were stuck to her mascara-laden eyelashes and melting on her rosy cheeks. "What in the world're you up to? Got a date?"
[Cordelia] It's hard to not spot her from a mile away- Cordelia is distinct. She's tall and thin and blonde and accented and carries herself like wearing obnoxious glasses and being underweight is a strength, and everyone else who wasn't also making poor fashion choices and exercising too much was simply out of the loop. She hears her name, and turns. She moves first with herhips, her waist, her shoulders, and then finally tuns her whole body in the drection of her name.
It takes a second before it registers who this is. Her lips turn upward at the corners, her brows rise. She wears a pleasantly surprised expression, "Gwen!"
Because she reembers names.
She heads ont he way. She half trots over, and her boots make a slow crunch while she runs. Smushing snow. The two meet in the middle. Gwen looks up and takes in the young lady. Cordelia, in turn, gives Gwen a good once over, "I'm bored."
Because royals can't be expected to entertain themselves, can they? She shakes her head, "and no date. My boyfriend is still out of town. "
And she leaves it at that.
"Clubs here are okay, though. What are you doing? Es cold."
[Gwen Sullivan] "Your boyfriend is out of town.... so you go somewhere that sweaty guys will rub up on you in his absence?"
Gwen looks half-disappointed and half-disbelieving at this, but is completely flat in expression and delivery both, as she is with most conversations and questions to pretty much everyone that she speaks with. Maybe that mindset came from training under a wolf-born? Maybe she's always had that opinion on dance clubs? Despite being a teenager, she didn't look like the kind of girl who wanted to own a fake i.d. just so she could get in and see what it was all about. She was more the 'hang out in someone's basement and watch bad horror movies' kind of American teen.
Cordelia pointed out that it was cold, and Gwen's stare, if possible, got a little bit blander.
Rather than answer with sarcasm, though, she took the higher ground and nodded with agreement, tugging her gloves more securely onto her hands and jamming them back into her coat pockets. "Yeah, it's cold, but I gotta keep away from home. My folks need to be safe, you know?"
[Mystery Roll!]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 4, 9, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Cordelia] [WP: Because we have tact, we do!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 5, 7, 8 (Failure at target 6)
[Cordelia] There is poise, there is elegance, and there are many other things that people could attribute to Silver Fangs. What we must say, however, is that Cordelia never seemed to really buy in to the notion that she should be too many of these things at once unless she so desires. So, there she is, a woman yet-to-be looking and dealing with a Philodox yet-to-be. Maybe it's because Gwen is a Philodox, but who knows. Maybe it's because she's young. Or maybe it's that disappointment coupled with the flat expression and delivery.
Some things don't translate well. And are interpretted accordingly.
"Wow, Gwen, really?" she looks at her, and her eyebrows raise up and something burns in her stomach, brings tension into her body that wasn't there before. Somethign she wears like fluid, primal grace, "¿Por qué no acaba de salir y decir "eres una puta barata"? Yo no soy una adúltera."
She inhales sharply, and clenches her jaw. her hands get shoved in her pockets and she stands relatively still for now. They stay that way for a minute, and she inhales sharply, "I understand completely. Family comes first, tu eres eh... weirdness magnet."
[Gwen Sullivan] [Random Roll 1]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 4, 7, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Gwen Sullivan] [Random Roll 2]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 3, 4, 6, 7 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Gwen Sullivan] That flat and unamused manner seemed to remain tied into almost everything that Gwen said and did. It might be a part of her age group, a phase that she would grow out of, or it might carry on forever and morph into the kind of skepticism that would have her looking deep into every case she was presented with as a Judge, not satisfied until she knew Truth and had quashed every lie mumbled, uttered nervously, or stated confidently at her stand.
So when she went from disbelief-disappointment to bewilderment, it was all under the film of a Darlene-esque film of unamused boredom.
She opened her mouth to answer after Cordelia's barrage in Spanish, but was interrupted by a voice behind her:
"Excuse us."
She would turn to look back to a man that stood a half a foot taller than her. He had russet brown hair that was curled and shaggy in an i-don't-give-a-fuck manner, dark enough skin that race was an uncertain thing, and dark blue eyes. His built was that of a swimmer, strong and functional, tapered at the waist while broad at the chest and shoulders. He wore a forgettable brown jacket that looked like it'd been worn for twenty plus years, a pair of loose pale jeans, and had a few-day old growth of facial hair about his jaw, mouth, and neck. He was captivating.
In Gwen's eyes.
Another man lingered several feet behind, straightening up from the back seat of a parked vehicle, like he was setting something down on the seat before heading wherever he intended to go. He shut the door and glanced past Tall Dark and Handsome to look at Cordelia and smile.
To Cordelia, he was the most beautiful thing in the world.
[Cordelia] In the middle of her Spanish tirade, and it was a tirade- it's fortunate most garou don't seem to speak Spanish because some of the things this woman says are downright awful. Insubordinate. Ungrateful- and she turns around because she's been interrupted. Again, she wears her expression like she owns the world.
If there was ever any doubt that she was a Silver Fang, the moments when Cordelia is displeased dash those doubts.
She turns around and looks at the men. How dare they interrupt, how... dare... There was another man lingering. He looked at her and smiled. She looses her train of thought, and her lips upturn at the corners. She'd be ashamed later, but Christian was the last thing that was on her mind at that moment.
"... can I help you?"
[Gwen Sullivan] The man that was of the speaking variety was charming-- not disarmingly so, not in the way that could make you an excellent actor, con artist or politician, but in the way that the server at the restaurant that makes all the tips is-- the way that the bartender at your favorite club is, you know, the one with all the regulars that come in to visit and make sure his tip jar is full and his shift goes by quickly.
He smiled, shifting his eyes from Gwen to Cordelia-- as the teenager had gone quiet, left the talking to the diplomat, because right now she wasn't sure she could find her voice. "We were just wondering if you were heading in?" He said this with a nod of his head to the right, toward the doors of a small, forgettable, but open lounge. Not the dance club that Cordelia was looking for, actually much closer to the opium dens that Gwen wondered about listlessly. Those would probably be in the basement, though, upstairs would just be booze, smoke, and heavy hints.
"It's terribly cold outside, and you ladies looked like you could use some company." Again with that smile that, to Cordelia, was charming but forgettable, set on a face that blended in with the Chinatown crowd-- round, tan, oriental, with a business-like haircut and average Target-variety clothing-- he looked down at Gwen once more and stuck his elbow out to the shorter of the two women (not that it took much, she could be 5'10 and still be shorter), offering it as a gentlemanly form of escort.
The man that wasn't too keen on words, the one that kept his eyes on Cordelia and Cordelia alone, glancing to the other two only occasionally, as though to reference where they were in accordance to the rest of the world, moved over to where Cordelia was. He smiled, showing beautiful pearly teeth, and held his hand out, palm up and fingers slightly curled, in offering to escort. More personal than the elbow that Gwen was given.
[Cordelia] There were elements there. The dark hair, the pale, pale eyes. They stood out against his skin a little tan. Cordelia was a creature who was fascinated with contrast. She looked at the taller man. He had a perfect smile, broad shoulders and a solid chest. Muscular without being too much so. A natural athletic frame. He was tireless. Her mind wandered, and she would chastize herself later-
Because what was the harm, right?
She looked at the hand, the palm outstretched, and her gloved hand took his. She thinks, what's the harm? and runs a slippery slope. Reason is sayign that something about this isn't right. These two men might very well be serial killers who have a thing for tall blondes, or worse- they're not human. That thought doesn't cross her mind. Not yet. Not soon enough, not fast enough.
There is a definite flush on her cheeks.
"Do they play good music?" she asks. Because she has to ask. Not that she cares, because she's going to say no.
[Gwen Sullivan] The men both smile. To Cordelia the smile is one of whatever she wants it to be-- humor, ecstatic at the prospect of dancing with such a fine lady, suave charm, understated confidence... Whatever she wants. To Gwen it is reassurance on that handsome tanned (ambiguously so) face, a faint smile on lips that were defined without being full (because full was effeminate and not what Gwen wanted to see). She paused, like a foal that was unsure of whether it was safe to come out from under the bushes or not. That smile was like the mother doe demonstrating that it was okay, though, and Gwen slipped her hand (fingernails painted lime green) into the crook of his elbow.
They moved toward the front doors, the four of them, and the man escorting Gwen spoke over his shoulder to Cordelia to answer her question while the tall dark man with brilliantly pale eyes nodded in confirmation to the woman whose hand he curled securely in his own. "It's not the top one-hundred, but it's good. It's cultural, the kind of stuff that sweeps you away." What Gwen saw when she glanced back was Cordelia with a Chinese man with a shaved head and defined bone structure, who looked intimidating without requiring a lot of muscle, tattoos or piercings. She didn't question, though, or pay a hell of a lot of mind. It was hard to focus with this perfect man paying attention exclusively to her.
Why? chirped the bird of pessimism in her mind, the bird of logic and reality.
She stifled it with mental threats of exile and being roasted on the spit if it resisted.
Once inside, they find themselves in a rather narrow establishment colored in reds and dull yellows-- the bar to the right and a line of booths to the left hugging the wall. The music up here was quieter, more subdued. They didn't stop to order drinks, though, but instead headed for the door at the back, one that would lead them downstairs where music that was some curious blend of old traditional Chinese instrumentals and heavy-bassed trance was strong and the smell of incense and no inhibitions was stronger.
[Cordelia] It was whatever she wanted. And she knew what she wanted, and it was that sort of quiet adoration that made something in her stomach hurt. At the same time, it was something that sated that feeling of quiet longing, because it's been three months and she's already lying to herself. That man with his brilliantly pale eyes and the dark hair and the smile that shone for her and felt so much like praise.
She didn't know why he was looking at her like that, and some part of her was hesitant. This didn't feel right.
Once inside, she takes in the atmosphere. It's done up in reds and dull yellows. There was a bar. the first thing Cordelia notices is that... well... no one tries to check Gwen's ID. The music is the traditional Asian kind. She can identify instruments and what-have-you. Admittedly, though, sweaty men aren't all overher at this moment. Cordelia inhales deeply, and tries to place the scent.
"How did you find this place?" she asks.
[Gwen Sullivan] The stairs are narrow with no railing, the red walls serve that function well enough. There are shiny trails on the walls to show where fingers have touched repeatedly for balance as they moved up and down the stairway. Cordelia asked how they knew the place, and yet again the man up front, the one that she saw as a very average Chinese fellow, answered, while the man with his fingers laced through hers simply kept a solid presence beside her. "Friend of a friend. You know how it goes."
When it came time to go down the narrow stairs, the man accompanying Cordelia positioned her to go downstairs first, released her hand and instead let fingers guide gently at the back, close to the curve of her waist. He was a strong, silent presence, he didn't waste time on talk-- or he was mute. It was hard to tell.
Down at the bottom of the stairs was a room that was the same narrow rectangular shape as the shop above. There are beanbags and large lounge chairs strewn about, circling hookahs with cabinets and a much smaller square-shaped bar on one wall, corresponding with the one upstairs. This room is shorter, though, there's a wall in the back with a short hallway cutting through the center, and two doors on either side of that wall. One can only assume what those rooms are used for.
There are a few Chinese people and one skinny white woman with hair that was pale blonde on top and dark underneath circling one hookah, talking to each other even though no one outside their circle could really hear them over the music (that was one ambiance that this place took away from the clubs). The air was heavy with smoke, sticky and sweet. The girls were both guided to sit at a corner near the back, one where there's a bench seat making an L shape along the wall with a small circular table at the end of this bench to hold drinks. As they are guided to sit, the charming one with vocal chords inquires: "What's the poison for the evening?"
The quiet one sits beside Cordelia, wherever it is that she lands.
[Cordelia] It's a little known, less cared about fact, but Cordelia's done worse than drink a few too many. She's not entirely unfamiliar with this setup, she's just unfamiliar with it in the United States. Her fingers are laced through the man's behind her. And she does, however, do one notable thing. Instead of their fingers intermeshing, Cordelia makes an attempt to change their grip.
To where their hands are cupped and not intertwined. It's a language all its own, but spoken none the less. Loud and clear.
She takes a seat with her back to the wall, but she can see the exit. Or, rather, she can see what she thinks is the exit. They wander through the area until, finally, they get to rest. She's asked what she's drinking for the evening. The air is heavy with smoke, and there is some voiceless wonder sitting with her. He was a strong, silent presence. One she doesn't entirely mind being behind her, with his hand so close to her waist.
she didn't even care that he wasn't talking.
"Water," she announces, "Gwen?"
[Gwen Sullivan] The gentleman had relinquished his hold on Gwen to lead her down the steps, so she trailed behind him, silent as she's been since they showed up, eyes not on the rear of the magnificent specimen before her but rather on the shoulders and back, watching vague motions through the coarse material of his jacket that indicate where strength and grace lie. He waited at the foot of the stairs for her, watched her finish the last two steps, then smiled something that was confidant and sure and looped his arm around her shoulders, a loose but warm gesture that was the right measurement of attention and distance that she was warmed but not spooked away.
Once back in the corner, Gwen didn't sit immediately, but rather began to remove her winter items. The hat, scarf, and gloves were tugged off, hat and gloves shoved in her jacket pockets while the scarf was balled up and, once the coat was unzipped, stuffed into one of the larger interior pockets the jacket offered. The coat was shrugged off, folded over, and dropped in the very corner of the bench, and in doing so designated it the 'coat corner', as Cordelia's man's jacket was soon to follow. Under her coat Gwen was wearing a relatively simple, loose fitting black long-sleeved shirt whose sleeves were long enough to go past the heels of her hands and neck was designed wide enough to fall off the shoulders in a throwback to the 80's that was returning to style, showing lilac colored tank top straps rather than those of a bra.
Cordelia announced that she would have water, and Gwen answered resolutely: "Gin, please. Straight." It shouldn't be surprising that she drank underage, even before she found out what she truly was. She wasn't a rebel without a cause, she probably didn't go out and get trashed every weekend, but she looked like she could give a damn less about America's legal system and what it told her not to do.
"Nice," is Gwen's man's answer before he looked briefly to his friend, then turned to head over to the bar, manned by a nondescript middle-aged Chinese man whose features were hazy through the fog of hookah-borne smoke. Gwen watched him go and leaned back into the bench, stretching her arms over the back of the backrest and folding her legs right over left.
[Cordelia] She loses her jacket pretty easily. The scarf stays on, but really it's because the scarf was all for show anyway. Her shirt was light colored and sat off of her shoulders. Corelia hd lovely collar bones, and a long neck, but they were prominent collar bones because, let's face it, there's not a lot of meat on her. she's build like a starving swan.
She smiles a tthe guy next to her. She's not blushing, not terribly, and she's... well... Cordelia is, without a doubt, a confident creature. She is socially graceful when she so desires, and this is one of those moments where she desires to not fall all over herself.
She pushes her glasses back up, and she looks at Gwen. Her eyebrows raise up.
"Verdad," she says, "very nice. I pictured you more as a bourbon girl."
She looks at those gathered, starts the dialogue with the one who will talk to them, "so, do you two have names or will you forever be those handsome young men who brought us to a hookah bar?"
[Gwen Sullivan] Last Posts:
[Gwen Sullivan]
The gentleman had relinquished his hold on Gwen to lead her down the steps, so she trailed behind him, silent as she's been since they showed up, eyes not on the rear of the magnificent specimen before her but rather on the shoulders and back, watching vague motions through the coarse material of his jacket that indicate where strength and grace lie. He waited at the foot of the stairs for her, watched her finish the last two steps, then smiled something that was confidant and sure and looped his arm around her shoulders, a loose but warm gesture that was the right measurement of attention and distance that she was warmed but not spooked away.
Once back in the corner, Gwen didn't sit immediately, but rather began to remove her winter items. The hat, scarf, and gloves were tugged off, hat and gloves shoved in her jacket pockets while the scarf was balled up and, once the coat was unzipped, stuffed into one of the larger interior pockets the jacket offered. The coat was shrugged off, folded over, and dropped in the very corner of the bench, and in doing so designated it the 'coat corner', as Cordelia's man's jacket was soon to follow. Under her coat Gwen was wearing a relatively simple, loose fitting black long-sleeved shirt whose sleeves were long enough to go past the heels of her hands and neck was designed wide enough to fall off the shoulders in a throwback to the 80's that was returning to style, showing lilac colored tank top straps rather than those of a bra.
Cordelia announced that she would have water, and Gwen answered resolutely: "Gin, please. Straight." It shouldn't be surprising that she drank underage, even before she found out what she truly was. She wasn't a rebel without a cause, she probably didn't go out and get trashed every weekend, but she looked like she could give a damn less about America's legal system and what it told her not to do.
"Nice," is Gwen's man's answer before he looked briefly to his friend, then turned to head over to the bar, manned by a nondescript middle-aged Chinese man whose features were hazy through the fog of hookah-borne smoke. Gwen watched him go and leaned back into the bench, stretching her arms over the back of the backrest and folding her legs right over left.
[Cordelia]
She loses her jacket pretty easily. The scarf stays on, but really it's because the scarf was all for show anyway. Her shirt was light colored and sat off of her shoulders. Corelia hd lovely collar bones, and a long neck, but they were prominent collar bones because, let's face it, there's not a lot of meat on her. she's build like a starving swan.
She smiles a tthe guy next to her. She's not blushing, not terribly, and she's... well... Cordelia is, without a doubt, a confident creature. She is socially graceful when she so desires, and this is one of those moments where she desires to not fall all over herself.
She pushes her glasses back up, and she looks at Gwen. Her eyebrows raise up.
"Verdad," she says, "very nice. I pictured you more as a bourbon girl."
She looks at those gathered, starts the dialogue with the one who will talk to them, "so, do you two have names or will you forever be those handsome young men who brought us to a hookah bar?"
[Gwen Sullivan] Cordelia's eyebrows lifted in the same motion that her glasses did when a finger pressed them comfortably back up to the bridge of her nose, and she commented on Gwen's choice of a drink. This has the teenager blushing just a little, only for a moment, as the heat leaves her face almost as quickly as it arrives. She rolls her shoulders so the loose open-necked shirt bunched back up over the tops of her shoulders, but only barely just. "Mood to mood," is her explanation.
When the man that appeared to Gwen to be a hardened Chinese man that lacked the height Cordelia had, but appeared to Cordelia to be nothing short of pale-eyed perfection, was asked as to whether they would get names, he frowned in a way that was soft and apologetic (again, in the eyes of the Kinfolk, but was just plain scowling to the Garou sitting kiddy-corner) and lifted a hand to touch lightly at his throat. Pantomiming that he could not, for one reason or another, physically speak.
The answer comes from the man that was Gwen's 'date' for the night, as he returned with drinks balanced in his hands, two bottles of beer and a water bottle between the fingers of large (ungainly so in Cordelia's eyes, simply masculine in Gwen's) hands and Gwen's drink in the tumbler cupped in the opposite palm. The beer and water are extended to Cordelia and the nameless man while he spoke. "He's been mute for a few years. A strep infection left unchecked does terrible things, so there's your lesson to see a doctor first thing." He smiled, and the man sitting near beside her smiled as well and nodded in confirmation, then settled down on the bench seat beside Gwen, handing her drink over to her, which she accepted with a vague smile and by taking a drink.
"So, ladies, where's the rest of your group? Surely you were out with friends..." As he asks this, there's a faint shuffle of movement in the background. The man that was working behind the bar was shooing the group they'd passed out back up the stairs, and he was following along after them, chattering and instructing in Mandarin as they went.
[Cordelia] It dawns on Cordelia that, in this instance, she needs to be Gwen's... no protector. not mentor. Something different. She needs to take the role that an older sister would at a college party. She needs to make sure that Gwen was safe and not going to be in some deep shit- the fact that Gwen could rip a car in half with enough time and perseverence doesn't really even occur to Cordelia.
It won't dawn on Cordelia what Gwen sees in the man with the ungainly large hands. Just like, most likely, it won't dawn on Gwen why Cordelia is absolutely bound up in a blushing mess over some random hardened Chinese man. The Silver Fang is a flirt. She is more than aware that she is a flirt, though it is, in her own eyes, ultimately harmless. She knows she's not ridiculously beautiful, and she's confident enough to make that fact not matter. Cordelia doesn't slouch, or pretend she's shorter than she is. She doesn't second guess her speech.
The men ask where the rest of their group went. Cordelia's companion is silent, and as such she can drool over him and rely heavily on nonverbal communication. Been there. Done that. She offers him an apologetic smile, as though he hasn't had time to completely come to terms with the fact that the world of verbal communication is entirely lost on him. She holds her drink like she's been doing this for ages.
Things are different in Spain.
"I left my entourage at a different club," she said, "they're... they can be... eh...que en ocasiones irritante. I can't take them to the club, todo lo que hacen es coger con la ropa puesta. Es verdad."
[Gwen Sullivan] This is while Cordelia slides into Spanish, perhaps without even realizing it because she knows better than to assume that people speak it just as fluently as she does, let alone at all. It's while Gwen is ratcheting tight in her lower back because her companion-for-the-evening's hand is resting so casually, so confidently just above her knee, fingers curled comfortably on the inside of her leg. It's while the nameless man with dark hair and pale eyes and perfect sculpting is leaning forward some to tuck his shirt more comfortably into the waistband of his jeans. It's while the man that came in tones of brown and earthy confidence was watching the door to the stairs close behind the old Chinese man, making one last moment of eye contact with him-- tall brown and handsome smiling and the older Chinese man looking uncomfortable, guilty...
It's in this moment that the world twists suddenly, in a way that really should have been expected, that was so obvious that even the Cub should have known it was coming.
The very handsome man adjusting his shirt wasn't doing that at all, but rather he was reaching for a gun that was tucked and hidden away under his overshirt. It's small, nondescript, probably stolen, but a bullet is a bullet and that's all there is to that. While the gun draws, the man sitting beside Gwen's hand tightens on her leg, and not in an aggressive sexual way so much as an anchor to keep her from moving. His body begins to swell, muscles and chest and thighs all inflating as though he was being filled up from a hose, like a balloon float but more solid looking. His fingernails grow out into hooked black claws, and his smile stretches grotesquely across his face.
It was a fucking trap all along.
[Inits]
[Gwen Sullivan] BAO
[Init + 5]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 4
[Gwen Sullivan] JUNG
[Init + 6]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 9
[Cordelia] [5+1d10]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 1
[Gwen Sullivan] GWEN
[Init + 5]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 9
[Gwen Sullivan] Order:
Jung- 15
Gwen- 14
Bao- 9
Cordelia- 6
[Cordelia] Sometimes, words fail her. Sometimes, it just comes out and she can't remember that she needs to keep her various languages straight. Czech sounds like German, which sounds like English, which steals words from Spanish or French or Portuguese, and blends with the little bits of Italian she's picked up or the Russian she thinks she needs to learn.
And now? Hindsight being what it is, Mandarin gets added to the list of things she needs to understand in order to survive. Assuming, of course, that she does understand. That Chinese man in the distance looks guilty, and her eyes narrow for a moment. It's those seconds, too little too late, that she realizes this isn't right. That there is a solid chance that they aren't going to get out of here if they aren't smart.
The man beside Cordelia wasn't adjusting his shirt, he was going for a gun, and the female concludes, at that moment, that if something is going to happen, she isn't going to be taken alive. She doesn't do much except look at the gun that was being drawn. She doesn't know a lot about firearms, but she knows it's point-and-click. And she knows that she stands a better chance at surviving being beaten to a bloody pulp than she does being shot. So, she goes for the gun.
[action: attempting to disarm dude-with-gun]
[Gwen Sullivan] BAO
[Claw/Claw Gwen]
GWEN
[Rageshift Crinos
1. Bite Bao's Throat (WP)]
[Gwen Sullivan] JUNG
The gun is withdrawn smoothly, easily, as though he's done this a million times before, as though he was taking a pack of cigarettes from his pocket rather than a deadly weapon. Cordelia starts, her muscles wind up like she's going to do something very stupid, and he simply aims the gun right between her eyes with the kind of steady hands that suggested he would. not. miss a shot.
"You keep still. You keep quiet. You maybe get out, go home untouch."
That's why he wouldn't talk-- his English was broken and the very thick Mandarin accent would have betrayed the illusion-- one that did not shatter despite the violence, it was surreal hearing such a horrible voice come out from those beautiful lips.
[Aim gun, make promises]
[Gwen Sullivan] GWEN
[Bite: Dex + Brawl, +2 diff for called shot]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 2, 4, 8, 9 (Success x 3 at target 7) [WP]
[Gwen Sullivan] GWEN
[Damage: Str +2 suxx +1 bite +1 vital area (A)]
Dice Rolled:[ 10 d10 ] 1, 4, 4, 5, 5, 9, 10, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)
[Gwen Sullivan] BAO
[Claw 1: Dex + Brawl, -2 split]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 2, 5 (Failure at target 6)
[Gwen Sullivan] BAO
[Claw 2: Dex + Brawl, -3 split]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 8 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Gwen Sullivan] BAO
[Damage: Str +4 B.E. +2 claws (A)]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 1, 4, 5, 5, 7, 7, 9, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Gwen Sullivan] GWEN
[Soak]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 4, 7, 8, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Cordelia] She knows she's not going to be getting out of the way of this particular bullet. Her hands go up, she swallows. It's cognitive dissonance. The accent very clearly doesn't match the body that she's seeing or the pretty, perfect lips. Cordelia doesn't falter just yet. She stays still enough.
The kinswoman doesn't say a word.
[Hold action.]
[Gwen Sullivan] While Jung, the calm man for whom English was obviously not a first, or even recent language, leveled the gun expertly at Cordelia, Bao, the man that inflated with muscle, strength and aggression leaned over to strike. Blessed with the Anger and speed of the Garou, though, Gwen exploded into the body of a Crinos warrior, shredding the clothes that she was wearing to the point that tatters of boots were left on her feet and the stretched, torn remains of her black long-sleeved shirt was hanging at her wrists and waist with bits of purple and straps of fabric dangling from the top and bottom of what was left of the garment.
Her fur was the color of the desert at night, dusty tawny with gray peppered lightly through, though brown was certainly dominant over the two colors, and a mask of white on her face that was bound to be forever stained red by the time she reached the end of her life. Especially if she continued down this route: she answered the attack jaws-first.
Her nose nudged the man's neck up and her teeth found the soft, gummy flesh below his chin and tore it loose. Bao sputtered, blood spurted in a way only imagined in the eyes of Quentin Tarantino to splash down Gwen's chest and drip through her fur toward her belly. The man did not falter, did not stumble, it was as though he refused to accept that he'd been injured. His face contorted with pain and hate, but he did not relent, and swiped those raptor claws at Gwen's chest. The first missed, though he was willful he floundered with weakness, but the second cut into her stomach, slicing flesh like a razor blade that slipped in art class. Gwen was tough, though, her she bled but it was superficial as a paper cut.
Jung kept his eyes on Cordelia, watched the battle from his peripheral field of vision, and bobbed the gun toward the bar while he stood up himself. "Too close, not safe." He seemed abnormally calm considering how Bao and Gwen tore into one another, how the blood flooded from his comrade's neck nearly cartoonishly. However, he was right, while they were pressing one another to the wall in this moment, refusing to let themselves escape each other, it could be half a second and a stray set of claws could cut into the wrong person.
JUNG
[Command, keep gun on Cordelia]
[Cordelia] [willpower: I will not panic!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 4, 5, 6, 6, 8, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)
[Cordelia] [Action: go wherever the guy with the gun and the broken English tells her to go!]
[Gwen Sullivan] BAO
[Eye Gouge (WP)]
GWEN
[A. Bite/bite(WP)
R. Dodge]
[Gwen Sullivan] GWEN
[Bite 1: Dex + Brawl, -2 split]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 3, 3, 5 (Success x 1 at target 5)
[Gwen Sullivan] GWEN
[Damage 1: Str +1 bite (A)]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 3, 3, 8, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Gwen Sullivan] GWEN
[Bite 2: Dex + Brawl, -3split]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 3, 10 (Success x 2 at target 5) [WP]
[Gwen Sullivan] GWEN
[Damage 2: Str +1 suxx +1 bite (A)]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 3, 4, 6, 6, 6, 7, 9, 10 (Success x 6 at target 6)
[Gwen Sullivan] BAO
[Deceased]
GWEN
[Changing Rage action to bite Jung's hand, gun and all]
JUNG
[Change action to shoot Gwen in the head]
[Cordelia]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 5
[Cordelia] [Action change: RUN LIKE HELL]
[Gwen Sullivan] JUNG
[Headshot: Dex + Firearms, +2 difficulty]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 6, 6, 8, 8, 9, 9 (Success x 5 at target 8) [WP]
[Gwen Sullivan] JUNG
[Damage: Base 6 +4 suxx +2 headshot (L)]
Dice Rolled:[ 12 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 3, 3, 3, 4, 4, 5, 6, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Gwen Sullivan] GWEN
[Soak]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 1, 5, 5, 6, 10 (Failure at target 6)
[Gwen Sullivan] GWEN
[Bite: Dex + Brawl, -1 damage +1 diff called shot open area]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 3, 5, 6, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Gwen Sullivan] GWEN
[Damage: Str +1 suxx +1 bite (A)]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 3, 6, 7, 7, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6)
[Gwen Sullivan] Cordelia and Jung begin the shuffle toward the bar, out of the line of fire, so to speak. They don't get very far though, because unlike what the movies would have you believe battles are fast, ferocious things that happen in the blink of an eye. Death was as fast coming as a bus speeding toward you, or a fire flashing over. People didn't hang on to life and battle despite crippling wounds, not when the creature crippling them was still bearing down.
Bao was a battle technician, he knew that he was outmatched and that he needed to disable. He raised his arms, hooked his thumbs, and lunged to bury them into the eye sockets of the Garou's skull, but he didn't get far. His open arms left him wide open, and Gwen's teeth snapped lightning quick once-twice. Blood bathed her, gushed down her throat along with hunks of flesh ripped away, and with two additional wounds in his body, one scooping flesh from his chest and the other disconnecting the arm from the body completely, Bao fell dead, shrinking like a slowly deflating balloon while he slumped against the bench and floor.
Jung was fast to act. Fear didn't show on his face, anguish or rage that his partner had fought his last battle didn't either. There was intensity, however, the kind of concentration of someone doing a job that realized things had gotten really bad really fast. Cordelia was right to listen to him, because he knew how to work the gun precisely as well as he'd portrayed. One arm lifted, outstretched before him, and without hesitation he fired off a round that sent a boom! resounding through the room, the sound surprisingly deep for the unassuming looking weapon. The bullet ricocheted off Gwen's skull, striking directly in the center of the forehead.
Her head kicks back, but her body still surges forward, signifying a hit that struck home. However, the bullet wasn't nearly enough to crack through the Garou's heavy skull, and as her head fell back down it did so jaws open. Teeth snapped closed around the forearm, perhaps two inches above the wrist, and they cut through skin and bone with a crackling snap.
Jung did not scream so much as he did groan, and he withdrew his arm when the werewolf opened her jaws to spit out the hand, gun still clenched in the fingers, clunking heavily on the ground. Jung sunk to his knees, clenching his stump to his chest. Fearlessly, he ripped what was left of Gwen's shirt from where it dangled on her torso and hastily wrapped the stump and put pressure on the amputation wound with the flat of his palm, obviously using pressure from his shoulder on down.
Gwen dropped back to Homid, bleeding from the bullet wound on her forehead so it trickled between her eyes, squinting one eye from the pain inside her skull caused by the impact, but otherwise unscathed, and completely naked save for the wristbands of her sweater still hanging at the ends of her arms.
Shoulders and chest heaved with deep, harsh breaths, not from exhaustion but from adrenaline, Rage, and battle rush. Eyes were wide and still wolf-dark, and she looked at Cordelia's fleeing back like she, herself, was in shock.
What the fuck just happened?
[Cordelia] Some part of her says stop running. Some part of her, finally, recognizes that Gwen is a cub and that if she doesn't help her, or she doesn't stop thinking about herself for more than five minutes, they're going to have a particularly nasty veil breach to deal with. Some part of her says that this is a bad situation waiting to happen.
So, grudgingly, with wide eyes and a pounding heart and a shaky hand, she turns back. She looks at Gwen, then the bodies. Cordelia hasn't lost her color yet. She's the one who should be keeping herself together at that moment. There's no room for weakness, no room to be a damsel when you're supposed to be one of the leaders of the Nation. She exhales, and it' harsh and uneasy. She stops and heads back to the bleeding, now-amputee.
She looks back at Gwen, and her first thought is to take her coat off and offer it to her.
"I'll deal with this," she assures Gwen. It's the only thing she can think of to do. She needs to clean this up. She needs to do something. [she needs to run,s he needs to get away, she needs to go home now. now. now. oh god, oh god..]
[Gwen Sullivan] The man on his knees was grumbling, groaning and panting, all of it in Mandarin. Cordelia can see him for who he is now, the illusion shattered when he lost the strength to hold it up. She saw a man of perhaps five feet and seven inches, built lean and wiry. He was Chinese, his hair was buzzed short enough that a couple of small pale scars on his scalp became visible. His face was hard, expression grim and concentrated, his clothes as simple as a gray T-shirt and blue jeans can be.
Cordelia stopped running near the stairs, turned to look at Gwen, and saw the expression on the girl's blood-smeared face. It was more than uncertainty, yet it wasn't terror. It wasn't uncontrolled, and she wasn't anywhere close to tears. Rather, she looked... blank. Like a computer whose hourglass was turning, still trying to process and load. She had absolutely no idea what to do and it was obvious, but there were no signs that she was going to lose her shit and tear the place up, or run away and leave things precisely the way they were. But there was no sign of what she was going to do next at all, and perhaps that was dangerous in and of itself.
I'll deal with this is what Cordelia tells her, and Gwen stares at the coat that Cordelia's offering before shaking her head. She'd get it all bloody, and Cordelia would need to wear it out. She'd find something else, she'd have to. Her eyes jumped from Cordelia to the body slumped back against the back wall, now an easy-to-overlook Chinese man dressed in dark non-suspicious clothing. This gets a stare for a couple of seconds before Jung utters a loud, hissing curse of pain and draws the Philodox's attention back.
Perhaps too caught up in the Animal and the Fight to recognize that nudity was mortifying, she kicked the gun, hand and all, so it skidded across the room and out of reach, then folded her arms over her very average breasts to hide them from view (some semblance of modesty existed in the back of her mind still) and spoke to him.
"Why."
One word, and the way it rasped like sand against stone from her throat it sounded more like a statement, stern rather than hysterical. She might not know what she was doing, or what to ask for exactly, or what to do with any of the answers she got, but at least she could feign confidence and stave off the post-battle freak out until it was safe.
[Cordelia] Gwen weighs more than Cordelia does. Gwen is probably also more solid than she is, and just as agile and just as resilient. All things considered, without her coat on, Cordelia isn't a very large woman. She is tall, but she has a small bone structure. There isn't much about her that is solid, and her collar bones are somewhat prominent when compared to what she should be. She's built like the average runway model. She never would have been allowed on runways in Milan- she's too thin. She is, however, built like a dancer, and whatever that entailed.
Which was to say that whatever muscle Cordelia had on her frame was defined. She could dance for hours and not break a sweat. She equates the rest of it out to confidence. Gwen kicks the gun-arm and all- to the side. Cordelia goes to retrieve the gun. And it's not the blood that sticks with her. It's not the fallibility of her own body or that of her peers that sticks in her mind, but rather, that of the enemies of Gaia. All things break.
And sure as hers is the blood of kings,it is also the blood of tyrants. Of conquerors. Of revolutionaries, because Spain has not always been a monarchy. Cordelia takes the gun, and literally pries it out of the guy's fingers. She will think about this later. She'll throw up, be horrified with herself, be horrified with all of it, but that's neither here nor there.
She takes the man's gun, and heads back to where Jung is. There's blood on her hands, she won't be able to wash the stains off. She won't be able to deal with the entirety of it all later. She might call home. Sob. Withdraw. Continue on like she does and wonder what the Hell happened. Cordelia doesn't look at the man's arm, she looks at his face.
"Answer the question," she tells the man. Warns him. She's holding his gun too tightly, and it kept her hand from shaking.
[Spending a point of willower]
[Gwen Sullivan] Gwen looked to Cordelia, watched her pry the gun free from fingers stiff from locked muscles that were still dying, not completely dead yet, then looked back to the man, to the back of his neck and skull. He keeps his head ducked, yet nothing about his posture, spine curled, pressing weight and effort into stopping the seeping blood from the stump at the end of his arm, suggested submission. It was necessity to survive, medical savvy, and that was all. He didn't cower, he didn't plead, he didn't look afraid.
Something about that, for some reason that Gwen would either over-analyze or completely forget later, caused her breath to catch and her heart to stammer. Her hand moved from where it was settled to help cover her breasts, paused, and then finished its journey, unhindered by willpower as she'd exhausted it during the fight. Her fingertips slid against the velvety short hair on the top of the man's skull and she bent her knees to crouch in front of him, head ducked to find his eyes while her hand came to rest cusping the back of his head.
"Why," she repeated, and her voice was more solid, more sure. Her eyes were stony and solid, as was her expression. The gesture was sympathetic, emotional, very nearly loving, but her face was nothing but rock.
The man lifted his head to look at her, tendons in his neck straining, face gone ashen from loss of blood (no amount of pressure can stave off bleeding out after losing an entire hand, and he was growing weaker by the minute). His dark eyes skipped to the barrel of his gun, to Cordelia's face, then to Gwen's again before he spoke in Mandarin so neither girl understood.
("Do I need to justify?")
The expression on his face was enough, and Gwen's expression closed up with a faint glimmer of something akin to disappointment. Her hand moved from the man's skull, but not to cover herself back up. Rather it was held out, palm up, asking for the gun. Gwen stood as she did this, looked to Cordelia, expression grim, but her face terribly pale, betraying the steady front she put up. "This should be my job, not yours."
[Cordelia] [I'm the one with the gun, here, mister. RWAR!]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 3, 6, 9, 9 (Success x 2 at target 7) [WP]
[Gwen Sullivan] JUNG
[Willpower Resist]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 5, 6, 8, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6)
[Cordelia] [WP: you're allowed to fail, darling]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 5, 6, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Cordelia] It's hard to be intimidating when your brute squad consists of a bloody, naked teenaged girl. It's also hard to be intimidating when you're underweight and blonde. Really, what Cordelia has going for her is that she has a gun. She has a fucking hand cannon. She has a look in her eyes that suggests that she isn't above bludgeoning him to death with a shoe.
The fact that she has the gun leveled at the man says nothing; he knows he's going to die anyway. Jung also knows, probably better than Cordelia does, that she doesn't have the guts to pull the trigger and kill the poor bastard. Doesn't have it in her to actually tear him up and prolong his life long enough to get her answers and leave. She wasn't her father. She wasn't her Inez. She wasn't Isolde or Paulo or Pablo.
In her heart she knows she's a coward. That she is flawed. That she can't do this.
"Answer the question," she insists. She falters. He knows it. She's blowing through her force of will to appear calm and collected. This should be Gwen's job, not hers, "I know."
And without that backing of where she's come from to enforce for her, Cordelia is reminded that she is fallible. That she can be bested. She exhales. She puts her arm down for a second.
"Go ahead," she tells Gwen, "it's your job."
[Gwen Sullivan] Cordelia hands Gwen the gun, and Gwen stands looking down at Jung, who is looking up to watch the exchange. His eyes, more black than brown, bore into Cordelia over the top of the barrel of the gun, and when she relinquishes it they linger on her face for another second before moving to Gwen.
She looks down at him, holding the gun loose, as though she's trying to figure out a way around the execution, like she's reluctant (but not afraid, far from). He looks back up at her, then closes his eyes and leans forward the short distance between himself and the Garou cub to lay his face against the front of her bare thigh, as though it were a pillow and he was laying down for the evening after a long day of hard, honest work. As though he were laying himself to peace.
Gwen didn't push him away, didn't shudder in disgust or jump back. She just put the gun at the top of his head, angling it so that she didn't risk shooting her own foot in the process, and pulled the trigger.
Brains splattered the floor and the body jerked back to hit the ground from the force.
Gwen looked on, flavored sad, and let the gun fall to the floor.
[Cordelia] She tenses. She looks away. Her head turns to the left and she closes her eyes. The room is quiet, and her mind is miles away.
Kilometers, actually.
An ocean, as a matter of fact.
The sound of gunshots ring in her ears, and she's suddenly reminded that she wants to go home. Terribly. She opens her eyes, and actually looks. There is blood on the floor. There is a deadman in the corner, and her stomach hurts. Her eyes ache. her ears are rining. She wants to know why. All of it, why? And she can't have that. Her stomach hurts, and reminds her that she is hungry. There is blood on the floor, and she is nauseaus.
"Go through the other side," she says, "no one will see you there."
She looks for a mirror, and points to the only reflective surface she can find. Cordelia just stands there.
"I need to clean this up," she insists. Because she's kinfolk, and that's her job.
[Gwen Sullivan] For a minute the girls were both in very separate places, one an ocean away, and one so very rooted in this precise moment that it seemed she would not be moved from it until the end of next year. But Cordelia comes back first, because it's her duty to remind Garou of themselves, to bring them back to earth and keep them there. She speaks, and Gwen's attention snaps over to her, eyelids fluttering as though surprised back to consciousness.
She suggested she travel away, go through 'the other side', and pointed to the mirror behind the bar with glasses hanging decoratively in front of it and a beer tap partially obscuring the bottom as well. Gwen's shoulders tensed and she shook her head, then glanced down once more to observe the way that blood caked her chest and stomach and was making a steady trail down her legs. This was stared at for a moment before she lifted a hand to wipe the blood off her forehead, the only blood that actually came from her own skin. She didn't bother to wipe the hand clean, there was no place left to do so.
"No..." She shook her head slowly, stared at the man she'd just shot for a few more moments, hesitated, wavered, then decided against whatever she was thinking and instead moved to the body of the man that was a vision of beauty to her less than fifteen minutes ago. His clothing, for some reason, had been able to grow and shrink with him, and though it was missing a sleeve and had gouges here and there it would have to do. She stripped the bloody clothes free down to his underpants and stepped into them instead, tying his dark gray button-up shirt like she was some kind of Appalachian hillbilly so it would make her decent once more, strapping the too-large jeans to her waist with the belt that came with them and rolling the cuffs so the legs were proper length.
Once dressed, she looked to Cordelia and stated blandly: "It's my duty, but if you're willing to share for tonight so am I." And proceeded with the only clean up that she knew, the one she'd been taught by Linus not a day too soon: fire.
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