"Very technical. Spray-deal thing."

[renferret]

A collection of logs in which Mouse is cold to Flint, Nick drops by to play video games, and Riley shares a plan to get the wyld wasps drunk while Sewell learns the Cyberrealm exists.


John looses a high, frustrated growl, threatening to splinter his nails on the table. "Who hurt you, Sewall? Who... Burned you so badly you /search/ for the worst in others?"

Ding! goes the elevator. Thanks to Kavi's efforts, there's even far less complaining as it climbs to the fifth floor, pauses, and then starts back down.

Nearly simultaneously, but not quite, is the quiet but nonetheless substantial noise of footsteps in the stairwell. Probably coming down from the roof, and at some great speed by the sound of it, followed by the door to the lobby opening. Flint's hauling a laundry basket full of dirtied rags, and glances about, but starts for the laundry room.

Sewall's lip curls. He's about to respond to this attempt at psychological examination -- a response that would have been witheringly distainful, judging by his expression -- when the noise from the elevator, followed by Flint's arrival, distracts him. His mouth thins out, jaw clenching. "We'll discuss this later."

John snatches a donut, lips twisting. "I have no doubt." John briefly wonders why he did that, giving the donut an odd look. "You're... Thick as /mud/." And instantly, John regrets speaking in anger. The hand not occupied with the donut shoves itself too-deep into his pocket.

Sewall, half-turned from John, stiffens at the remark, hand tightening on the cane, back going ramrod-straight, a sudden spike of rage in every sinew. He says nothing, though, visibly biting back the impulse toward explosive lycanthropic violence.

The elevator doors open, and out rolls--rolls, yes--a thin woman with spidery scars, short hair that's mostly brown, but with a lock of white tucked behind one ear, and sunglasses. Sunglasses inside. She's sitting in a powered wheelchair, which is how she makes her exit, though the tension in the air causes her to stop just outside of the elevator and raise one thin eyebrow. "Sewall," she says quietly. Neither a question nor a warning. Acknowledgment?

Flint glances again towards Sewall and John--but whatever hatred the Fang ragabash receives from the Walker cliath, and there's significant venom in the look--is cut short by the elevator's arrival. "Hi, Mouse-rhya," Flint says. "I. I cleaned the fridge in the breakroom. And... and the freezer." And then Flint returns to variously both glaring at Sewall and taking the laundry to the laundry room.

John snarls quietly, finally taking a bite of the donut. He regrets that, too. "You remind me of my mother. You talk /at/ and hold yourself so high I wonder how you're still /breathing/." He gestures with the donut, other hand occupied with trying to draw blood through his pocket.

Sewall inhales. Exhales. Recovers a facade -- definitely just a facade -- of calm. "This is not under discussion any longer. Not right now." He looks over at the woman in the powered chair, inclining his head stiffly. "Mouse-rhya."

"Excuse me," Mouse says. Her voice is quiet, but there's something about it that nevertheless cuts through the air and carries a note of cold authority. "I don't think we've met. I'm Mouse. And if you provoke a frenzy in my lobby, I'm going to call up several very scary looking people to come and repeatedly beat your head against the floor. Flint," her tone doesn't really change, "whatever reason you're giving him the evil eye, put it aside right now."

John gives his donut a brief look of disgust. His head spins as he struggles to come down from his own Rage. Very stiffly, he bows to Mouse as his calm returns. His voice is very quiet. "My apologies."

Flint directs the glare at the laundry room, muttering something under his breath and excusing himself. "Yes Mouse-rhya," the galliard says, audible but barely.

Sewall stiffly hobbles back to 'his' armchair and lowers himself back into it, leaning back with a grimace of pain.

Mouse nods once. "Introductions?" This is clearly aimed at John, once he's regained his own control.

John nods. "Wrong John, ahroun cliath of the Silver Fangs." His breath is still a little quick, though that could be any sort of nerves at this point. He sets the donut on the table, and very quickly darts his hands behind his back.

The sound of the washer starting to life in the laundry room follows, and then Flint reemerges, moving towards some neutral seat to sit in--all the while doing his very best to ignore Sewall. He's not glaring anymore? But the expression on his face still looks like he /wants/ to.

Sewall, his jaw still clenched, takes off his glasses and cleans off the lenses with a cloth from his pocket. Very. Calmly.

Mouse nods again. "Mouse, as I mentioned. First-Strike, Adren Theurge and Elder of the Glass Walkers, packed under Sphinx, and currently in the middle of my Athro challenge." There's a thin smile, mostly humorless. "And metis, by the way. I take it you're new in town, did someone give you the rundown on the rules for this place?"

John gestures with his chin toward the elevator, hands stiffly behind his back. "Sue. I... This won't happen again, Mouse-rhya."

Flint drums his fingers on his knees and eventually snatches a donut from the table.

Sewall finishes polishing his glasses, replaces them, neatly folds the special cloth for such, and pockets it. Inhale. Exhale.

"No, it won't," Mouse replies, but casually, as if she were merely confirming the most obvious of statements. She reaches up and pulls off the sunglasses, which makes the reason for wearing them plain; her eyes are distinctly wolfish, despite her being in homid. "Okay, Flint, why do you look like you just swallowed a live porcupine?"

John considers quietly if he should make a hasty retreat. He thinks he likely wouldn't want to, at this point. He still stares at the door, standing quietly at attention.

Flint chews his lower lip for a moment, and the Walker cliath has clearly eased... he just doesn't seem comfortable. "Sorry, Mouse-rhya. You said to, to. Put it aside. So I am. It's nothing." Nothing clearly being a reason to almost seethe with evident distaste for the Fang ragabash, and then Flint continues. "He," Flint jerks his head to Sewall, "was a. Self-righteous, stuck-up /bastard/. On Christmas Eve. That's all." Which is immediately followed by Flint glancing at Sewall. "For... what it's... worth. I. Overreacted and I'm sorry f-for. That."

Sewall's mouth gives a sardonic little twist at Flint's apology, genuine or no. "Apology accepted." The word is clipped and curt.

"Well," Mouse says, with her eyebrows lifting again, "since it's so unimportant, and you've just got that off your chest, that should be the end of it. Right?" It's less question and more expectation, and her expression reflects it.

John bites his lip. That door is looking a /lot/ better.

It might in fact be the end of it if not for the expression that Sewall has. Flint doesn't look any less agitated, just nods. "Yes, Mouse-rhya. I should, the. The laundry." Which he gets up, glares death at Sewall again as he's doing so, and stalks off to the laundry room at a trot and a hurry.

"/Flint/." This time it's a snap from Mouse. "I believe I just said that should be the end of it, and you agreed. If you're going to lie, you could at least wait until my back is turned before you make it obvious."

Sewall's gaze flicks to John. "Go, if you wish," he says, without any warmth. "No one's holding you here."

John quietly decides that he likes Mouse, nodding to himself. He glances to Sewall, expression flattening. "We have another conversation to have. Perhaps later." He takes a few steps closer to Sewall, bowing briefly. "Perhaps we can both leave ourselves at the door next time?"

Flint slumps slightly in place, stopping halfway to the laundry room. "Yes, Mouse-rhya," he acknowledges, but he's still facing the laundry room rather than the Walker elder, or either of the Silver Fangs. "I just need, space, it. It will be the end of it unless he. Insults me, or my pack, or my packmates. Ever again. Including being. Stuck-up, 'I'm right you're wrong', fucking arrogant /bastard/ who can't even keep his stuck up out of simple that really, to say, /two words/. It is not going to be a thing." At which point Flint resumes for the laundry room, visibly tense and angry.

"No," Mouse says flatly. "You don't dictate terms to him, and especially not to me. You challenge him, right now, or you fucking /drop/ it. And if you're pissed off at him in the future, you challenge him then, or you fucking drop it. You can hate each other all you please, but I'm not putting up with constant petty pseudo-aggressive posturing like we're all stuck in eternal junior high. That has caused all of us a /lot/ of grief in the past already. You're allowed your space, but behave like a Garou, Flint."

"Later," Sewall says to John, nodding. It even sounds polite. Not warm, but polite. He's a trifle distracted by what's passing between Flint and Mouse.

Flint pauses mid-stride again, turning to listen as Mouse speaks, every so often glancing at her, hands shoved in his pockets. Silence passes for a minute, and then the galliard nods. "Yes, Mouse-rhya. May I change the laundry, n-now?"

John tips an invisible hat to all assembled, individually. There is a pause, in case Mouse would like to speak to him further for any reason.

Mouse gives John a silent shake of her head before returning her attention to Flint. "If this business is done and forgotten and you aren't going to be death glaring any time you happen to see him, yes. Otherwise, challenge him now and get it over with for both of you."

John leaves the building.

Sewall watches Flint keenly, saying nothing, his expression stony.

Flint looks from Mouse, to Sewall, and he's silent. But it's not the same glaring death, nor is there challenge in it, nor does Flint look away. "I've got /better/ things to, to do," he eventually says, speaking carefully, levelly and not very loud. "Like laundry."

Sewall meets Flint's stare and holds it, firmly. "Then do it," says the Silver Fang.

Mouse leans back in her power chair, eyes faintly narrowed. "And stop trying to one-up him. I mean it. No petty pseudo-aggressive bullshit."

Flint gives Mouse a nod, and turns on his heel to go disappear into the breakroom, though tension still echoes through the young Glass Walker's posture for the moment.

Flint: ER LAUNDRY ROOM

Sewall's gaze follows Flint out. Only when the Galliard's gone does he drop the rigid sitting pose and slouch in the armchair, looking more than a little strained.

Mouse shakes her head, and moment over, she reaches up to rub at her face. She looks tired, and somewhat thinner than usual (which is saying something).


After a few moments, Sewall gathers himself and heaves effortfully to his feet. "Thank you, Mouse-rhya," he says. "My patience..." He grimaces and gives a light shrug.

"You're welcome," Mouse replies. "But honestly this had less to do with you and more to do with the constant, ongoing irritation of young Garou not knowing when to stop poking, and not knowing when to stop reacting like humans to people that annoy them. I'd rather do some figurative head chewing than have it lead to the literal kind."

Sewall nods to Mouse. "You have my sympathies," he says, then starts moving slowly, painfully, for the elevator.

Mouse rolls out of his way. "Have a good night, Sewall."

"You as well, Mouse-rhya," Sewall says as he enters the elevator. The doors close shut behind him.

Some bit later, Flint comes out of the laundry room with a cup of tea, and a lit cigarette, and glances at the Walker Elder, then down. "Tea or coffee, Mouse-rhya?" Flint asks.

"Coffee," Mouse replies, right away. "Got some work to finish up before I try sleeping."

Flint nods, moving to set his tea down on a table before going back into the laundry room. Apparently the boy'd made coffee as well to start with, because a large cup of coffee is brought back out to the Walker Elder, almost uncharacteristically quietly.

Mouse takes the cup without remark, and begins slowly sipping from it. She already has her phone in hand, and appears to be tapping through something with her thumb.

"Anything else I can, can get you, or. Or do?" Flint asks, even as he's moving to both reclaim his tea and set up the monitor so it can be easily seen from the couch, and then digging through the pockets of his jeans until he finds a lighter. There's a brief shiver and fidgeting of playing with his wrists where long sleeves would be as he relights the cigarette that's since gone out, and the cliath doesn't sit down, quite yet.

"No," Mouse says without looking up.

"Okay," Flint acknowledges. Which seems to be enough for Flint to fold himself onto the couch and take out his phone, putting in earbuds and settling on the couch to drink tea, watch the monitor, and read something.

Mouse seems to take it that way as well, as shortly after, she tucks her phone away and rolls back into the elevator, taking the coffee with her.

----


Tenement Building - Cockroach's Breakroom(#3365RJ)

Here, a large studio apartment has been converted into a mutual meeting space for the tribe, one with its own kitchen and bathroom. The walls are a simple, plain white, and the floor is covered in stain-resistant beige carpet. The windows look out onto the somewhat less than scenic view of downtown St. Claire, but more often than not, white blinds prevent anyone from peeking in, or out.

Amenities are what might be expected--a well stocked refrigerator and cupboards, a microwave, a coffee maker, a toaster. There's a wooden table that seats four, five or six if people scrunch, and enough chairs to service it. There's also an old couch and armchair along the walls, angled to face a large, plasma screen television. Most of the entertainment goodies are here. An old NES system, an original Sega system, and an XBOX 360, each with assorted games. There's also a DVD/VCR combo player, and nearby a box of movies, most of them Ed Wood and Roger Corman specials. Ah, classics.

Along one wall is a row of tables and chairs, on which sit five desktop computers as well as the Walker's network server, a printer, and a scanner. (+view for more details)

Contents:
Riley
Memorial
Information Board: Skindiggers Cult

Obvious exits:
Out

There's a particularly unusual sight to be found in the breakroom today. The first element is Mouse; she's been fantastically scarce in appearance, if not presence, spending most of her time either in her apartment or in the ritual room (and, in fact, more in the ritual room than her apartment) or across the Gauntlet. The second is Mouse in her power chair, facing not the table nor the line of computers, but settled right on one end of the couch in front of the television. The third element involves the XBOX 360, and what is clearly Arkham City, as Batman is gliding and swinging around rooftops in all his 360 glory.

Dusk's last rays of sunlight are guttering out one by over St. Claire - a signal to most of the civilized world that it's time to head indoors and settle in for the evening. Then there's Riley, bedraggled and sleep deprived as she so often appears, the ragabash torturedly draws herself into the break room without sparing a glance at its inhabitants. She makes a bee-line for the fridge, squinting her eyes as the sleep struggles to leave them. A leftover slice of pizza is scoured up, the crust of which she holds in her teeth as she snags herself some orange juice. Only when she's got herself all settled with food and drink does she make any effort to pay her surroundings any mind. Her eyes stop on Mouse, and there they linger. She sets down her glass and lets the piece of pizza drop down into her hand, deftly caught. "...Hey," Her voice cracks upon the first word, and she clears her throat. "--- Chief. Long time no see."

Mouse answers without looking away from the screen, and her fingers are, obviously, quite occupied. "Hey," she returns, and then gives a careless, "I've been busy," to the remark. "Figured rite preparation could take a break for one night." And, looking at her, she does look...thinner, than usual, where she never really had much to spare in the first place. "--In favor of beating up some /fucking assholes/, /yes/." Batman takes a lovely dive onto several hapless crooks. "I want one of these."

Considering her words for a moment, Riley elects silence for the time being, stuffing the slice of pizza into her mouth and chewing. She makes her way drowsily over to the couch and leans in against the back of it, popping up in the left corner of Mouse's peripheral vision as she chews and watches the game in action. "I guess," She mildly comments, "But the actual fighting segments are totally bogged down by all the 'Batarang to weirdly convenient gargoyle' mechanics. Plus, like, that vision thingy. There's like no reason to ever take it off ever." She keeps the topic of conversation mild while she eats her breakfast.

"Other than saving your eyes," Mouse agrees. "Anyway, you get to jump off rooftops all you like. Allow me this moment." And in truth, it doesn't look as though she's following the storyline so much as cornering every random group of thugs and cheerfully picking them off one by one, or conversely getting into the biggest brawls she can manage.

"Still prefer not to, if I can help it." Riley smirks, crunching down on the tough, chewy crust of the old pizza. "There's somethin' of a gargoyle shortage in this town, and all." Finishing off the last of her pizza over the course of the next minute or two, Riley leaves the theurge to her fierce button-pressing. When she's all through, she wanders on over to retrieve her orange juice. Fixing her gaze on the screen, Riley waits for just a few more fights to end before commenting, "...that ritual prep include starving yourself, or is that the bonus?"

"It's not starving," Mouse says, between button presses. "It's /fasting/."

That affords Mouse a soft little snort, and Riley shakes her head. "Right, well. 'Fasting', then. Is that a yes?"

"Yes," Mouse says, with her eyes still on the screen. "That's a yes." Batman proceeds to deliver a brutal beatdown to one particular thug. Bone cracks are involved. "Ritual cleansing of the body, etcetera. I want to be prepared once the wasps are dealt with."

That gets Riley's attention. She seems to visibly perk up at the mention of 'after the wasps'. Sucking a breath in, she sets her glass down. "Speaking of the wasps, where the hell do we stand on that? Last I heard of a plan sounded pretty far-flung."

Riley: Sorry, phone call. Still on it. Ack.

Mouse shakes her head once. "Ragabash go in, snatch the baby, pass it off to Jacinta outside--who can fucking fly--Jacinta runs it to the moonbridge that Skokiaan will have open, gives it to me on the other side, wasps follow Jacinta through, Jacinta brings me back and we close the moonbridge once we're back in the Caern. Everyone else deals with stragglers." She adds after a moment, and after another punch by Batman, "there's a lot of praying involved, but that's the gist. It's like a relay race, but more deadly."

"Yeah, that's about the shape of the far-flung idea that I heard." Riley comments, frowning. "'Cept in my head it sounds a lot more like, 'Ragabash sneaks in, takes the queen, agros all the wasps, and everyone dies messily." She leans against the back of the couch again, "...But then, I'm becoming pessimistic in my advanced age." Early twenties. It's the new fifty.

Mouse finally looks away from the screen just long enough to give Riley a squinty glance. "Not one Ragabash, multiple. Though I'd say not all of them; a small, reliable team. And it's not so far flung. It's about our only option, /and/ it fits well enough with all the dreams we got from Chimera. I'm laying odds they'll follow the baby queen over stopping to stomp all over everyone. She's their survival. And we don't have much time left; the old queen is on her way out. We don't move her soon, we're fucked. The wasps will stay while the Wyld energy moves on, and they'll end up devouring the entire goddamn forest.

"

"Yeah, well. Wouldn't want to lose all of us in one go, right?" Riley states, sardonically. She lifts her fingers to squeeze at the bridge of her nose and they detour off to wipe some of the sleep from her eyes. "Frankly, it doesn't feel like a good plan. It's based on a hell of a lot of assumptions, not the least of which is how these wasps behave, and... from what I read on Wikipedia, there's usually not a hard-and-fast royalty system in wasps. There's multiple fertile females, and they fly off and find new homes. The colony usually dies off after one generation anyway." She sucks on her teeth and mutters, "Not that I'm implying that there's a Wiki for this situation, but... I'm just saying, dreams and prophecies are great and all, but basing our course of action on whether or not they pan out accurately? I'm comfortable saying I don't like it."

"Come up with a better plan before we move," Mouse says; her eyes are back on the TV now. "If it's truly better, I'll endorse it. I'm not particularly keen on flying blind on this either, but what I do know is that every dream that's talked about events before this /has/ been accurate, insomuch as prophetic dreams ever are. And every single vision from Chimera involved moving that baby queen somewhere else, and every other dream involved St. Helens. We've been there, we know there's another Wyld spring, and the spirit of Spirit Lake is willing to have them."

Chewing on her lip for a moment, Riley eases off of her lean on the couch, walking back over to retrieve her glass of orange juice. "Well, at the very least do we have some kind of a plan to make it so we aren't walking into a death trap?" It would seem that the ragabash has surmised (or assumed) that she'll likely factor into the 'small team', regardless of her misgivings. "Like, I dunno. Smoke 'em with somethin'? Don't beekeepers do somethin' like that, y'know, with the uh, spray-deal... thing?" She pantomimes puffing smoke onto a honeycomb with a phantom tool. "Slow 'em down?"

Nicodemus has arrived.

"Very technical," Mouse remarks. "Spray-deal thing. Yes. We don't right now, no. There was talk of using that weird...that rite. Swarm Song. The Ragabash using that before they got in. As I understand it, getting /in/ is the hard part, at least until you reach the queen. Then that's the harder part."

Releasing a pained sigh, Riley drowns her apparent sorrows by chugging down the last of her orange juice. "Well, peachy. Anyone ever tried the damn thing out on 'em? I sure as hell haven't sought out the opportunity to go and hum at wasps and hope they feel generous enough to politely decapitate me rather than rip out my insides, so it's untested on my end."

*Ding!* The elevator announces its arrives on the 5th floor. A few seconds later, Nick darkens the doorway to the break room. True to form, he's carrying a bag of groceries in one hand and a 12-pack of sodas--Pepsi Throwback--in the other. "Interrupting anything?" he asks.

Mouse shrugs in response to Riley's question; the epitome of unhelpful. "I'll just state right here though, that if you go and get killed by wasps after surviving being stepped on by a fucking dragon without a /scratch/, I will stand up, walk over, and kick your corpse repeatedly in the face. So keep that in mind." Batman delivers another bone-cracking blow on-screen. "Bad guy beatings," she responds to Nick's inquiry. "Hey, Nick."

That prompts a bark of laughter from Riley, temporarily dispelling her mood's downward spiral. "Yeah, well. In my defense, there was only /one/ of the dragon." The ragabash flashes her teeth in a grin, "And you're glossing over the matter, anyway. There were definitely some bruised ribs." Nick's appearance gets her grin to turn wider and more jovial, because it affords her the opportunity to jibe, "Hey, TB! Just discussin' my impending demise. Shall I add you to the will?"

Nicodemus eyes Riley with a look of mixed curiousity and trepidation. "Should I even ask what 'TB' stands for? Or is that part of the joke?" He turns towards Mouse, having caught wind of something she just said. "Dragon? Another mokole?" How's that for diversification of subject matter?

Mouse shakes her head. "Oh, no no. This was that Wyld dragon, months and mont...has it been a year? Not quite, I suppose. The one that tied loops in my brain for a while. It stepped right on Riley. Gave me a fucking /heart attack/. But no, he pops right back up. --In any case, Riley, you should go and badger Elliot about Ragabash specifics. I started fretting over it and realized I can't drive myself sick with worry over both this /and/ the Caern ritual, so I'm limiting it to the ritual, where I'm actually going to be a significant factor in success and need to have my focus in the first place."

"If you have to ask, it's much more fun for me to just keep you in the dark about it. Inside joke and all that." Riley keeps her smile firmly mounted, nodding proudly through Mouse's story. It's seldom that the ragabash has much of a chance to gloat, so she takes every oppurtunity as it arises. "Well, he /coulda/ been lighter..." She lets her smile ease some, and she puffs a soft breath, "Yeah. Almost a year."

Nicodemus enters the room and directs his path towards the refrigerator, nodding at Mouse as she speaks. "Oh, okay. Sewall just got back a few days ago from visiting a mokole that was in Oregon of all places. Go figure, eh? And I've heard Val, who'd gotten wind of the mokole's location, call them dragons before. I was wondering if one had turned up in our backyard." He raises and eyebrow at Riley, then adds, "and if Riley had volunteered to become the unofficial welcome mat." The fridge gets open and groceries shoved into it. "Holy shit. Someone was bored and /cleaned/ inside the fridge recently."

"That's some boredom." Mouse proceeds to beat up a few more thugs, fling Batman once more off a building, and finally deigns to pause the game and set the controller aside. "With how many Garou we have here, I don't think a Mokole would step within a hundred miles of St. Claire. But then again, we did have a Bastet steal a fetish out from under us." Her eyes flick toward Riley. "...You know, I was thinking. Maybe Nieve went about it the wrong way. She asked various spirits to fix you, right? Asked them to change you back?"

"Not in my job description." Riley snorts, "Not especially looking to expand my repertoire of big, scaled creatures that have stepped on my chest. Unless if when the /Mokole/ blows up," She brainstorms, "It wanted to go ahead and give me back my boyparts. I guess then I'd be willing to amend my position." Nick's shock regarding the state of the fridge gets a roll of her eyes, "No love for my dragon story, but y'get all over the clean fridge. Nice, Dalton." A beat. "TB." She flicks her attention over to Mouse, and manages a weary smile. "Yup. Answer was more or less uniform - nothing to fix."

Nicodemus says to Mouse, "I can't imagine, with so many garou around here, that anything other than more garou and /maybe/ friendly shifters would even think about coming into the area. Not if they were sane, at least." He apologizes to Riley as he closes the fridge door. "Sorry. Val'd told me about you tangling with the sex-changing dragon shortly after it happened. If it helps, I made no jokes at your expense." He adds, "Neither did Val."

"Yes, but--" Mouse actually twists in her chair and adjusts her position, which turns out to be a mistake. She doesn't allow the wincing to really halt her train of thought. "That's exactly it. There's nothing to 'fix' because you were changed right down to your chromosomes. They looked at you and couldn't see anything wrong, because technically, there was nothing wrong /to/ see. So the question shouldn't be 'can you heal me' or 'can you fix me', it should be 'can you make me a male'? Which...comes with all sorts of potential problems of the literal genie sort, and would require a pretty powerful spirit, and maybe not a strictly Wyld spirit, or at least one that isn't unbelievably capricious, but maybe an appeal to Unicorn..."

Nick earns himself a little wave of the ragabash's hand, "Please. I'm as past the woe-is-me shit as I'm going to get. Have been for months." In spite of this claim, it's clear to a more experienced observer that her insecurities are not quite as distant as advertised. Mouse's spitballing, in fact, seems to cement this. The ragabash doesn't look excited by the prospect of this line of thought, but instead just looks weary. For a few seconds she lamely attempts a smile, but her shoulders lower. "Yeah. You're right. Something like that, it'd probably be possible, right?" She sounds tired, "But like you said, whatever hit me, it hit me hard." She swallows, and shakes her head, "...And... I've thought about it, and... what would even come out the other end if I were to make a request like that?" She glances sidelong, and uncomfortably rubs the back of her neck. "...at least right now, I've got more important things to worry on then what is or isn't between my legs." She glances up, "Not that I don't appreciate the thought."

"It could have been a lot worse: You could have died." Nick searches for that silver lining. He then offers what might even be a compliment to the ragabash. "All things considered, you seem to have managed making the adjustment fairly well over the past year. Probably better than most would have."

"We definitely all do," Mouse agrees. "But if things settle down, it's an avenue you might try. Has plenty of risks, but I think that's what the hang-up was." She's quiet for a moment, then picks up the controller again. "Anyway, you're not allowed to die to wasps. Or all-night rituals. That's an order."

"From the sound of things, there's still plenty of time and opportunity to get myself killed." Riley observes, her smile reappearing, if slightly tempered. Mouse's interjection to the contrary prompts a rather more genuine resurgence, and she closes her eyes and shows her teeth. "Yeah, well. Same goes for you, y'damn holocaust victim." Her voice takes on a fond affectation. "Still owe you those Cheetohs, so."

Nicodemus remains silent, massaging the fingers of his gloved right hand with his left, as if working out a kink, while the two garou discuss prior business. He contributes only a worried smile.

"/Fasting/," Mouse emphasizes. "And it's not like it's all the time, so yeah, you'd better get me those Cheetohs soon." She unpauses the game, and proceeds to continue hunting around for stray thugs. The comment on the staying alive bit goes unanswered. "So, I was also thinking, as I do, that when this whole vampire mess is settled, the Shadow Lords should have some accidents as regards their various amenities. You know. Electricity, water, any lingering sewer spy-cams...poof. Mysterious malfunctions and the city suddenly realizing they've not paid their bills in months, things like that."

"Sounds like that'd be very unfortunate," Riley concludes, "But these runs of bad luck have been known to happen." She looks thoughtful, muttering, "I wonder if those disused portions of sewer could start running again if given the proper encouragement. Nothing says refreshing like a wall of sewage descending on you." She snickers softly, then looks up. "Wait. Why the vampire thing?" Oh, so she didn't need a reason to play those sorts of meanspirited pranks.

Nicodemus snorts in mild amusement at Mouse's suggestion. "Evil. But... they kind of deserve it. Later, though." He adds quickly, "And don't involve Val in it. She's all ga-ga over the Stormcrow spirit buddy she made last summer." He frowns, clearly not happy about that situation.

Mouse nods once. "Noted. No Val involvement, unless you think she'll be pouty about being left out of a joke." She looks to Riley. "Well, first because the vampires need to be got rid of even sooner than the wasps, and second, because I'm pretty sure they /fucked/ us, or at least attempted to fuck us, either intentionally or through neglect in a desire to cover their own asses. Keep it under your respective hats for now, but the suspected mole is one of their kin, whom /they/ suspected ages ago, did nothing about, and said nothing about, and also made no mention of their own building being compromised to any of the other elders. And when Kavi called them on it the other day, they were blatant assholes, and in the process tried to put all the blame for us not knowing on Flint, conveniently the one non-Shadow Lord in their pack." One eye narrows. "So I think it's only fair that they understand that if they're going to hang around in the city, they should respect the city tribes, don't you?"

That gets Riley's attention in a big way. Most notably, her smile dissipates, then reverses. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd kinda say that if they had a hand in this pain in the ass situation, passively or no... they deserve at /least/ that much. I understand internalizing your tribal problems, but... there's being proud, and there's being retarded." She snorts, "Yeah, well. I'm in on that endeavor." She turns on her heel, "I'm gonna hit the shower. Hair's sticking up like I'm about to go SSJ." She rolls her eyes, and adds, "Or some... better anime reference. Anyway. Shower." She gives a wave of the back of her hand as she makes for the exit. "Mouse. TB."

"Son of a bitch," Nick exclaims in disbelief as Mouse lays out what the Shadow Lords did--and failed to do. His jaw tightens ever so slightly. Wheels are clearly already turning in his head. "Let me know if you need any help, Riley." He quickly adds, "With the Shadow Lords. Not your shower or hair."

Riley pauses and glances over her shoulder, lifting a brow. "Gross, Dalton."

Mouse gives Riley a very quick thumbs up. "We can think up details later. I figured a few of you wouldn't mind a project that isn't life or death for once, and I can sneak in a few lessons on specifics where needed." To Nick, she merely says, "Shadow Lords," as if that explains it in and of itself. "So, you want to play a game? I'm not even sure what we've got these days." She peers over at the game selection.

"Which is precisely why I offered that hasty clarification," Dalton offers to Riley, giving her a shoo'ing motion towards the shower as he makes his way to the couch to play video games. "I bought the clubhouse a copy of Black Ops 2, in case you didn't see it. Other than that? Whatever's on tap and preferably co-op."

Riley offers a momentary shake of her head, then heads out.

"You pick," Mouse offers. "I've had Batman beat up enough people for one night, I think." She adjusts her position in the chair just a little, but keeps hold of the first player controller. "How've things been for you? I've been a little...preoccupied."

Nicodemus slides off the couch to eyeball the selection of games, but not before he casts an eye towards the door and lowers his voice. "Unbelievably busy. I've got my day job, which fortunately doesn't take up a ton of time because I have ways of cheating the stock market and my boss, Charley, is Silver Fang kinfolk. I was able to negotiate a telecommuting option right from the get-go. And then there's my PI business, which Val is doing most of the work on, but I've got to balance the books and make sure the insurance is paid, invoices filled, bills paid, and collections sent after the deadbeats. My third job is all this," he waves a hand around, likely indicating the garou in general, "with a side order of vampires. It's not leaving a lot of time for my fourth job of, y'know, being myself when no one is watching." He pulls out the first 'Left 4 Dead' game for the xbox. "First person coop zombie shooter?"

"Sold," Mouse says, before lowering her voice to Nick's volume. "Anything I can do to help with that? At least until this ritual rolls around, I've been spending most of my time either preparing myself, or making the internet hell for certain assholes. It's entertaining, but it isn't exactly /work/. There isn't much I can do about the damned vampires that other people aren't already doing better."

Nicodemus shakes his head negatively, then pauses. "Actually, there is one... maybe two things that might help out." He loads the disc into the console as he shares an idea. "Do we have--or know of--a kinfolk who might be interested in running the PI firm? It'd be mostly paperwork and support for Val, and it'd take a load of tedious work off my hands. I could pay them like I do Val: the more that's brought in, the more they take home at the end of the month." He settles back onto the couch as he finishes speaking.

Mouse considers this for a few moments, lips pursed. "Well, there's Rina," she says slowly. "I've got no idea if she'd be interested in it, but I'm not sure if she's got anything to do these days other than her painting and family, and she's someone who doesn't do too well when she's idle. Considering the size of this tribe, we have a shocking lack of kinfolk in town. I've told you about--wait, /have/ I told you about Edward?"

"Something tells me Rina would not take well to being an administrative assistant for such a small business, although I'm sure she'd have a wealth of local contacts who'd be useful to the business." Nick repeats, "Edward? I don't recall hearing about an Edward."

"Right." Mouse starts up the game as she talks. "Edward Maxwell. You know the Maxwell Resort Hotel downtown? That Edward Maxwell. It's a bit of a story. See, he's Walker kin. A little before I came to town, we had his daughter CJ, as a cub. She had the usual cub troubles--adjustments, doubts, homesickness, getting along with other cubs--but her father and brother were in the know, so while she couldn't see them just then--too dangerous--she could talk with them over the phone. Anyway, Jack was out of town, so eldership was rather...oh, what's a polite way of putting it? As stable as a house made of termite-eaten toothpicks and Elmer's glue. There was a guy named Timothy in charge, Ahroun, and Mick and Chris were also cubs, and did /not/ get along with CJ. So at one point, they all got into trouble, and Timothy, not to speak ill of the dead, but the fucking /lunatic/, made her hold silver while in glabro, and then, since she was a philodox, told her she had to judge what punishment the other cubs got. Thereby driving a permanent wedge between an already shaky relationship."

Nicodemus listens to the background unfold with a constantly shifting series of expressions. "That.... That certainly explains some things. I actually...." He pauses. "Years ago, right after CJ had her first change and ended up out in the woods, she ended up coming to the cabin I was renting--the one I own nowadays. I ended up calling Salem to come get her. I saw her once or twice after that. One of the times, she'd run away. She said that life was hard and Mick and Chris were making life really difficult for her and--long story made short, I convinced her to go back before someone noticed she was gone." He shakes his head. "Small world. Weird coincidences. What ever happened to her?" Mick and Chris go completely unmentioned in his query.

Mouse listens intently to information that--clearly--she didn't know about until now. "...Weird coincidences seem to be a fact of supernatural life, the more I live it," she remarks. "Well, it didn't end /well/, but considering, it didn't end as badly as it could have. CJ's father eventually got wind of the situation, and she was sent off to rite at her mother's Sept--far from here, but last I heard, she was doing fine. So, as you can imagine, Mr. Maxwell wasn't very happy with the local Walkers."

"I wouldn't have been if I were in his shoes. Sounds like the tribe had an inordinate number of douchebags in it at the time." Nick rubs at his forehead, then points a finger at you. "You are so not allowed to die while fixing the caern. Riley and Salem aren't either."

Mouse says solemnly, "I promise I'll try my absolute best. I should probably explain what that entails, if you're still thinking about helping. But anyway, when I came to town, it was one of the first things I heard about, and from Mick and Chris at that. So I went down there to apologize to the man, and see if there was anything I could do to at least try and make up for it. Long story short...I guess I made a friend. He prefers not to get involved directly in tribal business, but when we lost the old safehouse he gave us a suite for as long as we needed, and now and then we've collaborated on something. In any case, obviously Edward Maxwell isn't going to be interested, or have time for, a PI business, /but/ he knows a damn lot of kin, and has a number of them working for him. He might actually know someone who'd be suited and interested. I could give him a call ...Plus, well, he's trustworthy, if you ever need someone else willing to help Walker kin, so I guess that's the other reason I'm telling you. Just let him know I'm your friend, and I vouch for you."

Nicodemus closes his eyes for a moment and leans back in the couch, utterly silent. Eyes still closed, he speaks after a couple seconds. "I'm taking a moment to relishing what it feels like to know people in high places." His eyes open and it's back to business as usual. "I'll give him a ring to set up an appointment. Did he share his private number with you? But it'd be best to fill the position with kin or... I imagine /maybe/ a garou who needed the money and was old and mature enough, but those tend to be pretty damn rare." He tweaks the settings for the game, letting you pick which character you want to play. "One other thing. It'd be kind of useful if I could.... How safe would it be for me to slip into Harbor Park's umbra? And, if so, would I need to be worried about the resident spirits?"

Mouse gives a faint, crooked grin. "He did, I can text it to you." The last questions have her pausing to consider for a moment. "I don't think you need to be worried about the spirits /inside/ the Glade, not unless you went and did something to piss them off. Light the Glade Children on fire or something. Don't do that. They might be damn curious. I think the bigger problem is that the entire Sept can use it, and while the more woodsy Garou tend to sneer any time I bring it up, that doesn't mean they don't turn up now and then, in addition to Walkers and Gnawers. Plus, we made that deal with the Bastet, which means at some point, we may well have one of them around there too." She lifts a finger. "Tell you what. What if I go and see if I can't hunt down my packmate, Jacob? He's got a gift I want anyway, that would let me take people into the Umbra with me. I want to give Rina the opportunity to see it, but it would take any suspicion off of you if I knew it and was with you when you went to the Glade. Even if Garou don't see you there, spirits talk. Plus, it would mean you could go more than once a month, if you wanted."

Nicodemus considers the options, concerns, and advice. "That would definitely help cover and explain my being there, though I was hoping to use it as a practice area, since any garou who did show up during a new moon would have to cross over from inside the park. And I'm not entirely certain as to how talkative the spirits are." He sighs, a little frustrated. "I can get over twice a month as is. Three if I push it twice a month and go on the waxing and waning half moons. Trying to sneak in another session during the 'off season,' so to speak, might just be me getting greedy. But I did want to get a good look at a glade from the spirit world." A beat, then he shares a bit more. "And I also wanted to see if I might be able to pass myself off as being one of the Weaver spirits that might be seen in the daytime in the city. Kind of hard to even experiment with that sort of thing while I'm largely crossing over at the woods near my cabin--or the Walkers' wooded territory when there's no garou on it and the weather's nice."

"That fetish in the Glade," Mouse explains. "It makes it so that the Glade is safe even during small moons; though, granted, I'm not sure anyone else but me really bothers to take advantage of it, apart from Nieve's recent stint. I've gone over from my car before. Not so much recently." There's a brief flicker of frustration, there and gone. "That said...with an excuse, you could also cross over here. The Weaver spirits are a little friendlier--for Weaver spirits--and as long as I can let them know it's okay, none of the spirits in the Tenement will try and take a bite out of you." She adds, after a moment, "Believe me, while I've got no idea how you see it, I can understand the draw."

"I noticed it's pretty much deserted--insofar as garou go--during the days when the moon is newish--ever since Nieve stopped camping out there, which got me thinking about making use of it. I could probably park the Winnebago across two parking spaces and slip through privately and completely unnoticed. I think the big wild card was the spirits and how they'd react. They're relatively few and innocuous out in the woods, but the glade? It's moths to the flame there. And I don't want them to think I was a danger. Anyway. Just something to think about for the future, I guess." His attention shifts to the video game that's finished loading by now. "Ready to shoot some zombies? You want to take point and I'll cover you and keep tabs on the rear?"

---


Tenement Building - Ground Floor(#2451RJ)

The ground floor of the apartment building is taken up mainly by the lobby, an open space with the front doors at one end and the elevator and the door leading to the stairwell at the other. The floor is covered in black and white tile in a checkerboard pattern, and the walls have been painted a neutral grey shade. A couch, two squashy armchairs, and two wooden chairs have been set up in a rough semi-circle around a square wooden coffee table, facing toward the front doors and positioned so as not to interfere with any traffic moving between there and the stairs. The furniture does not seem to be very old, but it has been well-worn in its short lifetime. A few potted plants have been set in corners, to give the old lobby a more welcoming atmosphere.

To the right of the main doors are mailboxes for building residents, and off to the left is the doorway into a cramped rental office (see +view), and other doors that lead to the building's large laundry room.

Obvious exits:
Stairs Salem's Apartment Out

Mouse is currently taking her own turn at the watch; or, at the very least, that's likely her reason for being down here, but the Walker elder seems to be occupied with far more than keeping an eye on the cameras. She's pushed the office chair out in favor of her own power chair, and next to the monitor she's set up her own laptop on the desk, at which she types furiously for a minute or so, then stops to read whatever's on her screen. If that weren't enough multitasking, she also appears to be talking--in /Japanese/--to the empty air around her. The conversation is animated, at least, and is abruptly punctuated with a triumphant crow, "/Got/ you, you son-of-a-bitch."

Sewall, bundled up in his big green overcoat and yellow-orange scarf and gloves, enters the lobby from outside. He looks chilled, tired, burdened by his backpack (which only looks half full), but there's a determined gleam in the Fang's eyes behind the clunky-looking glasses.

Mouse at least unlocks the door for him, and by the time he's inside she's ceased her conversation with the air and has turned her chair to face toward the door. "Hey. You look like you've been productive."

Sewall does a brief bit of awkwardness with his cane in order to get the backpack off his shoulders, letting it drop to the couch with a muted thump. "It has been a good week." He pauses in the act of pulling off his scarf. "Mostly."

Mouse keeps half an eye on the screens, and reaches out to tap a few keys. "Good, that's good. Feel like sharing?"

"The fetish I'm attempting to locate was last seen in Sante Fe, New Mexico," says the Fang, rattling things off as he divests himself of coat, scarf, and gloves. "This was back in the nineteen-sixties, which is practically /yesterday/ when compared to the timescale under which I /had/ been operating. Unfortunately, it's probably in the hands of the Black Spiral Dancers. /Fortunately/, our corrupted cousins are rarely subtle, and I've been doing a study of the area for locations especially known for a high incident of violent crime, illness, and poor environmental conditions." He folds his coat neatly over the back of the couch and settles next to the backpack. "I'm almost close enough to /touch/ it."

Mouse's expression briefly twists at the mention of Dancers, but she listens fairly intently. "They tend to work like us. If they do still have it, it's probably being held by the biggest asshole of the bunch."

"Most likely," Sewall agrees. "Also, I don't imagine I'll be able to drum up proper interest within the Sept until the caern issue is settled." He frowns. "Nor will I be of much use in regards to the actual physical challenge of getting it out of wherever it is." He's deflated somewhat at this, frustration furrowing his brow and pulling thick eyebrows together. His gaze slides sideways toward his cane, now propped up against the couch, near the backpack and coat.

Mouse follows his glance, and her jaw briefly tightens. "/Well/," she says slowly. "It's not like you don't have time on your side. If it hasn't been corrupted in fifty-odd years, chances are pretty slim it won't be in a few more months, and if it /has/, then again, nothing changes. Time to prepare, time to plan." She lets her voice trail off for a moment. "...Of course, that doesn't make waiting any easier."

Sewall's right hand opens and closes in an absent-minded kind of way. "No, it does not. You are, however, correct." He inhales a breath, lets it out, and pulls his gaze away from the cane to focus on the Walker elder. One hand comes up to push his glasses up his nose in a prim gesture. "How are you doing, Mouse-rhya?"

Mouse appears to give this question some thought, before she shrugs. "Well enough. Frustrated with my own limitations, mostly. Trying to prep for re-awakening the Caern, which in other words means I'm waiting. The nice thing is, there's lots of prep work I can make up when it comes to preparing for a major ritual."

"What sort of preparation?" asks the Fang, curious.

"Mn." Mouse reaches over and taps at her laptop again, still keeping only half an eye on it. "Lots of meditation. Fasting. Incense burning. Feeding the roaches on both sides of the Gauntlet. In this case, a damn lot of praying too."

"And the ritual itself?" Sewall shifts himself a bit, grimacing, in order to face the Walker more directly. "What does that involve?"

Mouse gives a low whistle. "Well, my hope is--my /hope/--that reawakening a Caern is somewhat less taxing than opening an entirely new one, but there's no guarantee, so I'm treating it just the same. Plenty of Cleansings of the site and the participants. The rite itself goes all night, and at its most basic, involves channeling Gnosis from all participants through the ritemaster and into the new, or newly awakening, Caern at set intervals." She adds, dryly, "And in the meantime it's a massive beacon to anything remotely Wyrm-tainted anywhere remotely nearby, which means we'll likely be facing an assault at the same time."

Sewall frowns. "Well, that would explain why it's not often done, then. That, and the rarity of suitable locations."

"And the energy required," Mouse agrees. "The rite itself can be deadly to anyone involved, and especially the ritemaster. We'll need as many Garou as we can get, and as much focus as we can manage." She inhales, and gives her head a sharp shake. "Especially since I'm so busy being an invalid these days. Even if I could divert attention from the rite to help defend, I wouldn't be able to."

Sewall's mouth thins out. "I emphathize," he says sincerely. "I empathize a great deal."

Mouse regards Sewall for a moment, and then nods very slightly. "...Anything I might do about that has to wait until I know I'll be around to bother with it, anyway. So. Ritual prep and waiting."

Sewall's gaze drifts toward the power chair. "What /would/ you do, about... that?" He looks back to Mouse's face.

Mouse shrugs, and glances to the side, away from both Sewall and the computer screens. "Dunno if there's anything /to/ do. But my tribe has a reputation for a certain kind of fetish. I might, possibly, try to pull a few favors. Or...there's always the Cyberrealm."

"The Cyberrealm?" Sewall's whole attention is fixated on Mouse now; the portly Fang is, as always, rather greedy for knowledge.

Mouse tips her head toward Sewall. "/Really/ nasty place. Weaver central. First came around, or so they say, around the Industrial Revolution, so think of it as a mix between the worst of that and modern technology combined. It's ugly, it's fucking dangerous for spirit and Garou alike...and if you're lucky, and find the right people, and do the right favors, you might be able to obtain a cyberfetish from them. Faster, but much, much more dangerous."

"Hmm." Sewall leans back against the couch cushions, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. After a little bit, he remarks, not-quite-offhandedly, "I've been studying robotics in my spare time."

Mouse's gaze flickers from the computer screen back to Sewall, interest clearly snagged. "Yeah?"

"Robotics and orthotics." Sewall pushes his glasses up his nose. "Like you, I am quite dissatisfied with my... handicap."

"There's something I never thought I'd hear from a Silver Fang," Mouse remarks, though she phrases it like a compliment. "And of course, you run headfirst into the shifting problem."

Sewall certainly takes it as a compliment, judging by the tight little smile, though his expression quickly sobers. "Of course. A leg brace would be the simplest solution -- for myself, at any rate -- and could probably be Dedicated, but that feels... very limited. Rather like your chair. But a... how you put it, a cyberfetish? That ought to bypass the issue with shapeshifting." He squints a little, his gaze turning inward. "And the /possibilities/, with spirits involved..."

Evac has arrived.

"The other thing about the Cyberrealm that I've heard," Mouse says slowly, "is that the technology there is actually quite a bit ahead of us here. Hover cars and shit. Which makes sense, seeing as it's run by Weaver spirits. So, yeah, quite a lot of possibilities. There's just that whole 'run by Weaver spirits that want to kill you and suck your Gnosis' problem." She shakes her head. "Have you seen my brace? A friend got it for me, after taking a lot of measurements. It's...not perfect, but I can at least walk with it, and it's a hell of a lot better than the back braces I had when I was younger."

Sewall shifts his weight on the couch and nods distractedly, his brain ticking along a hundred miles ahead, chasing dangerous ideas like a dog fetching sticks of dynamite. "There is risk and danger in any worthwile enterprise," he says.

The front door to the building opens with the familiar sound of the turn of a key and it's Riley that steps over the threshold. She turns and locks and re-secures the door before entering into the building in earnest. For a rare change, her winter coat is actually zipped up, the tacky faux-fur of her hood dangling around eye-level. She casts a momentary look to Sewall and Mouse and gives a tight, distracted nod of her head. Her legs, boots and the hem of her dress are all dappled in dried mud. "Evenin', guys."

Mouse regards Sewall thoughtfully. "There's also risk and danger in coming back with one, you know," she points out. "We might end up cutting ourselves off from the Caern. The fetishes themselves might--" She grunts and cuts herself off. "It's all daydreaming right now anyway. Caern first." Her eyes flick over as Riley enters. "Hey."

Sewall reluctantly pulls himself back to the here and now, but a seed's definitely been planted. "Caern first," he agrees.

"Interruptin' any deep thoughts?" Riley smirks, craning her head to the side. She tips her hood back and goes about the process of unzipping her coat. She takes a few steps forward, hands in her pockets, and when her hands leave them, the ragabash seems to be holding what look like plastic sippy-cups. She sets them down on the table near the couch as if immensely proud of them, and looks to Mouse expectantly. "...Do we have a go-to for Awakening alcohol?"

Mouse crosses her arms lightly over her chest, and leans back in her power chair with a faint grimace. "If I'm Awakening any alcohol that isn't mine, there needs to be a good reason. Like 'it's my birthday' or 'I just stopped the Apocalypse'."

Sewall leans back, fingers laced over his belly. He regards Riley's cups with distracted curiosity.

Pausing for a moment to fold her arms over her chest and look thoughtful, Riley's having a difficult time keeping her poker face. She nonetheless starts the sentence at a deadpan. "Oh, you really don't wanna go drinking that. It's strong stuff. Anyway, nah, it's y'know... not the best reason, I guess." Riley slumps down beside the little coffee table and smacks both of her hands down on it so hard that it nearly shudders her sippy cups over. She has to reach out and quickly stabilize one. Only then does her toothy grin train itself on Mouse, "How's 'this shit lured and incapacitated the wasps even /without/ being awakened' strike your fancy?" Another fierce slap of the table. "Boom, baby."

Mouse's eyebrows arch upward. Her arms loosen, and she even starts to lean forward--starts, because that's a bad idea, and she's quickly straightening back up with barely veiled winces. "Mng. /Nng/. I take it this is that whole 'find a better option' thing we discussed? What is it? And how many wasps are we talking here?"

Oh, /this/ gets the Fang's attention. And he /does/ lean forward, jaw clenching a little but far more successful at this than Mouse.

"Bawnfruit. It's Bawnfruit. Remember when we all woke up in the Caern -- you know, the worst night ever -- well, like, I remember seein' a lot of the damn things bumbling... wait, or was it when we scou--- okay, it doesn't matter." Riley seems to be having trouble keeping her teeth from showing. "We saw a bunch of 'em chowing down on these piles of really wasted-looking bawnfruit, right? And they were acting really goofy and drunk... so it got me to thinking, hey. Maybe they were." Brilliant deductive skills, really. "So I got some bawnfruit together a couple months ago and shovelled 'em off on that kid Rowan. He did some Gift, or right, or... well, whatever, he totally made Bawnfruit Liquor. /And it totally works/."

*right=rite

Mouse reaches into her pocket, produces her phone, slides her thumb across the surface, and then presses the screen a few more times. When this is done, she hands the phone over to Riley. There's a number across the display, along with 'EG'. "You proved it, you call the Alpha. If you Ragabash can get more of this stuff, I'll Awaken it personally."

Sewall leans back again, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Hmmm."

Seated as she is, it's not hard to miss the little rips in her clothing, nor the little gash on her cheek. Coupled with the mud, it seems more than clear that she's been tromping about fairly recently. "Not the only news I got. I took myself a little walk." She folds her arms, "I've had that damn stupid song stuck in my head... you know, that stupid one from the dream." She gives a few hummed little notes of it, and sure enough, it's annoying. "Anyway, so... not only did I get me some wasps drunk off of their asses to the point that they attacked /eachother/ when I tossed a rock at the jar of this shit? But before I did, I was able to walk right up to 'em. /Even the ones that weren't drunk./ Some of the littler big ones landed on me, waved their antennae, sorta glowered at me, but didn't do a thing to me." She bobs her head. "And, like... after I chucked that rock in there, I used that Ragabash gift, and they totally dropped agro. Didn't see through it for shit."

Evac backpedals her thoughts, "Oh, but, like... I mean... I think that stupid song I was talking about might have something to do with it. Been humming the damn thing at least once a day for the past week and a half or so, and the wasps around Edgewood are just plain ignoring me."

Mouse looks from Riley to Sewall, then back to Riley. "Call the Alpha," she says seriously. "And let me look at one of those." A wave of her hand indicates one of the sippy cups.

And Sewall? Sewall is /smiling/. It's not exactly a pleasant expression, though. He grasps his cane and starts getting to his feet and gathering his coat and backpack.

Riley takes a long breath after her extensive rambling thoughts, and spends a moment to just look extremely pleased with herself. "Yeah. I'll do that. Gimme his number, I don't know it. We've like, barely talked." She gives a quick little snap of her fingers. "Oh. Oh, right. There's some other stuff too. I don't know how important it is, or... really what it means, but... it was a productive little walk in the inner bawn." The ragabash scrubs quietly at the back of her head. "For one, I definitely saw the bigger wasps breaking down the wyld-touched plants. And they were either blinkin' in and out of the Umbra while they were doin' it, or... I dunno, going invisible, or something." She shrugs. "...Also, I saw this snake run over one of the Wasps. I think the others didn't notice until it started smearing the things guts along with him, then they were on that thing - huge snake, by the way - in like no time flat. So... they've got that sorta... smell, scent... thingy? You know, like you kill a bee and more bees come? I dunno if that's news." Riley points hyperactively at the sippy cup again. "Anyway, seriously, don't drink. It's distilled bawn. It didn't /change/ the Wyld-touched stuff, just made 'em drunk or killed 'em outright. I feel like it'd be a bad idea to drink."

"/Riley/." And this time Mouse sounds a little exasperated, but amusedly so. "Here. On the phone I'm handing to you. Just press the call button. And yeah, pheromones sounds likely. It's possible the Wyld's made the Gauntlet so thin on that part of the Bawn that the wasps can just go in and out without any problem."

"There's little that's as satisfying as an 'eureka' moment," Sewall says, backpack slung over one shoulder and coat over his arm. His hand's white-knuckled on the cane. "Mouse-rhya? Riley? Good night. And congratulations." This is offered, of course, to the other Ragabash, and seems sincere.

Leaning her head back to a toss an easy smile Sewall's way, Riley nods her head. "Hey, thanks. But congratulate me when somethin' to do with this stuff actually helps out. Could still all blow up in our face, right? Or be useless." She delivers the dose of pessimsm with cheerful optimism. Nevertheless, she snags the phone from Mouse and leans back, listening to the phone ring. And ring. And ring. Voicemail. "Nnnng, do I really have to ... all over again? Fuuuuck."

"Yep," Mouse says, with a capricious sort of grin. "It's worth it, in the end. He'll remember /you/ told him about what you did, rather than remembering I called him about something someone in my tribe came up with." She gives the departing Fang a nod. "Night, Sewall."

Sewall heads for the elevator. Just before the doors close behind him, a few humming notes can be heard. Flight of the Valkyries?

Pacing about, Riley begins, at length, to try to retell her story via voicemail. It's only a little bit less meandering and rambling on the second passing, althought she does incorporate the word 'Pheromone' into her explanation instead of her more-technical 'sorta smell scent thingy'.

Mouse lets her do this, returning more of her attention to the laptop she has set out on the security desk. The perceptive might notice, however, that she seems a little more relaxed than she was before, and there's a faint quirk to the corners of her mouth.