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renferretEx meets Nieve, chats with Kevin.
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:
Kevin
Nieve
Memorial
Information Board: Skindiggers Cult
Obvious exits:
Out
Into the breakroom comes a Nieve, Ex in tow. She's suggested Ex might like to grab some breakfast, since she's going to be doing so herself, and so here they are. "Y'got anythin' y'particularly wanna eat? Got th' usual stuff," she tells the cub, heading over kitchenwards to fix something - for herself, a toastie.
Ex is looking sullen today--not a big change, really--and she slumps along behind Nieve with a distinct lack of any sign of enthusiasm. It's a good thing her hair is so short, because she certainly hasn't made any attempts to comb it. She's wearing black gloves, the bottoms of which she's pulled the sleeves of her hoodie down over, and there's an empty sketchbook and a somewhat woebegone looking pencil (tip mostly gone), under one arm. "No," she says, in answer to Nieve. "The fuck's the usual stuff?"
"There's pop tarts?" chirrups Kevin from his seat, turning to give Ex a big smile.
"Bread for toast or toasties or grilled cheese, pop tarts," Nieve begins, nodding to Kevin's contribution. "Bacon, sausages, cold pizza, leftover chinese, cereal an' milk, an' if you're lucky prob'ly some -actual- sugar t'put on it, if Chit-Chat ain't been at the cupboards."
Ex dumps sketchbook and pencil on the table. There's no hint of a return smile in the glance she gives Kevin, and she doesn't seem particularly inclined to follow Nieve into the kitchen. She stands there for the moment, with her frown tugging at her lips.
"M'gonna do grilled cheese, I think," Nieve decides, beginning to rummage around for bread, cheese etc. "Y'want some, or not bothered?" This is to both the no-moons.
"I'm good," Kevin calls back. "Never eat anything till after my morning run." He hits pause on the remote control. "Sleep well, Rogue?" he asks politely.
"Okay," Ex answers Nieve. No hint of enthusiasm. There's a beat, and then she answers Kevin, "No." The cub yanks out the nearest table chair, and drops herself into it.
The Theurge goes about the business of arranging for some grilled cheese sandwiches to come into existance - she's no chef, but this is hardly gourmet fare. "S'far as I can tell, ain't much gonna please our guest 'till she's learned what she needs to an' she's set free," she tells Kevin mildly. "Guess I can understand that, though it makes for a pretty shitty short-term future."
"As I recall it, I was much the same," Kevin says with equally relaxed tones. "When I was a cub Natalie was elder, and man, was she ever anal about keeping cubs where she could see them, 24-7. I hardly even saw the sun for two months."
Nieve's words seem to have the effect of pushing a little bit of energy back into the sullen cub, none of it good. "You're so fucking sure," she fairly spits toward the Theurge, but then her eyes snap toward Kevin. They narrow to mere slits.
The dreadlocked woman glances back to Ex. "Yep, 'fraid I am. Been doin' this since I imagine you were very young. Eighteen years now," she confirms. "Pretty much nobody is happy t'learn what they are, if they ain't been raised to it. Nobody. An' there's some that won't never be happy 'bout it. Some make it as lone wolves, away from it all. Most end up dyin'."
Kevin mmmms at Nieve's words. "Fraid to say, she's pretty much on the button there. I hated it then, and I'm not all that gone on it now, but it's what I am and there's no doing anything about it, so I muddle along best I can and try to keep my fuzzy hide intact. Only way to go about it that I've found works."
"That's me," Ex says, with a heat and intensity that isn't matched by her volume, which is still quite low. "I'm not dying just because you fucking say so. Gonna get away from all of this shit. No doctors, no dying in creepy cult battles, no walls, just /me/."
"Only problem is, Ex, there's a war on. An' you, by virtue of bein' a werewolf, are involved," Nieve tells the cub quietly. "We? We ask. We ask that you join us, an' that you play ball with us. Learn about th' things out there, an' do your best to make shit better. Askin', that means you can say no." She flips the sandwiches one by one. "The Wyrm, on th'other hand, don't ask. It takes. It takes cubs who ain't got the skill to fight it off, or the sense to know when to run, or th' uncontrolled anger it craves to make use of. It takes them, an' it turns them into shock troops, to be killed by people like us."
"Hold onto that," counsels Kevin. "That fuck-you, I'm going to stay alive, feeling. Point it in the right direction, it'll serve you well. Course, like any gun, point it at your own side and things'll turn to shit. Nieve's right again. You're not in a position where you can quit the game. You have to pick one side or the other. Right now you're with us, and we're -- I won't say the good guys, but our hats are a whiter shade of grey than the other side's."
Ex stands up fast enough to send her chair clattering. "/No/," she snaps, including both Walkers in her feverish glare. "Maybe /you're/ fucking werewolves, with your war and your words and your spirit monsters. I'm /me/. I'm saying no! No /Worm/, no /ranks/, no new recruit."
"Okay." Nieve nods slightly. "Alright. From now on, we show you nothing else. If you don't wanna be involved that's fine, but the less we show you now, the less you can tell the Wyrm when it catches up with you." She looks across to Kevin. "She's got some faces an' names she needs to forget. An' we'll need to move out of here when she's gone. 'til then, please let th' others know, no more lessons 'cept control. An' nobody gets attached, 'cause within a year, she'll be on the police missing person report."
"You're hardly a new recruit, my pippin," Kevin points out affably. "You were a recruit as soon as you were born, same as me, same as all of us here. Ain't nothing to be done -- believe me, if there was I'd've done it." He looks across to Nieve. "Let's see how she feels after she's had some breakfast. I get cranky on an empty stomach, too."
Ex lifts both gloved hands, and roughly flips the table right over. She follows this up with an audible snarl--not entirely human sounding--and a vicious kick to the upturned table's nearest leg, hard enough to threaten to crack it. "Nobody's fucking looking, you stupid bitch!"
"Everyone here, you've seen. When the wyrm finds you - and it will - it will squeeze that knowledge out of you like water from a sponge." Nieve's words are quiet, calm, controlled. "Because you don't want to learn how to fight it. And like I said, that's your choice. But if you're not with us, you're a liability, and that's somethin' we need to minimise. So, since you're stickin' by your choice, that means keepin' to a minimim what you could share with the enemy who would like nothin' more than to see you corrupted. Now, control your anger." She turns from the kitchen, two plates in hand, and comes across towards the table. There's nothing overtly threatening about her manner, but the unspoken ending to that sentance rings loud.
Kevin comes up out of his chair when the table gets flipped, like a bunny disappearing into a hole at the sight of a predator. Although he's tensed up and poised for action, his words remain calm and measured. "Don't bust up our furniture, please. If you want to thump someone, I'll take you to an empty room and you can try laying into me. But the poor old table can't fight back."
Ex gives Nieve a look that can only be described as watery-eyed fury, then jerks away from her, and the table. She gives Kevin a wide berth, and a brief, sharp glance of his own, but instead of replying she retreats to the other side of the room, not too far from the line of computers, and slumps against the wall. Head goes to knees, arms go over head, and she draws in a slow, shuddering breath.
"Breakfast is here when you're ready. Kevin, would you mind pickin' the table up so I can put these down?" Nieve asks politely, still holding the grilled cheese plates.
Kevin re-inverts the table and straightens it up, picking up the various small items scattered around which were originally atop it.
Ex rocks a little, in her chosen 'time out' spot, but she doesn't otherwise change or respond.
Sitting at the table as it is set up again, Nieve nods her thanks to the other Adren, placing down the plates. She begins eating her own breakfast, laying into it with a will - apparently arguments in the morning give her an appetite.
"Let us know when you're ready to talk," Kevin remarks, in a loud enough tone that Ex can't miss it even if she chooses not to respond.
It would appear that's exactly what Ex chooses. She continues to rock a little in place, with her arms over her head, and her face pressed into her knees. Her sketchbook and pencil, having been on the table at the time of it's abrupt change of position, are lying a small distance away from the kitchen now.
Nom, nom, nom. Nieve finishes her sandwich with every sign of enjoying it, though she's not a particularly noisy or messy eater. "I guess I'm lucky, in a way," she tells Kevin quietly - though not so quietly Ex can't hear if she chooses to. "I only got shot, to make me First. She's been through worse."
"I was hearing," Kevin says, not without sympathy. "Did you know what you had coming? I wasn't clued. Wish I cold have seen my face when I popped. I thought I'd gone diddle-o. Sometimes I still wonder whether all this is just a dream from eating too much cheese on toast before bedtime."
"Nope. My parents knew. The sept knew. They'd prepared for me - but nobody breathed a word to me until it happened. When they saw the signs of anger, they locked me up and shot me so that I'd change. Then the lessons began," she tells Kevin mildly. "Only in the leg, mind. Nowhere dangerous."
"I didn't get shot till a month or more after firsting," Kevin recalls, sounding almost nostalgic. "Jack Salem put a slug in me. I wish he hadn't looked like he enjoyed it quite so much." He grins slyly. "I know I grumble about what I am and shoot my mouth off, but you have to admit that being able to take a gutshot and pretty much shrug it off, /is/ kind of awesome." Again, he makes sure these words are loud enough to be heard not only by Nieve but by Ex.
"S'true." Nieve nods slightly. "Worst I ever had? Fightin' a dragon. A bane dragon, on my first pack quest. Got a fuckin' awesome scar to show for it, mind. Fucker almost ripped me in half. But, his head was a fine trophy for Chameleon when we were through." She motions to her own body, from her left shoulder down to her left hip, indicating the scar.
Ex abruptly pulls off her gloves, shoves them into the pocket of her hoodie, and shoves up from the floor. "You want to see /mine/?" she says. Her tone might be mistaken for eagerness, but one look at her face will prove that isn't so. That general, feverish look to her eyes seems to have spread to the rest of her face. There's an uncomfortable intensity in her expression and her limbs that doesn't speak to terribly good things.
Kevin seems to be about to respond to Nieve when Ex chips back in, and Kevin turns to respond to her. "I'll take a look if you want to show me," he says. The words are as utterly neutral as he can make them, with no trace that he would prefer either a positive or a negative answer.
"Only if you can keep your temper while you tell us about it," Nieve replies blandly. It seems she wasn't kidding about control being the only lesson.
Without further warning--and barely waiting for permission--the cub yanks up the bottom of both her hoodie and the shirt beneath. There's an ugly scar that runs vertically right down her torso, starting in the middle of her chest (and she yanks both shirts up that high), and disappearing below the waistband of her jeans. It is far straighter and far neater than any scar earned in an actual fight. She lets both Garou get a good look at it, and then drops her grip on her shirts in order to give them the middle finger with her right hand.
Kevin looks at it dispassionately. "Has anyone mentioned to you yet the significance of scars in the garou community?" he asks. Again, he doesn't imbue the question with an expectation of a 'yes' or a 'no' in reply.
The middle finger goes unmentioned, apparently by both. Nieve adds nothing to Kevin's comment, curious about the answer.
"No," Ex says, flatly. She turns on her heel, goes a few steps, and stops, her back decidedly toward them.
"Thought you might like to know, since it's obviously relevant to you," Kevin points out to Ex's back.
"Scars are a sign of what we've survived," Nieve voices simply. "Often, the enemies we've killed - but not always. I at least had the chance to kill the beast that gave me this. I wonder if you'd like the opportunity to do the same." Nieve sheds both her hoodie and the t-shirt below, standing in a bra without any shred of self-conciousness. One half of her body is thoroughly tattooed along the right, from collarbone along the arm, and also down the ribs - a machine below the skin. The other side, she's got a three-claw scar, long healed but still painful to look at for some, running from over her left shoulder down along her side, vanishing under her waistband.
Ex can't resist a slight look over her shoulder, despite her turned back. "Wasn't a beast," she says, flatly. "Human. People. Thought you didn't kill people."
Kevin checks out Nieve's scar with the eye of an auctioneer sizing up a piece of antique furniture. "Nice one," he murmurs, and this time it's definitely a compliment. "And, Rogue. Firstly, define 'people'. Am I a person? I'm a werewolf, after all. Some of the people we're up against are... similar. People who aren't really people, or aren't wholly people, or aren't people any more..."
"Survival," Nieve tells Kevin in return with a faint smile, before turning her attention back to Ex. "People who know about werewolves? Unless they're related to us by blood, our kin, chances are they ain't human. Not wholly," she affirms Kevin's point.
"People," Ex repeats, flat and insistent. "They aren't carriers, and they're un-mutated hum--" It's at this point where something seems to catch her eye. She spins around and stares at Nieve's uncovered torso. "Wait, what the--what the /fu/--" It happens right in mid-sentence. Suddenly there's a panicking, half-tangled, black furred wolf where a person was standing, darting for the door heedless of obstacles, including her poor, abused clothes.
You have shifted to Lupus form.
Rogue(#1291Pc)
A gangly looking she-wolf, with ice-blue eyes that contain an uncomfortable level of intensity. She has black fur, uneven and unhealthy looking, which seems to be lacking in the usual thickness in various areas. Discolored grey fur marks a number of scars; not the wild gashes of battle, but rather thin, clinically neat. By far the largest and thickest stretches down from the middle of her chest to her abdomen, where it intersects with a smaller, horizontal scar that stretches from hip to hip. Two matching scars adorn each cheek, from the corner of her muzzle to the bottom of each ear, and another, nearly invisible, across her forehead. Her right foreleg appears to bear some kind of marking, but against the dark fur and blue-black skin, it can't be easily made out.
In the wink of an eye, Kevin bursts into crinos form, and takes huge, springing strides after the fleeing wolf toward the door.
"It's a tattoo, Rogue. I'm a mechanic." Nieve remains where she is, trusting in Kevin's burst of activity to stop the wolf escaping. "It's not real. It's just ink."
Between her own tangled state and Kevin's speed, Rogue barely reaches the doorway. She goes down under the crinos with a high pitched yelp, a noise that turns into a panicky sort of snarl as she tries to bite at the much bigger, furrier thing preventing her escape.
Speech-and-Silence concentrates on wrapping himself round the frenzying cub and trying not to inflict actual damage upon her while immobilising her.
It's times like this that not getting in the way is better than trying to help. Nieve pulls her hoodie back on so the offending tattoo is no longer on display, pulling her dreadlocks out of the cloth and arranging them in silenc.
Nieve: +e
Rogue continues to struggle wildly, but she stands no chance against Speech-and-Silence. Eventually, rather thoroughly contained, she falls to the occasional kick and a high, keening whine. Her ears are plastered flat against her head, her tail is tucked as far between her legs as it can go, and at some point in her struggling, she appears to have urinated on herself. Delightful stuff.
Speech-and-Silence makes little throaty noises as he clings onto the wriggling animal. They aren't exactly growls; they appear to be the closest a crinos throat can approximate to "Ssh, ssh".
"I am sorry, Rogue." Nieve speaks her words quietly, calmly, hoping they'll penitrate the cub's terrified lupine exterior. "I promise, it is only ink. Not real."
Rogue's kicks eventually die down as well, and the mindless, fear-filled eyerolling ceases. Her body language shifts from fear to blanket confusion. What? Where? What? And then the urine-smell sinks into her nose. Gross!
Speech-and-Silence gingerly releases his grip a little, ready to pounce again if the frenzy isn't over.
"It's control, again." Nieve explains this gently, assuming the cub has never foxed before. "The flipside of anger is fear, for us. Either can make you lose control. You tried to flee."
Gross! Rogue attempts to squirm away from Speech-and-Silence's loosened grip. She manages a very awkward sort of belly crawl, but her legs all seem to have their own idea about which way to move. Still, it's clear she's not panicking any more. You peed on me! she accuses. Gross!
Speech-and-Silence releases the indignant cub. ~I did not --~ he begins, then checks himself, and shifts down to glabro. "I did not," he retorts gruffly, sitting up. "Any peeing that got done round here, you did."
Nieve smiles faintly. "You can tell by the smell, young and female. Even with a human nose, if you know what to sniff for. Are you able to return to human form, Rogue?"
Rogue attempts to get one paw underneath herself, and succeeds only in tumbling over onto her side. There's no dignity here. Bad! What? Her ears unplaster themselves enough to swivel in Nieve's direction, though her tail remains firmly tucked. Peed on me!
Kevin returns to homid, and looks at his stained clothing ruefully. "Laundry day came early," he remarks, with the ghost of a smile.
"Think about two legs and two arms, Ex. Think about wearing clothes and using your hands to hold a knife and fork, or open a door handle. Think about human things," Nieve offers by way of helpful instruction on how to get to breed form.
Rogue rumbles as she manages to wiggle her way out of the remains of her clothes. The hoodie may survive. The shirt and jeans, nope. She attempts to stand again, only for her front paws to go completely opposite directions, and for her to come down nose first, with a sharp yelp. Ow! Bad! The cub growls at her tattered jeans, as if they were to blame, and then finally makes a rather drunken looking head turn to face Nieve. What?
"C'mon, you can do it," Kevin exhorts. "Upsy daisy." He mimes rearing back onto two legs.
"Think about using your hands. Opening doors, brushing your teeth, clapping. Hands are human," Nieve suggests. "It helps you get into the right mindset, and your body does the rest."
There's another frustrated rumble from the cub. Stupid! Rogue declares, though she doesn't manage to declare /what/ is stupid. And after another few moments of failing to make any progress, either in standing or shifting, she bares her teeth and stares balefully at her front paws. Hands. Hands. Her ears flatten, and she growls at them. /Hands/.
Kevin gets down on all fours, then holds his hands up in front of him. "Hands," he repeats, in English. "C'mon, Rogue, you can do this."
"Think about doing human things," Nieve encourages quietly. "Eating with a knife and fork. Taking a dump on a toilet. Sleeping in a bed. Wearing clothes, and so on."
Hands! Rogue snarls, at her paws-which-are-not-hands. And then, quite suddenly, they are. The cub is left blinking, naked, and looking rather irritable, but once again human. That scar she showed earlier is visible. So is another that intersects it across her abdomen. So are a few others, all quite precise and neat. On her inner right arm, in neat blank ink, is tattooed: X75V-31.
You have shifted to Homid form.
Alias removed.
Name set.
Alias set.
"Ta da!" Kevin calls out. "See, I told you you could do it." His eyes alight on that tattoo, and they suddenly go very cold and angry, though no other outward change in his demeanour takes place.
Grabbing the girl's hoodie, Nieve passes it to Ex so she can pull it on and spare herself any embaressment she might be feeling. Certainly, neither of the older Garou seem bothered by the nudity, more the tattoo. "If'n you want rid of that tattoo, it can be done," she tells the cub as she rises, moving away so she's not crowded.
Ex frowns at the sudden change in Kevin's eyes. She's neither slow nor hurried about pulling on the hoodie--if she's bothered by her /own/ nudity, she's not currently showing it either. Her gaze ticks toward Nieve. "No," she mutters. "It's fine." She glances back toward Kevin.
That look is gone by the time Ex looks back at Kevin. "Shall I go grab some spare clothes?" he offers, and there's nothing in his voice to suggest anything unusual's taken place, either.
"Your call. We'll get one've the others to Dedicate some clothes for you, if you like. It means they don't get all ripped up when you change, and you're not naked when you change back," Nieve suggests.
"I can sort that for you!" Kevin calls out as he heads out of the door.
Ex runs a few fingers through the back of her uneven, short hair. "How do you do that?" she asks, warily.
"It's a ritual. Just as we have gifts, we also have things we can ask the spirits to do for us, via ritual," Nieve explains. "I've seen it done. Usually involves using a bit of your hair to symbolically tie the clothes to your human self. Takes about ten, fifteen minutes."
"That sounds stupid," Ex says, in much the same 'tone' as she used in lupus. "And impossible, except I keep seeing you people do it."
"S'true," Nieve acknowledges. "Then again, wouldn't you expect werewolves to be able to do things humans can't?" she asks, moving away to the table, poking thoughtfully at the second grilled cheese sandwich. "Still warm, if you want it."
Ex glances toward the sandwich, and away. "I'm not hungry," the cub mumbles.
"Fair 'nuff." Nieve has no such problem, pulling bits off and chewing them down thoughtfully. "So. What's next for you? After you get out of here."
"Gonna run," Ex replies. She pulls out the black gloves that she stashed away earlier in her hoodie pocket--lucky thing, that--and pulls them on. Then she pulls the tattered remains of her jeans toward her, and sticks a gloved hand into one of the pockets.
"An' then what?" Nieve sits back, dark eyes fixing on the younger woman thoughtfully, between bits of disassembled grilled cheese sandwich.
"Keep running." Ex pulls out what, on closer inspection, appears to be a switchblade, though the knife part is safely tucked away inside the handle. It looks a bit battered, truthfully. This, she sticks into her hoodie pocket.
The Walker nods slightly. "An' when you run out of places to run?" It's a quiet question.
Ex gives Nieve a narrow look, then looks away. She makes a stabbing, twisting motion with one hand.
"Okay, good. So you fight, when you're cornered." Nieve nods again, ever-so slightly. "I hope you remember that, and it's enough." She finishes the second sandwich and stands, to take the plates over to the sink.
Ex scowls. "I don't need you to keep reminding me."
"No? Honestly? I wish that were the case. I don't think you're taking it seriously," the Theurge replies, still quite casual. "Or maybe it's just you're not aware of the enormitude of the problem. When the moon grows a little, I'll show you - if you're still here, and you want to be fully informed of exactly why running doesn't work."
A spasm of temper plays across Ex's scarred features. "I take it fucking seriously! I don't remember seeing /you/ there!"
"No, I wasn't. I wasn't at the lab you were at. I can't imagine what you went through," Nieve replies, a touch of anger in her voice in return. "But if they -were- only human? They weren't even the tip of the iceberg. Humans are terrible, but there is -much worse- out there. Fomori. Vampires. Werewolves who -don't- share our viewpoint. Do you really think running is going to keep you safe from people who can run faster, further, for longer?"
"All you /want/," Ex says, darkly, full of heat, "Is someone else to fight whatever fucking war you're fighting. Well I'm /not/," she jabs a finger toward the memorial, "going to be a piece of wood and a name on your fucking wall! I'm not going to be a number for /you/!"
"Wrong." Nieve's voice turns cold, now. "Like I said, you're free to go when you learn the basics - which we teach you to stop you from slaughtering innocent people. What I -want-, if wishes were biscuits, is for you to stop -running- and start -living-. You've got the ability to do things that humans can only -dream- of. Can only put into stories and Hollywood movies. And all you want to do is run away from that, because you're too concerned that we want to control you? Fuck that - we're all individual here."
Ex sucks in a sharp breath. "You're controlling me now, aren't you? Stick me in a dumpy old building with locks on all the doors and cameras everywhere and thick walls and I can't even take a piss without people wondering what I'm doing, or go into the next room without a fucking escort. And then you go talking about getting /shot/ and have a wall full of dead people who died in your war and you're trying to scare me into signing on, and when I call fucking /bullshit/, you start talking about how no one should get attached to me, like I want them to, because I'm gonna get killed by all your bogeymen instead of mine."
"The problem is, Rogue, it's all true." There's a stark simplicity to Nieve's words there. "Yes, we control you now, because you can't control yourself. You proved that when you tried to run, earlier. We give you information, because you need that in order to make a decision. Am I biased? Of course I am. I've seen the alternative. Every word I have told you is the truth, it's up to you if you believe me." The Theurge finishes washing up the plates, dries her hands, and then turns towards the door.
Ex makes no move to stop her. While she glares daggers at Nieve's back, there's no attempt at a last word, and when it's clear that the Theurge is leaving, she turns her own back and hunches her shoulders.
"You've got free roam between here and the bunkroom and the bathroom," Nieve tells Ex before she steps out. "Help yourself to food, use the TV and consoles if you want to. Talk to the others who live here, and then decide if you hate me for my words."
Ex continues to sit with her back to Nieve, shoulders hunched and silent.
----
Ex is in a bad mood when Kevin returns, but at least it seems a little less explosive, more sullen. Maybe she took out a fair amount of her shouting energy on Nieve. She's only barely cooperative with the Dedication ritual, but it's managed (once she insists on including the black gloves). Now she's planted herself on the armchair, head against one armrest, feet against the other. She shows no real interest in turning on the television, or messing with the computers.
"How's it feel to have magic worked on you?" Kevin asks in a conversational way, noting Ex's lack of interest in the TV and computers.
"Dunno," Ex responds. "Is it supposed to feel like something?"
Kevin shrugs. "Quite frankly it's probably more how you imagine it than any objective feeling it leaves on you," he confesses. "I was just curious."
"Is that the way you explain everything here?" Ex asks. "Spirits and magic and shit?"
"Not everything." Kevin is still cheerful and outwardly, at least, unaffected by Ex's belligerent attitude. "Only the things where those actually are the explanations."
Ex gives a little sigh of exasperation. "And before, it was all 'science this' and 'fucking science that'."
Kevin turns to look at Ex full on for a moment. "If you ask my opinion," he remarks, "anyone who tries to cram the entire universe into one box and label it "this is all explained by x" is a douche. Whether X be science, magic, religion, philosophy, or My Little Pony. Personally, I think having the unexplained and the unexplainable knocking around, makes life more interesting. Science has a place, but I'd like to see science replicate what I just did with your clothes, there."
Ex's jaw tightens. She scoots down a little further in her seat, and lays her head back so that she has a fine view of the ceiling. There's no verbal reply to Kevin's remarks.
Kevin gives a very faint sigh. "Okay, what'd I say that got on your last nerve that time?"
Ex gives Kevin a sharp glance. "What?"
"Got the impression I pissed you off?" asks Kevin.
Ex shakes her head, her frown deepening. "No." After a moment, she actually elaborates, "...I'm not sure science couldn't."
Kevin purses his lips. "It's entirely possible," he says, seeming to choose his words carefully, "that you have more experience of science than I do. Especially cutting edge science," he adds, without the care he took in the rest of his comment, and oblivious to any unfortunate double meaning in his words.
Ex apparently catches that possible double meaning, because a brief, ugly scowl crosses her features. "They never told me shit. I just listened."
"I don't suppose they did tell you," Kevin agrees, still oblivious of his solecism, "but you..." He tilts his head on one side a little. "You're a smart cookie. You didn't just listen, I bet. You watched. You learned. And you remembered. Am I right?"
Ex folds her arms over her chest and lowers her head. "Maybe."
"Which means 'yes, but I'm not going to admit it," Kevin notes.
Ex gives him another sharp look, before she looks away. "What's it matter? I don't want to remember. Been trying not to remember."
Kevin looks up at the ceiling himself for a moment. "Fair enough. Don't blame you. Memory's a bitch. Half the time, forget stuff you really want to recall, keep giving you back what you want to forget."
Ex grunts. "And sometimes you remember stuff that's not real in the first place."
"Yeah, that too," Kevin concedes. "Like those goddamn fake Satanic abuse childcare cases. As if there wasn't enough evil shit in this world already, without making kiddies pretend there's more still."
Ex's frown gives a little downward jerk, and she pats her stomach, then sits up and looks around. It doesn't take more than a moment before what she's looking for becomes plain; she hops off of the chair and goes to retrieve the abandoned sketchbook and the now even more woebegone pencil.
Kevin raises one eyebrow, but sits tight and waits for Ex to retrieve her pencil.
Ex returns, retrieved items in tow, to the armchair, where she sits a little--but not by much--more upright than she was before. She doesn't open the sketchbook, or heft the pencil. She just sort've clings tightly to both of them.
Kevin tilts his head, eyebrow still raised, in a silent invitation for Ex to elucidate.
"I don't like your murals," Ex says, eventually. "They're creepy and I keep seeing things in them."
"Shame," Kevin says. "They're pretty new as well. If you'd been here a month ago..."
Ex asks, "What? If I'd been here a month ago, what?"
"Then the murals wouldn't have been here to annoy you," Kevin explains.
Ex points toward the hallway. "That one too? Why'd you go and paint a bunch of creepy murals for?"
"Don't look at me," Kevin protests. "I can't even draw stick figures. I'm not exactly keen on them either."
Ex's nose wrinkles. "Well, I don't like them looking at me."
"Sorry," Kevin says, and he seems to mean it. "Wish I could do something. Why don't you draw something of your own?" he suggests, gesturing to her sketchpad. "With things in that'll come out of your art, and bash the things in the murals?"
Ex rolls her eyes at Kevin. "Don't be stupid." She glances down at her sketchpad. "Anyway, I don't feel like drawing."
"I'm a ragabash," Kevin explains. "My job is kind of to ask stupid questions, in the hope that some of them actually turn out not to be so stupid after all." A faint smile reappears on his face.
Ex eyes him sidelong, one eye a little narrower than the other. "You've got a /job/ to ask stupid questions?"
"Just wish they'd pay me minimum wage," Kevin sighs, with faux resignation.
"Sounds fucking stupid," Ex says, turning back to face front. "You should lie about your moon sign thing, next time."
"Is that why you're not telling us your birthday?" fires back Kevin with a big, big grin.
Ex snorts. "Why should I go and tell you my birthday? The fuck does it matter what my moon horoscope is?" There's a faint tic in her cheek again, just below her right eye.
"As I said earlier," Kevin drawls, "you listen, you remember. You quite plainly know that if you tell us when you were born, we'll tell you what auspice you are. And you don't want to know that. You don't want to go one step further into what you see as our crazy ass world. But remember what I said before. You were born into it, and denial won't take you out of it."
Ex turns slowly to look at Kevin. Her eyes are bright and narrow, and her voice is low. "Born into it? Really?"
Kevin evidently sees he's struck an unexpected chord. "Really, truly. Is that a surprise to you, Rogue?"
"Yeah," Ex says with a slight nod. "Yeah, it's a surprise." Two of her fingers suddenly jab hard at Kevin's chest. "So /where the fuck were you/?!"
Kevin gives a momentary jerk as if for the briefest of split seconds, he's impelled to defend himself, or strike back. As quickly as it came, the impulse is quelled. "Where was I when? And please don't do that," he says.
Ex shoves out of her chair, leaving the sketchpad and pencil behind, in order to get rather into Kevin's personal space. "Where were you when I woke up naked on the side of the road?" she demands. "Where were you before that, to tell me this sort of shit could happen? Where were you when the doctors found me and kept me and /studied/ me? When they cut and poked and asked me the same fucking questions over, and over, and over again, when they put stuff in and took it out, where. Were. /You/?" Her nostrils flare. "/Not fucking there/, that's where. So don't give me this /shit/ about how I'm a part of your weirdo culture or your stupid war whether I like it or not. I don't owe you people fucking /anything/ of mine."
Kevin is at least on his guard before this tirade starts, and controls himself while Ex delivers it. Once she's done, he finally responds. "I agree. You don't. If we'd known about you before we did, then we'd have been there. We're here now; late, I know, but there's nothing to be done about that. So if anything, we owe you." He sits back and regards Ex. "We owe you to teach you what you really are, and who you really are. We owe you the knowledge that we can give you, the training, the inspiration. We owe you the support and the empowerment to be who those bastards were trying to stop you being, and to get your own back on those fuckers. Because your war is our war, and your enemy is our enemy, and those who harm one of our kind... need to pay." He steeples his fingers and watches Ex very carefully, very carefully indeed, for a reaction.
Ex is quiet throughout Kevin's response, but the very observant might notice her fire dying down a little, as he speaks. The elder Ragabash has to wait a while for any true reaction, but eventually she pulls back, swallows once, and turns back for her chair. There's a single glance from her, over her shoulder, that seems to be studying him in return.
Kevin says nothing more. He meets Ex's glance with a cool, measured look of his own in return. His fingers are still folded neatly together on his chest.
Ex sits back down, with the sketchbook in her hands. She breathes deeply, then flips open the cover. The first few pages are full of nothing but the start of various things, which have been scribbled over so hard it's a wonder that she didn't break the pencil; they've definitely left indents in the papers beneath them. But a little while in is a rough sketch--not bad at all, in fact--of what looks like a shadowy figure looking through a window. Only the shoulders up can be seen, but the figure has no face, no ears or hair, and only a shiny circular hole in the middle of where his face /should/ be.
Kevin leans back a little, unfolds his fingers, and scratches his head through his thick mane of frizzy hair. He's watching Ex, for sure, but at the same time trying not to appear too prurient about it.
"They were human," Ex says, flatly. "And they wore masks and suits."
Slowly but steadily an expression of disgust comes over Kevin's face. "I'm listening," he says in a voice that's very much colder and more disdainful than his normal cheerful chirp.
Ex shakes her head, the motion rough. "They knew what I was. That's all."
"Do you know how they knew?" Kevin sits forward again, and a little warmth comes back into his voice.
Ex's jaw tightens. She's not looking at Kevin, or at the picture now, but her eyes move back and forth, rapidly in that empty space past her shoes. "There were...others."
And Kevin's jaw tightens, as well. "Others like y -- like us?" Everything about his body is suddenly as taut as piano wire.
"I never saw any," Ex says, slower now. "But they'd seen GLS...werewolves. They'd seen werewolves before. They had darts." Pause. "Gas."
"Shit," says Kevin. "Shit. Shitty, shit, SHIT." He thumps the arm of his chair. "Rogue. Rogue... You have to tell me everything. Everything you know, everything you can remember about these, these... things. Because we need to wipe these... these shitstains off the planet's face." He appears to be trembling.
Ex jumps when Kevin thumps the chair. She turns an alarmed look toward him, and there's a decided wariness in her expression.
Kevin is breathing quite hard. "Do you see yet," he says in a strained voice, more tired than any Ex will have heard from him so far, "why you and I are on the same side?"
Ex says, very carefully, "Having the same enemy doesn't mean we're on the same side."
Kevin thinks about that one for a few moments, drumming his fingers. "That may be so," he says, "but it's a hell of a lot better than having nothing in common at all, don't you think?" He essays a smile, but it's nothing like any of his previous smiles. It's a tired, drab smile, and it lasts barely two seconds before it gives up the ghost and falls off his face entirely.
There's no sign of a smile in return from Ex, but at least her frown doesn't get any deeper. "I'll think about it."
"I'm going to think about it too," Kevin says. "A lot. In particular I'm going to think about how every day that passes without those scum being brought to book, is a day that they get to keep messing around with their dirty little mitts on people like you." With that last word he launches himself out of his chair and to his feet, and starts to pace. No, to prowl.
Ex flashes her teeth at Kevin's back, but she doesn't have any verbal barb to return to him. As he paces, she slumps in her seat, and eyes her drawing critically.
Kevin walks about tautly for a minute or so before he suddenly pauses and looks at Ex. "I need to go out for a run," he says. "I'll be back in an hour... or two... probably. If you want to talk to me, I'lve got ears for you, Rogue."
"Okay," Ex says, without looking around. She sounds very non-committal.
Kevin takes that at face value, it seems, because he strides out of the room. The door bangs shut behind him as his footsteps echo down the corridor.
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:
Kevin
Nieve
Memorial
Information Board: Skindiggers Cult
Obvious exits:
Out
Into the breakroom comes a Nieve, Ex in tow. She's suggested Ex might like to grab some breakfast, since she's going to be doing so herself, and so here they are. "Y'got anythin' y'particularly wanna eat? Got th' usual stuff," she tells the cub, heading over kitchenwards to fix something - for herself, a toastie.
Ex is looking sullen today--not a big change, really--and she slumps along behind Nieve with a distinct lack of any sign of enthusiasm. It's a good thing her hair is so short, because she certainly hasn't made any attempts to comb it. She's wearing black gloves, the bottoms of which she's pulled the sleeves of her hoodie down over, and there's an empty sketchbook and a somewhat woebegone looking pencil (tip mostly gone), under one arm. "No," she says, in answer to Nieve. "The fuck's the usual stuff?"
"There's pop tarts?" chirrups Kevin from his seat, turning to give Ex a big smile.
"Bread for toast or toasties or grilled cheese, pop tarts," Nieve begins, nodding to Kevin's contribution. "Bacon, sausages, cold pizza, leftover chinese, cereal an' milk, an' if you're lucky prob'ly some -actual- sugar t'put on it, if Chit-Chat ain't been at the cupboards."
Ex dumps sketchbook and pencil on the table. There's no hint of a return smile in the glance she gives Kevin, and she doesn't seem particularly inclined to follow Nieve into the kitchen. She stands there for the moment, with her frown tugging at her lips.
"M'gonna do grilled cheese, I think," Nieve decides, beginning to rummage around for bread, cheese etc. "Y'want some, or not bothered?" This is to both the no-moons.
"I'm good," Kevin calls back. "Never eat anything till after my morning run." He hits pause on the remote control. "Sleep well, Rogue?" he asks politely.
"Okay," Ex answers Nieve. No hint of enthusiasm. There's a beat, and then she answers Kevin, "No." The cub yanks out the nearest table chair, and drops herself into it.
The Theurge goes about the business of arranging for some grilled cheese sandwiches to come into existance - she's no chef, but this is hardly gourmet fare. "S'far as I can tell, ain't much gonna please our guest 'till she's learned what she needs to an' she's set free," she tells Kevin mildly. "Guess I can understand that, though it makes for a pretty shitty short-term future."
"As I recall it, I was much the same," Kevin says with equally relaxed tones. "When I was a cub Natalie was elder, and man, was she ever anal about keeping cubs where she could see them, 24-7. I hardly even saw the sun for two months."
Nieve's words seem to have the effect of pushing a little bit of energy back into the sullen cub, none of it good. "You're so fucking sure," she fairly spits toward the Theurge, but then her eyes snap toward Kevin. They narrow to mere slits.
The dreadlocked woman glances back to Ex. "Yep, 'fraid I am. Been doin' this since I imagine you were very young. Eighteen years now," she confirms. "Pretty much nobody is happy t'learn what they are, if they ain't been raised to it. Nobody. An' there's some that won't never be happy 'bout it. Some make it as lone wolves, away from it all. Most end up dyin'."
Kevin mmmms at Nieve's words. "Fraid to say, she's pretty much on the button there. I hated it then, and I'm not all that gone on it now, but it's what I am and there's no doing anything about it, so I muddle along best I can and try to keep my fuzzy hide intact. Only way to go about it that I've found works."
"That's me," Ex says, with a heat and intensity that isn't matched by her volume, which is still quite low. "I'm not dying just because you fucking say so. Gonna get away from all of this shit. No doctors, no dying in creepy cult battles, no walls, just /me/."
"Only problem is, Ex, there's a war on. An' you, by virtue of bein' a werewolf, are involved," Nieve tells the cub quietly. "We? We ask. We ask that you join us, an' that you play ball with us. Learn about th' things out there, an' do your best to make shit better. Askin', that means you can say no." She flips the sandwiches one by one. "The Wyrm, on th'other hand, don't ask. It takes. It takes cubs who ain't got the skill to fight it off, or the sense to know when to run, or th' uncontrolled anger it craves to make use of. It takes them, an' it turns them into shock troops, to be killed by people like us."
"Hold onto that," counsels Kevin. "That fuck-you, I'm going to stay alive, feeling. Point it in the right direction, it'll serve you well. Course, like any gun, point it at your own side and things'll turn to shit. Nieve's right again. You're not in a position where you can quit the game. You have to pick one side or the other. Right now you're with us, and we're -- I won't say the good guys, but our hats are a whiter shade of grey than the other side's."
Ex stands up fast enough to send her chair clattering. "/No/," she snaps, including both Walkers in her feverish glare. "Maybe /you're/ fucking werewolves, with your war and your words and your spirit monsters. I'm /me/. I'm saying no! No /Worm/, no /ranks/, no new recruit."
"Okay." Nieve nods slightly. "Alright. From now on, we show you nothing else. If you don't wanna be involved that's fine, but the less we show you now, the less you can tell the Wyrm when it catches up with you." She looks across to Kevin. "She's got some faces an' names she needs to forget. An' we'll need to move out of here when she's gone. 'til then, please let th' others know, no more lessons 'cept control. An' nobody gets attached, 'cause within a year, she'll be on the police missing person report."
"You're hardly a new recruit, my pippin," Kevin points out affably. "You were a recruit as soon as you were born, same as me, same as all of us here. Ain't nothing to be done -- believe me, if there was I'd've done it." He looks across to Nieve. "Let's see how she feels after she's had some breakfast. I get cranky on an empty stomach, too."
Ex lifts both gloved hands, and roughly flips the table right over. She follows this up with an audible snarl--not entirely human sounding--and a vicious kick to the upturned table's nearest leg, hard enough to threaten to crack it. "Nobody's fucking looking, you stupid bitch!"
"Everyone here, you've seen. When the wyrm finds you - and it will - it will squeeze that knowledge out of you like water from a sponge." Nieve's words are quiet, calm, controlled. "Because you don't want to learn how to fight it. And like I said, that's your choice. But if you're not with us, you're a liability, and that's somethin' we need to minimise. So, since you're stickin' by your choice, that means keepin' to a minimim what you could share with the enemy who would like nothin' more than to see you corrupted. Now, control your anger." She turns from the kitchen, two plates in hand, and comes across towards the table. There's nothing overtly threatening about her manner, but the unspoken ending to that sentance rings loud.
Kevin comes up out of his chair when the table gets flipped, like a bunny disappearing into a hole at the sight of a predator. Although he's tensed up and poised for action, his words remain calm and measured. "Don't bust up our furniture, please. If you want to thump someone, I'll take you to an empty room and you can try laying into me. But the poor old table can't fight back."
Ex gives Nieve a look that can only be described as watery-eyed fury, then jerks away from her, and the table. She gives Kevin a wide berth, and a brief, sharp glance of his own, but instead of replying she retreats to the other side of the room, not too far from the line of computers, and slumps against the wall. Head goes to knees, arms go over head, and she draws in a slow, shuddering breath.
"Breakfast is here when you're ready. Kevin, would you mind pickin' the table up so I can put these down?" Nieve asks politely, still holding the grilled cheese plates.
Kevin re-inverts the table and straightens it up, picking up the various small items scattered around which were originally atop it.
Ex rocks a little, in her chosen 'time out' spot, but she doesn't otherwise change or respond.
Sitting at the table as it is set up again, Nieve nods her thanks to the other Adren, placing down the plates. She begins eating her own breakfast, laying into it with a will - apparently arguments in the morning give her an appetite.
"Let us know when you're ready to talk," Kevin remarks, in a loud enough tone that Ex can't miss it even if she chooses not to respond.
It would appear that's exactly what Ex chooses. She continues to rock a little in place, with her arms over her head, and her face pressed into her knees. Her sketchbook and pencil, having been on the table at the time of it's abrupt change of position, are lying a small distance away from the kitchen now.
Nom, nom, nom. Nieve finishes her sandwich with every sign of enjoying it, though she's not a particularly noisy or messy eater. "I guess I'm lucky, in a way," she tells Kevin quietly - though not so quietly Ex can't hear if she chooses to. "I only got shot, to make me First. She's been through worse."
"I was hearing," Kevin says, not without sympathy. "Did you know what you had coming? I wasn't clued. Wish I cold have seen my face when I popped. I thought I'd gone diddle-o. Sometimes I still wonder whether all this is just a dream from eating too much cheese on toast before bedtime."
"Nope. My parents knew. The sept knew. They'd prepared for me - but nobody breathed a word to me until it happened. When they saw the signs of anger, they locked me up and shot me so that I'd change. Then the lessons began," she tells Kevin mildly. "Only in the leg, mind. Nowhere dangerous."
"I didn't get shot till a month or more after firsting," Kevin recalls, sounding almost nostalgic. "Jack Salem put a slug in me. I wish he hadn't looked like he enjoyed it quite so much." He grins slyly. "I know I grumble about what I am and shoot my mouth off, but you have to admit that being able to take a gutshot and pretty much shrug it off, /is/ kind of awesome." Again, he makes sure these words are loud enough to be heard not only by Nieve but by Ex.
"S'true." Nieve nods slightly. "Worst I ever had? Fightin' a dragon. A bane dragon, on my first pack quest. Got a fuckin' awesome scar to show for it, mind. Fucker almost ripped me in half. But, his head was a fine trophy for Chameleon when we were through." She motions to her own body, from her left shoulder down to her left hip, indicating the scar.
Ex abruptly pulls off her gloves, shoves them into the pocket of her hoodie, and shoves up from the floor. "You want to see /mine/?" she says. Her tone might be mistaken for eagerness, but one look at her face will prove that isn't so. That general, feverish look to her eyes seems to have spread to the rest of her face. There's an uncomfortable intensity in her expression and her limbs that doesn't speak to terribly good things.
Kevin seems to be about to respond to Nieve when Ex chips back in, and Kevin turns to respond to her. "I'll take a look if you want to show me," he says. The words are as utterly neutral as he can make them, with no trace that he would prefer either a positive or a negative answer.
"Only if you can keep your temper while you tell us about it," Nieve replies blandly. It seems she wasn't kidding about control being the only lesson.
Without further warning--and barely waiting for permission--the cub yanks up the bottom of both her hoodie and the shirt beneath. There's an ugly scar that runs vertically right down her torso, starting in the middle of her chest (and she yanks both shirts up that high), and disappearing below the waistband of her jeans. It is far straighter and far neater than any scar earned in an actual fight. She lets both Garou get a good look at it, and then drops her grip on her shirts in order to give them the middle finger with her right hand.
Kevin looks at it dispassionately. "Has anyone mentioned to you yet the significance of scars in the garou community?" he asks. Again, he doesn't imbue the question with an expectation of a 'yes' or a 'no' in reply.
The middle finger goes unmentioned, apparently by both. Nieve adds nothing to Kevin's comment, curious about the answer.
"No," Ex says, flatly. She turns on her heel, goes a few steps, and stops, her back decidedly toward them.
"Thought you might like to know, since it's obviously relevant to you," Kevin points out to Ex's back.
"Scars are a sign of what we've survived," Nieve voices simply. "Often, the enemies we've killed - but not always. I at least had the chance to kill the beast that gave me this. I wonder if you'd like the opportunity to do the same." Nieve sheds both her hoodie and the t-shirt below, standing in a bra without any shred of self-conciousness. One half of her body is thoroughly tattooed along the right, from collarbone along the arm, and also down the ribs - a machine below the skin. The other side, she's got a three-claw scar, long healed but still painful to look at for some, running from over her left shoulder down along her side, vanishing under her waistband.
Ex can't resist a slight look over her shoulder, despite her turned back. "Wasn't a beast," she says, flatly. "Human. People. Thought you didn't kill people."
Kevin checks out Nieve's scar with the eye of an auctioneer sizing up a piece of antique furniture. "Nice one," he murmurs, and this time it's definitely a compliment. "And, Rogue. Firstly, define 'people'. Am I a person? I'm a werewolf, after all. Some of the people we're up against are... similar. People who aren't really people, or aren't wholly people, or aren't people any more..."
"Survival," Nieve tells Kevin in return with a faint smile, before turning her attention back to Ex. "People who know about werewolves? Unless they're related to us by blood, our kin, chances are they ain't human. Not wholly," she affirms Kevin's point.
"People," Ex repeats, flat and insistent. "They aren't carriers, and they're un-mutated hum--" It's at this point where something seems to catch her eye. She spins around and stares at Nieve's uncovered torso. "Wait, what the--what the /fu/--" It happens right in mid-sentence. Suddenly there's a panicking, half-tangled, black furred wolf where a person was standing, darting for the door heedless of obstacles, including her poor, abused clothes.
You have shifted to Lupus form.
Rogue(#1291Pc)
A gangly looking she-wolf, with ice-blue eyes that contain an uncomfortable level of intensity. She has black fur, uneven and unhealthy looking, which seems to be lacking in the usual thickness in various areas. Discolored grey fur marks a number of scars; not the wild gashes of battle, but rather thin, clinically neat. By far the largest and thickest stretches down from the middle of her chest to her abdomen, where it intersects with a smaller, horizontal scar that stretches from hip to hip. Two matching scars adorn each cheek, from the corner of her muzzle to the bottom of each ear, and another, nearly invisible, across her forehead. Her right foreleg appears to bear some kind of marking, but against the dark fur and blue-black skin, it can't be easily made out.
In the wink of an eye, Kevin bursts into crinos form, and takes huge, springing strides after the fleeing wolf toward the door.
"It's a tattoo, Rogue. I'm a mechanic." Nieve remains where she is, trusting in Kevin's burst of activity to stop the wolf escaping. "It's not real. It's just ink."
Between her own tangled state and Kevin's speed, Rogue barely reaches the doorway. She goes down under the crinos with a high pitched yelp, a noise that turns into a panicky sort of snarl as she tries to bite at the much bigger, furrier thing preventing her escape.
Speech-and-Silence concentrates on wrapping himself round the frenzying cub and trying not to inflict actual damage upon her while immobilising her.
It's times like this that not getting in the way is better than trying to help. Nieve pulls her hoodie back on so the offending tattoo is no longer on display, pulling her dreadlocks out of the cloth and arranging them in silenc.
Rogue continues to struggle wildly, but she stands no chance against Speech-and-Silence. Eventually, rather thoroughly contained, she falls to the occasional kick and a high, keening whine. Her ears are plastered flat against her head, her tail is tucked as far between her legs as it can go, and at some point in her struggling, she appears to have urinated on herself. Delightful stuff.
Speech-and-Silence makes little throaty noises as he clings onto the wriggling animal. They aren't exactly growls; they appear to be the closest a crinos throat can approximate to "Ssh, ssh".
"I am sorry, Rogue." Nieve speaks her words quietly, calmly, hoping they'll penitrate the cub's terrified lupine exterior. "I promise, it is only ink. Not real."
Rogue's kicks eventually die down as well, and the mindless, fear-filled eyerolling ceases. Her body language shifts from fear to blanket confusion. What? Where? What? And then the urine-smell sinks into her nose. Gross!
Speech-and-Silence gingerly releases his grip a little, ready to pounce again if the frenzy isn't over.
"It's control, again." Nieve explains this gently, assuming the cub has never foxed before. "The flipside of anger is fear, for us. Either can make you lose control. You tried to flee."
Gross! Rogue attempts to squirm away from Speech-and-Silence's loosened grip. She manages a very awkward sort of belly crawl, but her legs all seem to have their own idea about which way to move. Still, it's clear she's not panicking any more. You peed on me! she accuses. Gross!
Speech-and-Silence releases the indignant cub. ~I did not --~ he begins, then checks himself, and shifts down to glabro. "I did not," he retorts gruffly, sitting up. "Any peeing that got done round here, you did."
Nieve smiles faintly. "You can tell by the smell, young and female. Even with a human nose, if you know what to sniff for. Are you able to return to human form, Rogue?"
Rogue attempts to get one paw underneath herself, and succeeds only in tumbling over onto her side. There's no dignity here. Bad! What? Her ears unplaster themselves enough to swivel in Nieve's direction, though her tail remains firmly tucked. Peed on me!
Kevin returns to homid, and looks at his stained clothing ruefully. "Laundry day came early," he remarks, with the ghost of a smile.
"Think about two legs and two arms, Ex. Think about wearing clothes and using your hands to hold a knife and fork, or open a door handle. Think about human things," Nieve offers by way of helpful instruction on how to get to breed form.
Rogue rumbles as she manages to wiggle her way out of the remains of her clothes. The hoodie may survive. The shirt and jeans, nope. She attempts to stand again, only for her front paws to go completely opposite directions, and for her to come down nose first, with a sharp yelp. Ow! Bad! The cub growls at her tattered jeans, as if they were to blame, and then finally makes a rather drunken looking head turn to face Nieve. What?
"C'mon, you can do it," Kevin exhorts. "Upsy daisy." He mimes rearing back onto two legs.
"Think about using your hands. Opening doors, brushing your teeth, clapping. Hands are human," Nieve suggests. "It helps you get into the right mindset, and your body does the rest."
There's another frustrated rumble from the cub. Stupid! Rogue declares, though she doesn't manage to declare /what/ is stupid. And after another few moments of failing to make any progress, either in standing or shifting, she bares her teeth and stares balefully at her front paws. Hands. Hands. Her ears flatten, and she growls at them. /Hands/.
Kevin gets down on all fours, then holds his hands up in front of him. "Hands," he repeats, in English. "C'mon, Rogue, you can do this."
"Think about doing human things," Nieve encourages quietly. "Eating with a knife and fork. Taking a dump on a toilet. Sleeping in a bed. Wearing clothes, and so on."
Hands! Rogue snarls, at her paws-which-are-not-hands. And then, quite suddenly, they are. The cub is left blinking, naked, and looking rather irritable, but once again human. That scar she showed earlier is visible. So is another that intersects it across her abdomen. So are a few others, all quite precise and neat. On her inner right arm, in neat blank ink, is tattooed: X75V-31.
You have shifted to Homid form.
Alias removed.
Name set.
Alias set.
"Ta da!" Kevin calls out. "See, I told you you could do it." His eyes alight on that tattoo, and they suddenly go very cold and angry, though no other outward change in his demeanour takes place.
Grabbing the girl's hoodie, Nieve passes it to Ex so she can pull it on and spare herself any embaressment she might be feeling. Certainly, neither of the older Garou seem bothered by the nudity, more the tattoo. "If'n you want rid of that tattoo, it can be done," she tells the cub as she rises, moving away so she's not crowded.
Ex frowns at the sudden change in Kevin's eyes. She's neither slow nor hurried about pulling on the hoodie--if she's bothered by her /own/ nudity, she's not currently showing it either. Her gaze ticks toward Nieve. "No," she mutters. "It's fine." She glances back toward Kevin.
That look is gone by the time Ex looks back at Kevin. "Shall I go grab some spare clothes?" he offers, and there's nothing in his voice to suggest anything unusual's taken place, either.
"Your call. We'll get one've the others to Dedicate some clothes for you, if you like. It means they don't get all ripped up when you change, and you're not naked when you change back," Nieve suggests.
"I can sort that for you!" Kevin calls out as he heads out of the door.
Ex runs a few fingers through the back of her uneven, short hair. "How do you do that?" she asks, warily.
"It's a ritual. Just as we have gifts, we also have things we can ask the spirits to do for us, via ritual," Nieve explains. "I've seen it done. Usually involves using a bit of your hair to symbolically tie the clothes to your human self. Takes about ten, fifteen minutes."
"That sounds stupid," Ex says, in much the same 'tone' as she used in lupus. "And impossible, except I keep seeing you people do it."
"S'true," Nieve acknowledges. "Then again, wouldn't you expect werewolves to be able to do things humans can't?" she asks, moving away to the table, poking thoughtfully at the second grilled cheese sandwich. "Still warm, if you want it."
Ex glances toward the sandwich, and away. "I'm not hungry," the cub mumbles.
"Fair 'nuff." Nieve has no such problem, pulling bits off and chewing them down thoughtfully. "So. What's next for you? After you get out of here."
"Gonna run," Ex replies. She pulls out the black gloves that she stashed away earlier in her hoodie pocket--lucky thing, that--and pulls them on. Then she pulls the tattered remains of her jeans toward her, and sticks a gloved hand into one of the pockets.
"An' then what?" Nieve sits back, dark eyes fixing on the younger woman thoughtfully, between bits of disassembled grilled cheese sandwich.
"Keep running." Ex pulls out what, on closer inspection, appears to be a switchblade, though the knife part is safely tucked away inside the handle. It looks a bit battered, truthfully. This, she sticks into her hoodie pocket.
The Walker nods slightly. "An' when you run out of places to run?" It's a quiet question.
Ex gives Nieve a narrow look, then looks away. She makes a stabbing, twisting motion with one hand.
"Okay, good. So you fight, when you're cornered." Nieve nods again, ever-so slightly. "I hope you remember that, and it's enough." She finishes the second sandwich and stands, to take the plates over to the sink.
Ex scowls. "I don't need you to keep reminding me."
"No? Honestly? I wish that were the case. I don't think you're taking it seriously," the Theurge replies, still quite casual. "Or maybe it's just you're not aware of the enormitude of the problem. When the moon grows a little, I'll show you - if you're still here, and you want to be fully informed of exactly why running doesn't work."
A spasm of temper plays across Ex's scarred features. "I take it fucking seriously! I don't remember seeing /you/ there!"
"No, I wasn't. I wasn't at the lab you were at. I can't imagine what you went through," Nieve replies, a touch of anger in her voice in return. "But if they -were- only human? They weren't even the tip of the iceberg. Humans are terrible, but there is -much worse- out there. Fomori. Vampires. Werewolves who -don't- share our viewpoint. Do you really think running is going to keep you safe from people who can run faster, further, for longer?"
"All you /want/," Ex says, darkly, full of heat, "Is someone else to fight whatever fucking war you're fighting. Well I'm /not/," she jabs a finger toward the memorial, "going to be a piece of wood and a name on your fucking wall! I'm not going to be a number for /you/!"
"Wrong." Nieve's voice turns cold, now. "Like I said, you're free to go when you learn the basics - which we teach you to stop you from slaughtering innocent people. What I -want-, if wishes were biscuits, is for you to stop -running- and start -living-. You've got the ability to do things that humans can only -dream- of. Can only put into stories and Hollywood movies. And all you want to do is run away from that, because you're too concerned that we want to control you? Fuck that - we're all individual here."
Ex sucks in a sharp breath. "You're controlling me now, aren't you? Stick me in a dumpy old building with locks on all the doors and cameras everywhere and thick walls and I can't even take a piss without people wondering what I'm doing, or go into the next room without a fucking escort. And then you go talking about getting /shot/ and have a wall full of dead people who died in your war and you're trying to scare me into signing on, and when I call fucking /bullshit/, you start talking about how no one should get attached to me, like I want them to, because I'm gonna get killed by all your bogeymen instead of mine."
"The problem is, Rogue, it's all true." There's a stark simplicity to Nieve's words there. "Yes, we control you now, because you can't control yourself. You proved that when you tried to run, earlier. We give you information, because you need that in order to make a decision. Am I biased? Of course I am. I've seen the alternative. Every word I have told you is the truth, it's up to you if you believe me." The Theurge finishes washing up the plates, dries her hands, and then turns towards the door.
Ex makes no move to stop her. While she glares daggers at Nieve's back, there's no attempt at a last word, and when it's clear that the Theurge is leaving, she turns her own back and hunches her shoulders.
"You've got free roam between here and the bunkroom and the bathroom," Nieve tells Ex before she steps out. "Help yourself to food, use the TV and consoles if you want to. Talk to the others who live here, and then decide if you hate me for my words."
Ex continues to sit with her back to Nieve, shoulders hunched and silent.
----
Ex is in a bad mood when Kevin returns, but at least it seems a little less explosive, more sullen. Maybe she took out a fair amount of her shouting energy on Nieve. She's only barely cooperative with the Dedication ritual, but it's managed (once she insists on including the black gloves). Now she's planted herself on the armchair, head against one armrest, feet against the other. She shows no real interest in turning on the television, or messing with the computers.
"How's it feel to have magic worked on you?" Kevin asks in a conversational way, noting Ex's lack of interest in the TV and computers.
"Dunno," Ex responds. "Is it supposed to feel like something?"
Kevin shrugs. "Quite frankly it's probably more how you imagine it than any objective feeling it leaves on you," he confesses. "I was just curious."
"Is that the way you explain everything here?" Ex asks. "Spirits and magic and shit?"
"Not everything." Kevin is still cheerful and outwardly, at least, unaffected by Ex's belligerent attitude. "Only the things where those actually are the explanations."
Ex gives a little sigh of exasperation. "And before, it was all 'science this' and 'fucking science that'."
Kevin turns to look at Ex full on for a moment. "If you ask my opinion," he remarks, "anyone who tries to cram the entire universe into one box and label it "this is all explained by x" is a douche. Whether X be science, magic, religion, philosophy, or My Little Pony. Personally, I think having the unexplained and the unexplainable knocking around, makes life more interesting. Science has a place, but I'd like to see science replicate what I just did with your clothes, there."
Ex's jaw tightens. She scoots down a little further in her seat, and lays her head back so that she has a fine view of the ceiling. There's no verbal reply to Kevin's remarks.
Kevin gives a very faint sigh. "Okay, what'd I say that got on your last nerve that time?"
Ex gives Kevin a sharp glance. "What?"
"Got the impression I pissed you off?" asks Kevin.
Ex shakes her head, her frown deepening. "No." After a moment, she actually elaborates, "...I'm not sure science couldn't."
Kevin purses his lips. "It's entirely possible," he says, seeming to choose his words carefully, "that you have more experience of science than I do. Especially cutting edge science," he adds, without the care he took in the rest of his comment, and oblivious to any unfortunate double meaning in his words.
Ex apparently catches that possible double meaning, because a brief, ugly scowl crosses her features. "They never told me shit. I just listened."
"I don't suppose they did tell you," Kevin agrees, still oblivious of his solecism, "but you..." He tilts his head on one side a little. "You're a smart cookie. You didn't just listen, I bet. You watched. You learned. And you remembered. Am I right?"
Ex folds her arms over her chest and lowers her head. "Maybe."
"Which means 'yes, but I'm not going to admit it," Kevin notes.
Ex gives him another sharp look, before she looks away. "What's it matter? I don't want to remember. Been trying not to remember."
Kevin looks up at the ceiling himself for a moment. "Fair enough. Don't blame you. Memory's a bitch. Half the time, forget stuff you really want to recall, keep giving you back what you want to forget."
Ex grunts. "And sometimes you remember stuff that's not real in the first place."
"Yeah, that too," Kevin concedes. "Like those goddamn fake Satanic abuse childcare cases. As if there wasn't enough evil shit in this world already, without making kiddies pretend there's more still."
Ex's frown gives a little downward jerk, and she pats her stomach, then sits up and looks around. It doesn't take more than a moment before what she's looking for becomes plain; she hops off of the chair and goes to retrieve the abandoned sketchbook and the now even more woebegone pencil.
Kevin raises one eyebrow, but sits tight and waits for Ex to retrieve her pencil.
Ex returns, retrieved items in tow, to the armchair, where she sits a little--but not by much--more upright than she was before. She doesn't open the sketchbook, or heft the pencil. She just sort've clings tightly to both of them.
Kevin tilts his head, eyebrow still raised, in a silent invitation for Ex to elucidate.
"I don't like your murals," Ex says, eventually. "They're creepy and I keep seeing things in them."
"Shame," Kevin says. "They're pretty new as well. If you'd been here a month ago..."
Ex asks, "What? If I'd been here a month ago, what?"
"Then the murals wouldn't have been here to annoy you," Kevin explains.
Ex points toward the hallway. "That one too? Why'd you go and paint a bunch of creepy murals for?"
"Don't look at me," Kevin protests. "I can't even draw stick figures. I'm not exactly keen on them either."
Ex's nose wrinkles. "Well, I don't like them looking at me."
"Sorry," Kevin says, and he seems to mean it. "Wish I could do something. Why don't you draw something of your own?" he suggests, gesturing to her sketchpad. "With things in that'll come out of your art, and bash the things in the murals?"
Ex rolls her eyes at Kevin. "Don't be stupid." She glances down at her sketchpad. "Anyway, I don't feel like drawing."
"I'm a ragabash," Kevin explains. "My job is kind of to ask stupid questions, in the hope that some of them actually turn out not to be so stupid after all." A faint smile reappears on his face.
Ex eyes him sidelong, one eye a little narrower than the other. "You've got a /job/ to ask stupid questions?"
"Just wish they'd pay me minimum wage," Kevin sighs, with faux resignation.
"Sounds fucking stupid," Ex says, turning back to face front. "You should lie about your moon sign thing, next time."
"Is that why you're not telling us your birthday?" fires back Kevin with a big, big grin.
Ex snorts. "Why should I go and tell you my birthday? The fuck does it matter what my moon horoscope is?" There's a faint tic in her cheek again, just below her right eye.
"As I said earlier," Kevin drawls, "you listen, you remember. You quite plainly know that if you tell us when you were born, we'll tell you what auspice you are. And you don't want to know that. You don't want to go one step further into what you see as our crazy ass world. But remember what I said before. You were born into it, and denial won't take you out of it."
Ex turns slowly to look at Kevin. Her eyes are bright and narrow, and her voice is low. "Born into it? Really?"
Kevin evidently sees he's struck an unexpected chord. "Really, truly. Is that a surprise to you, Rogue?"
"Yeah," Ex says with a slight nod. "Yeah, it's a surprise." Two of her fingers suddenly jab hard at Kevin's chest. "So /where the fuck were you/?!"
Kevin gives a momentary jerk as if for the briefest of split seconds, he's impelled to defend himself, or strike back. As quickly as it came, the impulse is quelled. "Where was I when? And please don't do that," he says.
Ex shoves out of her chair, leaving the sketchpad and pencil behind, in order to get rather into Kevin's personal space. "Where were you when I woke up naked on the side of the road?" she demands. "Where were you before that, to tell me this sort of shit could happen? Where were you when the doctors found me and kept me and /studied/ me? When they cut and poked and asked me the same fucking questions over, and over, and over again, when they put stuff in and took it out, where. Were. /You/?" Her nostrils flare. "/Not fucking there/, that's where. So don't give me this /shit/ about how I'm a part of your weirdo culture or your stupid war whether I like it or not. I don't owe you people fucking /anything/ of mine."
Kevin is at least on his guard before this tirade starts, and controls himself while Ex delivers it. Once she's done, he finally responds. "I agree. You don't. If we'd known about you before we did, then we'd have been there. We're here now; late, I know, but there's nothing to be done about that. So if anything, we owe you." He sits back and regards Ex. "We owe you to teach you what you really are, and who you really are. We owe you the knowledge that we can give you, the training, the inspiration. We owe you the support and the empowerment to be who those bastards were trying to stop you being, and to get your own back on those fuckers. Because your war is our war, and your enemy is our enemy, and those who harm one of our kind... need to pay." He steeples his fingers and watches Ex very carefully, very carefully indeed, for a reaction.
Ex is quiet throughout Kevin's response, but the very observant might notice her fire dying down a little, as he speaks. The elder Ragabash has to wait a while for any true reaction, but eventually she pulls back, swallows once, and turns back for her chair. There's a single glance from her, over her shoulder, that seems to be studying him in return.
Kevin says nothing more. He meets Ex's glance with a cool, measured look of his own in return. His fingers are still folded neatly together on his chest.
Ex sits back down, with the sketchbook in her hands. She breathes deeply, then flips open the cover. The first few pages are full of nothing but the start of various things, which have been scribbled over so hard it's a wonder that she didn't break the pencil; they've definitely left indents in the papers beneath them. But a little while in is a rough sketch--not bad at all, in fact--of what looks like a shadowy figure looking through a window. Only the shoulders up can be seen, but the figure has no face, no ears or hair, and only a shiny circular hole in the middle of where his face /should/ be.
Kevin leans back a little, unfolds his fingers, and scratches his head through his thick mane of frizzy hair. He's watching Ex, for sure, but at the same time trying not to appear too prurient about it.
"They were human," Ex says, flatly. "And they wore masks and suits."
Slowly but steadily an expression of disgust comes over Kevin's face. "I'm listening," he says in a voice that's very much colder and more disdainful than his normal cheerful chirp.
Ex shakes her head, the motion rough. "They knew what I was. That's all."
"Do you know how they knew?" Kevin sits forward again, and a little warmth comes back into his voice.
Ex's jaw tightens. She's not looking at Kevin, or at the picture now, but her eyes move back and forth, rapidly in that empty space past her shoes. "There were...others."
And Kevin's jaw tightens, as well. "Others like y -- like us?" Everything about his body is suddenly as taut as piano wire.
"I never saw any," Ex says, slower now. "But they'd seen GLS...werewolves. They'd seen werewolves before. They had darts." Pause. "Gas."
"Shit," says Kevin. "Shit. Shitty, shit, SHIT." He thumps the arm of his chair. "Rogue. Rogue... You have to tell me everything. Everything you know, everything you can remember about these, these... things. Because we need to wipe these... these shitstains off the planet's face." He appears to be trembling.
Ex jumps when Kevin thumps the chair. She turns an alarmed look toward him, and there's a decided wariness in her expression.
Kevin is breathing quite hard. "Do you see yet," he says in a strained voice, more tired than any Ex will have heard from him so far, "why you and I are on the same side?"
Ex says, very carefully, "Having the same enemy doesn't mean we're on the same side."
Kevin thinks about that one for a few moments, drumming his fingers. "That may be so," he says, "but it's a hell of a lot better than having nothing in common at all, don't you think?" He essays a smile, but it's nothing like any of his previous smiles. It's a tired, drab smile, and it lasts barely two seconds before it gives up the ghost and falls off his face entirely.
There's no sign of a smile in return from Ex, but at least her frown doesn't get any deeper. "I'll think about it."
"I'm going to think about it too," Kevin says. "A lot. In particular I'm going to think about how every day that passes without those scum being brought to book, is a day that they get to keep messing around with their dirty little mitts on people like you." With that last word he launches himself out of his chair and to his feet, and starts to pace. No, to prowl.
Ex flashes her teeth at Kevin's back, but she doesn't have any verbal barb to return to him. As he paces, she slumps in her seat, and eyes her drawing critically.
Kevin walks about tautly for a minute or so before he suddenly pauses and looks at Ex. "I need to go out for a run," he says. "I'll be back in an hour... or two... probably. If you want to talk to me, I'lve got ears for you, Rogue."
"Okay," Ex says, without looking around. She sounds very non-committal.
Kevin takes that at face value, it seems, because he strides out of the room. The door bangs shut behind him as his footsteps echo down the corridor.
