"You have to mourn before you can move on."

[renferret]

A conversation about grief goes south very, very quickly. Timewarped scene to provide an IC explanation for an OOC absence.


The moon is growing full in the sky this evening - it's been an inordinately hot day (even for august), and has yet to cool off in the late hours of the afternoon. The occasionally finicky air conditioning in the Glass Walker safehouse is on the fritz, to boot. Pocketing his cell phone as he walks down the hallway, Riley brushes an arm past his face and releases an irritable sigh. He pauses only briefly to knock three times - loudly - before letting himself in to his elder's room. "You text, I come. What's up?" His words are clipped, but amiable.

Mouse is sitting in the executive chair at her desk, typing away at her laptop; an activity she halts when she hears Riley enter. She leans back a little and turns the chair so she can see him better. "Hey." Her eyes flick toward his face and hold there for a moment. "How are you holding up?"

He blinks twice, lifts a hand up to brush an over-long strand of artificially black hair out of his eyes, and allows an easygoing smile to cross his features. "Holding up? Do you mean the part where my skin boils right off, or where this building gives new meaning to nuts roasting on an open fire?" He tugs at his shirt, and dusts a hand briefly at his belt. "Been better. Been cooler. I'm about to sacrifice a virgin to Cockroach to get it to fix this air conditioning unit, but I can't seem to find Mick or Cirocco anywhere. If Jeff goes missing, my apologies."

Mouse's mouth doesn't even so much as quirk upwards. "I mean about Cael," she says. Getting right to the point, it would seem.

The insipid smile remains only briefly after her words - his lips don't seem quite to know what to do with themselves. After spasming into a slightly deeper grin, and dropping down to a straight face and back, he takes a step back, guardedly averting his eyes and mumbling, "Coping."

Mouse studies him again, her lips pursing as she quietly takes in the expression. "...I meant to talk with you a while ago. Right after it happened. I'd say I got busy and forgot, but that's not really true. More like I wasn't sure how to approach it, you know? So I avoided it."

Riley awkwardly regards one of the empty walls, glancing in Mouse's general direction without actually making any sort of eye contact with her. His right palm settles upon his left arm, rubbing slowly up and down from his wrist to the sleeve of his tee shirt. "I-- I appreciate the sentiment and everything, but there's not a whole lot left to talk about is there?" His lips twist up into a smaller, sadder smile, "He's... dead. And buried. There's nothing to do now, but... move on."

"You have to mourn before you can move on," Mouse points out. "When you skip that part, it just ends up causing problems down the line. Maybe there's not much to talk about. Maybe there's a lot."

That causes an outright snort from the teen, and he turns his back towards his elder, but doesn't take a step towards the door. He folds his arms, fingertips drumming. "I am mourning. You've seen it, and so has everyone else. But just sitting around and crying isn't going to bring him back." His shoulders hunch, ".../nothing's/ going to bring him back. I've accepted that."

"Not as Cael, no," Mouse responds, quietly. "Mourning isn't for him. It's for you."

Riley visibly tightens, arms squeezing together just a little bit tighter. "What do you want, Mouse? If you're looking for some sort of Lifetime special moment or something..." He turns around, expression terse. "I mourned louder and harder than anyone. Just because I'm not howling to Gaia to make it all better doesn't mean I haven't been."

Mouse's eyebrows draw together, and her lips tighten. "I didn't say you weren't. But you're about as tightly wound as anyone I've ever seen right now, and as much as you're saying 'it's over', it obviously isn't."

"Tch!" Riley irritatedly fixes his gaze upon Mouse's, incredulity obvious in his posture and tone. "Well, brilliantly fucking deduced. It's not over. No shit. The Black Spiral dancers are still out there, that one that escaped? He's still out there too. And even if we hunt them down and kill them, there's still the Wyrm." His features twist into a snarl, "And no one is /interested/ in killing the Wyrm. They're only interested in bickering, in upholding this failed, flawed excuse for law, and flinging themselves into pointless skirmishes against targets that ultimately don't mean /jack/."

Riley says "It's not over. How can it be over when no one gives a shit?"

Mouse eases herself slowly out of her chair, one eye narrowing. "Right, and I suppose all of this we're doing, that's us not giving a shit. The hell are you /talking/ about?"

"What do you think I'm talking about?! And don't look at me like that -- don't!" He snaps out angrily, "Explain to me, then! Explain to me what he died for! Explain to me how we made the world a better fucking place by killing four of the wyrm's minions. Explain to me how that was worth his life. How any of it is worth anyone's life! Show me! What are we fighting for? Because from where I'm standing, we're not fighting! We're being fucking retarded. We kill. The wyrm makes more. Takes innocent lives and twists them, and we mow them down like diseased cattle. And for what? For the next week, where he's spawned more of them to take the place of the ones we just killed!? Fine. FINE." He takes several deep breaths - they avail to little enough, as he turns and punches a hole through the paper-thin drywall, growling, "You want to know what's /bothering/ me? Matt died for nothing. Riot died for nothing. CAEL DIED FOR NOTHING! MY MOTHER DIED FOR NOTHING! DAGNY WILL DIE FOR NOTHING! This is POINTLESS! This is WORSE THAN POINTLESS! People are DYING and you all just smile and nod and say, 'Whoops. See you in the next life!', and then we plan our next POINTLESS FUCKING MISSION."

Mouse's eyes widen faintly at the tirade, but the punch through the wall has her straighten. "Whoa. /Whoa/. Calm the fuck down, /now/. /Now/, Riley." Her tone carries the very distinct timbre of someone who has given an order and expects it to be followed.

"/You/ calm the fuck down!" He barks nonsensically, shaking his head vigorously, breath coming in sharp gasps, "Tell me." He murmurs, slowly drawing his hand back from the wall, the hole slightly enlarging as small pieces of wall fall away around his scraping. "TELL ME!" His fist jolts out again. And again. Again, riddling the wall with holes as he roars out, "You CAN'T! Because none of it /makes/ any sense. NONE OF IT! We're just supposed to roll over and lay our lives down... for what? For Gaia!?" His hand draws away from the wall, and he takes several charged steps towards Mouse, reigning up just short of her, "Fuck. GAIA, and fuck /you/ and your 'mourning' the death of North-Star. I don't give two /shits/ about North-Star. I want my /friend/ back."

One might expect more noise from Mouse to serve as a warning, but she's almost silent until a crinos hand closes around the collar of Riley's shirt and flings him clear to the opposite wall. Time to go from alarmed to ragingly angry? Less than half a second. First Strike looms over the Ragabash, teeth bared and eyes narrowed, long tail lashing behind her. ~/Yes/, for Gaia, you /ass/. So we can survive a little longer. So some poor fucking cub doesn't end up in a fucking Black Spiral Hive being /tortured/ and /raped/ until he's gone completely mother-fucking insane and returns to kill /more/ of us and repeat the cycle. Is that /preferable/, Evac? Would you have us do NOTHING so that they can kill us FASTER?~

"Nothing..." He coughs, struggling to breathe as he picks himself up from the floor next to the ragabash-shaped indent put in the drywall, teeth bared as he looks up at the Crinos. In a surge of fur and mass, he bulks up into Crinos and lowers his head, hackles rising as a low growl draws through his throat. ~Nothing is what we are doing NOW! I wouldn't have us do nothing. I would have us put an end to it! We're weakening by the day, anyone can see that! They have to! They must! But we dwindle and the Wyrm grows stronger! What are we /waiting/ for?~ He snaps, rumbling in coarse, gutteral english, "Gaia to smash the Wyrm with her heavenly tits!?" He buckles down, staring at the other Crinos, undermining her authority by locking his gaze directly into hers. ~I'm here to fight the WYRM, not DIE FOR GAIA.~

First-Strike stands up straighter, as much as the room size will allow her to, so that her ears are brushing the ceiling. Another tail lash nearly topples her computer chair, but she doesn't seem to notice it. She glares back into Riley's eyes, all the force of her rank and her Rage behind it. One lip twitches upward, revealing teeth again, and the fur along her neck hackles. Every bit of her body language screams 'I am the boss'.

There's resistance there. He growls back at her, staring directly into her eyes and forcefully letting her know that he's not something to be toyed around with. To be driven under her thumb. He's stronger than that. Not Garou, but better. Human. Better. Nevermind the fact that he's backing away, or slowly lowering his head, or slowly tucking his tail between his legs. Or that his growl begins to wane and then dies outright. The gaze is the last thing to go, but he's all but lowered himself completely to the floor by the time he sharply looks away, an involuntary whimper curling out from his massive lips. It would seem there's an animal in him, yet.

First-Strike returns the growl with a snarl, and her gaze is relentless, boring into him, following him as he lowers himself to the floor. Even when he's looked away, it's like she's not quite done, as she continues glaring at him for several minutes more. When it becomes clear the challenge is over, she huffs loudly and rolls her shoulders back, attempting to work away some of that overbearing anger and territoriality. It's several moments before she can find her voice again, and the entire time, while the glare has ceased, she never quite looks away from him. ~Killing the Wyrm's servants /is/ killing the Wyrm. We're holding the line, yes, and barely, yes. But not for /nothing/. Riot did not die for /nothing/. Riot died on a rite that guarantees us at least one year. One year more of survival. North-Star did not die for /nothing/. He died protecting himself and his cub from a fate that is far far /far/ worse than death in battle. He died protecting the Caern. He died protecting /you/. None of that is worthless. His soul will come back and be reborn in another body and he'll join us in the fight again in twelve or more years. That doesn't help the loss you feel /now/, but that is the truth. As for killing the Wyrm /itself/, that is not a thing a single Garou can do. That is not a thing a hundred or a thousand Garou can do, however much we may /want/ to. We can hold the line. We can weaken him. We can survive and help Gaia survive so that some day, some how, we will find a way to /end this/. That is better and has more chance of success than a suicide charge into Malfeas, where he is strongest and entirely in control. Frodo brought the ring to Mount Doom, Evac, but if he had not HAD the ring and simply run into Mordor to flail at Sauron's tower, he would not have been a savior, he would have simply been dead. And stupid.~

It's only after that long staredown that Riley can lift his head again, can muster even the strength to slowly sit up, dejectedly looking off to the side as he's berated - a cowed Crinos is a sight to see, but he seems to feel too uncomfortable to drop the form entirely. He listens. He waits. And when she's finished talking, he simply murmurs, ~Life isn't a fairy tale. And nobody knows because nobody's tried. Not in force, not as a unified whole. Everyone's too much a /coward/. So we die. We disappear. Just for the hope that someday, maybe, it'll all work itself out? That's blindness, Mouse-rhya. That's blindness.~

~/That/ is blindness?~ Mouse growls. ~And what's your solution? That we all just go on a trip to Malfeas, on some kind of terribly awfully slim chance that maybe, somehow, some way, we won't either die or become corrupted? And then what, Evac? What happens when all of Gaia's defenders are dead? When there is /nothing/ to hold back the Wyrm? Do you know? Because I can tell you. /Everything dies/. All of existence ceases to be. No, you're right, this /isn't/ a fairy tale. Wild, crazy, /stupid/ stunts are not going to miraculously save the day because we just happen to be the 'good guys'. I don't think it's cowardice to not want to make a mistake that will destroy the entire fucking world and all worlds we know of.~

~So we wait. We wait for something outside of ourselves to intervene, and we throw away our friends' lives, and our family's lives, and we watch everyone die again and again and again until there's nobody left, and then we throw away our own life. All in the faith that we'll even come back at all. That we'll come back to more than what we left the last time. And then we do it again. And again...~ He slowly melts down into homid, shaking his head and clenching at the floor, nails scraping the wood. "Are you fucking kidding me? I don't accept that! How can I!? How can /you!?/ How do you /know/ that Malfeas is insurmountable!? How do you /know/ any of this, except to take it on /faith/?" He slowly lifts himself from the ground, straightening. "How many years have Garou walked this path? How many years has the Wyrm grown stronger? Don't you /see/?"

~No!~ First-Strike snaps. ~We aren't waiting for divine intervention. We are. Holding. The. Fucking. Line. Until /we/ can figure out a plan besides going into Malfeas WITHOUT a plan to DIE. Malfeas is the heart of the fucking Wyrm. It is HIS realm. We can't handle him here, how can we fucking handle him /there/? Faith? Faith? Faith is for humans that can't see the other side. You've SEEN the other side. I know we come back because I have /spoken/ to ancestor spirits. I Know we come back because I have known people who remember their previous lives. I know this because I have spent my /entire life/ learning it, and you've spent /ten months/. We're not perfect, this path isn't perfect, but it's a load better than your suggestion, which is to commit suicide and /give up/.~

Clenching his fists, Riley shakes his head, teeth grinding, "We've been /holding the line and waiting to figure out a plan for the past THOUSANDS of years!?/" He seethes, and when she cuts in about his inexperience, he snaps, "Well excuse /me/. Not everyone has had the fucking benefit of being born a fucking /freak/ like you." He blinks once, twice, closes his mouth, and then reopens it. Closes it again. He immediately takes a handful of steps back, looking away. "..."

First-Strike melts down into homid, more slowly than usual. Her eyes are narrowed, but the rest of her expression is a mask, unreadable, her body lines rigid. She doesn't say anything, and so silence lies between them, at least for a few moments.

Riley is silent then, unable to bring himself to look at his elder, or even draw his focus away from whatever it is that intently holds his attention on the floor. His arms slowly lift, and he clutches them close to his chest, folded. He doesn't speak, but his face does fall. There's still anger, frustration - but there is also shame, and slowly moistening eyes. He begins to talk, "Mouse, I..."

Mouse lifts a hand to cut him off. She still doesn't speak, and her expression is still an impenetrable mask. The motion is sharp, stiff.

Riley shuts his mouth immediately at the sharp motion from the corner of his eyes, stifling his words.

"You need a time out." Mouse's voice is as stiff as the rest of her. "I'll have bus tickets for you in the morning."

As terrible as he may or may not be feeling, it doesn't stop Riley from being a self-absorbed teenager. He immediately snaps to attention, taking a step forward and stammering, "B-bus? Where? How long!?"

Mouse responds in a very clipped tone. "New York. Until you cool off."

The teen quietly turns away again, taking a steadying breath and leaning one hand against the wall. Though he clearly seems resistant to the idea, at least some part of him is relenting to the point where he seems unwilling to argue the point. Tone hushed and voice slightly hoarse, he murmurs, "Okay."

Mouse turns away from him, back toward her desk, where she reaches out a hand to steady her still slightly swinging chair. "You should go and pack."

Riley mutely nods his head, and walks for the door - he pauses upon glancing at the ruined drywall that he'd so liberally struck, and spins to regard his elder. Words, however, stick fast in his throat - and he hunches his shoulders, and hastily walks out the door.

Mouse's back is still to him--and so, possibly, she misses that hesitation--and she remains that way until he's gone, and the door shuts.