Proud, not stupid.

It’s not too late yet, there are still some people on the street as she pauses near the local convenience store, which isn’t exactly all that convenient, what with all the shootings and gang sitings that happen regularly. Tonight though, it seems quiet, and she is thirsty. She’s also starving, but that’s beside the point. She’d made a quick count of the cash in her pocket, and it’s not a very pretty picture. A few more pockets are checked, and she comes up with a grand total of $1.64. Well. It’ll get a soda, anyway.

She pulls her hoodie down, effectively hiding her features, and makes her way inside, to the soda fountain, where she gets herself a coke, and looks longingly at the hot dogs rolling on the rotery station, begging for ketchup and relish and onions and cheese… Her stomach grumbles it’s annoyance, as she makes her way to the counter to give up most of her carefully horded change.

Outside, she doesn’t move far from the store, just to the curb that’s out of the way and in the shadows, where she sits her ass down, and slides her pack from her shoulders. She sits it in her lap, and there the streetrat enjoys her soda, savoring each sip, and making it last.

As it approaches still closer, the tall radio antenna and uniquely shaped hubcaps reveal the beast as nothing so much as a former interceptor, a cop car cast off, though well-maintained by its look.

The car growls its way steadily closer, before pulling deftly into an empty parking spot near the front of the store… Its steady rumble dying only after the shadowed figure within turns off the headlamps and the other myriad devices actively working away within the glass and steel confine.

After all, if anyone stole Decker’s ride — pity the fool.

The modi ignores the cop car and the street waif in the shadows on his way in. He’s inside for a while, picking out a cheap domestic sixpack and a bag of chips. He pays at the counter, making the storekeep turn pale, and then he comes out … and heads directly for Thornton’s ride, tapping on the fenrir kinsman’s window with the butt end of a beer can.

When the man rolls the window down or opens the door, whichever came first, he passes the can over. “If yer tryin’a go undercover,” Decker says, smirking, “yer in tha wrong car.”

At least he was relatively nice to her.. last time. She watches from under the lowered edge of her hood, lifting her coke to her lips. She’s not exactly the most social of people, but that doesn’t mean she’s not aware of those around her. Exactly the opposite, in fact. You simply don’t survive where she’s been by not paying attention.

Thus, as Decker apparently knows the ex-cop car driver, she watches the little interaction idly.

Not tall, but of stocky build, the man wore a black trenchcoat unbuttoned. Charcoal dress pants blend with well-shined black dress shoes, and a white dress shirt worn open at the collar. A silk tie, maroon in shade, rests loosely from the shirt’s starched collar, giving the man a somewhat dishevelled look. He closes the car door behind him unceremoniously, before leaning against the closed car door.

Hazel eyes turned gray in the dim light, hazel eyes with little fear of peering into dark places.

Thus, as Decker exits the store, he finds the detective leaning idly against the side of his car, an amused not quite grin on his face as he takes the offered beer in hand.

“Not tonight. Tonight’s more about making the presence a little more visible…

Can’t let them think the cat’s away.”

Then, his phone rings… Placing the beer on the hood of the car, Thornton reaches into the inner pocket of his trench and withdraws a simple black flip-phone. After pressing a button, the phone is drawn to his ear.

“Go ahead.”

It was the only greeting he saw fit to give.

The dog prowls up silently. Silent until the thing in his mouth squeaks, anyway. Sort of a terrified squeak of fear and pain. From something small. probably a rodent. In the darkness of an alley, watching Maija silently, are a pair of yellow-gold eyes.

When Thornton’s phone rings, Decker turns away — not so much out of politeness and respect for the other’s privacy as out of disinterest. He pulls another beer off the sixpack and, with no warning whatsoever, tosses it underhand at Maija in the shadows. While Andrew is sneaking up on her with a terrified … what, rat? Something? — in his maw.

This oughta be good.

“Thanks.”

There’s a squeak of something, but it blends in, and the majority of her attention is still on Decker and John. Course, Decker wouldn’t give her a beer if that guy really was some kind of cop, right? A thousand and one thoughts, as she buys time by taking another slow sip of her soda. Best to let the beer settle lest she have a shower in foam, anyway.

“I understand. Are you okay?”

His voice is equally untelling, its tone carefully modulated to convey nothing of whom he is speaking with or what they are conversing about. Cradling the phone between his ear and an errant shoulder, John’s hands reach for the beer and crack the seal over the pavement. As he does so, the trenchcoat is caught by the briefest billow of wind, a five pointed star of silver colored metal with broad points flashes visible from its spot on his belt near his hip.

He lowers his head and slumps forward. Two large paws and a black wet nose – wet with what – poke out of the deep shadows into a triangle of light shafting down from a streetlamp.

There’s another wet snicker-snap as the jaws open and click shut again with another satisfying crunch. A squirt of blood spatters onto the cement infront of the nose.

It’s nearly warm — sixty someodd degrees after a winter of subzero. The modi’s in single layers, a wifebeater and sagging jeans that he pulls up an inch before sinking down, warninglessly, beside the street urchin.

“Ain’t seen ya in a while,” he continues, and Maija might think he was talking to her, except — he’s talking to the dog in the alley. Which, Maija might soon figure, is no dog at all. “Thought maybe ya left town.”

wait, what? crunch? She reaches up to pull the hoodie a little lower, and in doing so looks behind her in time to see blood and… stuff… squirt from the thing that Andrew is chewing on and her face screws up with disgust as she hisses “oh GROSS, ugh, Go on! G’way! SHOO!” at the mutt. She grabs her beer, and shoves it into the pocket of her hoodie, where it connects with what’s inside with a metalic clunk – grabs her pack and soda and has a choice to make.

…but then there’s no choice, because here comes Decker, and he’s talking too… the dog. As if… oh crap. She sets her pack back down, and glances at the ‘dog’ again, and instead busies herself in another slow sip of coke. She doesn’t interrupt Decker, because she knows better, but her eyes flick between him and John, and then to the dog who’s name is apparently Andrew.

Nonchalant, ever so nonchalant, like one might respond talking to a friend or friendly acquaintance. His face is still that measured deadpan, even as hazel eyes that see too much watch the odd trio of Decker, a girl he doesn’t know, and a dog in the alley…

Who, given what John’s seen of late, may be a really smart dog or may be something more. Occam’s razor be damned.

There’s a few more crackling squishes, wet squirting noises, and a louder pop – there goes the skull. A few dribbles of… entrails… ooze out onto the pavement as the nose snickersnaps up and down rapdily. Tenderizing.

The… dog… doesn’t reply. But after a few hungry swallowing sounds, he moves his large head into the shaft of light and continues gnawing on the ass end of a large rat. The tail flops around sporadically.

There’s no handbag on her shoulder, likely whatever money she has is shoved into the depths of her pockets. With her arms crossed tightly across her stomach Sophie is headed for the liquor store not quite three blocks from her home.

With confident and sure steps her eyes are quite aware of her surroundings even if she seems solely focused on the direction of her path.

Many true Irishmen frown upon the American tradition of getting pissed during this holiday, but not James Wagner. He’d been in this liquor store for a little while perusing the shop-owner’s wares before deciding on two bottles of choice liquor: Jameson, and Southern Comfort. Two large-ish flasks were purchased as well, and James went about filling them up inside the store. The small Puerto Rican woman behind the counter wasn’t about to argue with the Galliard with his Rage pressing down upon her.

Stepping out, he spotted Decker not far and walked over, handing one of the flasks to the man. “Cheers, boyo,” he said merrily as he uncapped his own and took a long swig. Oh, it did burn quite nicely.

Then, offhand, to Maija or Thornton or whomever else might be interested — and in an undertone that doesn’t carry very far at all — “That’s Andrew Dances-on-Fire, Fostern Coggie ‘n res’dent ratkiller.”

Another swig of beer. There’s a small knot of people out in front of this nondescript liquor store now — the modi sitting on the curb with his feet planted wide and a can of beer in hand; a detective in coat and tie, which looks very different indeed from a businessman in coat and tie; an irish rocker; a street waif. And a big stray ‘dog’ chewing on a rat.

But there’s one introduction that she’s more interested in. She lifts her coke to take a swallow, and uses it to shield the point to John, her voice barely audible “Friend of yours too? I’ll make tracks if need be..”

And by the tension in her small frame, she’s clearly in fight or flight mode. Again.

Placing the beers where they were in easy reach, Thornton simply stands and drinks his beer quietly, his eyes moving through the shifting darkness of the street beyond with an ever present vigilance, noting the approaching woman in the sweater and jeans, before they move to the girl to whom Decker had offered a beer.

Then, they turn to the guy from the store who’d offered cheers to Decker… Still wearing that same not-quite smile with the overly active eyes…

It does not deter her direction.

Not until she’s perhaps within yelling distance is she able to make them out – and that is more due to Decker’s vibrating force field of Rage. It wraps around her skin like the thick coils of an Anaconda and threatens to squeeze the air from her lungs. Perhaps it is because of this that the dark haired woman draws in a quick breath and pushes forward, through the walls of Rage and inside the inner perimeter of their space.

Her eyes skirt over John and Maija and James. When she’s close enough to speak without raising her voice, she does.

” ‘ey y’all…”

Tonight James wore his favorite black fedora, a white t-shirt and a pair of old, worn jeans and his shitkickers. Over that was a black motorcycle vest with Black Label Society patches on the back and front.

Sophie then approaches with that purposeful saunter, her throaty voice raising to greet them. James smiled at her and nodded, raising his flask in salute before taking another pull of the Jameson.

“Och, ye drunk a’ready? This’n’s fer ye.. f00.”

“John Thornton’s fam’ly,” Decker replies, simply enough. As for the rest of the rapidly growing cluster — they could introduce themselves. He’d only spoken on Andrew’s behalf because the Coggie was in lupus. With a rat in his mouth.

Then, seemingly content with the introductions, he picks the rat up by the tail and stands. Eyeing them all. Some intestines and… other bits, fall out of the open cavity and plop on the ground. He flicks the rat up by the tail and finishes the body off in a few chomps.

“‘sup Sophie,” as she walks up. And, despite his new flask of southern comfort or whatever the fuck it is James gave him, Decker keeps drinking his beer. “Fuck you doin’ this side’a town.”

For now. She doesn’t push back her hoodie, doesn’t give any of them a real clear view of her features, as she watches, and listens. But if that dog comes close and drips any gross shit on her – all bets are off.

” ‘tha fuck is that?” It’s vulgar, even more so coming from a woman’s mouth. But born on her slow southern drawl and the gravely smoke and whiskey weight of her voice. It isn’t all that bad.

She nods to James, offers the Fianna the faintest of smiles. She does not smile at Maija, in fact, she doesn’t look at the young woman overly much at the moment. John is greeted as well with a mumbled hello and a lift of her chin in a nod.

” oldest boy ain’t feelin’ too good.” There’s a beat of a pause. “…outta medicine.” And with that she starts for the liquor store door and tugs it open. It dings to alert the clerk she’s inside. This is the sorta place that sold aspirin or random medicine and condoms for inflated prices. Sophie sets her eyes on the counter behind the clerk – next to the Penthouse and Playboy stands.

A figure draped in black despite the warmth of the evening. For some reason, it didn’t seem to bother him much. Or perhaps the open trenchcoat served a purpose other than warmth.

“Meant ta talk ta ya ’bout ‘er,” he says. Decker has a low, unhurried way of speaking — as if he considers his words before he speaks them, and then expects them to be attended to once spoken. “Sophie’s one’a ours. Her mate died, leavin’ her with three l’il kids. Lives down in southside. ‘ppreciate it if you could drop by once in a while, check in on ‘er.”

Being the more… friendly one of the Eagles, James turned his attention to Maija. “Glad tae meet ye, ‘course,” he said. ” ‘Ow long ye been ‘ere? ‘N Chicago, I’m meanin’. Dinnae think I’ve seen ye a’fore.”

He was certainly a pleasant man to be around, that is until you pissed him off. Fianna were like that, one emotion to the next without much in between. Still, new faces he always tried to be pleasant to. One couldn’t have too many friends in this town. Andrew was given another look. A wild dog was a wild dog, but a wolf was a wolf all together with no real mistaking it. Here in the city he wished the man would take Homid before some people started getting curious.

The questing stone had lead him in this direction and Andrew usually wasn’t too hard to find when you knew what he looked like. So Erick was keeping an eye out as he headed up the street*

Then here comes James, talking to her. Saying something – vaguely english. She lifts her eyes, dark as the night sky, and studies him a moment before they drop and move away again, all before she answers. “Not long. Couple days.” Then, belatedly. “I’m Maija.”

Pronounced ‘Mi-yah’, it rolls off the tongue easily enough to have been ‘hers’ for a while – so easily offered that it’s likely not a name that John would recognize either. Hopefully.

Outside, she is mindful of the dog and his rat snack. She edges away from even the Lupus’ vicinity and has to swerve and adjust her footing to side step James and stop short to keep from walking into Decker’s personal space as her eyes are focused on Andrew and then Erick.

She hadn’t intended to stay. Then again, she hadn’t intended to see anyone she knew out this late. Sophie doesn’t hover so much as she lingers on the peripheral of the conversation and group. Her eyes are keen and focused on the area around them, though likely they need not be. She digs in her pocket for her cigarette pack and tugs out a hand rolled one and her lighter, which says in bright letters WHISKEY.

John nods at Decker’s request, before finishing the beer and setting the can idly on the curb nearby. Then, putting his hands idly in trenchcoat pockets, the deadpan gaze turns to Sophie with a pleasant not-quite smile still playing about his lips.

“Sophie? Decker’s just asked me to give you a ride home; is that okay with you?”

As he strolled past the alley with others in it he slowed, eyes keyed to darkness and movement pierced the shadows. Well there he was. And with friends.

Effecting a smile he entered the alley, nice and slow so the others could see him coming and notice he’s not moving in a threatening manner* Evening….

*One hand came out of his pockets and waved to the people. The dark black barcode tattoo on his palm and the back of his hand standing out against his skin*

When Sophie came out, he offered the flask of Jameson to her if she wanted any of the potent whiskey. He had spotted her lighter, after all. “Suren ye’re nae runnin’ off s’ soon, luv?” he asked the Get of Fenris Kinwoman.

Then, trotting – as wolves often do – he exits the alley and prowls past Maija. Sniffing her idley, his head – while standing – taller than her head while sitting. Then prowling slowly over to Sophie. Nose twitching.

And Erick arrives. His ears flick, he glances over briefly.

Glancing around, Erick… Looked back to the alley and nodded towards it and rose his brows. He came to talk to the other garou but the conversation would look seriously strange to the average passer by, as they were now.*

She watches John as he turns away, and talks to Sophie. No recognition in his eyes, yet. That’s good enough for her. She chews on the inner cheek gently, then…

…then Andrew is headed her way and there’s gore and gross shit on his nose and he sniffs at her and she shrinks away with a barely muted (and by that, she means not at all muted) “UGH! SHOO!” Yeah. Not the most polite way to talk to one’s elders but GROSS man…

Then, it is perhaps the greatest accomplishment of her life within the last six months, but Sophie manages to swing the dark blue of her eyes round to lay them on Decker for the briefest of moments. It’s nothing, there and gone, but she managed and that has to count for something.

Her tongue rolls across her lips. Her eyes shift then to James and the offered flask. She knocks it back like a pro, only coming away from the drink as hiss while the burn of the Whiskey against her throat still seared. It’s handed back to him with a wink of one eye and a whisper of “Thanks …”

” Don’ mind at all…thanks..” Though whether the thank you is for John, Decker or both isn’t exactly clarified. The dog enters her personal space and she casts a look down at it, her brows furrowing and the hairs along her arms rising to attention.

“Good ….boy….” she says, hands keeping a white knuckled grip on the bag in her hand.

Except it isn’t.

The modi holds his beer can in front of his mouth for a second. Takes a swig, and then another. When he lowers it he’s deadpan; there isn’t a hint of a smile on his face.

“Thanks, Thorn’n,” he echoes, quietly — his accent successfully contracting the detective’s last name into a single syllable plus a slur.

Erick approaches, and James has never met the man before. There were too many just-come to Chicago that he hasn’t met, and that was probably a good thing. Becoming a hermit hasn’t really affected the Galliard for the worst. “Och. Dinnae ye mind th’ dog,” he said to Sophie. ” ‘E’ll nae bite. Hump a leg ‘r two, may’ap, but nae bite. ‘Nless ye do somethin’ ye shouldn’t. An’ if ‘e does, I’ll ‘ose ’em off fer ye.”

Maija’s exclaimation raises something of a mixture of a snicker and snort from James, definitely amusement, but not outright laughing. Leaning back against the wall from his perch on the milk crate, James appeared to relax.

John nods, saying the polite response to Sophie whether or not the thanks was for him. Hazel eyes shift to Decker then, and he nods to the werewolf with a similarly untelling expression.

“You’re welcome too.”

Then the intent gaze shifts to Erick’s approach, and Maija’s reaction to the not-really-a-dog or whatever it was making rounds between Sophie and Maija.

James gets a glance shot his way oo, but other then that, she remains quiet. Well, as quiet as omeone slurping the last bits of her coke through her straw can be…

But he’s sniffing at Sophie right now. Prowling closer to give her a sniff, carefully down wind. He spares a glance for Decker and decides that perhaps today isn’t the day to test the patience of Garou when it comes to sniffing their kin’s crotches.

Then his attention is drawn to Erick. And he trots over, past him, and into the alley.

When the Lupus backs away she exhales the air she’d been holding in her lungs. She’s forgotten about her cigarette and the whiskey is still warm in her throat. Fingers brush away hair from her face as she casts a look finally toward Maija and then Erick.

Once they were in the alley and Andrew turned to look at him he spoke softly*

Thank you for taking a few moments to speak with me, Dances on Fire. I hope not to take up too much of your valuable time.

It’s been over a month since the moot and a couple of months since Ryver and I met. We’ve come to care deeply for one another and at this time I’m claiming her as my Mate.

*He nodded his head to Andrew* I respect you as the eldest of your tribe here at the moment and am letting you know, you need not worry about her, if you have. She’ll be protected by myself and my pack. Celeritas. Bound under humming bird.

It’s been more than a year since you left her and haven’t even seen her in that time. More over it’s been more than a month since the moot and there’s been no one to raise a word against me.

Ryver is my mate now. She’ll be protected as my own.

Thank you for your time, Dances on Fire. May Gaia watch over you.

Decker sniffs, getting to his feet — a single lazy motion, all strength and balance. It could be interpreted as a threat; or he could just be getting up. There’s a beat.

Then his chin rises a notch, and his eyes — well, they don’t ever soften, but some of the edge subsumes. “Come by tha packhouse someday.” By which he means the kinhouse; the only one broadly known to outsiders. “Got a favor ta axe ya.”

And on that note, he starts stepping over and around people on his way over to the Barracuda. His hand drops briefly to James’ shoulder. The totemphone opens for a second. We oughta have a talk sometime too. Tha whole pack. Then he’s past and heading out. ‘n keep that Coggie mutt off my kin.

She sets the empty coke cup down by her foot, and contemplates opening the beer. There’s family all around, but then again, that guy might be family but he still has cop written all over him. Despite the beer being given by Decker, it might not be seen in a good light should she drink it in public. So it remains in her pocket, and she shoves er hands into the ‘Roo pocket next to the beer can, and the other metalic object it keeps rubbing against.

No words actually spoken between the two of them, it might seem that the two were merely acknowledging Decker’s departure. Sophie thusly ignored his words, and so James let it pass without another word.

An eye for Erick and Andrew disappearing into the alley, he’s left with the Kinfolk.

His ears lift over his head, his eyes widening slightly, his tail raising. His butt lifts, dragging the tail higher in a dominant position. You can almost read the ‘orly’ in his wolf expression.

There’s a pause. Then an abrupt huff, several growls and snarls, accompanied with flashes of teeth. ~ws~ “You come and simply tell me you are mated? I don’t think so. If you don’t have something to offer for her, I will tear your leg off and beat you with it until there’s no more blood in it.”

” I’d ‘preciate it…” She says softly, her eyes then following where the Andrew went. A hand rakes back through the length of her dark, thick hair casually as if it might be a habit she isn’t even aware of. “..I ain’t used ta bein’ on mah own…y’know…” She starts to explain and then trails off, her fingers digging for her cigarettes again.

You left her over a year ago and have not seen her in that time. You’ve known someone was with her over a moon phase and have done nothing to see her, or talk to her or claim her for yourself.

I claim her. She’s my mate now. She’s kinfolk. Not a cheeseburger to be bought nor sold. Even if she were, you left her over a year ago.

*A gentle shrug* If you want to try for my leg. You may, but I wouldn’t advise it rhya. I’m no Shadow lord to beat down…

I’ve no fight with you. You don’t want her. Haven’t looked upon her in almost a year and a half. Much less cared if she lived or died.

It’s not something two warriors of gaia should fight about. You don’twant her. I do, she wants me. Let it lay, brother. Let there be no blood on this.

[i]~garou~ “She is my kin. Whether I fuck her or not, she is my kin. You trade fair value, or I gut you and drag you before the Sept as kin stealer.”

James turned an eye for the alley as the faux-dog suddenly was much more. A hard look came across his features, as they were indeed near Eagle territory even if not actually on it. Rising from his perch on the crate, he stepped into the alley and raised his voice. A Galliard’s voice was a powerful thing, as how it did not echo yet carried straight to the two. “Get yerselfs ‘cross th’ Gauntlet,” he said with a smirk. “Even if’n ye’re back ‘n th’alley, a beastie that big’s noticable fer any that may be watchin’.”

That done, James turned his eyes to Sophie. “Dinnae ye worry lass, while James Wagner’s ‘ere.”

She attempts looking calm and unconcerned.
She doesn’t quiet succeed.

But now there’s some distance, and that makes her feel better. Sort of. Because now she’s closer to the cop. Good times.

He speaks as the girl stands, curious brow raised and a not-quite smile on his lips.

“Hello… I didn’t catch your name. I’m John.”

And by slight, we mean just that – slight. Standing, she’s 5’8″, but if she weighs 110, she has a brick in each pocket. It’s not quite as obvious, as she is buried in that oversized hoodie, but her jeans are the epitome of “skinny jeans”.

She lifts her head a little to glance up at John, meeting his gaze briefly, before it falls away again. “Maija.” Mi-yah.

The name was pronounced just as she had pronounced it. That not-quite smile remains ever upon his face, as his eyes flit to the alleyway where the not-a-dog and the tall guy went. After a moment, they move back to the girl in the hoodie.

“Are you new in town?”

Deep breath, Maija. Easy as pie.

“Yeah. Rolled in a couple days ago.”

“From…?”

Hazel eyes take a somewhat predatory gleam as her guarded method of answering idle questions raises his suspicions about… whatever it is being hidden from him.

She folds her arms around her thin torso, and watches the toe of her boots- all scuffed to hell and looking like they’ll fall apart at any second, it’s a miracle they still are viable.

“Most recently? Indiana. More broad spectrum, all over.”

While speaking, his gaze doesn’t return to the girl.

“So, how long’ve you been on the run?”

And in the end, she opts for truth, anyway. But it doesn’t come easy, and it’s born of an exhaustion, and a hope that maybe someone’ll be on her side for a change. She chews on her lower lip, and for a few moments it might seem like she’s not going to answer at all.

“Over a year. Year and a half, maybe.”

“When’s the last time you had a decent meal and a roof over your head?”

“Decker.. he sent me to the Brotherhood – slept there last night.” But she’s a stubborn shit. She don’t like charity, and hates taking handouts – so she says only “got a little to eat there.”

translation – what she could pay for.
Likely, not much.

The neatly stacked pile of bills isn’t an exorbitant sum; it is the sum collection of how much he had on him. Various denominations, perhaps $80 to $100 overall.

After a few moments’ consideration, he places another piece of paper on the top of the pile. It was a business card, with his name, department address, and various contact numbers on it. Straightening, he speaks as he turns to go to the Crown Victoria parked nearby.

“My mobile number’s on the back; call me if you have problems. Go to the Holiday Inn on the Mile, they’ll have a reservation for you for tonight.”

Then, he unlocks the door and opens it, pausing for just a moment at the door.

“Oh, and Miss? I think you dropped something.”

With that, he gets into the Crown Victoria, starts the engine, and begins driving away…

Leaving money, business card, and Maija in his wake.

((Gotta go; thanks for the scene))

She watches his tail lights, and only the sound of someone walking up, gets her into motion – and she grabs the money and card.

She’s stubborn. She ain’t stupid.
And to shower – in a room – with a lock – and actual shampoo…

Yeah. Proud. Not stupid.

She shoves it all into her pocket, and then hitches her pack properly onto both shoulders, before she glances back toward the alley, and then just lowers her head, pulls the hoodie over her features, and starts the hike toward the Mile.

(ditto! thanks!)