[Irene] There’s some safety to be had in routine. Familiarity is a comfort to those who are far from home, separated from blood relations and Kinfolk. All the three girls staying in Room 9 really have is each other; it’s little wonder that their close circle and their lack of outside influence leads the looming potential of frenzy when one of them is threatened.
It has been a week since the attack at the Millennium Fountain, since that blood monster tried to suffocate the youngest of the three of them, and Irene has been quiet, almost sullen, in the days following the scant victory. For the first time since the last time one of them had to use the full force of Rage and will to live in order to pull herself back from the brink of death, Irene had curled around the Theurge as they slept that night, pressed up against her like a spoon without restricting her movement with the strength of her arms. She did not have nightmares that night, as she has had nightmares other nights, but it was clear that the echo of Rain of Brass Petal’s panic across the bond provided by Stheno had affected the Ahroun’s psyche.
Never mind that Until Death had nearly lived up to her name that night, that she was brought right up to Death’s doorstep and dropped there like a mangled package. Never mind that she and the regal Silver Fang had both almost died that night, that the entire affair had been messy and difficult even for several seasoned veterans of the War. Irene has known for years that she is going to die not of old age, not because she drives too fast or drinks too much, not because she gets into fights with men twice her size and eats red meat and smokes a pack a day when she’s got the funds to support the habit, but because she is a warrior, and warriors die in battle.
That doesn’t make it any easier to cope with the fact that some day she is going to lose her sister, that Rain might go before Until Death or Kindly One. That doesn’t make the prospects of surviving any less painful. So she had slept close that night.
And life has moved on.
They’re coming back from patrols this afternoon, the sky overhead bitterly gray and the wind biting even through the layers of their clothing as they tromp down the alleyway. Irene stops by the Dumpster to finish her cigarette. The fingertips on her gloves have never existed. Her flesh is not suffering the ill effects of the weather. Her Rage is too high, too hot. It offers a scant measure of protection even when it threatens to burn everything around her.
“I’m startin’a forget what the sun looks like,” she mutters, blowing out a plume of smoke and steam.
[Marni] Irene stops by the dumpster to finish her cigarette, with her packmate. Every indication would be that the dumpster contains only trash, and that the last thing they should expect is a noise from INSIDE the dumpster. But this is Chicago, and at the very least, one should expect the unexpected.
Like the muttering from inside. “Commere you! I know you’re in…. THERE you are!” that’s a low rumble that reverberates off the metal sides of the dumpster. BangclashTHUD as someone slips on something inside. And then the unsettling sounds of someone…
…eating. whatever it is she’d found. People throw away the BEST things.
[Alek] To say last Tuesday was a bad night would be putting it mildly.
Battles are tough, that goes without saying. The Squad of Ultimate Badasses fights as fiercely and with as much defiance against the coming end times as any other Garou, packed or not. They’re strong, brutal, cunning, powerful.
But that night, the night that Alek had to watch one of her sisters drop to the ground, the night their youngest sister was swallowed by a monster of ooze, the night Alek’s own rage so far outweighed her ability to control that her young mind nearly buckled beneath the strain, that night, after they returned to their new home, they were just girls. Irene and Alek flanked their youngest sister that night, and the three crowded together in a tangle of limbs.
Since then, as always happens when one of them is terribly injured or has to fight their way back from death, Alek has been almost painfully aware of her sisters’ link to Stheno. With the passage of time, she thinks about it less, feels along the totem bond only every so often when the three of them are apart. Right now, wherever she is, Adam is safe, alive, comfortable. There is no terror or distress coming from the warmth of her mind.
Today she and Irene patrolled the city together, Alek with her mind half on their duty, half on the thought of kinfolk and territory and, oddly enough, ponies. The eldest and Mother of the Badasses is dressed warmly, with a colorful scarf wrapped around her throat, her dark hair wild and windswept. She waits by the back door leading into the kitchens, arches a dark brow at her sister.
“Yeah? Try growing up in Seattle sometime.” Her mouth is hidden, but Irene can hear the amusement. Alek very nearly always sounds amused. “Sunshine for one month out of the year, drizzle and rain alllll the rest. This is kinda the,” she stops, tilts her head at the dumpster and the sounds inside. “Kinda the same, just colder.”
[Irene] Irene isn’t what one would call ‘distractible.’ While she displays a breadth of inquisitiveness and curiosity seemingly inherent in an otherwise healthy teenage girl, there are times when the narrowness of her focus is such that it seems as though there isn’t anything short of battle that could draw her attention away from whatever it is she’s set herself out to do. When she’s training, that is all she thinks about. When she’s stitching up clothing after a fight, that is all she does. When she’s eating, when she’s talking, when she’s fighting, that is where her cares lie. Even when she smokes, it seems as though she has to draw herself out of whatever reverie the meditative act of breathing and blowing out toxins puts her in; conversation tends to fall by the wayside whenever she’s doing anything else besides talking.
She’s not much of a talker, either, but right now that’s what she’s doing: she’s smoking, and she’s talking.
That said, Irene is alert. She’s alert to the point of near hypervigiliance, has a survivor’s awareness of her surroundings and who is in them, and when she hears rattling in the Dumpster, her head snaps that way and she bristles as if preparing herself for the inevitability of confrontation.
She’s slow to respond, and several seconds passes between the last words out of the brunette’s mouth and the low, mumbling drawl to come out of the blonde’s. She’s young, but looks tense, even unhinged: there is an intensity in her gaze that speaks of barely checked anger. As she watches the Dumpster diver she drags off of her barely-touched Camel.
“It ain’t talkin’ back, is it?” she asks, sounding almost wary.
[Marni] They’re talking, and it takes Marni a moment o realize that suddenly they’re talking to her. It’s almost cute, what happens next. First, the pop up of a mass of curls, followed by dark eyes peeking over the edge of the dumpster. There’s a dirty smudge on her forehead, along her cheek, and her fingers are horribly filthy, and….
…well. She could use a shower. And clean laundry.
But that doesn’t answer the question – is it talking back? “Not yet! Thankfully I’ve an iron cast stomach! DUDE. they throw away some GOOD SHIT here!”
She pops the rest of the way up, leaning over on her forearms on the edge of the dumpster and contentedly munching what looks to be a discarded half a roast beef sandwich. Thankfully, it also looks to be relatively fresh. ish. Because she’s munching like she hasn’t eaten in a week.
[Alek] [sorry, guys, i gotta log off for a bit. don’t know how long, but hopefully not very!]
[Irene] Of the two young women standing next to the Dumpster, the one who has been delegated the task of speaking isn’t the one who typically finds herself in a position where such a thing is called for, or even necessary. Her role within the triptych that makes up her pack is not that of leader, or adviser; she is not the face of the pack. She is not known for being particularly wise, or even friendly.
The way she’s looking at the curly-haired ragamuffin in the Dumpster right now is difficult to describe. There isn’t a great deal of patience on her face, but it’s tinged with interest. Interest, and the sense that if the famished young woman doesn’t watch her step she’s in very real danger of finding herself on the receiving end of an act of violence.
Most people can’t even stand to exist in the same general area as the tall, skinny blonde, let alone answer her when she speaks to them. The young woman doesn’t even stammer. She just goes about eating her sandwich.
Irene’s left eyebrow twitches, and she glances over at her Alpha for… what? Confirmation? Assistance? Whatever she’s looking for isn’t there, and she blows smoke in a thick arrow over the girl’s head before saying, “They got food inside, you know.”
[Primal-Urge+Perception: Yeah, I Know.]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 5, 5, 6, 10 (Failure at target 8)
[Marni] She doesn’t stammer. She doesn’t even flinch. In fact, Marni does the unthinkable -she grins. “So I heard, but ya know? Folks are so wasteful and why would I bother them begging for freebies when there’s perfectly good stuff right here?” She nods, and licks a bit of mustard (…one hopes…) off one dirty finger.
She’s undeniably cute, Marni, with the curls and the knowing little grin, and the happy way she takes whatever she’s given, and makes something more of it. She’s a streetrat, through and through.
She shoves the last bite of the sandwich in her mouth, chews and swallows, and then holds up a finger. “HOWEVER!” She says, as if this will be a great revelation… and it’s not. “I do hear tell they’ve got showers up there one can get naked in for free?”
[Irene] The street rat’s Rage does not burn nearly hot enough for the Ahroun to pick up without truly focusing. She doesn’t truly focus. Her desire to investigate has taken a backseat to the conversation she is attempting to have without snarling or snapping; all she knows is that this young woman isn’t quailing at the sight of her, and she’s hanging out in a goddamn Dumpster in the middle of winter and talking to her as though this were just an average day for her.
Something like a revelation comes across the skinny young woman’s features. For a moment her eyes seem sharp rather than fierce. It’s only for a moment, though; after a beat, she’s chuffing out a coughing huff of laughter and reaching out a rangy limb to ash her cigarette.
“Yeah,” she confirms, turning her head to hawk a wad of spit into a nearby pile of snow. Looking back, her Alpha seems to have abandoned her. The teenager takes a breath, then says, “You Family?”
[Marni] Irene spits – and Marni, she’s tempted to hold up a score card of some sort, but she doesn’t. this time. This time she just grins, and then rubs her nose with her fingers, leaving another smudge in a group of smudges. She stands up, slips on something underfoot and makes a face. “…oh…gross. I don’t wanna know what that was…”
She braces her palms along the edge of the dumpster, gives a little hop, and her boots are resting next to her hands, and then she’s jumping to the ground. Like it’s something she does every day. […it is.] She dusts off her hands, which is another pointless move, because she really needs that shower. Like… really.
Is she family? “Yup, that I am, and you, my raging beauty, are CERTAINLY the same. Only, you know, not a dumpster dwelling street rat like me.” She dimples into another grin, and then tips an imaginary top hat at Irene. “Marni Geller’s the name, gnawin the bone’s my game.”
[Irene] If the way the blonde is looking at her is any indication, she hasn’t had a great deal of exposure to Marni and her tribe. Watching the young woman clamber out of the Dumpster with something like grace has her ignoring her cigarette, left weeping wispy tendrils of smoke at the end of her arm, in favor of chewing on the inside of her lower lip.
She seems awed, almost, if someone so filled with Rage that she can barely see straight some days can look at anything with awe rather than annoyance or anger.
“You’re one’a Rats,” she translates.
[Marni] Marni touches her own nose – though she might be tempted to smudge the raging queens nose instead. She manages to curb that impulsiveness though, and touches her own instead. “Dingdingding! My turn! Let me guess…”
She tips her head one way, then the other, giving Irene a good once over with dark, smiling eyes, then she nods. “Your too down to earth to be a fang – OH EM GEE, did you know there’s a Fang Queen around here with a fuckin OLYMPIC SIZED POOL in her basement? I wanna take a bath in it… TOTALLY gonna cannonball that shit when she ain’t lookin'”
Focus Marni. “Oh, anyway. So, got enough RARSMASHY fire in ya to maaaaaaybe be Fenrir, but ya ain’t hurling just talking to me, so probably not. You’re not all broody like Tall Dark and Delicious In Speedos, so not a Lord… OH! Fury? Maybe? Though ya got both boobs… so not all Amazon like…”
Yes. She went there. A beat. “Unless your padding one side.” Head tilts, as if checking out the possibility…
[Irene] It’s hard to tell whether the blonde is harboring some semblance of intelligence within that young skull of hers, or rather she is one of those brainless Full Moons who exists solely for the purpose of tearing to shreds anything that vaguely smacks of Wyrm. There is some difficulty in gauging the mental capacity of a woman who isn’t inclined to speak overmuch, but there is a thoughtfulness about her that is almost enough to override her anger.
Almost.
The half-smoked cigarette is flicked towards a dented, faded Folgers can lined with the carcasses of fallen soldiers, the act given as much attention as will take to ensure that it doesn’t litter the snowy ground, and the as-yet nameless teenager narrows her eyes, taking a step towards the much shorter Gnawer.
“Do I look like I’m padding som’in?” she asks.
[Marni] Now, Irene is tall. Amazon like, even, when compared to Marni’s shorter stature. It’s only half a foot or so, but it puts Marni at shoulder height, with a good view when Irene steps up. So Marni takes the time to check it out – as if she could see what was under that coat as clear as day.
Then she grins up at the unnamed teenager. “No, Ma’am. From where I’m standing, you look to be cartin’ around a perfectly matched pair.”
Someday, Marni’s gonna get her ass kicked.
Again.
[Irene] Someday seems to be coming up mighty goddamn quick.
Whatever intelligence this young woman can claim to possess is completely and horribly overshadowed by her near inability to control herself. “Near.” She is unable to control herself, so shot through with Gaia’s anger that she finds herself acting without thinking, her instinct driving her to perform as her moon stated she would at birth: with her fists.
One moment, they’re having what, to onlookers, would seem like a perfectly normal if somewhat mismatched conversation, one of them hesitant and reticent, the other hyperactive and talkative. That moment quickly turns sour: the blonde, wearing shit-kicker boots and straight-legged black jeans and a rose-colored Carhartt jacket, her hair left to hang over her shoulders without care as to where it ends up, head devoid of a hat and hands protected from the cold by flimsy black fingerless gloves–in short, dressed like someone just itching for a fight–steps forward and gives Marni a shove back against the Dumpster.
[Marni] Near, she says, and Marni tips her head, slightly, and watches the young girl step all up in her grill. And then… she pushes her. Marni doesn’t resist, and hits the dumpster with a resounding clang, chuckling a little bit as she lets her body fall all but bonelessly against the metal trashbin.
“Aw now… ya ASKED me… so I told you. Is it worth pounding me for answering a simple question? I mean, if I hadn’t answered it’d been disrespectful.. right?” And somehow, that grin hasn’t faded one little bit. It’s still there, playful and knowing.
Irene’s looking for a fight – and Marni doesn’t fight back. Still mismatched, this conversation.
[Irene] [WP: I Won’t Punch The Cute Girl In The Face, I Won’t Punch The Cute Girl In The Face…]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 7, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 3 at target 9)
[Irene] Marni still doesn’t quail, or quaver, or try to hide from the Ahroun. She doesn’t beg for clemency, or cower away from her. She laughs, and on a bad day, that would have been the point where the young woman lost a few teeth, or took a fist to the gut, or worse. Today is apparently if not a good day then at least a decent day: Irene grits her teeth, her nostrils briefly flaring when the Ragabash–she has to be a goddamn Ragabash–asks her question.
For whatever reason, be it sheer force of will or the Ahroun not being as mindless inclined to fight as she seems, the teenager doesn’t punch her in the face. She steps back.
“Yer right,” she mutters, eyes briefly dropping, then looks back up and thrusts her hand out. “M’name’s Until Death. Folks call me Irene. I can show you where the showers are, if you want.”
[Marni] Marni, likely, is very grateful that today is a Good Day. Though it could be argued that for Marni, even bad days are inherently good in some way. She gets to keep her teeth, and her ribs remain uncracked, and her eyes unblacked AND she’s told that she’s RIGHT. That, friends, is the very definition of A Good Day.
Irene thrusts her hand out, and introduces herself at last. Marni looks at her own hand, and tries her best to clean it a little bit on the side of her coat, before she slides her fingers into Irene’s grasp, fully aware she make come back missing a finger or two afterwards. “Pleased to meetcha, Irene.”
She pushes from the dumpster to stand on her own too feet again, before reaching down to swipe her backpack off the ground next to it. “I’d appreciate that – I’m more than a little ripe, I’m sure. Hey! they got laundry up there too by any chance? Cuz gettin clean is kinda silly if I gotta crawl back into dirty duds, right?”
[Irene] “… right…”
It’s as though Irene has to give that question genuine thought, as though she isn’t entirely sure if it’s silly, or maybe as though she simply isn’t convinced that it’s possible for Marni to get anywhere remotely close to Clean. She seems as though the state she’s in right now is only natural for her, as though there isn’t any way for her to be but absolutely filthy.
The smell doesn’t appear to offend Irene any worse than her questions or her attention to her flat chest had. Then again, Irene smokes. There’s a very good chance that her homid sense of olfaction has been duly stunted by her refusal to quit lighting up.
Irene reaches up to push a shock of blond hair out of her face, the effort of shoving Marni back against the Dumpster having displaced it, then sniffs and jerks her head towards the closed metal door a few yards away.
“They got a laundry room upstairs, too. An’ beds. You got a place to stay?”
[Katja] *This is the place. She’s located the area and narrowed it down to a few blocks, and now at last this is it. The place she’s been heading for on and off since she came to the city. All that walking and here she is, just an alley outside a pub. A alley with two people in it . . .*
[Marni] “Right.” She nods, as if that settled everything, as if she can’t taste the hesitation in Irene, a hesitation born of not being really sure if she wants to beat Marni, or… oh… cuddle her to death. It’s a reaction the little Gnawer is used too, and as such she’s completely un-phased. Expects it, even.
She looks toward the door, and then falls into step with the Fury, unaware that she’s contemplating the impossibilities of Marni ever being completely clean. It’s possible, of course – just rare.
There’s laundry. “Awesome. I’m down to my last pair of panties.” A beat. “Good thing I don’t wear any. I heard they let folks stay here and stuff, but that’s alright. I’m pretty good with jus’ pulling up a box any ole place and snuggling in for a nap. S’all nice and cozy and ain’t gotta worry bout no one stealin my blankets.”
The city provides well enough, when you’re unafraid to get down and dirty.
[Irene] Irene walks alongside the Gnawer, cutting a glance over to her before she grasps the handle and hauls the back door open. It unveils the kitchen, fully operational and running with the lunch rush well underway, and it’s held open with the intent for Marni to enter first. The staff appears unfazed by the press of Rage suddenly filling the doorway. Perhaps they’re used to it, if they have to deal with Garou living overhead and trooping in and out of the back door all day long.
The Ahroun’s never really thought about it.
“You remind me’a ma sister,” she says. “You both talk a lot.”
A beat, and something catches Irene’s attention from the corner of her eye. For the second time today, she trails off from one thread of conversation to turn her gaze towards something–someone–moving in the periphery of her vision, and what she sees has her taking a step back into the alleyway.
“Katja?” she calls, a frown staining her voice. It dissipates quickly when she realizes that that is, indeed, who it is. “Shoot, girl, what’re you doin’ up here?”
[Katja] *If they deign to notice her, the two women already busy with their own affairs, entering the alley is a girl. In her mid-teens maybe, built with the careful curves and planes that suggest she carries no fat, but without being underweight, athletic rather than skinny. Floating behind her, and where it escapes from a peaked cap, twists and curls of hair fall down as far as her waist at least.
“Katja?” the one woman calls “Shoot, girl, what’re you doin’ up here?”
And Katja grins from under the peak of her cap, showing dimples that would probably be better suited on a 5 year old*
looking for you?
[Marni] She laughs, and slips past Irene inside, standing in the kitchen while her belly rumbles and she inhales deeply. “Man, no WONDER the dumpster had such great shit… this place smells DIVINE.”
Then, Irene is distracted by someone else, and Marni peeks out to see who it is. They know each other, and so she grins, and points toward the stairs. “Up there, right?”
And rather than dirty the kitchen farther with her presence, she’s scooting up the stairs to locate the soap and water – while Iren and Katja chat.
[Irene] [If you liked it then you shoulda put a pause on it!]