Maija | Explosive. [Marcus/John/Wendy/Wahya]

He tags a tea bag out of a cup of steaming hot water, as he looks at well used newspaper. He stirs the cup of tea with a spoon as an afterthought reading the paper. He takes the spoon out, and then a sip. He licks his lips, and nods a bit satisfied with the taste.*

She doesn’t have her hoodie on.

It’s draped over her arm, so she’s not hiding in 3x too much fleece along her thin – painfully thin – form. She’s 5’6″, but if she weighs 110, she has a brick in both back pockets of threadbare, tattered and much patched jeans. She’s all slight curves and bones under a t-shirt that’s clean, but old, and her jeans cling to her hips as if afraid to fall. She reaches to shake hands with Jenny, and it seems that the woman may break her fingers – so long and thin – with the slightest of pressure, though Maija is deceptively strong, for how brittle she looks.

She takes the shirt offered to her, as well as a piece of paper, and turns away with a soft word, promising to report to work tomorrow as the newest dishwasher. It keeps her out of the public eye, but gives her at least minimum wage with folks that are understanding about her id issues. Jenny even spotted her a 20 to get a couple pairs of newish jeans from the second hand store to match the uniform shirt, and not look like they’re going to fall apart. At Maija’s insistence, that $20 will come out of her pay.

She turns away from the meeting, and glances around to see who’s there. She stops at atable, her backpack hitting the table top with a clunck as she opens it to shove the uniform shirt inside, and tuck the paper into the journal that’s in the front pocket.

He takes another sip of tea, and turns the page of the paper his attention focused there. He tilts his head to the side, and pulls out a lime green notebook, and a pen making a few notes before setting the pen down, and looking at the paper again.*

On the way past his table, she pauses, and then voices, softly. “Hey.”

That he’ll recognize. Her voice. Even tired and cracked and holyhellinahandbasket hungover.

She doesn’t care anymore.
Let the fucker find her.
Let him kill her.
It’d hurt less.

He gestures at the seat across from him, and she hesitates, but then hooks her pack on the back of the chair and settles to sit, hooking a foot on the edge of her seat, wrapping a thin arm around her knee and pulling it close to her chest.

In short, it tells nothing at all. Like a carved and wooden mask.

Hazel eyes, so heavily ringed with dark circles as to appear blacked by some unnamed fists, move steadily about the room, in some never ending search to find a tear in the fabric of the dream, some flaw or out of place thing that had yet to reveal itself. His clothing was business semi-formal, black dress pants and shined shoes, a white dress shirt worn unbuttoned at the collar and devoid of monogram or design, a simple black tie dangling from a loosened knot about the stocky figure’s neck… And a long black trench coat, worn almost like a cape or suit of armor.

Armor with chinks it might seem.

The whole of the outfit, for all its semi-formal nature, was somewhat rumpled and askew, as though the man had dressed from necessity but not from any real desire to fit the bill. Perhaps he had other cares…

As the wandering gaze finds its way to the mural on the wall, it stops… The man’s face taking on an almost haunted look for a time, as though he were drawn and held by some silent hand. His attention unwavering, to the point where he almost visibly had to peel his gaze away. Once freed from the image… the deadpan returns, haunted desire giving way to weariness and little else.

“Beggin’ for a job. Start tomorrow.”

His jacket might have been of some european style, the pants he wore dark and neatly pressed although they ended in black boots that were more meant for hiking then for a night club or office.*

As he walks, the trench drifts open, exposing a five pointed star affixed to his belt near his hip. The hazel eyes focus on Maija for a moment, a curious brow raising, even as he nods to her in greetings… His motion to the bar undeterred…

Sitting upon a stool, he checks the metal banded wristwatch upon his arm momentarily, before waving Danny over.

“Scotch, on the rocks.”

Danny pours the drink with a cheery “Coming right up” that only serves to narrow the hazel-eyed gaze. Then, as Danny starts to turn with the bottle, a hand slips up to grasp the glass bottle’s bottom half. As Danny turns back, a confused look on his face, John just shakes his head, closing his eyes momentarily.

“Just… leave the bottle.”

Shrugging, Danny does as bidden, the detective guiding the bottle down beside him. Then, with a weary sigh, he downs half the scotch in the glass with one fell swoop. Save for a slight tightening of the jaw, no sign is made of the bitter liquid’s effect upon him…

As though it’s something he’s grown well used to in recent days.

Because they get hurt.
Because they die.
Because it really isn’t worth the fight.

She switches her hand from the salt shaker to the little packet, turning it around in her fingers before setting it on the table. “Yeah, ok.” She doesn’t deny having a headache – its clear in her eyes, clear in the careful way she holds herself and talks.

She’d seen John’s look at her, seen the recognition flicker briefly in his eyes, and didn’t flinch away. Not because she doesn’t think he could find out everything with a few keystrokes, but because today? She doesn’t care. She just… doesn’t.

Little do they know they mourn the same circumstances, if not the same people.

He decided to try the woman and the garou at the table, perhaps they would be less likely to lie. He walked toward them with even steps, the boots making sounds on the floor as he approaches*

*He speaks, his voice deep, but rough sounding…and tinted with the accent of one from eastern europe or perhaps russia* “dobryj vyechyer, forgive my interruption cousins. Might I bother you with a question.”

He looks over at Vasily and his face goes stoic, unreadable. He nods slightly to him still looking at the man.*

Fingers slide along the table, moving the packet back and forth until she pulls her hand back and drapes it with her other arm wrapped around her pulled up knee.

The glass of Scotch is emptied, with a tightening of the jaw as with the last swallow, his hand upon the bottle of Scotch tightening to lift the liquor bottle and pour another glass.

As the bottle is replaced upon the bar, a silent companion to the now silent detective, the hazel eyes move to where the strange man with the Russian accent queries Maija and the man he does not know at the table nearby. The eyes seem to hover for a time upon the trio, as if picking up what details they could, tacitly accepting what passes before them as though the man at the bar only half believed what the hazel eyes showed him.

“Da, thank you. I’m looking for Agnessa Malikoff for her brother Milo. I know Nessa sometimes goes..upstairs. Have you seen her, cousins?” *He speaks simply, directly*

Though a hand, a silent right hand, strays from his glass to a spot under his trench, a spot somewhere near his left rib…

Some things one might note since she is unhidden – her eyes are dark. Dark like the night sky dark, her hair dishwaer blond and hanging just below her shoulders, and her features strong. She’s not a typical beauty, she’s not ugly – she’s just.. Maija. No more, no less. And her expressions are micro – minute, flittering past her lips, her eyes, so quickly that they are often missed. She is well used to hiding everything. Too used to it, some might say.

There’s a pause, and glance up at Marcus. “Think he’s one a yers.”

A thumb presses a button on the side of the phone, placating the small electronic creature instantly.

Then, replacing the phone in his coat pocket with the self-same casual air with which it was withdrawn, the man returns to his drink at the bar. Downing half the Scotch in yet one more bold swallow.

He says politely.* “Most likely.” *He says to Maija’s comment about Vasily being a Garou.* “Besides the obvious how else is everything going for you?” *He says in a low voice, politely, trying to show a little compassion but not sure how to tread with Maija.*

She lifts her hand, and slides slender fingers through her hair, pulling it back from her face briefly, before letting it fall again. He seems nice enough (…they all do at first…) and she tries to give him a little.. just because he ain’t threatened to kill her yet. “I dunno. I ain’t stayed this long in one place a while. Ain’t sure its a good thing. Ain’t sure it just ain’t time to move on again.”

“The nation ain’t give fuckin two shits for the likes a me. Aint never have, ain’t never will.”

The right hand moves to hold the half-full glass of Scotch, the ice within it quickly dwindling as condensation begins to move like snaking raindrops down the glass, collecting in small pools where his fingers rest upon it.

A hand rose up to shove back the matted mess of braids that fell across his shoulders, most of it kept out of his face by a makeshift bandanna. It opened up more of his face, allowing the hawkish features to be more visible, along with the scar that ran down the right side of his face from temple to nose, over the cheekbone.

She ain’t never said it aloud – not here. She’s clearly not in a good place, and mourning her one friend, to actually put voice to her pain. She stands suddenly, and grabs her pack and sweatshirt off the back of her chair. Her voice low, tight – she snaps out one last bit.

“Ya wanna be kind? Then butt th’fuck outa what ya ain’t got no sense of. Ya ain’t know me, ain’t know shit bout where I come from. Don’t pretend ya do. Don’t pretend ya give a shit. Jus’ DON’T.”

He stands up, and the vein on the side of his neck pulses a bit.* “Have-a-good-night.” *He says in a low voice, but it’s gruff, curt. He picks up his paper and heads to back of the bar moving toward the stairwell.*

His head bows just slightly, enough to cause light and shadows to play across his features, masking any emotion. His clears his throat, the gravelly-bass of his voice coming out in a loud sound that surprises him when he speaks.

“Two Ravens.”

When he lifts his head up to look his eyes are not on the half-moon, instead they are on Maija.

Then, as a new voice joins the chorus, the hazel eyed gaze moves to the dread locked figure at the base of the stairwell (Wahya). A curious brow raises.

…just not tonight.

Wahya speaks as she starts toward the door, and her head whips around quickly. Before today, Wahya had been one of 2, maybe 3 that had seen her face, that would recognize her, that would know her by face, by form, on sight. She meets Wahya’s gaze, and then closes her eyes, dragging her hand through her hair again. “…shit.”

This is way more attention than she ever wants drawn to herself. Ever.

He tucks his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, attempting to keep his posture relaxed without much effort. He opened his mouth to say something to Marcus as he moves past Wahya and goes up the stairs, clearly not in the mood to speak with him. This seems to only frustrate the Uktena. He closes his mouth, huffing out a quick breath of air and pushes away from the stairs, weaving through the tables to reach the bar and right for Maija.

Then, replacing the wallet in his back pocket, John’s hazel eyes watch Maija and the dread locked man approaching her with an untelling deadpan expression.

“S’cuse me.” Now she steps aside so that she can wait for Wahya, as he’s making a beeline for her now.

He shakes off the unease it brought him, now that more attention was being made to them, he rounds the last table, and coming up to Maija’s left side. His eyes shift briefly to Wendy, the thin girl swallowed up in a quick glance before he brings his attention back to the Maija, standing eye to eye with her.

“What—“ jerking a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the stairs, “happen?”

She sighs. “He preaches the nation is some fantastic fuckin’ place. He ain’t know shit bout the real thing, ain’t know shit bout me…” she pauses and sighs. “He pushed, I snapped. I aint…” then, softly. “Ya know Ryan’s dead? He told me last night. Ain’t know how long ago he done got killt, why no one tol’ me, but he’s dead, an I ain’t know what… I ain’t…”

She breaks off in frustration, her jaw clenching, her eyes briefly clearly and easily read… she hurts… and this time it ain’t nothing a healing talen can fix.

“Do not know Ryan, so no.” he says quietly, “Has been many wolf deaths recently, he not only one. Mrena to is gone.”

He glances over to Wendy, eying the nervous kin. His nose crinkles up, arms brought up to fold across his chest, tucking his hands inside his denim jacket, under his arms.

She’s frustrated, she hurts, and she ain’t exactly sure what to do now. “I ain’t mean t’snap at’im. I jus.. I dunno.”

His step carries him closer to Maija and Wahya, as they seemed right in line somehow with his path to the door. As he passes closer, he stops as Wahya mentions Mrena.

His eyes were again drawn to the mural on the wall in a haunted stare that seemed to see something other than the room before him.

“Very astute, detective.”

As the scene in his mind’s eye fades, and sorrow again descends upon him, the detective resumes his walk to the door. His hand places a small pile of bills on a table nearby, his stride breaking not at all, a business card with his name and number on top.

Perhaps with luck it would find its intended recipient.

John carries himself close to Wahya and Maija, leaving something on the table, which draws the Uktena’s eyes to it, what John leaves behind. He blinks once, his head coming back to look at the two girls. “Maija, hurt. Wahya don’t—“ a pause, “is sorry for Maija.”

He’s sliding off the table, his curiosity piqued about what John left on the table. He slips away from the kin just enough to close the distance between him and the wad of bills and the card. He leans out to slap a hand on it and pulls it over to him, curling his fingers around it and comes back to Maija’s side, eying the business card.

Wahya is sorry for her, and she almost snaps that she don’t need pity – but remembers who he is, how he was raised, what he is. He meant well by his words, and she takes it as such. She sees John drop the money and card, and knows who it is meant for – but she doesn’t stop Wahya from picking it up. She just watches, and then with a soft sigh.

“I jus’ ain’t know… workin here ain’t gonna be no fuckin picnic. Not with all them livin upstairs.”

((Fade John; thanks for the rp, folks.))

He wipes any drool off the card by swiping it across a denim-clad thigh and sets it back on top of the money. He reaches for one of Maija’s hands, placing the money and card in it. “Maija take frog-skins.”

Wendy offers her something, and she looks at her, blankly, beore taking the box… “uh…ok?” And opening it, to see…

Wendy offers Maija the box and this had drawn Wahya’s attention back to her. He focuses an intense stare on the tall girl, brown eyes shadowed by hooded eyelids. “What Alax?”

She lets Wendy answer Wahya’s question while she puts the gift away.

“No.” he corrects her, “Is wrong, what do. No need for bare throat. Is Wah-yah. Just Wah-ya.” he taps his fingers on his chest, pointing at himself.

Then she falls quiet, to let Wendy answer the question.

Though after tonight, sanity might be a stretch.

“Wahya is shaman, speaks to old ones, dead ones. Spirit speak through Wahya, following yes?” He waits to see if they understand him so far. “Old one speak through Wahya one day, speak to Wahya’s kin, Little Sister. She get offended at what Ancestor say, insulted because of her impure native blood. So, she tells Wahya’s alpha. Little Sister’s older brother, who demands Wahya to apologize. Is Wahya inclined to contrition, what would girls do?”

“So – it ain’t you, but this ol’ dead dude talkin through ya what said it? Fuck that – he owes her the apology if they’s ta be one, not you, ain’t you who was talkin. If ya ain’t able t’control it.. ” she shrugs.

It seems so simple, really, something so petty, so mundane, compared to what she’s dealt with. At least he ain’t attack her… words ain’t shit. Words are easy t’walk away from.