[Ivers] [Drunk-o-Meter!]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 3
[Ivers] [This one’s for Hunter.]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 8
[Llewelyn] [How Drunk is Patrick?]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 4
[Izzy Montoya] She’s exhausted. There’s no better way to say it. She’s exhausted and it shows in the way she leans against her car – a beat up looking thing that does nothing to disguise the fact it’s really an unmarked police car. It shows in the way she pinches the bridge of her nose with her fingertips, in hopes that somehow, a bit of energy will transfer itself to her brain.
It shows in the fact that her left eye is black and blue, with a cut high on her cheek, that suggests she should have zigged when she zagged instead.
She’s not pretty, Izzy, unless one likes those lean of form with curves barely there, and strong features, long dark hair, and dark eyes, lips that are more accustomed to smirking than smiling, and spilling vulgarity with astonishing regularity. If you like THAT, then she’s a motherfuckin’ movie star.
But mostly, she’s a cop on the beat, who’s too tired to actually open her car door, and get in and drive away. Yet.
There’s a cup of coffee on the hood of the car, and she drops her hands to search for her pack and lighter, halfheartedly. The holidays are over. That’s the silver lining she’s holding on to. C’est Finis. For now.
[Hunter] A screech of wheels, a sound of roaring engines.
The sound of impact as something very solid crashes into what seems to be a garbage can, somewhere a cat can be heard screeching and running away as the engine of Hunter Matthews 1995 softail comes to a spluttering halt.
“FUCK” He shouts. Fuck indeed. He comes up for air from the dumpster he found himself deposited in and hauls himself over the edge of it to fall onto his back upon the alley concrete floor. Maybe he shouldn’t be driving — scratch that — he definitely shouldn’t be driving. This is proven by the way he wobbles two and fro on his way back to his bike which lies on it’s side with it’s front wheel in the air spinning like it thinks it’s a pimped out hummer.
But he pulls the bike back up and throws his leg over it. Somewhere along the way he managed to gather a bit of common sense because he doesn’t kick start the bike back into action. Instead he just walks down the road sitting on it like something out of the flint-stones. Rollin’ along, doin’ his thang. Haters gon’ hate.
[Izzy Montoya] She hears the crash. Hears the sound of the bike sputter to silence. Hears the curse of the rider. “Jesus, Mary mother of FUCK…”
She doesn’t look up yet, listening to hear if the bike starts again. Because then she’d need to act, instead of smoking the cigarette that she’s finally located, right in her coat pocket where she always keeps them. She flicks her bic, sets flame to paper and tobacco, and takes that first deep drag, exhaling slowly.
Only then does she look up, and search for the rider, and see’s him flintstoning it. She smirks, slightly, and simply watches him.
[Hunter] His angle begins to shift, turning into the middle of the road which is thankfully clear at this time of night. But then his curve continues, dragging him across the road and straight towards the parked cop car. The front wheel wobbles, and Hunter laughs. He can barely see through his reflective aviators not that he could see much without them in his current state anyway.
It’s then that he does something rather daft. He reaches into his jacket pocket and withdraws a hip flask, swigging back on it just in time for him to smack into the front of the police vehicle.
He does down in a heap giggling.
[Ivers] This isn’t his fire escape. Then again, this isn’t his apartment building, either, this isn’t his neighborhood. If one were inclined to lean towards philosophical musing, nothing here is his; even the bond between himself and his brother isn’t even fucking his, it’s just the remnants of a larger, stronger bond that doesn’t exist anymore because this is what people do, this is how the universe thinks it has to operate.
This isn’t his fire escape, but he’s sitting on it anyway, heavy black boots causing his thin legs to swing back and forth, out of sync with each other, laces dangling towards the sidewalk because he can’t be bothered to properly tie them. His forehead rests against the top rail, a curtain of thick curls halfheartedly protecting his flesh from the biting cold of the metal. Between the fingers of his left hand is a dark-papered cylinder containing an herb with a pungent, familiar odor blown away on the breeze.
Up the street, still within his line of sight but too far away to identify the rider as anything other than some fellow inebriated terrorizer of the night, a motorcycle smashes into a garbage receptacle. Plugging the blunt between his lips, Howard claps his hands together, slowly, the dry cracking of fingers against meatless palm forming sarcastic applause that echoes down the empty post-midnight streets.
He takes the blunt out of his mouth to whoop “Woo!!” All anyone can make of him from this distance and height are chicken legs in black jeans and a mop of kinky hair.
[Izzy Montoya] He walks right into the care.
“Oh no you didn’t you drunk ass motherfucker..” She doesn’t even look back toward the applause. Hell, she doesn’t even push to a stand, yet. “You so much as scratched my goddamn car and I will own your ass.”
She takes another drag, and then leans over a bit to peer at the kid in a heap, giggling. “You hear me?”
[Llewelyn] The fire escape wobbles, and something rather large lands on it with a muted clang. It vibrates right under Howard’s scrawny body and before he knows what’s happening his pack-mate is dropping down beside him with a bottle of unopened whiskey in his hand and the smell of newly smoked cigarettes lingering about him.
“Did that guy just drive the fuck into a cruiser?”
Patrick passes over the whiskey without hesitation, as if they’d been mid conversation before he even arrived; which, for pack-mates, is entirely possible.
[Hunter] Hunter is laugh, coughing. There is blood on his forehead, visible when Izzy peers down at him, it drips down the side of his face and onto his shirt. Somewhere amongst the laughter he pulls Izzy’s voice out of the air and manages to piece together her words enough to create a response for her.
“Fuck tha police!”
[Izzy Montoya] She stands up, and drags her free hand through her hair. “Not today, sport. I’m tired.”
and if anyone actually knew Izzy, they’d know just HOW exhausted she must be to admit that out loud. “But if you’re really lucky, I won’t drag your drunk ass downtown and toss you into the tank to sober up. What’s your name?”
[Ivers] “Look at this dumb bastard.”
Howard lazily reaches out to take the whisky, passing the blunt in compensation for Patrick’s procuring of a bottle from God knows where. The window to the apartment is cracked, curtains fluttering with the bone-chilling breeze blowing through. Maybe they were hanging out with the renters, or they just let themselves in. It’s a new year, and they’re off to a fucking fantastic start.
“You tell her, man!” Howard shouts down to Hunter.
[Izzy Montoya] The voice from above carries, and she looks up . “You know, I haven’t shot anyone today – but it’s still early. I could start now and still make my motherfuckin quota…”
[Izzy Montoya] ( hahaha. wrong button. Oh well.)
[Hunter] He manages to push himself to his knees, that is until he sees his flask lying on the ground underneath her car. He drops back down onto his stomach and reaches out feebly in an attempt to grab it. It’s only after a few moments of this that he tilts his head up to peer at Izzy. It’s then he hears the shout and he suddenly sticks his head out past the side of the car to peer up at the fire scape with a huge grin on his face.
“ROCK’N’ROLL SHe thinks she has the authority to kill a minority!”
And he looks back at Izzy.
“Heeey, you’re pretty cute for a five-oh.”
And he just looks at her for awhile smiling drunkenly.
“Names Munter Hatthews… ” He pauses. “Hunta’ Hunta’ Matthews.”
He burps.
“Wanna come in da tank wit’me?”
[Llewelyn] The broad shoulder blond seating himself beside Heir of the Ruined Day is already a little on his way to being drunk. After he’d abandoned the scene at the Cafe earlier, he’d headed to the Pub, and drowned his misery in a few pints of beer. So, the whiskey had to have been procured at some point between a) and b). Perhaps he’d even gotten it from the Pub — honestly, it was hard to tell with the boys of Caldera, some days.
Presently, he’s taking a hit from Howard’s toke, and narrowing his eyes as he peers over the railing at the idiot laying on the road with a police officer. “Wait, I think I know him.” He says, voice hoarse with smoke, he hands it back to Howard, and swings himself back to his feet, leaning dangerously over the fire escape.
“You were at the Cafe!” He hollers, and then leans his elbows on the railing. “How the hell did he get that drunk?” A beat, he sways a little. “Never mind.”
[Hunter] His brows furrow and he looks up at Patrick on the fire-escape. “Cafe? Oooohh. Yeah!” Realisation dawns on him. “You that fella who stole ma’ date!” But he’s grinning.
[Ivers] She thinks she has the authority to kill a minority.
“Fuck that shit!”
Patrick recognizes–no, thinks he knows–the drunk meathead rolling around on the street below, and the Theurge pulls his head back from the railing, curls flapping in the breeze. Although he isn’t spectacularly inebriated, he is well on his way there between the alcohol and the marijuana; his decision-making can be described as “suicidal” on good days, and given the fact that he hasn’t exactly reacted to hearing that one of his auspicemates was killed less than twenty-four hours ago it’s hard to tell whether this could be considered a good day or a bad day.
He hadn’t reacted to Farrah’s death, either, unless pretending she never existed in the first place is a means of reacting.
The scrawny kid with the strange accent and the stench of delinquency clinging to him like a shawl takes another long belt off of the whisky bottle, then thrusts it at Patrick and says “Hold this!” before moving to leap over the side of the fire escape… five stories off the ground thank you very much Kai.
[Izzy Montoya] “Oh, Mr. Matthews. If I only had a nickle for every time some drunken twat asked me that. Too bad it quit being cute about a decade ago.” Of course, she’s not gonna admit how many times she’d done something similarly bad.
Ah, fabulous. The yahoos on the fire escape know him. “You know him? Care to take custody and save me the paperwork? And keep him off his goddamn bike until he sobers up?”
Then one of them fuckin’ jumps. “….never mind.”
[Hunter] “Heeey, I’m not a twat!” He says and pushes himself slowly to his feet, swaying on the spot once he gets there. He stands around six feet tall at the most, solidly built but with a sense of litheness to him that almost seems inhuman even in his drunk state. When he swoons he does it with grace.
“What’s that guy fuckin’…” He proclaims, head tilted to watch Howard.
“OH SHIT!”
A pause and a few blinks later.
“You gotta’ smoke doll?” This offered to Izzy.
[Izzy Montoya] She’s watching where the kid jumped, waiting for the splat, waiting for the scream of pain, waiting for the other guy to jump after him, waiting to have to do what she said and actually pull her gun and fire it, just enough to keep them busy until she can get home in one piece.
After all, this is chicago -and this is never a way to start her day off.
Hunter asks for a smoke, and she doesn’t even look at him -just hands him her pack and lighter. And when she pulls her hand back, its to slide to the small of her back under her jacket.
[Llewelyn] Hunter yells something about stealing his date. Patrick looks, and sounds confused: “What date?” Then — “Hold this!” — he’s handed a joint and glances down at it, then at Howard as he — “What are you –”
jumps off the fucking fire escape.
Five stories up.
Patrick blinks. He does it again, lifts a hand to his head. “I cannot believe he just did that. Christ make this a hallucination. Howard!” He yells, and scrambles to the edge of the fire escape; staring down after his Alpha. The panic in his voice when he calls the other Garou’s name is not falsified.
That’s quite real.
Then he starts climbing, whiskey in his pocket, joint in his mouth.
[Ivers] [Okay, soaking 6 Bashing, in theory.]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 2, 7 (Failure at target 6)
[Ivers] The thoughtlessness with which the kid climbs over the side of the fire escape and jumps, or lets himself drop, or however it is that this would hypothetically be written up in a hypothetical police report by a hypothetical officer who has not yet reached the point of burnout and apathy, is indicative of someone who is either profoundly out of touch with reality or who genuinely does not give a shit about what happens when he does stupid shit like this. Even if he himself is not afraid of pain, or dying, or dying in excruciating amounts of pain, one would think it doesn’t matter what it would do to Patrick if he actually were to die.
Maybe it doesn’t, or else the thought doesn’t even occur to him. He wants to be on the ground; stairs are too much effort; he jumps.
He jumps, and the sound his body makes is beyond description. There is no means on earth of reproducing the wet-yet-dry cracking that occurs when a human body hits something solid from a height. It’s the sort of sound that wakes a person up at night, a sound that usually means death has occurred. That jump, and the way he landed, would have killed a normal human being. He lands behind a parked car, the sight of whatever happened to him hidden from Izzy and Hunter for now.
Patrick, though, can see that Howard isn’t moving. Worse than that, probably, is the fact that he doesn’t make any noise.
[Hunter] “Thanks.” He says and takes the packet of cigarettes and the lighter. He pulls one out and just stands there holding it with his mouth open, eyes on the spot where the Howard lad just landed.
“Holy fuckin’ cunt rag on a bloody sunday! You see that shit??!”
He quickly lights up his smoke and then the pack and the lighter get dumped on the bonnet of her car as he walks towards the crumpled heap of Theurge. He’s probably kinfolk, or Garou, he was with that boy from the cafe who is most definitely Garou. Of course this is rational thinking, and Hunter is drunk out of his fucking mind.
So drunk in fact that he stops about nine feet from Howard, unzips with his back half turned to the rest of them and begins taking a piss on the side of the building.
“You aight dude? That was SICK!”
[Izzy Montoya] She winces when the sound comes. She’s heard it far too many times – including one when it was her own body hitting the Cement – or brick wall, as the case may have been. (and the case certainly was – but that is A Different Story)
“Shit.” is her eloquent response. She doesn’t need this, not tonight. She glances at Hunter, than back to where the man hasn’t gotten up, and the one running to his aid, and Hunter again who decides to up the possible charges by pissing on a building.
She takes another drag, shoves her pack and lighter into her pocket again, and then rests her hand on the butt of her gun, and adjusts her position to where she can open her car and bail quickly if she needs too.
This is Izzy when she’s exhausted. Any other day she’d actually walk over there. Today she isn’t sure she wants to bother with risk it.
[Llewelyn] It’s not the sound that almost has Patrick drop and follow in Howard’s wake, pancaking on the sidewalk; it’s the complete lack of motion after he does. Patrick knows he’s not dead, he’d feel it if he were but there’s a god damn drunk fool pissing a few feet from where his Alpha’s internals are becoming his externals and he’s fucking drunk and a little high to be seeing any of this as completely normal.
He drops to the pavement, skids to a stop and gestures wildly at Hunter.
“Would you stop taking a fucking piss by his head for Christ’s sake,” he yells, then spins, and drops to his knees right in the middle of, well. You can imagine. “Howard,” a rough, angry rasp. “I am going to fucking kick your ass when you’re not bleeding on the pavement. I can’t even fucking help you.”
He takes a ragged, jerky inhale of weed, tosses it and staggers to his feet with blood stained palms and takes a swig of whiskey; wiping his mouth with his knuckles. The tall, built Galliard then narrows his eyes on the pure breed Fenrir Kinswoman across the way beside her car. “He’s fine!”
He calls, and attempts to smile.
It’s most unconvincing one of his career.
[Izzy Montoya] He’s fine, Patrick says, and smiles unconvincingly. She arches a brow, slightly, and then mutters again. “…shit.”
She pushes from the car and heads in their direction. “You need me to call a Bus?” Or a meat wagon…
[Hunter] “Shhh, shhh.” Hunter says to Patrick in a soothing drunken voice. “You can’t rush it.”
And he closes his eyes and finishes urinating.
[Llewelyn] Prayers to Broken Stone runs both hands through his hair as Izzy approaches; opens his mouth to answer her when Hunter — when he — “I’m going to kick your ass!” — slams the whiskey on the roof of the car Howard is lying behind and charges at the urinating figure, fists clenched.
[Punching yer face! Dex + Brawl, -2 for Drunkeness]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 5, 10 (Failure at target 6)
[Ivers] The noise the mess on the sidewalk makes is somewhere between a laugh, a groan and a scream. Never did he lose consciousness, exactly, although his brain did, for several seconds, decide it could not handle the amount of pain it was forced to cope with and effectively flipped its owner the bird. When Howard wakes up the pain is there, like the demon athwart one’s chest when trapped in the midst of sleep paralysis; not only can he not move, but he can’t talk, either. Teeth are broken, bones are broken, his trachea is broken… he’s pretty sure there isn’t a bone in his body that isn’t fucking broken, but he can’t think that far yet.
Frothy red foam bubbles out of his nostrils when he tries to breathe. He ends up coughing and snuffling; fingers twitch, and he makes a sound akin to “Gughagh” before he lets his head rest on the pavement again. A moment later there’s a flare of Rage, a stoked fire in the pit of him, and the exploded mass of meat on the sidewalk turns into a fucking near-man almost instantly, even hairier and lankier in Glabro than in homid. Izzy, hanging back by the car, can’t see this transformation; she can hear, though, a crackling and popping that sounds suspiciously similar to shifting.
All he can do while he waits for his body to heal itself is lie on the sidewalk and bleed. He doesn’t scream, is about the only mercy he affords his packmate during the process, but his wheezing and groaning isn’t exactly comforting either.
[Izzy Montoya] “Oh for the love of…” She just stares as Patrick rushes the Matthews, and then she hears… she hears what sounds like shifting and quite eloquently comments…
“Fuck.” and she turns right back around and heads back to her car.
[Hunter] Hunter barely even notices the charging Galliard. Well that isn’t quite true. He is a wolf, he knows it’s coming. He just doesn’t care right now, he’s far too drunk. So he finishes pissing as the fist curls past his left ear, brushing his hair slightly.
He zips-up and turns around. He’s grinning.
“Sorry dude! Nature’n’all that shit. You wanna smoke?” And he pulls the cigarette from behind his right ear. It’s still burning. Only Hunter Matthews would be stupid enough to put a lit cigarette behind his ear.
[Llewelyn] Now, if Patrick were a) not more than a little drunk b) paying attention to Howard’s presence behind him and c) noticing that the Fenrir Kinswoman was walking away from their little gathering once again it might have changed his next action. But then, Patrick has been a simmering pot of Rage since he heard of what had happened to Night’s Reprieve and Hunter had unfortunately just become the trigger.
You wanna smoke?
“No.”
The Galliard lips peel back in the human version of a snarl, and he looks to follow his blind punch with a head butt. Tries being the operative word, given his state.
[Headbutt! Dex + Brawl, +1 Diff]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 3, 6, 6 (Failure at target 7)
[Llewelyn] … and almost head butts the wall beside the Bone Gnawer instead.
How infuriating.
[Hunter] Apparently Patrick does not what a cigarette. No, really. He doesn’t fucking want one. In fact, the idea of having a cigarette disgusts him so much that he head butts the wall of the building Hunter had just been pissing on.
“Woah dude, fuckin’… that’s hardcore.”
He takes a drag of his smoke.
“Think your friends doin’ better, he’s gone all ugly-mode to regen.”
[Llewelyn]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 2, 4, 4, 7, 7, 9 (Success x 3 at target 7)
[Simon] Simon wasn’t walking as usual, tonight he was driving. In fact Simon was out with a renewed sense of purpose this evening, and his eyes said just that. It might have been strange, but Simon wasn’t exactly surprised or startled when he caught sight of faces he recognized. So he pulled up on the group and took the time to get his gloves and coat back on before turning off the car and slipping out of the vehicle to greet the others.
It was Howard lying on the ground that got his attention. He starts looking around to make certain that there aren’t any onlookers.”This is… Strange…”He sounded strange just saying that. But the entire situation looked improbable and surreal to him. Was he dreaming? Quickly he checks to make sure he’s got pants on a surefire way to determine if it’s a dream or not. Once he has confirmed he does indeed have pants on he can relax a little.
[Izzy Montoya] She gets to the car while the boys decide to brawl – though her grandmother could have wiped the alley with both their asses at this point – and stops with her hand on the doorhandle as someone else joins.
She furrows her brow, recognizing him, and then she simply opens the door and slides into the driver’s seat. “They do NOT pay me enough for this fuckin’ shit…”
[Llewelyn] The Galliard spins; all but froths at the mouth and lets out another sickening, strange snarl; while the veins in his neck begin to throb, and his clothing strains, fur sprouting over his arms; his teeth elongate and threaten sharper canines, eyes flaring with the mindless red of Rage.
Saliva trickles down Patrick’s chin and it’s, well, when is the threat of frenzy ever pretty? It’s not. This is not. Hunter isn’t so drunk and gone he doesn’t recognize the potential for death before him before with a twitching, spasmodic groan the Fianna fights it back; his body stops trying to morph.
He slumps back against the wall, thankfully not near where Hunter had been decorating it with urine, and slides down it; panting. The bottle in his pant pocket clinks against the cement, and Patrick tugs it loose with numb fingers, unscrewing the top of it and taking a deep, deep draught. He just sits, now, and watches as his pack-mate heals.
[Izzy Montoya] ….and she starts the car with a roar that suggests the engine is decidedly not stock, and pulls away, letting the Garou take care of their own messes.
Sometimes, she’s smarter than the average kin.