[Imogen Slaughter] The building is half-boarded up and known as a squat for the homeless of Cabrini Green, mostly aged, fatigued men and women in layers of clothing who eke out their living through hand outs or drug sales. The police no longer come here to root them out, and most people, all in all, avoid it.
Imogen can still taste the filth in the back of her throat, smell it in her sinuses as she ducks beneath the boards, stepping out and casting a glance behind her before she moves out onto the street, absently brushing her hands against the thighs of her jeans.
She is clearly not homeless – perhaps easily mistaken as a do-gooder or perhaps a high-end drug addict who no longer bothers with Chinatown. These are perhaps the only explanations that make sense. Except – she is too remote to be a good Samaritan, and she does not have the quiet desperation that one might have, of her station, coming here for drugs. Still, one comes up with what explanations one can.
There is a bit of muck on the sole of her sombre black shoes, a modest heel, the toes scuffed. She wipes it off on the concrete, her nostrils flaring in well-bred distaste. Then she straightens, stepping down the sidewalk, a hand lifting to the vibrant flame of her hair, pushing strands back from her eyes as she moves.
[Fiona] Not quite fifteen or twenty feet down the very same block Imogen now walks is a tiny blonde standing in front of a stoop with a group of men and women who look to be much older than she is. At present, she is dressed in clothing that, again, leave her seeming wraith like and out of place in Cabrini: a summer dress in a flattering shade of pink and brown strappy sandals that offer no added height to her already petite frame. Where Imogen is practical in appearance and remote in her disposition, Fiona’s dress is less than practical for the area and her disposition is open, though guarded.
For a moment she’s drawn to the side of the group by a much taller, lean of build young man. His skin is smooth and dark like fine chocolate, his gait and movements built on a foundation of confidence. They speak, in private, for a moment before Fiona leaves his company. Walking down the sidewalk toward Imogen, Fi takes a moment to light a cigarette.
[Imogen Slaughter] Their paths are crossing, doubtlessly, and Imogen sees Fiona long before she recognizes her, picking out the bright fabric amidst the duller ones of Cabrini Green’s denizens. It is only as the young waif breaks apart and heads toward her that Imogen identifies her – the girl from the park with the manicured fingernails.
There is a moment where she might merely walk past the girl – pretend as if she didn’t know her, as if she did not recognize her, striking though she is. Striking though Imogen is as well – Fiona is not likely to forget a woman with such pale skin, dark eyes. Such flaming hair that is rarely found in nature.
Unlikely either will forget the company they both keep.
In either case – there is a moment. Then the kinwoman slows. Her heels put her on height with Fiona, a slightly disconcerting sensation, perhaps for both women. It is not often that slight women like them see another eye to eye. Particularly among the giants of the Garou.
“This hardly seems like your neighbourhood,” the Briton kin observes.
[Fiona] It is very unusual that Fiona’s eyes catch another person’s without a dip of a head or the lift of a chin. The fact that Imogen is an adult makes it even more strange. A long mane of gold hangs loose and free over one shoulder and her free hand combs through the ends absently.
Imogen slows when she might not have and Fiona slows … she would have anyway. Even with years separating this moment from the next time the two of them meet it’s very likely Fiona would still recall the very attractive flame haired kinswoman. If she didn’t keep up consistently with her hair, it might be a lighter shade of red than Imogen’s – though not by much.
“I git ‘at a lot…” It’s said with the faintest quirk to her lips. “I jus’ moved ‘n not far from ‘ere…” Standing in front of the older, red haired Briton the Scotswoman smokes her menthol cigarette and rakes her fingers through the ends of her hair still. ” Don’ seem ‘ike yer neck ‘o tha woods e’ther…”
[Imogen Slaughter] Her own lips twist, “It’s not,” she says, her wryness admitting to the general hypocrisy of her statement. “I had a bit o’ business up th’road.”
Her gaze flicks toward the group, then moves back again. She does not bother to ask.
“Ha’ yeh ever heard of Hill House?” she asks.
[Fiona] Pale blue eyes nearly hidden by big black dilated pupils meet Imogen’s. Her moment of hypocrisy is met with a wider smile and a shift of her weight from one foot to another. “No…” She shakes her head, drawing the cigarette to her lips. ” Wha’ sorta place is ‘at…?” Then, as if an afterthought, she turns her head to look back at the unsavory sort she just left.
[Imogen Slaughter] The dilation of Fiona’s pupils does not go unnoticed. Imogen’s regard is direct, perceptive. She takes in the pallor of the girl’s skin, the rate of her breathing.
However, on that subject, that is all she does. “It’s a charity,” she answers, “S’run by humans and kinfolk. But th’part tha’ may interest you is tha’ Mary Alice, the kin who runs it keeps track o’ housing fer Garou and kin. She may know o’ a place tha’s cheap but -” a pause, a glance about, “in a better neighbourhood.” Her smirk flickers again. “If nothing else, it would stop th’comments.”
[Fiona] There’s the faintest glimmer of sweat along her brow, though she hasn’t – as far as one can see – been running. Fiona’s skin is pale and smooth and free of any marks or indications of intravenous drug use or otherwise. Except for, maybe, being a little on the thin side, Fiona seems relatively healthy if appearances are any indication.
Cigarette smoked she tosses it into the already dirty gutter and now toys with the ends of her hair with both hands. Smiling slightly she takes a look around Cabrini, and then looks back at Imogen.
” mi’ be worth it ta stop tha comments then…” Her voice is as light as she likely is. The Scottish brogue lilting in tone. ” If ya got tha’ number…” She says, asking Imogen for the contact information without really asking for it.
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen does not return the smile, though it does not seem to be a deliberate snub, merely the way the expressions of her face work. She shows very little – a smirk, an arch of an eyebrow, none of these things indicative of any overt emotion beyond a flicker of wryness, a suggestion of a question.
She wears a light fabric coat and reaches into a pocket, retrieving a small notepad, an accompanying pen. Over three quarters of the sheets are already used, every line filled with the doctor’s cramped handwriting. Imogen flips to a clean page and cupping the pad in the palm of her hand with her right hand and writing with the other, she scrawls out the phone number from memory.
The paper crackles as she tears it off, handing it over between two fingers.
“Make sure t’ask for Mary Alice,” she cautions. “Some o’ the employees are human and won’t ha’ a clue what you’re taking about.”
[Wahya] A network of small streets and alleys intersect between the tall buildings that squatters use to live in, there is a bit of action going on behind the scenes, down the narrow passages. Imogen and Fiona stand around conversing on the sidewalk, just half a block ahead of them, loud sounds erupt, disrupting the solitude of the street.
Two teenage boys dressed in street and gang regalia shriek as they flee from the shadowy cover of an alley, a side door had afforded them a quiet place to work out a deal. But something else sends them fleeing from the narrow passage in-between the buildings.
Flesh pounds against the asphalt, like feet running in a quick yet heavy pace. Two critters burst from the narrow street that the boys had fled from, they are dark in color, covered in fur about the size of large dogs as one chases the other.
The prey bounds across the street in a leaping gait, bounding in a straight line for the entry way of the adjacent alley, trying to shake its pursuer; the more canine-like hunter leaps over the hood of a parked car, clearing it easily like a deer in flight, landing on all four paws, tail high in the air. It chases its prey into the other alley, pouncing on it. They can hear a high-pitched shriek like that of a dying animal, followed by several moments of silence.
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen turns sharply on her heel at the sounds at her back, her hand dipping beneath the fall of her summer coat, sliding along the waist of her jeans toward the back
The beasts disappear and Imogen turns her head away, glancing at Fiona almost negligently before sweeping her gaze over the street, then the surrounding buildings. There is tension in her body, but a sort of readiness, too, a vigilance which had been latent before and is in the forefront now. She vibrates with it, like a guitar string just plucked.
“Perhaps we should not be here, just now,” the mildness in her tone is almost shocking after the viciousness and violence of the previous few seconds. She has a gun in her hand, her index finger on the trigger guard, the nozzle pointing downward. The weapon is black and foreign in her delicate hand; but she had been practised enough at getting it out, a movement so quick it might have even been missed.
[Wahya] As far as Imogen can tell the two boys fleeing from the scene were the only direct eyewitness. It’s hard to say how many others there were, or where this took place.
She might hear the scuffing noise of feet on the pavement, a human head poking around the corner to look out at the street in quick glances. Long matted braids swinging back and forth, falling across his face and shoulders, it wasn’t a very tall man. He was garbed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, a long coat thrown over his wiry frame.
When he turns to look in Imogen’s direction, eyes widening as they pause on the small redhead, the man only a few inches taller than she.
[Fiona] Fiona, for all of her tinyness, tenses. One might expect her to react, when in all truth she is preparing to run. It is Imogen’s firm voice and experience that keep her feet planting where she stands. Imogen says they should go and Fiona nods.
Then, the man appears and she’s given pause again …her whole body rigid with expectation.
“Ok.” is her reply, and she’s watching the man now more than she had been Imogen.
[Imogen Slaughter] Her breath exhales sharply as Wahya pokes his head out and stares at her, eyes widening.
“I know him,” she says after a moment, her tone resigned.
A muscle in her jaw flexes, tensing and releasing before she turns to look over her shoulder at the thin girl. “I need t’go o’er there,” she says, pointing toward the alleyway with her gun, the gesture absent as if the weapon were an extension of her hand, and not the bulky out of place thing that it appeared to be. “T’look at the body. Yeh can come with me, and afterwards, I’ll gi’ yeh a lift home, or go now.”
Her eyebrow arches slightly in question.
[Wahya] Wahya is silent. He doesn’t call out to the women, only frozen for the few moments that Imogen explains what she needs to do. He looks back into the alley over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow.
He looks back at the pair of women, his arms stretching up above his head and waving wildly in the air, trying to flag them down. Wahya looks back at them and then over his shoulder into the alley. The moment he looks back, he makes a gargled noise and is suddenly swept off his feet and dragged back into the alley…
Metal rings out in loud banging noise, a constant thwang-thwang-thwang…
[Fiona] The fact that Imogen says she ‘knows’ the odd man does not serve to loosen her muscles whatsoever. Her eyes (wide black pupils and all) dart between the red haired woman and the garou. With a quickened pulse Fi nods, and walks along with Imogen, her head swiveling once to glance back at the group she only recently left behind.
” ‘oly Mother ‘o Mary…” She whispers at the noise, her eyes flickering back to Imogen hard as if to ask if she was certain that she had to go over there. ” ‘at sounded nay good…”
[Imogen Slaughter] The kinwoman ignores Wahya’s spastic waving, casting it a slightly irritated glance, until Fiona makes her decision. They start across the street toward the alleyway – and Imogen stops short as Wahya is dragged back in, her mouth tightening in reaction.
Fiona opines on the quality of the sound and the redhead’s only real reaction is a blink longer than is necessary. A moment where she closes her eyes, as if in fatigue.
“Stay here,” she says, continuing out on the street at a far angle, bringing the alleyway into view.
[Wahya] Imogen paces out onto the street at a far angel, bringing the alleyway into view. She can see it is a continuation of the one behind her, short and wide. It is closed off by a locked gate.
Several yards in, three feet from the fence she can see a body lying flat out on his back, which had to be Wahya. He wasn’t moving, his left hand gripping the edge of a dented metal garbage can lid.
Crates, boxes, and an old couch were piled with trash to one side, another body here three feet away from Wahya. He begins to move his head, bringing a free hand up to his brow, and blinking.
Imogen may catch a glimpse of a long appendage, bright pink and fleshy, coated with a slight sheen split in half, part of it wrapped around Wahya’s left ankle. The other half laid motionless, attached to the furred body that lay motionless.
[Fiona] Imogen does not need to tell Fiona twice to stay put. She may pace along a stretch of concrete that allows her eyes to peer almost into the alley mouth itself, but she doesn’t move. Her breathing is erratic – quick inhales and exhales of her lungs. Expanding and collapsing, over and over again at a rapid pace.
Delicate fingers tuck gold hair behind an ear as she continues to watch not only Imogen’s back but the area around her.
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen does not make a move to enter the alleyway, nor does she lift her gun. She remains at her distance, regarding Wahya.
Seconds pass and the body isn’t moving, only Wahya.
“Yeh can probably come closer,” she says to Fiona, before starting toward the alleyway’s mouth.
[Wahya] Wahya grunts, tilting his head back to look at the mouth of the alley with an upside down angle. He looks away, a glance to the dead lump of fur and lifts up his left arm in the air, giving Imogen the thumbs up.
He drops the garbage can lid, leaving it on the ground as he starts to push himself up. Shaking his head to clear his vision and breathes out in a loud snort. He stands up; glancing down at the appendage still attached to his ankle and tries to shake it off.
[Fiona] The invite doesn’t fall on deaf ears, it just takes the skittish blonde a few minutes to work up the nerve to follow in Imogen’s firm, resolute wake. Falling in behind the red haired woman, who happens to be just about as tall as Fiona, she peeks around Imogen…her hands wringing the front of her dress as if it were wet.
[Imogen Slaughter] The imagery, honestly, would be amusing without the weight of reality. Wahya, stepping out of the alleyway only to be yanked back, braining his assailant with a trash can lid. Imogen, standing almost disapproving, unfeelingly, a distance away, then approaching. Wahya’s thumb’s up, and Fiona’s slight form hiding behind Imogen’s slight form.
It has all the earmarks of an action film.
Imogen’s gun hand slides beneath her jacket, fitting the weapon back into its holster at the small of her back. “Hold still,” she says, starting to lean forward to grab the arm that holds Wayha’s ankle hostage, then thinks better of it. The slight woman straightens and instead firmly plants her foot on a trailing length of skin, her lip curling slightly in distaste.
“Pull.”
The fingers snap as the skin tears, freeing Wahya and leaving Imogen to once more wipe her shoe on the ground, getting the grime and unmentionables off as best she can.
She eyes the remains now, drawing a deep breath which she instantly regrets. The air smells of copper blood, is foetid with viscera. “I imagine you don’t have a car,” she says to Wahya.
[Wahya] “No.” he croaks out in with the graveled-pitch of his voice.
Now free of the appendage has been ripped free. He spits on it, lips peeling back in a human snarl. The air is filled with the acrid coppery stench of fresh blood, sulfuric smelly pussy substance oozes from the gaping wounds of the creature that lays slumped to one side, dark brown fur slick with fresh blood.
On a closer examination, it resembles a rather large mutated sewer rat, about the size and bulk of a rottweiler. It’s front arms were slightly long and ape-like. It had two extra sets of arms, one of which is missing and lying in pieces on the ground between them.
“Sewer rats.” Wahya grunts out, “Big ones.”
[Fiona] Fi is rubbing her eyes now. She’s watching Imogen step on the arm that holds the …Garou….and she’s rubbing her eyes more. Without thought she turns her back toward both Garou and Kin, her eyes focusing on the street and the thankful absence of people out tonight.
Her mind is awash with thoughts. Tomorrow, she’ll blame it on the drugs running like fire through her system, but tonight …it’s a little bit harder to dismiss. There’s a tugging at her soul that she cannot quite ignore. Without thought, she finds herself chewing at her well manicured nails.
Wahya says sewer rat – big ones – and Fiona wrinkles her nose in distaste.
[Imogen Slaughter] Sewer rats, Wahya says. Imogen regards the body for a few moments.
“No joke,” she says after a moment, glancing over her shoulder toward Fiona, as much to confirm the kin’s continued presence as anything.
“Alright, let’s get rid o’ it,” she says, a hand lifting to her hair, pushing strands back from her face. Though she has bound her hair back with a clip, strands are ever escaping, wild curls and waves eddying at the edges of her vision. “We’ll take it out near th’docks ‘n burn it. I’ll get my car.” There is a sense of abruptness to her tone, a pragmatic determination. Still, her gaze flicks toward the incomprehensible animal more than once, lingering on it almost thoughtfully.
She casts a glance toward Fiona, “Yeh can stay here, or come with me.”
[Maija] She had made one last trip to the Brotherhood kitchen to collect her last bit of pay, before she starts the new job tomorrow. She’d be lying if she said it wasn’t with a certain amount of relief that she did so. Had she stayed there much longer, the chances of having a breakdown grew on a daily basis. Too many people, too much rage, too many things to trigger memories of days she hopes are behind her, of things she can finally begin to forget.
[she’ll never forget]
She’d opted to walk a while, instead of sitting in one place and waiting for the bus that will take her on the long trip across town. So it is that she turns a corner, and is walking down the street that holds an alleyway, that also holds one of the few she counts as friend – along with two kinfolk.
She walks as one used to the shadows, used to passing by unnoticed, in her threadbare and oft patched jeans that barely cling to skinny hips, an oversized t-shirt that hangs to her thighs, and a ball cap pulled low. Her hands are shoved into the pockets of her jeans, and her steps are near silent despite the beat to hell hiking boots she wears.
[Fiona] She’s turning just in time to hear Imogen proclaiming that they ought to get rid of the dead thing. Her high had suddenly turned very bad and she’s looking at Imogen and Wahya and then the dead sewer rat.
To her credit she doesn’t turn and run nor does she vomit or squeal. Fiona just stares with wide eyes that black instead of blue due to the size of her pupils. She’s sure she ought to feel something, and wonders idly why she feels nothing. Imogen’s words draw her out of the debate over her chilled heart and she nods without speaking.
She’s following Imogen, which is at the moment probably the only answer the take charge red head will get.
[Wahya] “No joke.” He mimics Imogen, sucking in a deep breath of air, holding it for three seconds until his cheeks puffed out and then releases it.
His attention turns back to the body, nodding his head, sending the jungle vines of hair to writhe about his shoulders with the sudden head movement. Wahya bends, gritting his teeth to stifle any sound he makes as he reached for the torn limb that had grabbed his ankle.
He lifts it up, turning it around to inspect it closer and tosses it over by the body. He begins to rifle through the pockets of his coat, yanking out heavy black garbage typically used for lawn work. He snaps it out, fussing with the edge to get it open.
“Have baggy!” He exclaims, after getting it open and holding it out to Imogen. Wahya doesn’t wait for her to take it, he begins to walk over to the dented trash can lid, limping on the good foot to keep weight off the other ankle. He picks up the metal lid, brushing it off and slips it back under his coat; the lid disappears rededicating itself back to his body.
Once its gone, he hobbles over to the dead rat’s body, bending to grab it by the hind legs and drag it over so they could put it in the bag.
[Imogen Slaughter] Have baggy!
Imogen turns around, glancing down at the industrial waste garbage bag, and then up again toward Wahya, her eyes flicking toward his coat.
A pause, then she turns back, reaching out to catch the edge of the bag and reopening it with a deft flick of her fingers. Apparently they were not going to her car after all. At least not yet.
She does not direct Fiona, simply shaking out the bag further to hold it open for the Garou, careful to keep her hands from touching the mess as he dumps it in.
[Fiona] Pause.
Her eyes move to Wahya and then to the bag. Imogen shakes it out and wiping her hands on her dress she grabs the edge of the bag that the other kinswoman is shaking free. Holding it open she tries to do it so that none of the gore will touch her pale skinned hands.
” Ya do ‘is every night?” She asks Imogen quietly as Wahya readies the body for the bag.
[Maija] She doesn’t recognize Fiona, and thinks nothing of sidestepping around her as she moves down the street – except that she recognizes Wahya’s voice and her steps pause as she looks into the alleyway. Not only does she see Wayha, but also Imogen, holding a bag while they dispose of…
…ew. Nasty.
She glances at Fiona, and hesitates, before she takes another look at Imogen – always dressed like she belongs somewhere other than the Green, and part of her thinks she might offer to help, but instead she looks around, and then leans back against the wall just to the side of the opening of the alleyway, to stand watch. Fiona steps in to help. So she stays out of the way, and watches for anyone she might have to distract, though she’s not sure what’s going on – just that it involves Wahya, and Imogen somehow.
She wouldn’t have even considered pausing for many others, either.
[Wahya] Wahya picks up the body and deposits it into the bag as Imogen holds it open for him. He glances over at Fiona every now and then, giving Imogen a quizzical raise of his eyebrows. He nods once in Fiona’s direction, but doesn’t say anything to her.
As Fiona asks if they do this every night, he lets out a husky chuckle. Tossing in the torn off arm and looks around for anything else; Wahya spies something near Imogen’s shoe, bending to pick it up. He holds up the rat’s eye ball that had fallen out of the socket. Turning it around, he dusts it off with his fingers, and then blows on it. Wahya pops it into his mouth, glancing around as he starts to chew on it absently, like it were just a piece of candy he’d picked up off the ground and then swallows.
He almost chokes on it, eyes widening as he slams his fist against his chest, coughing and hacking. The only thing that comes out is a loud belch. He looks up at the women, and then towards Maija, grinning cheekily.
Wahya looks like he’s been in a scuffle. Part of his left ankle looks chewed on, which he doesn’t seem to favor standing on, the pant leg torn off. Pieces of his coat and shirt are missing from his right shoulder and blood stains the inside of his shirt, near the right flank.
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen’s mouth twists slightly at Fiona’s question, but there is little humour behind it, only a lingering wryness, “Not hardly,” she says.
Wahya leans forward, eating the eyeball from near Imogen’s shoe. The doctor’s regard is something akin to revulsion, albeit tempered by her natural reticence. Beyond that she does not make a commentary, merely pointing out another body part for Wahya to retrieve.
A glance over her shoulder acknowledges Maija, but little else as she waits for Wahya to finish up.
“Admittedly,” she says to Fiona, perhaps deliberately mild, “I’ve done it before.”
[Fiona] Maija’s approach is noted but she doesn’t say anything to the other female. When the Garou nods to Fi she nods back, her eyes darting to his presence now and then in a jerky fashion – as if she wasn’t exactly sure what he might do. It’s the popping of the eyeball into his mouth that makes her gag and threaten to vomit. Holding it back, thankfully, she just looks away toward the street in silence.
“When y’ ‘ere 17…” She begins after managing to hold back a wave of nausea. “….didja think ya would knowin’….what we’re kin to?” The question is strange, granted, given the current situation but it’s asked nonetheless.
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen’s glance is brief, sharp. “No,” she admits. “I did not think that.”
[Maija] It’s a glance back that sees that little snack, and she makes a face and turns around again to study the street before she gags. The belch almost causes her to chuckle, but she swallows it back – the expression micro and fleeting, lifting a hand to tug her hat down a little lower as she watches the street.
Of course, she’s kin to Gnawers – ever had something ‘cooked’ from a can full of unmentionables? Yeah. It’s hella gross.
[Wahya] Wahya forces out a dry cough, licking chapped lips with his tongue, “Sorry,” he coughs out, bending to pick up the last bits of body parts Imogen points out to him.
When he thinks he’s tossed the last bit in, he huffs softly, brushing dirty hands up through his hair to shove it back away from his face. “Done, Wahya think.”
[Fiona] The sharp glance is enough to give her a moments hesitation. Watching Imogen for a breif moment following the look, she eventually turns her head to look at the Garou. Fiona is breathing out of her mouth now in a futile attempt to avoid the stench of what Wahya is putting in the bag.
It might be obvious to keen eyes that Fi had more questions to ask but she doesn’t. At least not while they’re holding the bag with dead mutated sewer rat parts in it.
[Imogen Slaughter] Wahya apologizes and Imogen casts him a sharp-eyed glance. “I wasn’t aware it was wise to consume tainted body parts,” she observes.
Wahya says it’s done, and the kinwoman’s eyes move over the alleyway, intent, perceptive. “It looks like,” she says, straightening and tugging the bag free from Fiona’s hands. She twists the plastic shut, tying it tightly. She is careful not to touch the inner plastic, careful not to get smeared with the beast’s juices.
She draws a breath, casting a glance at Fiona, green but still standing beneath the alleyway light.
“It’s probably best not to carry this out,” she says, tilting her head toward the bag in indication. “Get my car, shall I?” The question is rhetorical, merely a turn of a british phrase. She is already heading toward the alleyway mouth.
[Wahya] Wahya ducks his head down under Imogen’s sharp-eyed glance, like a child being scolded for stealing candy from a dish and eating it. He dogs after the shorter kin, most present are around his height level or below.
“Want Wahya to carry while we wait?” he offers to take the bag from Imogen, managing to keep himself upright as he hobbled after her.
Most of his wounds have started to heal over, leaving bits of flesh to peek through the holes in his clothes. The wound around his left ankle, where the hand had previously been attached seems to not want to heal.
[Maija] She tucks her hands into the pocket of her jeans again, leaning casually against the wall, as if no one is speaking of mutated sewer rats behind and their subsequent removal and disposal behind her.
[Fiona] This time, Fiona doesn’t follow Imogen to her car. She watches Wahya hobble ever the flame haired Briton but says nothing. She is, at the moment, alone with Maija and she still says nothing. Truth be told, her mind was racing too fast for her to be any good at casual conversation.
She chews absently on once neatly clipped and glossy painted finger nails as Imogen and Wahya decide the best way to get the dead bagged thing to the kin’s vehicle.
[Imogen Slaughter] After tying it, she had set the bag down, turning as if she intended to walk away with out it – which she had.
Imogen turns to look at Wahya, “Keep the bag here,” she says, her voice forced even, flat. “I will go and get my car, and bring it t’the alleyway mouth. Tha’ way, we don’t happen upon someone, or risk tearin’ the bag.”
The kin regards the Garou. A pause, then her eyebrow lifts slightly in question. “Does that suit?”
[Imogen Slaughter] (actually, DLP. Ahem. Don’t mind Mei, she just realized her last post wasn’t clear.)
[Imogen Slaughter] She passes the bag to Wahya as he hobbles over.
“I’ll be back in a minute or so. It’s not far.”
Her steps are quick but even as she exits the alleyway, without the bag and presumably alone walking down the sidewalk the half block or so to where she left the ancient Volvo. The engine starts choppily, rough-edged and uneven, choking then catching. There is an unsavoury rattle which starts up, but stops as she eases it into drive and pulls out, u-turning to head back toward the alleyway.
She pulls up to the alleyway mouth and gets out, leaning back in to pop the trunk.
[Wahya] Wahya hisses under his breath, stopping abruptly when Imogen tells him she’s going. He looks back at Maija and Fiona, raising his eyebrows at the pair. He leaves the bag on the ground, crouching down to pick at the torn denim at his left ankle.
The skin along his forehead creases into a frown, he grunts, gently picking at it. He glances back up at the kin still with him.
“Alright?”
[Decker] (either of you want an invite to the AIM chat room?)
to Fiona, Maija
[Maija] Of course – why wasnt I invited before?!? You hate me now, don’t you? I’M GONNA CRY!)
to Decker
[Maija] Wayha speaks, and she looks back into the alley, and nods once in answer to Wahya’s question. She’s alright. Of course, it’d be hard to tell, really, as she is not one that allows expressions to cross her face, her eyes, her lips. She is carefully neutral as much as possible.
Survival instincts.
Imogen pops the trunk, and she pushes from the wall, and asks Wahya. “Need help gettin’ it in there?”
[Decker] (I R MAKING TALUNS 4 LUKAZ)
bloody bandages!
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 4, 5, 6, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6) [WP]
to Maija
[Fiona] Nodding to the Garou as he surveys the damage done near and to his ankle area. “Good, thanks.” Her accent is barely noticeable in those two words. When Imogen returns with the Volvo and Maija offers her assistance, the tiny blonde in the out of place pink sundress and expensive strappy sandals remains as out of the way as possible. One arm is drawn up and across her stomach as the the other elbow rests on top of it, a fingernail drawn to her mouth.
[Fiona] (Sure!)
to Decker, Maija
[Decker] (soak talens!)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 2, 2, 3, 3, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6) [WP]
to Maija
[Decker] (damage talens!)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 5, 5, 7, 10 (Success x 4 at target 4) [WP]
to Maija
[Decker] (meditating… IN CAERN’S HEART)
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 1, 8 (Failure at target 6)
to Maija
[Decker] (WTF maelstrom. day 2)
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 5, 5, 6 (Success x 1 at target 6)
to Maija
[Maija] (HAHAHAHHAH!)
to Decker
[Decker] (day 3)
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 7, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)
to Maija
[Decker] (okay, 3 days to do all that! *stops glomping your screen*)
to Maija
[Wahya] Wahya grimaces once again, glancing up at the mouth of the alley as he spies the car pulling up. He squints his eyes against the flashing light of breaks. Imogen gets out to pop open the trunk. He pushes himself up to his full height and reaches for the trash bag.
Maija offers to help him carry it; he nods, waving his hand towards her own. “Cover hands,” he instructs, half dragging it, half lifting it up as he hobbles and sways over to the car.
Wahya passes another glance over to Fiona, speaking to Maija, “Frilly kin no look good.”
[Maija] “Frilly kin usually don’t.” she mutters, just loud enough for him to hear it.
He says to cover her hands, and she wraps them in the edges of her oversized t-shirt, and then lifts the back of the bag to help carry it to the care, making faster work of the job than he could do alone.
She’s a little stronger than her waifish frame suggests, but she still lifts with a grunt of effort, matching his pace as they head toward the ancient Volvo.
[Imogen Slaughter] As the two get closer to the Volvo, the redhaired woman steps forward to assist, catching the trailing bottom and lifting it up to keep it off the ground,
She had caught Wahya’s comment, moving her eyes toward Fiona where she stands apart.
They lift the heavy sack into the trunk of her car, laying it over other garbage bags, clearly meant for similar purposes. Imogen straightens from the trunk, letting another close it as she turns to glance at Fiona. “How far d’yeh live from ‘ere?” she asks.
[Decker] “Tha fuck is this, tha retards’ egg’n’spoon race?”
Sometime between the time Imogen left to get the car and the time Fiona and Wahya start hauling bodies around, Decker has decided to show up. Not that he’s on the ground where he’d be of some help, mind. He’s up on the third level of a fire escape that descends into this particular, filthy alley — leaning his forearms against the rusty metal, looking down at them from twenty-five, thirty feet up. There’s a lit smoke drooping from his lips. From the way the smoke spills off, it’s not a cigarette.
Imogen steps into the alley to assist, and his attention skates that way, holds for a moment. Then he straightens up and starts coming down, not bothering to be quiet, his shitkicker boots clanging down the old fire escape.
[Imogen Slaughter] The sound of the shitkicker boots on the fire escape had caused the slight, redhaired kinwoman to crane her neck upward and see the source. Her eyes rest upon the Modi for several seconds, then lowers again, her attention returning to their efforts.
She straightens from the trunk and casts a glance toward the Fenrir where he is doubtlessly on the ground by now, a single brief glance before her attention returns to Fiona. Her question is asked – how far does she live from here? and Imogen awaits her answer.
[Fiona] She’s glad the dead thing is in the trunk. Regardless of it being bagged …she didn’t care for it being in the open. Imogen speaks, then Decker drops in on the situation. The man gives her pause – more so than the Crinos form of Wahya had. Wide eyes switch between the group before returning to Imogen and her question Fiona left hanging.
“No…less than a couple miles.” Her finger is removed from her mouth and her arms cross tightly over her abdomen.
[Wahya] Wahya listens to the rattling of metal as Decker comes down. He is most definitely human at this point, not in his war form since Fiona and Imogen had come into the alley to investigate. He sucks in a quick breath through clenched teeth, after they get the body in the trunk.
He doesn’t say a word as Imogen questions Fiona on where she lives. He brushes his hands against the sides of his coat.
[Maija] She helps dump the bag, and then wipes her hands on the lower bit of her shirt again. She doesn’t seem overly bothered by the stench, or the fact they just lowered a rat into the back of a volvo.
She glances at Decker, then drops her gaze. Hands are shoved into her pockets again, and she goes silent again.
[Imogen Slaughter] There is silence all around her – Wahya and Maija are wordless.
“Would you like t’be dropped off?” Imogen focuses upon Fiona, with her closed body posture and nervous habit. Her question does not quite sound like compassion. It is merely a question.
[Decker] Decker doesn’t hurry, but nor does it take him long to descending two flights of clanking stairs. On the landing now, he plants his hands on the railing and vaults over it, dropping ten feet and landing in an athletic, springing crouch.
In the darkness of the alley, it’s hard to make out features. They get an impression of a buzzed head, thick shoulders; corded arms, bare in his wifebeater jersey. He might be youngish by human standards, mid-20s, but the rage seething under his skin and crackling in his eyes makes it hard to tell. He’s not human. He’s a full-moon of the Fenrir, a warrior caste of a warrior tribe of a warrior breed.
Those eyes stay on Imogen a beat as he brushes past her. He looks into the trunk of the old volvo, flicking open the garbage bag in two or three deft tugs. Has a look inside. Knots the bags again.
“Disgustin’.” He glances at Wahya. “Ya killt it in this alley?”
[Fiona] She shakes her head. “No… ‘m good…” is her answer. Fiona watches the group, though she paces Decker the most out of a sense of self-preservation. “I’ll be a’right…thanks…” A faint smile is given to Imogen, though to Maija and Wahya she simply nods in passing as they ready to leave.
[Wahya] “Chased into here, came from other half of alley, almost eat dark skin monkeys in bright clothing and shiny chains.” He replies, glancing up at Decker. The man was taller than him and the height difference made him have to look up.
He gestures across the street to the other alley they had come from. “Was looking for its nest.”
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen’s response is merely a nod, a reply to Fiona’s decision and she turns, walking back to the driver’s side of the car, pulling the door open. She does not get inside yet, merely letting the door half close against her hip as she waits.
[Fiona] The slight of build Kin does not leave immediately, she drifts back a few steps and waits for the group to pile into the Volvo with the sewer rats dead carcass in the trunk. Without thought the Scotswoman shakes her head at the entire situation and the comedic value it possess.
[Decker] Decker turns his head, looking over his shoulder at the alley across the street. And then he turns back.
“What. By yerself?” He reaches up, slams the trunk of the Volvo shut on the mess.
[Wahya] Wahya looks to Fiona and then Maija, his gaze settles on Imogen as she pulls the door open and waits by it. He starts to hobble to the volvo’s other side, only pausing if Decker stops him for any reason.
He wasn’t going to allow Imogen to dumb the carcass on her own, Wahya blinks at Decker. “Yes, wondered where it came from, didn’t think to make contact with it, until it scare two-legs.”
He gestures to the women, “it dead before they involved,”
[Maija] Maija stays quiet, and it should be noted that oddly enough, she doesn’t shy away from Decker as she does with most trueborn. It may be that she met him first, it may be that he was upfront when he didn’t have to be, it may be some instinct that tells her she’s not the focus of any ire on his part, so it’s ok. Whatever it is, she doesn’t step back, or shy away- though she does take half a step closer to Wahya, who she trusts for whatever reason.
She glances at Fiona as she steps a little bit away, but gives her attention back to Wahya and the rest. When wahya heads toward the car, then she steps back, reaching up to tug her hat a little lower, to tuck dishwaterblond hair behind her ear.
[Decker] Decker glances at Imogen for a moment, expression unreadable — a faint frown, nothing more or less. Then he looks back at Wahya.
“You gon’ help ‘Gen dump bodies?” That’s it; the only indication of a seven-year relationship between Imogen and the Modi: he calls her ‘Gen, which is not something anyone else would, much less so thoughtlessly, automatically. When Wahya nods or otherwise indicates yes, Decker tips his chin up at him. “‘ll have a look in tha alley. Don’t mind if ya claim tha kills fer yerself.”
[Imogen Slaughter] The redhaired kinwoman casts an eye toward Wahya as he assures Decker that the kinwomen were not involved. Her gaze rests there briefly, silent, unrevealing. Decker’s attention weighs on her skin, a near full moon blaze. Her head turns – the dark eyes meeting grey.
He asks if Wahya is going to help dump the bodies. “Don’t worry about it,” she says.
“S’a one person job.”
[Decker] “Where ya takin’ it?” He addresses Imogen directly for the first time in —
— hell; days.
[Imogen Slaughter] “Past the docks,” she answers Decker, “I’ll burn it and then deal wi’ the remains.”
[Wahya] Wahya suddenly feels uneasy, like he were caught between Decker and Imogen. The kinswoman tells him it’s a one person job. He stands next to the volvo’s door but doesn’t open it. A hand paused in mid-reach as his head turns back and forth between the two of them. It was like watching a tennis match.
In the end, the wolf-born was likely to get in Imogen’s way, who is probably a master at carcass disposal by now.
“Silence—“ he begins to say, confused, “Okay to let her go alone?”
He can see Maija and Fiona in his peripheral, his nose wrinkles up. The Uktena shifts his weight, keeping most of it balanced off his left foot as the aggravated wound on his ankle wasn’t healing at all.
[Decker] Another one of those nods, a bare lift of his head. It suffices for acquiescence and goodbye. Then what Wahya says makes the corner of Decker’s mouth quirk up. He slants the wolfborn an ironic, sidelong glance.
“‘Gen kin take care’a herself better’n mos’ Cliaths.” He steps away from the Volvo, then turns to glance at the two blondes. “Who tha fuck is they?”
[Imogen Slaughter] Decker offers a bare nod, acquiescence and goodbye – Imogen offers nothing quite so overt to anyone, merely gets into her car, even as Wahya asks his question. The car’s engine catches unpleasantly when she starts – the latent mechanic in some might even wince.
The parking brake creaks as she lowers it, then she pulls away from the curb, taking the next turn to lead her away from the scene of the crime and toward the waterfront.
[Imogen Slaughter] (Thank you for the scene, everyone!)
[Fiona] (Thank YOU!)
[Decker] (night mei!)
[Maija] She answers for herself, glancing up at Decker, then away again. “Maija.” Mi-yah. “we met before, few months back.”
He may or may not remember. She does, and that’s enough.
[Wahya] Wahya steps away from the Volvo. He lifts a hand to point at Maija, “Kin. Maija and…” blinking as he finally looks at Fiona and shrugs his shoulders. “Don’t know her.”
[Fiona] Decker speaks about her as if she were not present. Though if it bothers her, it isn’t readily apparent on her expression. Listening to Maija speak up, Fiona takes a few moments longer to consider whether or not she should answer. In the end, though, she errs on the side of caution, “Name’s Fiona…” She is small, though compared to Imogen and the others around her she isn’t as tiny as she seems around most people. Fragile seeming, she clears her throat and pushes forward. “Kin ta Stag.”
[Decker] Miyah. Decker squints at the scrawny kid for a moment, and then he snorts. “Huh. Ya look diff’rent without tha hood. Ya find tha Brotherhood?”
A glance at the other one. Kin to Stag. The accent sounds vaguely familiar to him; it reminds him of James, and to a lesser degree, Imogen. Unflinching, hard to meet, Decker’s grey eyes consider Fiona for a moment.
“Decker,” he says, then. “Fenrir.” A beat. “Ya stick out like a fuckin’ sore thumb here. You actually lookin’ ta git mugged ‘r somethin’?”
[Maija] She nods, sharply once. “Yeah. Thanks. Moved out yesterday.”
The last is mainly for Wahya – so that he knows she’s not at the brotherhood any longer in case he goes searching. She doesn’t fill in that she moved in, out, then in again either. Somehow, she’s pretty sure Decker won’t care either way.
[Decker] A snort — maybe it’s amusement. “What, they change cooks ‘r somethin’?”
[Fiona] That makes her fall still for a moment.Was she looking to get mugged? Considering his question, literally, and attempting to refrain from fidgeting Fiona shakes her head. “N’at all…” She begins, her Scottish brogue ringing through each word she speaks. “Cannae afford any where else ‘t tha moment…” Her words are focused on Decker even though her eyes are somewhere else.
[Maija] She shakes her head, and a flicker of amusement passes over her face. “Nah. Too many folks, too much..” she gestures toward him vaguely. “ain’t gettin no sleep or nuthin. Done raised enough to get a place an’ a new job. Ain’t figure it was something supposed to be permanant anyway.”
Thin shoulder lifts in a slight shrug. “Ain’t like not payin my own way, neither.”
[Wahya] Wahya begins to frown, the skin on his forehead wrinkling up as his eyebrows knit together. He swings his head around to simply stare at Maija. He hadn’t known she moved out of the brotherhood. Lately, his mind caught up with other things that evolved around his former pack and the proposal from Lukas.
His nostrils flare, breathing out in a small sigh. He pushes the braids back from his face, pulling his hand down to examine the dirt and blood caked between the cracks in his palm.
[Decker] “Good fer you,” he says to Maija. His tone says she’s right: he doesn’t give a fuck.
When Fiona answers, a second snort follows the first, this one forceful enough to shake a sheaf of ash loose from the smoke forgotten between his teeth. He remembers it again, clips it out of his mouth between thumb and forefinger, ashes it properly. Fits it back between his teeth and sucks a hit off of it.
“Yer gon’ end up a corpse in a fuckin’ alley.” He jerks his head toward Wahya. “Have Wahya here show ya where tha Brotherhood is. A coupla Stag’s kin runs tha place. Yer Tribesman lives there. Calls himself Hatchet.”
A glance at Wahya’s ankle, then. “Kin ya walk on that?”
[Maija] She glances at Wahya. “Was hopin t’find ya, so’s I could tell ya where. Ain’t want ya ta worry or nuthin.” It’s sorta muttered, as she looks down at the walk. Not that she thinks anyone should or would really worry, but Wahya’s different.
Decker’s tone doesn’t shock her. She simply falls quiet after that.
[Wahya] Wahya is hobbling, more like wavering. He is pretending in front of Decker that the wound doesn’t bother him. It’ll heal. He nods his head, “Wahya can walk.”
Maija’s words bring his attention back to her; she had wanted to tell him. “Good Maija say, would have wondered.”
[Hatchet] [Lazy! Where is everyone?]
[Wahya] ooc: Alleyway, Wahya injured, Decker’s questioning people and the kin are just standing around. I think we’re waiting on a response from Decker.
to Decker, Fiona, Hatchet, Maija
[Maija] She nods, slightly, a hand lifting, blunt nails scritching at her jaw lightly, before tucking into the pocket of her jeans again. “S’in bronzeville.” this to Wahya, pitched low, soft so as not to interrupt Decker should he start to say something again. “Ya can come over sometime.”
An odd invitation, for anyone that knows her. Then again, Wahya is different.
[Decker] (sorry guys, i was waiting on Fiona, and also posting in other room *LOL*)
to Fiona, Hatchet, Maija, Wahya
[Wahya] ooc: I think fiona’s player went idle.
to Decker, Fiona, Hatchet, Maija
[Decker] (yes, i gathered! *laughs* posting, sorry guys.)
to Fiona, Hatchet, Maija, Wahya
[Decker] Wahya insists he can walk. Decker gives the ankle another long, critical glance. He doesn’t believe Wahya. He does, however, understand pride; understands strength, understands the necessity to neither show nor coddle weakness.
So the modi shrugs, shoulders rolling easily. “Yeah okay.” Not his fuckin’ problem. A jerk of his thumb at the silent kin-of-Stag. “See to it that she gits to her tribesman, will ya.”
It doesn’t lilt at the end. It wasn’t a question. Decker turns toward the alley across the street, presumably to go mutant rat-hunting.
[Wahya] The coast seemed clear as Wahya finally stops pretending as soon as Decker has left to go rat-hunting. He begins to sag, shoulders slumping first before he catches himself.
Hissing under his breath, Wahya looks at the two other kinfolk, waving a hand to motion for Maija and Fiona to come along.
“Can’t stay here, need to get moving, Wahya need to keep moving.”
[Decker] (thanks for the play, folks! multitaskery too much for me! *ditches out*)
[Maija] She nods, slightly. Then looks for Fiona, who seems to have… disappeared, wandered off while they were talking to Decker. A shoulder lifts into a slight shrug, and she looks at Wahya again. “Ya wanna.. I mean, ya ain’t gotta if ya don’t wanna or nuthin, but I can get that cleaned up at my new place.”
The offer’s there, as she starts walking with him in the general direction towards Bronzeville.
[Wahya] “How far to place?”
Wahya looks at her; they were the same height and met eye to eye. The offer had been there and he wasn’t about to turn it down, Wahya hasn’t had the most comfortable of sleeping arrangements since leaving the Swift-Arrow’s place.
There had been the luxury of the brotherhood, but it was too noisy with all the people there. It made his head hurt with all the arguing and monkey-babble. The only time he found any solitude was in the showers.
He begins to walk with her, his movements—a snail’s pace—as he hobbles beside her. His body wavering without the support of anything to keep him upright; she can see him reach out and grab for things as they walk. He attempts to hide the pain, his bottom lip tucked inward, biting down on it to keep any sound from escaping.
[Maija] She eyes him, and then eyes the area, looking for the nearest payphone. “Kinda far for that leg. I’ll call a cab. I got enough t’get us there alright. Better than the bus.”
She points to the nearest bus bench. “Wait there. I’ll get us a ride.”
She doesn’t normally talk much, or take the lead, but he clearly hurts and that’s not ok in her book. being all brave in front of the others is fine, but she’s just kin, a nobody. Ain’t matter to her, all that matters is that he gets fixed up. She steps into the next phone booth, and digs some coins from her pocket, and makes the call.
[Wahya] Maija points him off to a bench, Wahya takes her heed, listening obediently to the kinfolk as she takes charge, whether she realizes it or not. He sinks—more like crashes—down onto the bench. Grumbling and hissing as he pulls his left leg up.
Wahya begins to unlace the boot that isn’t too mauled, yanking it off. The jerking motion sends reel of pain up his leg, causing muscles to spasm. He bites his bottom lip until he can taste the coppery swell of blood forming on his lip.
The Uktena crouches over the ankle, peeling back the torn denim. The ankle looked like it had been chewed on; bits of flesh and muscle were exposed, covered in dried blood and puss. He rubs at it, flecking some of it away. His dirty hands only cause more pain. Even in his monkey-skin, the pain seemed too much, he couldn’t figure out why it wasn’t healing as fast as his other wounds.
“Must be—aggravated….” He breathes out.
[Maija] She speaks quietly, quickly on the phone, and gives the cap driver the corner where they’re waiting. She hangs up and comes back in time to check out that wound, and hear the comment. She pulls up the oversized t-shirt, and tears the edge between her teeth, before she’s tearing the bottom bit of it off and away from her shirt. It was one of Will’s anyway. She then crouches in front of Wahya and checks out that leg.
“Only gonna get more aggravated if ya keep rubbing at it.” Its a bit of a joke, or maybe she’s not sure what exactly he means. Either way, she doesn’t clarify, just waves his hands away from the leg, and goes about binding it with the torn strap of her shirt. “This’ll help it until we get back. Don’t tell the driver anything – I’ll do the talkin. He should be here soon.”
[Wahya] Wahya was going to be impressed with her people’s skills. He looked like absolute shit, covered in blood, clothes torn in certain spots. The bits of flesh revealed through the torn clothing were healed over except for his ankle.
She vaguely might remember seeing the trash can lid, and how he’d slipped it up under the long coat. She can’t see any traces of it, hard to say where he’s hiding that damn thing. It was the same one he used to scare cats with the first night they met and she was the injured one.
His breathing grows steady, keeping his cool. He looks up at her, nodding his head. The long matted braids falling in a curtain to hide his features. He lets her wrap the ankle up, growling ever-so-softly when it’s pulled a little tight.
[Maija] He growls slightly, and she hesitates. Just a moment, but it’s there – a sudden pause, a sudden tension, that she has to almost visibly control. She does control it though, and finishes tying it off. “Has to be tight, stop the bleeding and such.”
She eyes his clothing, and then the street, and then thanks whomever is up there that she always doubles up. She peels out of the rest of the torn shirt, leaving her in a white tank top. “Pull this on. will cover some of the blood and such, anyway. The rest we’ll have to fake it. At least it’s dark out.”
She doesn’t question where that trashcan lid went. There are some things that can’t be explained, and she’s well taught not to ask. She nods slightly. It’s the best she can do under the circumstances. Hopefully they’ll get a driver that don’t give a shit who rides in the back of his cab.
[Wahya] She’s taking off the rest of the torn shirt and Wahya is just staring at her. His brown eyes go wide, not quite to the point of bulging. He hisses at her, trying to prevent her from taking it off and handing it to him.
“Is not time to get sky-clad!” he looks around, braids slapping against his cheeks, until he brings his eyes back to her and realizes what she is doing. He breathes in deeply, starting at her as he exhales it breath out in a sigh.
Wahya doesn’t understand all the fuss, he just begins to shrug out of the long coat, fingers tugging at the buttoned collar of the long-sleeved shirt he wore and peels it open. He shrugs the shirt off, wadding it up into a ball. He doesn’t take the torn one, just stuffs it into a pocket inside his coat and pulls the long coat back on, rather remaining shirtless.
“How long?”
[Maija] Skyclad…
He’s shocked, and there’s a slight smirk that dances briefly across her lips. She remembers the night he healed her how he carefully turned his head, how he was so intent on making sure even as he touched her that she was comfortable and that there was nothing sexual about it. That reaction from him is a very big part of why she’d let him follow her home.
“I gotta nother shirt on – ain’t like I was gonna get naked in publick. Jus ain’t wanna explain the blood.” She nods though, as he makes the change and tugs her torn shirt back on again.
She glances down the street then. “Not long. Five minutes or so. They said they got a driver near by.”
[Wahya] Wahya attempts to estimate how long five minutes was. His features twisting into a scowl as he counts on the dirty digits of his hands. He shakes his head, getting confused somewhere in the equation.
Instead, he starts to open his coat, digging through the pockets, some came with the coat, others were sewn into it by the odd shapes of fabric that created them. He finds what he’s looking for, a men’s leather wallet.
“Frog-skins.”
He peels open the wallet; it was filled with papers, crumbled up bills and receipts, slips of post-it notes with crayon scratches on it. He finds the balled up bills and takes them out, handing them to her.
[Maija] She blink as he hands her the rolled up bills, and she can’t help it – she has to ask. “Why ya call em frog skins anyway?”
She smooths them out and counts them quickly, then folds them carefully again and tucks them into her pocket so that she can use them to pay for the cab. Fortunately there’s a little store close to her place too, where she can get any supplies she might need to get that wound clean.
She stands, and looks for the cab again, and is rewarded with headlights turning their way. “There he is.”
[Wahya] “Color of frogs.” He says, flashing her a small, pained smile. She smoothed out an odd denomination of forty dollars in small and large bills, which should get them somewhere.
How he came about it is a different question, one Wahya probably won’t answer. The Cab pulls up, he reaches out to brace his arm against the back of the bench, pushing himself off. He forgets the shoe that he’d taken off, hobbling now to keep his position upright and winces as the headlights flash in his eyes.
[Maija] “Makes sense.” Her smile is one that’s barely there long enough to register. It slides across her lips and away again, so fast that it may be missed. Oddly, the most relaxed he’d ever seen her was when she was in pain, behind closed doors. Safe. There she is different. There she is more herself. She couldn’t relax in the Brotherhood – not ever. Maybe this new place will be the same, if not even better. It’s hers.
She grabs the shoe he forgot, and moves toward the cab, pulling the door open for Wahya. “5608 South Racine.” is what she says to the driver, so that he has time to punch it into his GPS, hopefully distracted enough to not notice the shame Wahya is in as he gets into the cab. Only once he’s in does she follow herself.
If the cabbie asks any questions not related to where they’re going, he gets no answers.
[Wahya] 5608 South Racine…
He doesn’t know the location of the address, part of him is curious now that he hears it. He wishes to he had access to his backpack which was tucked away in safekeeping. Wahya climbs into the back of the cab, flopping down on the seat like he was drunk.
He scoots in all the way, grunting in pain when he bangs his left foot against the door. Hair in his face, it was hard to discern his features. He just keeps his head bowed down, luckily for the Uktena; the low thrum of his rage doesn’t make the cab driver quiver in his boots. It just makes him give off an odd air about him.
He doesn’t say anything to Maija as they begin to take the cab ride to her place; he just leans his head against the cool glass window and stares out into the darkness.
[Maija] The cabby doesn’t ask questions. The fares going to be good enough that he likely doesn’t care who the strange man and the waifish girl are, or why one makes him uneasy and probably smells like something unsavory, and both just stare out the window for the duration of the trip. Maija doesn’t encourage chatter, only answering affirmative when asked if that’s the place by the Family BBQ joint.
That’s exactly the place. The ride then passes in silence.
Then they pull up in front of the trio of buildings, all two stories. The one in the middle is the asked about BBQ joint, and the one on the left has a plaque that declares it 5608. The bottom floor, the storefront, is empty, and has a ‘for lease’ sign in the window. There are no lights on on either floor that can be seen. She leans forward and peels off enough money for the ride, dividing it between what she has and what Wahya gave her. She then thanks the cabbie, and steps out, holding the door for Wahya – which disguises the fact she’s ready to help him stand if he needs it.
Once he’s out, and the driver takes off, she leads the way to the small door off to the side. Keys dug out of her pocket, she unlocks it. “I live upstairs. Will be jus’ us once we get in here.” In case he needs to shift or something. She don’t know, she’s just saying its ok once the door closes and locks behind him. Then its up the stairs to the small hall that leads to her door, which she unlocks to let him in, hitting the light as they move through the door.
[Wahya] The cabby doesn’t ask questions, perhaps he doesn’t care to, he may be used to this sort, and especially with the side of town this pair was headed. Wahya rolls forward, pushing himself along the seat with his hands. He follows Maija out of the door, using the car as leverage to get himself up to his good foot.
He hasn’t changed at all, hasn’t thought of doing it. He knows he’ll have to stay like this for the wound to properly heal, for his body’s natural regeneration to take place.
“Wahya will need to stay for few days, like this…” he says to her quietly, “Cannot change, cannot heal in birth form.”
He allows her to lead him along; looking at the flight of stairs once they’ve entered the building like it was going to be the longest climb in his life.
[Maija] She looks at him, and nods, slightly. “If ya need to, ya can hang on. I ain’t as weak as I look.” and she starts with him up the stairs. He mentions needing a place to stay until he can heal, and at first, she doesn’t say anything. There’s a moment where she’s not sure, even though it’s Wahya, and not – say – Decker. Then, after a step or two, a nod or two.
“Yeah, alright. Ya can stay with me. Ain’t much, but it’s quiet, an ya kin heal up.” Decision made, the tension is gone from that part of the discussion. She’s like that when it comes to standing firm – once she decides a course, she holds true to it.
And she stays by his side for the entire long climb.
[Wahya] It feels like a long climb. It might be as bad as Wahya thinks, but by the time they are up there. His eyes have grown wide and he’s cussing in some other tongue beneath his breath, hissing out through clenched teeth.
When they finally reach the right floor, he pulls away from Maija to lean against the railing, allowing her to move to the door and get it open.
[Maija] It’s a long ass climb, and he’s clearly in pain when they get to the top. She flips the right key into her hands, as he leans on the railing, and unlocks the door -two locks by key, and there’s a third bolt inside that she’ll see too once they’re safely in there. She pushes the door open, and lets him go in first. “Down the hall there.”
There’s not much, she wasn’t lying. There is a soft light coming from somewhere, that was far enough back that it didn’t register in the windows out front. Turns out to come from a floor lamp in the living room by the couch. The furniture old, and well used by those who lived here before her, though she’s done her best to fabreeze the hell out of it to make it slightly less… stale.
She tosses her keys on top of the tv, followed by her ball cap, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Ya wanna clean up or anything, the bathrooms there.”
[Wahya] Wahya dozed while Maija unlocked the door, he leans back against the railing, eyes closed in silence. She might think he’ll never wake up, but his eyes roll open, peering at her through the mess of hair as she asks him if he wants to get cleaned up.
“Yes.”
He hobbles forward, gripping the door frame as he leans against it, his head pokes in first, peering around. Eyebrows tilt up high on his head, almost touching the hairline.
“No Will?”
He can’t smell any other males, which surprised him. Wahya slips to the side, allowing Maija room to shut the door behind him. He hobbles forward, glancing around the room. She points out the bathroom to him and he’s goes in that direction.
[Maija] She freezes when he asks about Will, her hand on the lock as she closes her eyes, briefly. She slides the deadbolt home, the bar follows, the bottom lock flicked as well. She’s well aware the shitty area of town she now lives in.
She clears her throat, slightly, and then manages. “No. No Will. He’s gone.”
That’s why she was in the Brotherhood to begin with, though she just now realizes she hadn’t told him that he’d disappeared. There is one thing in the open that is Wills, though, and it’s the books on the rickty bookshelves. There’s also some of his clothing that she took as well, and the stack of towels in the bathroom. OTher than that though – no Will.
“S’jus me.” Finality in that, as he heads to the bathroom. “towels on the shelf in there.” and she tosses her keys on top the TV, her hat following, and settles to sit on the couch.
[Wahya] Lucky for Maija, she won’t have a high water bill. The Uktena knowledgeable in how to take proper baths now. Wahya hobbles into the bathroom, pausing once to grab a handful of towels on his way and shuts the door behind him.
He strips down, the water turned on, waiting until its not quite scalding hot to pull his battered body in. The moment Wahya hits the shower, hot water striking against his naked skin. He loses most of his resolve and she’ll hear his howl of pain.
If she dares to check on him, she’ll catch a glimpse of his back, hands braced on either side of the walls. His head bowed down as water rains down. He angles his left leg up, turning it so the wounded ankle caught most of the water’s stream.
[Maija] She flinches when that howl comes – one of pain or not. It causes tension to rip through her back, her spine suddenly ramrod straight, and she looks at the bathroom door. She waits, silently, perched on the edge of the seat of the couch, her hands clenching in the cushion by her thighs.
She doesn’t move for a long moment, but then there is no crash that would make her think he’d fallen, nothing that would cause undo worry. She takes a breath, and then another, and then she reaches down and starts to untie her boots, kicking them off one by one.
[Wahya] An hour or two passes, Wahya hasn’t emerged out of the bathroom yet, the water has run cold by now, leaving little hot water for the kin. She isn’t sure if he’s died or passed out. There hasn’t been any sound after she heard that howl.
Eventually, the water gets turned off. The door opens as the Uktena, not quite sopping wet, but shuffles out into the main room. He’s drawn a towel around his waist, another around his hair, twisting it up to keep the dreds out of his eyes. A third towel was sacrificed into a makeshift bandage that he’s wrapped around his left ankle, securing it with safety pins.
Wahya keeps his weight on the right, only applying enough weight to the balls of his left foot. He makes his way out to the couch, flopping down into one side of it and sighs.
[Maija] He was in there forever. At first, she remained where she ways. Then she listened at the door to be sure she didn’t hear anything to make her worry – much. Then she moved about the small apartment, gathering the first aid kit from under the sink, and setting it on the floor next to the couch. At some point she changed her clothing into a clean tank top, a pair of sweats that were too big – big enough to be Wills, the waistband rolled so that they hang precariously low on her non-existent hips, and thick socks. Stands to reason she’s always cold, she has zero padding.
When he finally emerges, the tv is on, the volume low, some nick at night show or another. She’s not really paying attention. She’s curled up in the corner of the couch, a blanket pulled over her lap, half dozing against with her head tucked against the arm of the couch. She looks pathetically little this way, vulnerable in a way she’d never let anyone actually see…
…and he doesn’t see it more than a few seconds, before she’s sitting up and rubbing her eyes briefly. She glances down at the makeshift bandage, and shakes her head. “Here, let me.”
She slips from the couch and sits on the floor by his feet, pulls the first aid kit to her, and goes about doing a more proper job of bandaging his wound.
[Wahya] The Uktena doesn’t register Maija’s presence at first, not until she undoes his bandage, and rewraps it. He hisses out, biting his lip. His eyes roll open, turning down to watch her through hooded eyelids.
One arm hangs over the arm of the couch, fingers clawing into the side. The other lays flat against his thigh. He doesn’t move, just lets her dress the wound. His head tilts back, closing his eyes, “Why Maija do this?”
Without the bulky, oversized street clothes, Maija would see that Wahya in his monkey-skin was rather lean. His height was in his arms and legs, which were nothing but wiry cords of lean muscle. He was dark skinned, like one of a mixed ethnic heritage and was practically hairless except for a small bit of facial growth and the hair atop his head, and the small trail running under the edge of the towel.
[Maija] He doesn’t move, and she is as gentle as she can be, with the severity of the wound. She dresses it with some ointment, though she’s not sure if it’ll help anything at all, except to make sure the bandage doesn’t stick when she goes to change it tomorrow, or the next day. If he lets her. Her touch is soft, though her hands are cold. They’re always cold, despite the heat outside, and almost look fragile because they’re so thin. There’s a hidden strength there, as she works carefully and quickly.
She pauses midway when he asks her why, and looks up at him. She’s not sure she has an answer, exactly. She hadn’t thought about it, really. Then her shoulder, thin and pale under the meager light of the floor lamp and glittering pictures on the tv, lifts slightly. “Why’d ya come heal me up when I was hurt? I can’t do nuthin like what ya did for me, but I kin try to help a little.”
It seems like that might be it, that might be all she says, but as she’s putting the bandages away again, she looks up at him. “Ya ain’t scare me like the others.. I ain’t think you’d hurt me. Ain’t sure why… but ya ain’t like them. I ain’t… always scared round ya. So havin ya here ain’t weird, an’ if I kin help, I will.”
[Wahya] He doesn’t scare her like the others do. Wahya continues to watch her through hooded lids, his breathing has grown shallow. The muscles in his torso slowly contract with each slow breath he takes.
He looks tired, the activity from the evening and the fight have worn on him. He tries to fight sleep, his lips twitch, cut and bruised from where he bit down on them to muffle pain.
“Why afraid of wolves?” It comes out in a sleepy tone, his head nods down a bit and suddenly snaps back up as he wakes up. Wahya shifts his position on the couch, leaning forward to prop his arms on his knees. A hand trailed out to absently touch the top of Maija’s head.
“What scare Maija?”
[Maija] He leans forward, and she is still, and there’s a slight tension as he reaches for her, until the touch lands, absent and gentle. She takes a breath, slow, and lets it out again, before she looks up at him, then down again.
“Ain’t just the wolves that’s bad.” Here, in her apartment, where it’s just hers and they’re alone, it’s easier to read her expressions. She lets them trace across her face, she lets them linger longer before forcing them away – she’s not in a constant state of alertness, of flight vs. fight. “When I was growin up, my father thought he could beat th’ change into me, make it so’s I’d be trueborn like yaself, no matter what they done told him bout it never happenin. The night ya healed me? That ain’t even close to the worse I been beat. Broke th’ first bones when I was five. Ain’t never stopped after that.”
She doesn’t look up at him, she just messes with the scrap of bandage still in her hand, before she realizes it and puts it away. “He hooked up with this Shadow Lord. She’d heal me up when he done beat me too bad, jus so he could do it again. They put me in th’hospital right before I left. I been runnin for over two years now.”
She shrugs her shoulder again, and tucks closes the first aid kit and flips the clasps closed. “I ain’t never knowed no kin or true that ain’t want somethin from me. Not till I met Ryan, an’ he helped me get cross country. Than some folks here – but it ain’t a fear I kin control all the time. Better safe then sorry, ya know?”
The words are halting, but honest, until she finishes and trails to silence again.
[Wahya] She begins to tell him a story. The Uktena sits in silence, listening intently. He pulls his hand back when he can read the tension in her body, somehow understanding now as she explains all of this to him.
He lets out a small snort, his chest puffing up and down in a quick irritated motion. He leans back against the cushions, sinking into the arm of the couch. “How is wolf-born different? Wahya is what Maija fear most, fear wolf-born to.”
[Maija] Her brow furrows, lines creasing her forehead as she tries to figure out just why… and how to explain it so that he understands. She lifts a hand to to brush her hair back, tucking it behind her ear, her face almost startling exposed with the gesture. He’s one of only two, or three, who’s seen her like this, without trying to hide, without sinking into the shadows to avoid notice. He’s seen far more of her too, though he was nothing but respectful, nothing but…
and therein is the difference. “Because, when Wahya saw I was hurt, ya ain’t tell me it was my own fault, ya ain’t tell me it’s what I deserved, an’ ya came back an’ tried t’fix it, and healed me – made it better. Ya ain’t like nuthin I ever knowed before. Wahya is different, no matter how born.”
[Wahya] He becomes embarrassed. The skin around his cheeks flushing with color, Wahya looks away from Maija unsure of what to say to that. He clears his throat, casting his eyes up to her briefly.
The gravelly-bass of his voice croaks out in a soft whisper to her. He reaches for the blanket she had curled up with, holding it out to her.
“Is late, Maija should sleep. Wahya will stay here.” He motions to the couch, digging his hands into the cushions to maneuver himself to the middle of it. He swings his legs up and stretches out, watching her.
[Maija] She nods, slightly, and stands, taking the blanket for a moment before she just spreads it out over him. “Ya kin use it. Gets kinda cold in here. I got more on the bed.” She nudges the first aid kit aside, leaving it by the couch, before she turns toward the door opposite the bathroom.
Her steps make no sound along the hardwood floor as she moves. She pauses at the door to her room, and looks back over her shoulder at him, allowing a smile that tugs at the corner of her lips to linger for a half a beat. “G’night Wahya.”
And with that she slips inside her room, swinging the door shut but not bothering to go back and push it all the way closed. A few moments later there is the sound of bedsprings compressed by her slight weight, the slide of skin against sheets as she slips between the covers – and then the light clicking off.
[Maija] (aaaaaaaaaand Scene!)