Ornature

[Alexa Thanos] Truth is, he's tracking as much ice and snow, as much frozen mud around the room as she is. His boots are muddy from the trip to the tree farm, crusted with scattered salt from walking on a treated sidewalk, all the filthy slush of the season. Once his scarf and cap are off, he unzips the old parker and tosses it, too, on top of the table at the top of the stairs, at last taking a moment to unlace his boots and step out of the shoes into a pair of moccasin style leather slippers left haphazardly near the door.

There rooms are clean enough, but far from neat, and the scattered way he leaves his boots behind just adds to the sense of lived in clutter about the place. Just the tree has that clean shape, a blanket of rich dark green, like the quiet heart of a forest. He misses the way his frown changes her body language, the way it stiffens her body, makes her feel (again) like an interloper, an alien in an ordinary world. And it is ordinary - now he's sorting briefly through the mail left on the table, still frowning that vague frown - considering what's in the fridge, whether they need to duck downstairs for a meal. When she asks about the shed.

" - the shed?" His back is to her, broad at the shoulders, tapering to the waist. He's wearing a fine-gauge sweater over a white t-shirt and jeans worn enough that they seem as lived in as the living room. A recent haircut has his close-cropped brown hair even closer to the skull. That frown worms its way across his brow as he cuts a glance back at her. "You said the shed, right?"

Then he gives a decisive shake of his head. "There's a studio apartment over the garage, but the heat's not on and it's too cold. You don't have someplace warm to sleep? We can make room here for a night or two."

And with that, he disappears down the dark hall toward the kitchen, to through together dinner.

[Alexa Thanos] Before her mouth opens to protest he's already walking off, but maybe he hears a quiet: "You don't need to do that." and the imploring way that it comes across. She really doesn't want to wedge herself in their private life here. Well, okay, maybe some part of her does. She'd love to have some of this herself, the warmth, the comfort, the home that they share. It's nice and thaws out some part deep inside her. But it still feels stolen, this little slice of happiness.

After hesitating, standing there as if her shoes are glued to the spot, she begins to take off her belongings, starting with the back pack and following through with the scarf and jacket. She piles them into a barren corner just behind the door rather then hanging them up, because it just doesn't feel right to have her things hanging next to the childs or even the Kinfolks.

A quiet huff comes from her, dry and a little amused, as she images that curly, red-haired Metis popping out of nowhere. While the Fianna Metis had never said anything to Alexa, just the fact the other Garou almost always shows up was enough to remind the Strider of her place. It's no wonder she's half expecting the same thing to happen now.

"Can I help you with anything?" She called out, just loud enough. Looking down at her shoes she drops down into a crouch, ear craned to listen, while fingers pluck at wet, red laces, which are much harder to get off then dry. Lean fingers have to be persistent.

[JB Cavanagh] "I got it - " he calls out from further down the hall. The house itself is eighty years old or more, a warren of narrow, chopped up rooms that would be joined together in a contemporary build to create an open floor plan. From the living room, a set of closed French doors lead into a small dining room, dark just now, while on the other side, a long dark hall disappears into darkness. At the end of the hall, a slanting rhombus of light cuts into the shadows, occasionally disturbed by the movement of his shadow. " - thanks, though!"

His voice comes from a distance. The kitchen proper is at the back of the house, tucked behind the dining room, overlooking the oblong addition to the downstairs built to accommodate the cafe's professional kitchen and the barrow back garden. The snow glistens pristinely in a distinctive cone shape from the security light above the garage.

The hardwoods creak underneath his weight; every inch of the old house has some distinct sound. He turns on the water in the kitchen and pipes groan open somewhere in the walls, water rushing audibly through ancient pipes as groaning valves open and close in shifting succession.

After a moment, he calls out, " - you want a beer?"

[Alexa Thanos] "Just water." One lace is pulled free. "Thanks."

Soon enough she's got her boots off and set them to the side and two layers of socks have been pulled of her feet, rolled together and stuffed into the open tongue of her boot. She makes sure there's no lint between her toes before she gets up, snags out her bag from under her jacket and begins to wander the hall in quiet, bare feet.

When she speaks again, she's just approaching the kitchen, watching his dancing shadow before flicking her gaze up and around the corner to peer inside the door frame. "Do you mind if I make a quick trip to the bathroom? I need to change from jeans." Which were wet down on the legs from tromping through snow, and just generally being outdoors almost always. Her bag dangles from her hand, and without her jacket on, she's in several layers from a sweater to two different colour t.shirts beneath, red and yellow.

[JB Cavanagh] Like the rest of the apartment, the kitchen is cramped. The cabinets are old, and the countertops chipped formica. The stove's gas, but that's the only thing about it that makes it a chef's kitchen, as suburban house hunters (who never cook) are always going on about. Humans have been cooking great meals for centuries though - long before Sub-Zero refridgerators were invented, long before every McMansion in the greater Chicago region was outfitted with a matching set of granite countertops and faux-custom faux-cherry cabinets.

There's a small table - 50s style, chrome and formica - tucked into a corner of the cramped room, but he fills the space that remains, working efficiently - though not quite as efficiently as he would downstairs, with a full mise-en-place prepped and laid out in front of him. It's more casual here, the food simpler.

He's got his sleeves rolled up enough to reveal the lower third of the complex tattoo covering his right arm, and the silicone bracelets - LIVESTONG and a handful of sillybandz - look soft against his solid forearm and big hands, the hard articulation of his wrist joint.

A beer is open on the counter, and the radio is on, playing some old Pogues song. "Half-way down the hall," he tells her, looking up as she appears in the doorway, lifting his chin in the vague direction of the bathroom. "Second door on the right."

[Alexa Thanos] Nodding, she turned and disappeared down the hall. She doesn't snoop but goes directly to the bathroom. There, she takes in details but makes quick work of changing clothes, washing up and making herself a little more presentable. While she might like to soak in a hot shower she doesn't take that liberty. It's not like she stank anyway. She smelled of outside, sandalwood and some rose, only if one were to get close enough to bury their nose in her hair.

Since the indoors are warm, she comes out in a pair of shorts and minus a t.shirt and a sweater, both of which were tucked into her bag again. Her jeans hang over the shower to dry the bottom before she has to head back out into the cold again. She steps down the hall and drops her bag off by the front door, then reappears back at the kitchen.

"Do you have a broom and a dirty cloth?" While he's doing dinner, she can clean up pine needles and mud trampled through the place. Her fingers curl against the edge of the door frame as she leans a hip against it.

[JB Cavanagh] The bathroom is as old-fashioned as the kitchen, with dark midnight blue tiles on the wall and a matching powderblue toilet, sink and shower. The shower itself is cluttered with soap and bodywash, bubble bath in a plastic bottle shaped like a glitter-covered dolphin, and two different shampoos. The grout has pulled away from the tiles in places, and part of the shower surround has been temporarily repaired with duct tape and plastic wrap.

As he cooks, he's nodding in time to the beat of the CD playing on the wall mounted stereo. The beat is fast, but there's a wheeze of accordian in the background that gives the song an Irish feel - like slam-dancing an Irish jig. When she reappears in the doorway, he says - "Your water's on the table - " and lifts his own bottle of beer in vague toast. Things are just heating up now, meatballs in a sauce and pasta boiling in a big stock pot, and all that remains is a light hand with the former and an eye on the latter.

"A broom? - " he enquires, then, shooting her faint smirk. His tone of voice is mild, a bit incredulous. "There's one in the hall closet. What the hell does a Garou want with a broom?" He continues with a laugh.

[Alexa Thanos] Finding herself grinning at his smirk, more so at the look he gave her, she gave a shrug with one of her shoulders and managed to look on this side of sheepish. Without bothering to answer him she trundles off to find it and search for something like a cloth or an old towel, something, in the same closet. In short time she's in the main room and cleaning up the mess from the tree and both of their boots, enjoying the fact that she's able to do something in return, even however small. The needles would be swept up and offered for the trash, before she set the broom back and the cloth into some dirty laundry. All of this happens with this quiet efficiency that she won't be swayed from.

It lets him cook without being bothered or having her looking over his shoulder and invading his space, and makes one less job he has to do later. Then she comes in and finds herself a seat at the small table where her water has been placed, letting herself relax as she takes in the smell of the food. Her stomach cramps uncomfortably, but she's ignoring it, and listening, instead, to the lyrics and beat of the song playing from the radio that the Kinfolk had been previously bopping to.

"Whats your tattoo represent?" She asked, out of nowhere. Curious and observant.

[JB Cavanagh] The lyrics are borderline incomprehensible on the first go-round, the combination of the singer's Irish accent and the pub noise evident in the background. When the start to make sense, though, to resolve themselves, it's clear that it's not Oh Danny Boy, some manipulative, emotional paean to Irish loss or Irish faith -

When you pissed yourself in Frankfurt and got syph down in Cologne
And you heard the rattling death trains as you lay there all alone
Frank Ryan brought you whiskey in a brothel in Madrid
And you decked some fucking blackshirt who was cursing all the Yids
At the sick bed of Cuchulainn we'll kneel and say a prayer
And the ghosts are rattling at the door and the devil's in the chair -

The head bob is more the abbreviated remnants of the physical gestures of the younger man who would've been down in the pit, front and center, ten years ago than anything else. It appears when he's working, and disappears when he is still. The scents of tomato and basil and cooking meat fill the kitchen. Occasionally, he stirs the sauce or tests the pasta but otherwise he's leaning back against the edge of the countertop, arms crossed.

The question he's heard before, no doubt. The intricate tribal piece covers the whole of his right arm, all intricate blackwork, but instead of stretching it out, explaining something of knots and lives, he unfolds his arms and turns over his left forearm, where a pair of chef's knives are inked into the paler flesh of his inner forearm.

"Chef's knives." - he says, contracting the muscles to make the blades seem to move. "Got them when I got my first sous chef position. First official sous chef position."

[Alexa Thanos] "Better then some skulls or a naked lady," she murmurs to him lowly, a slow smile creeping across her mouth and through the deep blue of her eyes. Looking up from the moving knife-flesh, she trailed her gaze up to watch his facial features. He's nice to look at. But there's more then that. He has some breeding. It's not a lot, but in this day, it's plenty. It gets her attention, not only the human guise she was born in, but also to that which lies beneath.

For now though, she's just watching him and listening to the lyrics, the cooking in the pan and the boiling of the water. It's a very domestic scene. While it is alien, foreign to most of her days or nights, she's spent plenty of time around people, Kinfolk and Garou alike, in various places like this. Food cooking, wine flowing and voices chatting. It's these times that keep Garou like her going. Without it everything would just be cold and miserable, like the outdoors.

Small snippets. Like a scrapbook. That's her life; a scrapbook.

[JB Cavanagh] "Or a great big heart with an arrow through it and the word Mom - " he returns with a laugh, tipping back his bottle of beer for a last long swallow before returning the bottle to the narrow slice of counter behind his right hip, between the sink and the stove. "Or a screaming tombstone with angel's wings and a harley bursting through the middle, wrapped about with barbed wire..."

" - yeah." he continues, smile eliding into a brief smirk, brown eyes lightened with humor. "The big arm piece, that was the creation of an old friend of mine. I could go into the symbolism, but then I'd sound fucking pretentious. Usually, I save that shit for the philosophy club." With Lucy elsewhere, JB curses freely. Were the girl in the room, he would work to control his tongue.

As it is, he lets loose freely and easily while keeping the tone light. The next time he tests the pasta he decides it's done, and soon enough he's dumping off the hot pasta water with a rush of steam into the sink, holding the big stock pot over the sink as it drains.

He dishes out two discs of spaghetti, topping them with the homemade tomato sauce he canned over the summer, with fresh organic tomatoes, and lamb meatballs.

" - sure you don't want a beer?" he says, as he retrieves his from the counter and tugs out the second chair at the table for himself.

[Alexa Thanos] Chuckling under her breath, her eyes smile just as much as her generous mouth does. The chapped lips have vanished and the cold red that had bitten her cheeks has faded too. In the bathroom she had rid of any sort of minor problem with a quick shift and the miraculous genetics of being a mythical creature born to save the planet. "It's less about the tattoo and what it means to you." She shrugged lightly, and drank from her water, eyes following the cloud of steam that rushes for the ceiling.

They roam then, around the room and the decore of the squished room, taking in the clash of colours and the older styled apartments. She likes it much better then white washed walls she's seen in the suburbs, where every house is a carbon copy of the one next to it, mirrored and neutral. Reminds her of the Weaver.

Her attention is instantly drawn back when he comes to the table with food for them both, sitting himself in the other seat. "No. Thanks." Pushing her water to the side to make room for the mouthwatering food, she takes in the scent and sight of it, savouring both, and casts a glance to him, smiling. "Dehydrates you." Alcohol, she means.

[JB Cavanagh] "I don't think you'll need to worry about heat stroke in Chicago for another couple of months, at least," he returns, sitting back in the chair and setting his beer bottle firmly down on the laminate tabletop. The plates are artfully arranged so its difficult to gauge, but hers contains rather more food than his own.

"Shit - " he says then, as soon as he has managed to sit down, jumping up to the oven, pulling out half-a-loaf of his pastry chef's excellent sourdough boule from the oven, set to its lowest setting. " - forgot the bread."

It fits neatly on a cutting board wedged onto the narrow table, close to the wall.

"The tattoos - mine anyway? They're not so much about meaning." he says with a broad sort of shrug, the bulk of his upper body moving with the thoughtless gesture. "Mostly it's decoration. Art. Not specifically symbolic in the way folks think. Sometimes I make shit up though, just to have something to say when they ask me."

[JB Cavanagh] (pause!)

[JB Cavanagh] Chicago is firmly in the grip of an arctic front, with the biting north wind driving the already bitter temperatures lower. The evening news has reports nightly, now, of neighbors finding the bodies of those who have died of the cold - homeless men insensate with alcohol, sprawled, dead-white on the corner of a major intersection, ignored by passers by for a full three hours of the morning commute, an elderly couple whose gas was cut off late last summer for non-payment, asphyxiated by carbon monoxide from the cheap, badly made heater they used in lieu of their aging, inefficient furnate. Stories like these are bookended by speculation about the economy, the shopping season, or cheery little lifestyle pieces instructing the well-heeled and well to do on the latest expensive trends of the season.

Late on a frigid afternoon, the sky is gray falling toward full dark, for all that it's not yet the dinner hour. Café Lulu is open six days a week now - closed Mondays, so says the little sign in the front window - but it is early enough that only a few tables are occupied. The big picture windows papered with ads for local bands, the odd handyman or ROOMMATE WANTED or babysitting offer are framed with little white lights, and electric candles burn in every window of both the restaurant and the living quarters fitted into the second and third floors of the old frame house onto which the brick storefront where the dining room is situated was built.

A good 8 inches of snow has fallen over the city proper. Someone built a snowman in the sideyard days ago, and he has slowly compacted not from heat, but from the solar radiation when the sun peaks through the clouds. The snowman seems to - sag - back against the snowcovered bench of one of the picnic tables tucked into the side yard. Beside him is a rather more whimsicle snow cat. The sidewalks in front of the building have been shoveled, and the snow in the side yard has been amply trampled over the past few days, but now there's something - traquil, still, about the blanket of white in the frigid air.

The side door to the detached garage behind the house proper swings open, and JB steps out, onto the still-snow-covered and welltrampled back sidewalk, then turns and hefts the stem of a great fir tree through the narrow door. The tree is too fat for the door, and so the lowest branches scrape against the door frame as he pulls it through, raining needles down over the snow, releasing that resonant scent of pine sap into the crystalline air. Turning, he shoulders the big tree, balance it over his broad shoulder, the rootball - intact, wrapped in burlap - forward, the great weight of the tree balanced behind.

[Alexa Thanos] The cold is her worst enemy. She spends a lot of her time curled up somewhere in lupus, especially when the night falls, or constantly moving in order to keep warm. Her lips have been chapped, cheeks windburned, and ears threatened to be frozen off. But the bonus about being a Garou is the amount of brutality the body is able to withstand. This does not necessarily make it pleasant or less painful, but it means that she doesn't become a stiff corpse down a side alley, clawing at the cardboard boxes and surrounded in newspapers like so many others without a home. It also means that every time she shifts, just for a little while, her minor wounds heal and her fur helps keep out the bitter cold.

Her footsteps have trawled through the snow, along the wet sidewalks, carefully navigating the slippery slopes as she makes her way through the below freezing temperatures. Gloves fit over her fingers and a jacket buttons up over layers of clothing. Her scarf, a dull gray thing, is tucked around her neck and into the upturned collar of her jacket. Dark, spiraled and curled hair spills out of a knitted cap that falls across her brow and tries to keep in the mane, but can only hold onto so much; the colour of it is multi-striped and seems more suitable for Jamaica then the winter silly season in Chicago. Jeans are darker from the knees down, from where she's been tromping through the wet, and her doc martins have suffered the same fate, making red laces soaked to brown.

It's the slow cloud of her hot breath that moves more then she does the moment she spots the man carrying a tree in the side yard. The smell of the pine was sharp on her nose, the cold highlighting scents. She can only watch him for a few moments, and although he doesn't seem to be struggling, finds herself asking from the sidewalk; "Want a hand with that?" As usual, the pack on her back hangs heavy with her belongings.

[JB Cavanagh] There's a moment where he's startled by her voice; her still presence, just the steam of her breath in the sharp cold air, a shadow against the evening shadows as the edges of the world close in upon themselves, again, as the world sinks toward its darkest day, its longest night. The tension is easy to read in his shoulders, bulky beneath his old down coat, and his thighs, the way his bare hands grip the trunk of the tree, bracing the awkward weight as he turns - a moment's stillness, just another figure in the gray, snowy dusk, tall and broadshouldered, the details of his dress lost beneath the old winter gear, a coat, a hand-knitted scarf that matches, vaguely, and a green and black skicap with a sports logo on the front, which does not match. His hands are bare, the better to grip the trunk of the tree, or perhaps he just doesn't want to get the sticky sap on good leather gloves, the sort one needs in a city.

And so, the man's blunt fingers are red from the cold, his eyes watering from the sting of the bitter wind - just those eyes, dark brown, and the bridge of a once-broken nose are visible, but he speaks through the muffled layers of the scarf after that moment's wariness - the not-quite-animal hint of alertness that skims over his mien and big frame.

"Sure," - is what he says, voice roughened with the cold, a low rumble. He keeps the tree balanced with one hand, then fishes in the front pocket of his jeans for a heavy set of keys, taking a moment to unlatch the carabiner on which they hang from a beltloop before tossing it to her. "Get the door - " he gestures with his head as the keys sing through the air, the metal tight with cold and the sound of it sharper for that. " - would you? And grab the stand."

When she looks, she'll see the red and green metal tree stand mostly assembled, beside the front door. He'd intended to fit the tree to it down here to avoid raining needles all over the living room floor, but the air is sharp enough to make an ordinary person breathless, so vaccuuming doesn't seem like quiet such a chore.

[Alexa Thanos] She hadn't meant to scare him, but these things happen. It's easy to forget simple things like that; the human way of thinking, and how their senses aren't quite as sharp, and their reactions slower. Not always, but mostly. Hers, on the other hand, are much quicker. The way her hand darts out and weight shifts through the wet, is quicker then one might expect from her; she who is always so cautious about the way she blends in with the humans. Her reflexes are far better then she leads on.

His keys are muffled by the glove of her hand when her fingers curl around them. She holds them by her side as she makes her way over towards him, as directed. "It's too cold out." Her voice is low as she passes by, moving to grab the stand in her free hand first, testing the weight of it as she picks it up in the one hand and puts it under her arm. The look she gives him is mildly disapproving, somewhere deep in the dark blue of her eyes. "You should do this at the warmest part of the day." Not towards evening as dusk is falling. Never mind he has a business to run and a child to dote over.

Moving to the door then, she opens it up after fiddling with the keys, guessing at which one might turn over the lock. This close she can barely scent him, it's all sharp tang of the fur, that of the bark and wood beneath. Then it's the food cooking inside, making her empty stomach twist unhappily inside the many layers of clothing, hidden under her jacket. Her hunger is an acute thing and demanding, but her discipline is far better.

Once the door is opened, she steps out the way to let him inside.

[JB Cavanagh] "You know I went to college in Boston - " he informs her, brushing past her with the big tree in hand. It is fresh - and more than that, it is a living thing, roots still intact, if perhaps a bit frozen from the bitter cold - so the trail of its needles in the snow, and then on the worn out hardwood of the narrow interior stairs is narrow, a vibrant green against the vaguely gray, sootstained snow, and the dark, old fashioned stain on the worn flowers. "We'd play hockey, outside in weather colder than this."

There is a rich vein of heat from inside that snakes outward as she shakes through the keys, guessing at the right one until he directs her to the one on the extra steel loop that opens the door. The narrow stairs lead upward into darkness, but a quarter of the way up he steps, a distended shadow above defined by the long sweep of the tree's top, reaches for a switch by feel. There's a distinct click, but nothing happens until he hits the wall with the flat of his palm. Then, the thin, reedy light of an antique fixture comes on, enough to see by.

They're headed upstairs, to the living quarters over the restaurant. The narrow stairwell opens up into a small living room, with an old hearth on one wall, and the sort of antique woodwork one expects in 80 year old homes, even frame houses like this one, except here that old woodwork has been painted over, a uniform white. The living room has a - lived in look. There's a modest flat panel beside the hearth on a stand, and less-modest stereo system beside it, everything from a turntable to a subwoofer, and a half-dozen more components in between, flanked by wooden shelves with books and vinyl record albums. Over the mantle is the classic Edward Hopper painting - three people in a late night diner, all sleek modern lines, the interior stark white, the exterior still, almost meditative. On another wall, a poster of the iconic London Calling cover art - Paul Simonon smashing his Fender bass. The couch is deep, slouch, comfortable, and there's an old recliner that belongs in a bachelor's place. Any woman would've evicted the recliner long ago.

The place feels lived in - a child's backpack on a table by the stairs, all sorts of winter gear on the pegboard over the table - and its clear that he's been moving about the furniture to make room for the tree. There are no winter decorations up just now except the electric candles in the windows, which give another dimension to the light in the room.

"Here, give me a hand - " he says, indicating a cleared out space in the corner of the room, close to the fireplace but not too close. And so saying, he shifts the tree from his shoulder, careful of the things in the room, holding it by the trunk as needles rain down, ready to plant the tree in the stand when she sets it down. " - then step back and tell me if it's straight."

[Alexa Thanos] There isn't a lot of time for her to take in her surroundings, just enough to spot a few details that she keeps to mind, and note the windows, doors, and any extra beings inside the room. She steps over towards the corner when she's asked, aware of her own predicament of not wanting to trample wet boots across his floor but also not wanting him to hold the heavy tree longer then he needs.

Over at the indicated space, she sets down the stand, a little away from the wall to make room for the trees circumference, and stays crouched to help him put the tree into its place. An extra set of hands making it easier. The Strider balances easily enough under the needles, with the extra weight on her back, and the bulk of her clothing over her too lean frame.

Once the tree is settled and there's no fear of it toppling through a window or knocking paintings from a wall, she steps back and rises up again, moving back away from the tree to some central point in the room to have a look at it. "A little to the left," she tells him, indicating with the motion of a gloved hand. And she watches as he rights it again. "Oops, no. Back a little."

"Yeah. That's it."

[JB Cavanagh] He's done this before, balanced a tree, rootball and all, into that red and green metal stand, old enough that the paint is chipped where the cross bars meet and the beginnings of rust are evident in the water basin. When the tree is finally in place, he manages to hold it up while winching home the last screws holding it up. When they're done, the live fir fills the corner of the room, dark and majestic, the tip brushing the high ceiling, the branches disturbed by all that manhandling slowly settling with the work of gravity, the way some medieval queen must surely have settled her skirts around her after a turn at the reel, around the dance floor.

"Thanks for the help," JB says, straightening, brushing needles off his hands, sticky with pine sap and fragrant with it. What errant snow flakes had landed in his ski cap - with the Eagles logo on the front - or the loops of his handmade scarf are already melting in the relative warmth of the living room. Outside the windows, dusk settles over the street, changing the tincture of light. It's futile, maybe even counter productive, but once the loose needles are off his hands, he wipes them on his thighs, clearing away little of the sap. "I promised Lucy a tree. Wanted to surprise her."

Then he's unwinding his scarf, reaching to pull off the cap, standing in front of the unlit fireplace, a thoughtful frown on his mouth as he gives Alexa a brief, critical sort of once-over, the sort that leaves him frowning, faint and thoughtful. " - you hungry?" is all he says in the end. "I'll get you some dinner."

[Alexa Thanos] "You're welcome." There's even a small smile as she says it, tearing her eyes from the tree to look over at the man, just in time to catch his frown as he looks at her. Maybe it's the shoes, she's thinking, and the wet of her jeans. It chases away that small pleasure she had in looking at this tree standing in the middle of the living room, lending its strong fragrance to the house, already working at disguising all the others that could have told her much about the people that lived in the upstairs quarters.

Gloves are still on her hands, wool, black, knitted, and she moves to brush the back of her thighs in a self conscious gesture. She doesn't want to move anywhere now, except to retrace her steps back through the house and down the stairs, leaving him and his little girl their space without an intruder. Alexa has become increasingly aware of where she's standing and how far away that world is from hers. The small peek of it seems stolen and sits wrong with her.

How misunderstood some simple things can be, when the world is coloured through a different lens. A small frown, a critical look, and some inner monologues can twist it all out of shape. But she reminds herself that John has been nothing but kind, too generous, and sometimes even a little stubborn in his ways with her. When he asks if she's hungry, he follows it up with an offer that sounds closer to a statement, and she was going to take him up on it, because sometimes pride even has its limits when the world is a miserable, cold place, and the hunger turns to pain. "Thanks. I'd appreciate that."

Gesturing, then, out towards the way she came. "Do you mind if I stay in the shed, tonight?" Because that's why she was coming, to hole up in the place he'd once offered her. As winter has come around maybe he would have noticed her another night, even though she touched as little as possible and always tried to put things back where they belonged.

[JB Cavanagh] Truth is, he's tracking as much ice and snow, as much frozen mud around the room as she is. His boots are muddy from the trip to the tree farm, crusted with scattered salt from walking on a treated sidewalk, all the filthy slush of the season. Once his scarf and cap are off, he unzips the old parker and tosses it, too, on top of the table at the top of the stairs, at last taking a moment to unlace his boots and step out of the shoes into a pair of moccasin style leather slippers left haphazardly near the door.

There rooms are clean enough, but far from neat, and the scattered way he leaves his boots behind just adds to the sense of lived in clutter about the place. Just the tree has that clean shape, a blanket of rich dark green, like the quiet heart of a forest. He misses the way his frown changes her body language, the way it stiffens her body, makes her feel (again) like an interloper, an alien in an ordinary world. And it is ordinary - now he's sorting briefly through the mail left on the table, still frowning that vague frown - considering what's in the fridge, whether they need to duck downstairs for a meal. When she asks about the shed.

" - the shed?" His back is to her, broad at the shoulders, tapering to the waist. He's wearing a fine-gauge sweater over a white t-shirt and jeans worn enough that they seem as lived in as the living room. A recent haircut has his close-cropped brown hair even closer to the skull. That frown worms its way across his brow as he cuts a glance back at her. "You said the shed, right?"

Then he gives a decisive shake of his head. "There's a studio apartment over the garage, but the heat's not on and it's too cold. You don't have someplace warm to sleep? We can make room here for a night or two."

And with that, he disappears down the dark hall toward the kitchen, to through together dinner.

[Kyle] (hey all :) )
to Alexa Thanos, John Brendan Cavanagh

[Alexa Thanos] [hiya, sorry was grabbing food!]
to John Brendan Cavanagh, Kyle

[John Brendan Cavanagh] hey hey! I'm posting. (grins) almost done!
to Alexa Thanos, Kyle

[John Brendan Cavanagh] There's a small street full of shops in one of those "transitional" neighborhoods bordering the Lakeview neighborhood, surrounded by three or four story condos rather than the grand towers closest to the lake. Here are single family homes, old apartment rehabs, brownstones turned into tenements turned back into brownstones, close enough to be biking distance to the office parks of downtown, walking distance to the El.

One street, at the heart of a small neighborhood that has made the transition only half-way, is home to café Lulu. A sturdy brick storefront - circa 2002 or 2003 - has added significant frontage to an older single family home. In contrast to the smart, clean break, the big modern windows, the home to which it attaches is an old traditional home, a smaller version of the early 20th century four-squares that dominant certain neighborhoods, with creamy yellow siding and bright blue shutters that date from the same period as the dining room addition on the front of the house.

There's a metal sculpture on the room of the storefront, a stylized coffee cup with steam rising, left over from the restaurant's last incarnation as more of a coffee-bar/bakery.

The lights are still on inside, a few people linger at the tables. The floor staff are refilling salt shakers and cleaning up their stations as they wait for closing. The whole bottom story of the house is devoted to the restaurant, and rather commerical looking double-doors are set into the side of the house toward the back.

They are open tonight, propped there by a pair of milk crates. Music drifts out from the kitchen area, some Spanish incarnation of K'Naan's Waving Flag just now.

There are a handful of picnic tables in the side yard, umbrellas shoved into the center slots, furled now. Someone's been working on the fence that defines it, too, replacing the rotting planks, repairing those that are salvageable, though the fence is long - the full length of a full-size lot - and the work is less than a quarter done. In the back, on an old parking slab repurposed as a basketball court, the sound of a basketball hitting the concrete.

JB palms the ball with his big hands, not dribbling most, just shooting, relaxing into the remembered stance, going through all the motions of a jump shot, waiting for the familiar swish of the net, then chasing after the ball in a handful of quick steps to repeat it again.

[John Brendan Cavanagh] I hope that's enough of an in for everyone! I'll post more briefly from here on out. :)
to Alexa Thanos, Kyle

[Kyle] After his meeting with Tsi'la and Marni, Kyle ended up just wandering around again. Now with his hair tied back he looked a little less like he'd been mugged. He was still covered in dusty patches from his days work but it didn't seem to bother him. The soft jungle from the straps he hadn't secured on his boots are added to the solid thud of his footsteps. Top to toe in black with the pale skin and slightly sunken eyes, he looked like a typical goth...except for the fact he had a smile on his face and seemed cheerful when passing people.

[Alexa Thanos] [dont wait on me for the moment, just chowing my food! hard to type and hold a salad sandwich]
to John Brendan Cavanagh, Kyle

[John Brendan Cavanagh] The restaurant's name is scrawled over the front windows, and there's a sign swinging from an iron-worked arm. Inside, the colors are warm and inviting, a scattering of lights, a casual ambience. The menu posted in the window is reasonably priced, and the disclaimer at the bottom promises that 75% of the plate will be locally sourced during the harvest season, with 55% local sourcing even in the wintertime.

The front door opens, and a casually dressed couple leaves, arm in arm. The woman is carrying a small cardboard box, white, tied with brown string, holding it carefully as they go. John Brendan stops working on his jump shot long enough to respond as the man calls out Brilliant man, thanks. followed by, When are you getting that beer and wine license?

Ignore the open bottle he has set aside on the picnic table, on the seat rather than the eating surface.

He's not dressed for basketball, JB. His short-sleeved white chef's jacket has a few suspicious looking spatters on it at this hour, and he has unbuttoned the top handful of buttons to reveal a black t-shirt beneath. Old jeans, worn through the thighs and knees complete the ensemble, ending in a pair of Converse sneakers.

"Soon, man, soon - " JB replies, with a good-natured grin. He waves to the couple as they leave, and says, "Hey man," to Kyle in that casual, passing way before picking up the basketball and going for another shot.

[Kyle] Twirls around the couple as he avoids colliding into them. Good thing he was paying attention or there'd have been a few choice words thrown around for sure. A casual bow to the pair and he glances over to John. A casual wave before making his way over to him. Stopping at a distance so he can still do his own thing but close enough so that he can speak without having to try and yell. His voice almost a whisper as he reaches up to pull some hair that had slipped between his neck and the black leather collar he wears.
"Hey there. How's it going tonight?"
HE seems relaxed and not phased that he doesn't know John

[Rory] She'd been on patrol, and practicing, and now? Now the fiery redhead is simply walking. She doesn't do anything to draw attention to herself, but undoubtedly, she gets it anyway - those curls, the freckles, the pale skin...

...and the rage. So much rage bundled up into such a shy, retiring, quite girl...

Her hands are tucked into the pockets of her jeans, which are paired with a simple t-shirt on one end, and flipflops on the other. There's a pack hitched over one shoulder, that is heavier than it looks. She carries it as if there is only feathers inside, though as she slips to the side to avoid the couple, it clanks against the bricks of the nearby wall - suggesting something heavy inside.

[Alexa Thanos] She had come to Cafe Lulu towards closing time. In truth she thought that it might already be closed by the time she got there, but she was pleasantly surprised to see that the lights were still on. The pack isn't on her shoulders and she's not carrying it around like last time, but she's still in a pair of jeans that have to have been washed a million times over the last year, faded and well worn to fit her frame. Her t.shirt is yellow, of all colours, with a print of a bulldog wearing sunglasses on the front, the black ink of it long faded towards a blue gray, and her boots have been traded for some canvas shoes.

From across the road she's watching,standing behind a parked car with her hands tucked into the back pockets of her jeans. Her dark mane hair flows down the length of her back in messy tendrils of wide curls, making her face look slender the rest of her more lean.

Kyle is familiar. Rory is not. John, in his chefs shirt, looks different.

[John Brendan Cavanagh] Truthfully, John's a bit nonplussed when the young goth leaves the sidewalk and crosses the recently mown grass to the makeshft court - the concrete parking pad isn't big enough to make even a regulation half court, and the hoop and backboard are one of those portable kind, with the adjustable height. The base and pole are rusting, recycled from somewhere else, and the backboard is peeling in places, rust showing through the seams, but the netting is new.

That moment of surprise is as easily read on his features as everything else. The man has one of those open faces; he couldn't lie, one imagines, to save his life. Still, he recovers quickly, giving Kyle an engaging grin as he reaches to rebound the ball again.

"Just blowing off some steam, man." The kinsman has closely cropped brown hair, and a native sort of stubble darkened by a full day without shaving. Briefly, he glances at Kyle's t-shirt. He's learned to read the alterna-kids by their t-shirts, looking for a band's name, or a festival. "You from around here?"

He's not unobservant. Rory on the sidewalk draws his attention, a look behind Kyle. And Alexa, across the street, behind a car gets a slightly longer look, brows drawn as something about her features from a distance in the shadows hits a chord of memory.

Back to Kyle, holding out the basketball now, palming it one-handed. "Wanna shot?"

[Kyle] There's no signs of any branding of his clothing at all. Most of his clothing is well worn with some patches in various places where the fabric finally wore through and were covered over. But the strangest thing is the way he seems to always have a smile on his face.
"Long night I take it? Have friends in the area, thought I'd pay them a visit but they're out partying."
Shrugs as he gives a slight cough. His voice still barely noticable so he makes sure to look at John directly.
"Couldn't shoot hoops to save myself. Never did make the gym teams in school."
Grins as he chuckles softly.

[Rory] She flicks a gaze up as John looks her way, and then past her to someone else. She looks down, quickly - then peeks through reddish lashes again as she recognizes him for what he is... it's faint, not near the slap of [wasted] breeding she holds within her skin, but enough to know.

Yet she hesitates... chewing her lower lip absently, before finally taking a step toward the restaurant, and him. She was looking for some new work anyway, right? Right...

[Alexa Thanos] Skirting around the car, she slides her hands out of her pocket and glances up and down the street before she's walking across it. Kyle has engaged in conversation with the other man, it seems, and she takes this as some sort of open invitation. Her approach is unhurried, lean, long legs in a comfortable stride, until she's on the same side of the road as the rest of them, coming to stand at the edge of the grass.

Her glance to Rory is brief, her look at the back of Kyle's head is longer.

She doesn't approach like the others, but stands off on the fringes. Anyone looking her way gets a small smile from her and a lift of her hand in a wave at waist height. Just a gesture of fingers really.

[John Brendan Cavanagh] "Yeah?" There's no rock band on the front of Kyle's t-shirt. Even goths run in tribes, right. Some gear themselves up in Marilyn Manson tees, others memorialize Rob Zombie. Some go old school, wearing reproduction Sisters of Mercy concert tees, or Slipknot or Rasputina or Dresden Dolls or - or - Kyle's clothing is just worn through, patched over.

John Brendan is a big guy, 6'2" or 6'3", with broad shoulders and a high-school athlete's physique. He's not ripped as he might've been once, but he's not yet gone to fat, and there's a certain clear strength in his forearms as he moves his palm, lifts the ball and shoots. "Never played in high school or college. Had to work, you know - family. But there was always a game of pick-up something going on." There are tattoos on his ams. A series of chef's knives on the right forearm, inside, and an intricate tribal pieces crawls up his left arm, disappearing beneath the sleeve of his jacket.

This time, when he reaches to rebound the ball, he tucks it against his flank rather than palming it. Rory's pausing in front of the restaurant, shy, before she starts over the gras. Alexa pauses at the edge. John Brendan's gaze touches on Rory, a brief, furrowing of his brow, in thought, then Alexa, lingering at the fringes. He lifts his chin to her in clear invitation, a backward jerk of his head, then turns back to Kyle. "You hungry, man?"

He's made certain assumptions, there. And he's not shy about them, nor abou the question. His voice drops just hair, though, in case Kyle does care about those assumptions - that he's homeless, that he's a runaway of some sort. That he hasn't had a decent meal in a month.

[Rory] His gaze touches on her - and she does the unthinkable for someone who burns as she does... she blushes. She tucks her head, hiding behind her curls, and blushes, until she is near enough for her voice to carry. Even then, it's a single word in greeting for the two of them - the unknown kin, and Kyle, who shes met once or twice.

"Hi."

Single words are easier.

[Kyle] "Last game I played, they wanted to use me as the ball."
Gives a soft laugh as he nods absently. Given his slight build and almost skeletal features it wasn't too hard to imagine people attempting that with him. HE was about to say something when he felt someone looking at him. That slight tinge of rage giving his hunch more grounds for him to turn around. Spotting Alexa he gives a wave and broad smile then notices Rory and gives the same to her before turning back to look at John.
"Never one to say no to food however don't have any cash to cover but happy to barter."
If he was bothered by his situation he never lets it show. Yep he was an odd one that's for sure.

[Alexa Thanos] Johns invitation has her wandering in, stepping across the grass to the pavement. Her gaze drifts, taking in the make shift court yard and the rust of the basketball ring. There's a small smile just hidden under the surface and a quiet warmth in her cool coloured eyes.

Kyle smiles at her then and waves, and quiet smile is offered in return. "Hello Kyle," they've met a few times now, if he's still comes by to stay by Gina's. Alexa sleeps there often enough these days, several times a week. It's where her pack is tonight, tucked away for safe keeping of her meager possessions. "It's good to see you."

She and Kyle are alike, she realizes. Striders were like that. Took nothing for free or granted.

"And you too, John." Her gaze briefly drifts over him then to the blushing Garou, and back across the courtyard area. "It's a nice place."

[John Brendan Cavanagh] "Hello." JB has warm brown eyes. They linger on Rory as she manages to get out a single word by way of greeting. He meets her shying gaze with a certain level of directness most kinfolk cannot manage, but he cannot read her blood beneath her skin, nor can he place - not exactly - what it is about her that sets him on edge. Not from this distance. There's a hint of wariness in his tone, though. She's a stranger, and he has that sense of danger around her that he cannot place. She's a stranger, potentially dangerous, and this is his home. "Can I help you?"

--

Shooting a glance back to Kyle, he gives the goth a grin with a brief rumble of a laugh for the joke. "NO need to barter, man. We've got leftovers. Best they don't go to waste."

Then Alexa joins them, skirting the handful of picnic tables. At last, JB gives up his pretense of the game, sets the ball down beside the table, and reaches out, grabbing his beer and taking a swig. Open container laws his sweet ass. "Alexa, right?" There's a hint of uncertainty, that he's got her name wrong. It shows on his open features. "Lucy's gonna be sorry she missed you. She's got that elephant you gave her on her dresser. Wants samosas every night, now."

" - you hungry?" He's not shy about asking.

[Rory] She hears that wariness, and the blush deepens, seeping along her neck, dipping beneath her clothing - it's not hard to imagine that it covers every bit of her eventually... She shifts her weight slightly, and shoves her hands deeper into her pockets. When she speaks, her words are soft, and unbearably shy...

"Wondering... if you wave hork.. I thix fings. Mechanical things. I'm..."

A glance at Kyle, at Alexa who he seems to know, and then just as softly, more of an introduction...sort of. "related."

Oddly enough, she doesn't seem to notice that her words are mixed up, as if she hears what she means, instead of what she says.

[Kyle] "Fair enough. Thanks John."
Nods to John then looks to Alexa.
"Hey Alexa. Good to see you again as always."
Yeah he crashed at Gina's atleast once a week but he usually didn't hang around long after he'd done some repair work around the place. Hard to tell her was there most of the time cause he was so quiet.
Looks to Rory with a warm smile as he catches the drift of what she's saying

[Alexa Thanos] "I'll be sure to come back when it's an earlier hour," she tells John after nodding, confirming that her name is, indeed, Alexa. The mention of Lucy had her smiling. She had seen the girl briefly, if only from afar, when she had came out to help that day at the River side. At the time the girl had been busy playing with the other children and the Strider had been picking up trash down by the waters, scooping it out with prongs and dumping it into bags.

"I'm glad she liked it."

After a glance around and resisting the urge to pick up the ball and have a shot in the ring, she wipes her hands down the back of her jeans and tucks her long fingers into the hip pockets. She wears woven threads around her wrists, some leather cuff on the other, worn and brown, tied in place rather then studded. "I wouldn't say no, as long as it's a shared meal." And later she'll spring that she can help him with the fence.

Or maybe something else, since Fianna has first dibs.

"She shares your blood, I think," this is softly from Alexa, who has moved a little closer to John and Kyle, not quite protective but the positioning of her is the same. She's not sure what to think of Rory, with the breeding, the shy blushing and the large amounts of Rage.

[John Brendan Cavanagh] “If I wave hork?” JB returns, his open features – dark eyes and a blunt nose, the firm, stubble-covered jaw – clearly showing his puzzlement over the words. “If I wave hork?” It’s one thing to rearrange the spoken words when you are expecting the reversal, another thing when that is all you hear. Then Rory’s blushing more, and JB has this complex awareness – of his size , really – his height and broad shoulders, the worn, fitted jeans. The size of his capable hands – which is juxtaposed against that frisson of animal wariness pricked up by Rory’s presence in the yard, in his home.

One floor and dozen yards away from his daughter.

“I don’t-- ” it isn’t pleasant, the way he looks at her, the suspicion and confusion at war in his eyes and mouth, at least until Alexa clarifies Rory’s remark about being – related, and then it all makes sense. The last side has clicked home and the Rubick’s cube makes sense now.

Some of the suspicion dissolves, though there’s still a certain tautness in him, an awareness of her rage that is physical, visceral, that lines in his blood, in his marrow.

“Course it’s a shared meal,” he returns to Alexa, then, a glance back at the open door of the kitchen. It’s a more comfortable topic. “She’s welcome to join us,” as if Alexa were Rory’s spokeswoman; maybe he assumes they are packmates. Garou in the same place. At the same time. “I mean,” a glance back to Rory, “ – you’re welcome to eat, with us if you’d like. I’m not sure about a job, though – you’re - ” he glances at Kyle, unsure. Then back. “ – you’ve got a - a strong presence. Might scare away the customers, you know?” JB grins as if he were joking.

He's not, though. They both know it.

[John Brendan Cavanagh] (Fair warning guys! Bedtime for meeeeeee soon. I can bearound tomorrow and am game for continuing, but I don't think we need to pause pause. Can assume brings food and thndisappears inside for a while with the next post, and take it up again later with whoever is around tomorrow and wants to RP!)
to Alexa Thanos, Kyle, Rory

[Kyle] (Sounds good to me. Got about 30mins before I'm finished at work anyway :) )
to Alexa Thanos, John Brendan Cavanagh, Rory

[Rory] He repeats what he hears, which to her is not at all what she said - but her disability is something she is very much aware of - and her embarrassment is deep, bone deep, and shows in her face as she murmurs.. "Mords wixed up. Sorry."

She's invited, through Alexa and then on her own, and he mentions the job and she shakes her head in a tumble of fire-red curls.... "Jittle lobs. Can repair at night..." a duck of her head, very aware as well of how her blood is fueled with powerful amounts of rage.. "for food. Won't dant to scare anyone." Him. Them. Least of all the daughter she doesn't know about yet.

[Kyle] If Kyle was bothered by the mixture of rage around him it sure didn't show on his face. Mind with that stupid smile he seemed to always have it was hard to tell.
"Shared meals are always good."
Gives Rory a reassuring smile to show it was all okay.
"How you been doing Rory?"

[Alexa Thanos] Glad that Kyle seems to know Rory sets her a little more at ease, and she lets them talk, while she glances over to John. "That would be nice." There's a pause before she adds, "Can I help you with anything?" Getting food, whatever it might be. But this is for a disguise of something else, maybe to have a small talk on the side. She hadn't come with the others despite what he may think, an easy mistake to have made. Coming by hadn't been just a spare of the moment decision, she had thought about it for awhile now, on and off. Garou's lives are generally busy, but in those quiet moments she had thought about the little girl and the curious, tattooed father.

[John Brendan Cavanagh] "If you're hungry," JB tells Rory, perfectly direct in this. "I'll feed you. You don't have to work for it." His voice is quiet; he's aware of the prickle of her embarrassment, but it reads in this split way. There's something - incredulous, though, underneath the quiet. She's blushing and shy, and the her rage beats against his skin the way the ocean eats against the shore. Now that he is aware of it, he can almost feel it pulse, like a heartbeat.

And he cannot quiet believe that a Garou just told him, will work for food.

The thread of compassion underneath isn't - necessarily flattering for a Garou, who are usually fierce and independent. - and JB tries to swallow it before it shapes his voice. He's lousy at dissembling, though and that thread of pity is there remains, underneath.

Alexa offers to help, and JB nods. "Sure. I've got some tableclothes for these if you don't mind playing bus boy and setting the table. C'mon."

With a jerk of is head toward the kitchen, he starts off. Soon enough, he'll be back, ferrying leftovers for the evening. Baked mac'n'cheese with brie and parmesan and mozzerella. Spaghetti with a lamb bolognese sauce. Odds and ends of bread, and a big bowl of salad, bright greens and fresh veggies, tossed together at the last minute, aong with the remains of a six pack to share about. What the hell.

- enough to stuff them twice over, and leftovers to take home, after.

[Rory] She shakes her head again, curls bouncing as her voice strengthens - but does not get louder. Perfectly in control of the rage that thrums against his skin in time with the thud of her heart...

"Hon't dave to. [i]Will.[i]"

She feels the pity, and she chews her lower lip, embarrassed, yet unsure how to make it better. She is thin, but not underfed. She's simply determined to earn what she's given. Whether he wants her too or not - she knows he does not expect her to, which is enough to make her certain she will anyway.

She offers a shy smile to Kyle, and then takes a seat at the table - and by the time things begin to arrive, she has pulled her latest project from her pack, and is elbow deep in tools and tiny bits of metal. She is well used to proving her worth before being accepted to work, and aims to do just that. When food is offered, she eats one handed, and still works between bites. Within two bites - she is brushing off the top of the little box, giving the innards one last little tweak, and then sets the batted, busted looking little box in the center of the table in front of John. With a little grin - still shy, yet almost confident in her own ability, she turns the little key, and the music box that looks like it should never work, tinkles about a twinkling little star in perfect time.

She glances up at him, and then pulls a full plate in front of her and digs in with the gusto of the starving, appreciatively.

[Alexa Thanos] While they're inside and he's fetching table cloths for the Silent Strider to take out, she follows quietly for the most part, her canvas shoes soft on the floor and her Rage so well under control that it barely registers on the senses. Alexa is someone that could pass as mostly human in a crowd, that Rage of hers often twisted to the strangeness of being a wandering back packer more then anything else. There are times in Luna's phase that this changes, or her mood can shift, but for the most part she's a quiet, unassuming Garou.

"The woman outside," she speaks softly, "if she makes you uncomfortable you can tell her to leave." This is the advice she gives him, casting a glance of deep blue eyes in his direction as she watches him get out the left overs from the large fridge.

Alexa is aware of Lucy. While Kinfolk children are raised around Garou, she is a firm believer that there are some Garou that children should not be subjected to. Bold as the child had come across that time in the park, she does not want to see such a light cast by shadows of Rage. "Or I can," offering her aid as a Garou.

[John Brendan Cavanagh] "If you're hungry," JB tells Rory, perfectly direct in this. "I'll feed you. You don't have to work for it." His voice is quiet; he's aware of the prickle of her embarrassment, but it reads in this split way. There's something - incredulous, though, underneath the quiet. She's blushing and shy, and the her rage beats against his skin the way the ocean eats against the shore. Now that he is aware of it, he can almost feel it pulse, like a heartbeat.

And he cannot quiet believe that a Garou just told him, will work for food.

The thread of compassion underneath isn't - necessarily flattering for a Garou, who are usually fierce and independent. - and JB tries to swallow it before it shapes his voice. He's lousy at dissembling, though and that thread of pity is there remains, underneath.

Alexa offers to help, and JB nods. "Sure. I've got some tableclothes for these if you don't mind playing bus boy and setting the table. C'mon."

With a jerk of is head toward the kitchen, he starts off.

--

The kitchen doors are open. There's music echoing out the doors, the clatter of pots and pans, a cloud of steam as the bus boy lifts up the hood from the industrial dish washer, pulling out a rack of steaming hot glasses an mugs. He's not been at this long, the kid, and so he wears silicon gloves to protect his hands from the heat. There are a pair of line cooks cleaning up their stations, storing the mise en place, all the little, late night, last minute things necessary to the functioning of even the smallest of restaurants. Some of the things are put away; others are discarded into compost bins under the stations. Cindy, the hostess waitress with the full cap of candy-apple red hair, pokes her head back in time to tell JB that the last of the customers have gone.

She calls him chef, but there's a certain - note to the way she says it that suggests she figures she's just indulging him. She inquires where the slops are he tells her the specific warming draws, the right front of the walk-in. Tells her not to take everything, because he has guests.

Cindy glances at Alexa, her brown eyes narrowing shrewding, and manages to avoid asking John which strays he's feeding this time. He asks her where the tablecloths are. So it goes.

They find them in a storage pantry that doubles as John's office downstairs. There's a metal desk and a clipboard amidst the stored dried goods, the Mason jars of pickles and canned tomatoes, salsa and pickled garlic, rice and bulger and a half-dozen kinds of flour in big 50 lb bags. Then its back to the prep kitchen for leftovers, which he pulls out one by one, setting them on the wide, stainless counters, scrubbed until they gleam. It's quieter in here, now. The music of the line cooks cleaning up their stations in the background, the lights bright, the prep kitchen nearly surgical in its stainless precision.

"You said she's my blood?" - he pauses, straightening and pushing the doors closed. His brown eyes are on her face, as he searches her features for confirmation. When he reads it there, he breathes out briefly, nostrils flaring, his open features edged with the suggestion of a smile, hints of stress around the edges. "Then I don't think it's that simple." Busying himself combining the remaining prepped vegetables into a giant bowl of mixed salad, he glances back, reading her profile against the bright lights of the prep kitchen. "You her - " a moment where he flails for the wording. For human words. " - boss or something?" He asks, meaning - Alpha.

[Rory] Rory remains outside, taking a seat at a table and out of the way. She will insist on paying, somehow, and knows that there's compassion and pity in the way he spoke to her. It's nothing she hasn't heard before - and is quite likely on the nicer end of the spectrum of what she has endured.

She doesn't watch them go, but instead busies herself with the contents of her pack, the things inside clanking and clattering until she decides what she wants. Something easy [for her] to fix, yet something that's impressive [to others] when fixed. She has a fondness for replenishing and fixing music boxes that are considered brokn beyond repair, and that's what she goes too now. Soon her pack is on the ground at her feet, her small toolset put to use as she tears the box apart, and works on putting it all back together. Piece by little piece, screw by tiny screw, fashioning new pieces of other old boxes until she has what she wants to work with...

She is unaware that she is the topic of conversation, though she would not be surprised to know it. In the meantime, the whole of her focus on the trinket before her.

[Alexa Thanos] "No," she muses, almost sighing under her breath as she glances away and around his kitchen, "I suppose it's not." that easy. There's more to it, but she doesn't voice that yet. She's not one to hurry her words along, rolling them over in the back of her mind as she considers whether or not its any of her business to say them aloud. In that time he's already asked her if she's Rory's Alpha.

It makes her smile faintly. Shaking her head has her hair whispering across the yellow cotton covering her back. "No, I'm not." Sobering. "I don't know her. I just know the breeding that she has in droves."

"Still, John, this is your place with your family. You shouldn't have to have--" a quick glance around for people has her eyes dart around then slide back to him, "-- you should be able to have that to yourself. I just meant that if you needed it, sometimes our words carry a little more weight."

The cloths are folded over her arm, tucked to her stomach. "That's all."

[John Brendan Cavanagh] One of the two line cooks is Hispanic. The other had those sort of white-boy dreadlocks that seems to mark him as part of Alexa's human tribe: wanderers, backpackers, rootless and drifting and wordly. Right now, they're both out on the line, checking the oil in the deepfryer, scrubbing the griddles and the grills, arguing back and forth in Spanish. If Alexa speaks it, they're arguing about the varietals of marijuana the way wine connoisseurs argue about grape vintages. The best soave. The best Bordeaux. The best champagnes.

JB works quickly, throwing together the salad and a quick vinaigrette on something like autopilot, breaking out the knifes to chop a fresh close or two for garlic with a certain speed and precision – fast enough to cut off a fingertip cleanly before it could even start to bleed, precise enough to miss, every time.

What she says has his attention on her again, turning his head. He’s a big guy, tall and broadshouldered, and that’s even more evident here under the bright lights. She tells him he shouldn’t have to and the corners of his eyes crinkle as if he were smiling, except that he’s not. He flicks her a look, head to toe, and interrupts with a gentleness that belies his size and his affect – the tattoos and the Ramones t-shirts, the shorn hair and the two-days growth of beard darkening his cheeks – his voice a quiet rumble.

“A lot of things in this world we shouldn’t have to do,” he tells her, in that voice, quiet and deep, he must use on Lucy when they discuss What is Wrong With the World, except Alexa is not a child, and there’s an awareness underneath, a tension of awareness that Lucy never hears.

“We do them.” It’s not just that, though. There’s a moment when he’s still, mouth drawn still over his white teeth., his lips pressed together. Then, he lifts his chin, flicking his eyes briefly at the ceiling. This is even more quiet. “She’s like you.” He’s stoic with it now, as much as he can be, but he would rip out the roots of the world tree if he thought that might help him give his daughter a normal life. A life where she might live past seventeen.

“My sister is. My brother was.” Like a mantra, like a litany. These are the family secrets, son. This is who we are.

“And I hope that wherever they were. Whereever they are, someone’ll feed them when they’re hungry.” Then, a sudden grin, “ – shit.” He says, with some feeling, laughing suddenly, easily, as his own damn self. “I sound like a movie of the week. I appreciate the offer. I can handle it for now, though.”

[Alexa Thanos] If there's one thing that Striders are good at is listening, and its beyond words or tone, and even body language. This is also about reading between the lines and what is found in another eyes. They have wisdom that is afforded to them by their constantly moving feet, which also steals much from their otherwise rich lives. It also makes them live by a different code of etiquette.

She listens.

Smiles when he laughs and grins at her, eyes crinkling faintly at the corners as she nods her head in that subtle sort of way that tells him she understands without saying anything at all. After, she breathes in again, glances over towards those speaking in Spanish, and it's not clear if she understands them or not, before she's pushing movement back into her muscles and spine ready to begin movement again.

"She's a beautiful girl."

Reaching for some of the left overs then, to take out in her free hand, she looks up to him. "Sorry about the samosas." There's a flash of teeth in a quick grin as she's walking off, heading outside.

[Rory] Her fingers are thin, fragile looking, yet dexterous and quick. She is confident in this. This she understands completely, easily, with an innate knowledge of how it should go together, why it doesn't work, and what will make it whole again. They say the good Doctors, Lawyers, Artists - they are the same. Somethings they just know.

There is a reason for her comfort with tools. Reasons that aren't normal, that aren't explainable to the masses. Reasons she'd explain if asked, stumbling and tripping over her words, likely confusing others more than explaining anything at all. Such is her life.

As is this - they continue talking, she continues tinkering.

[and for the record since I accidentally sent it to myself.. *L* the music box will be near perfect when she's done - just needing paint:
Rory
Tue 9:26 pm
Roll valid
to Rory
[dex+crafts diff 5 (mech aptitude)]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 4, 4, 5, 5, 6, 6, 7 (Success x 5 at target 5)]

[Alexa Thanos] [be a few, cooking.]

[John Brendan Cavanagh] “You don’t look sorry!” He calls after her, loud enough that the cook with the blonde dreadlocks turns to watch her walk through the kitchen, balancing tablecloth and leftovers in her arms, until she disappears out into the cooling evening, through the open double doors. If she looks directly at him, he winks at her, this gimlet eyed look that suggests he’s got game. He’ll save the ribbing for later, though – swallowing it back with the look John gives him, miming zipped lips before returning to finish cleaning his sauté station.

Soon enough, they are back. Alexa has the promised tablecloths – vinyl backed by felt, the sort that you can clean with a sponge and soapy water, rather than some fancy woven linen that might catch and pull on the splintered tabletops.

JB follows a few minutes later, ferrying the rest of the “slops” - leftovers that cannot be recycled, or that are put aside for staff meals – eat in or “take-out.” Baked mac'n'cheese with brie and parmesan and mozzarella. Spaghetti with a lamb Bolognese sauce. Odds and ends of bread, that big bowl of salad, bright greens and fresh veggies, tossed together at the last minute. The finishing touch, the remains of a six pack to share about, is held underneath the rest, his index finger wormed through the handle.

- enough to stuff them twice over, and leftovers to take home, after.

“Here we go,” he tells Rory and Kyle, who will soon enough melt away into the night, after the cloth is spread, as the meal is set out. “ – enough for everyone.”

[Rory] They return, and Rory looks up, only to drop her gaze once again, in obvious submission to those who know the signs. Her kind is lower than even the kin, despite the breeding in her blood, and she knows it. She believes it. She lives it. So instead of meeting his gaze, she puts the last screw into the little music box, tips her head slightly as she rolls it about in her hands, and then with a little smile of triumph, of near pride, she turns the key.

She looks up at John, and then sets the box closer to him, and opens the lid. A tinny version of twinkle twinkle little star begins, and she allows herself a small glimmer of pride to seep into her gaze. Not that he could see it, as she hides it behind her curls.

"I thix fings." Satisfaction is woven under the words, before she dares a look up at John again. "For food." She will pay, one way or the other.

And only then, only after Kyle has taken his, does she scoot closer to make herself a plate.

[Alexa Thanos] [post around me. alexa sets the table and eats quietly for the moment. still cooking and then eating!]

[John Brendan Cavanagh] Animal submission isn't something he understands and the signs of her submission - even to him - strike him differently. There's something about the dichotomy - the way her rage ratchets up the tension in his spine and the way she drops her gaze, looks away, reverses her consonants, that simple gleam of pride in her gaze, that both breaks his heart, and has him wondering if Garou have their versions of Rain Man.

Somehow, her simplicity makes it worse. Her conviction that there's some sort barter system at work. That there should be a transaction instead of a simple act of hospitality.

JB glances once at Alexa, reading her expression as if searching for clues as to how to react to Rory. Although he grabs a slice of bread and a spoonful of his signature macaroni and cheese to be sociable, he doesn't tuck in, voracious. He's already eaten dinner. He eats with Lucy every night, no matter how busy the restaurant. Instead, mostly, he drinks his beer, straight from the bottle, holding it between his fore and middle fingers when he's not lifting it casually to his mouth.

When Rory pushes the music box close to him, he watches it open his mouth tense, expecting it not to work, half-hoping it won't. Then: twinky twinky little star. "It's lovely," he tells the - the Garou. He cannot forget that she is Garou when her rage curls around the base of his spine. There's genuine admiration there, and this sort of resurgance of pity, underneath. The sort of wave that washes away the foundations of things.

Then, he translates thix fings - and gods, it takes him a few. for food. JB, sitting now on the edge of the picnic table, half standing really, one foot on the far seat, his beer bottle on the table, reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose. "No -" he says, shaking his head, his voice a rumble, not shying from gainsaying a Garou. "No, listen. That's not how it works, okay? You understand? You don't owe me anything, for this. You get that, right?"

[Rory] It's lovely, he says, and she supplies her name at last. "Rory."

He says no, and she blinks in a way that's almost a flinch, her spine stiffening, her muscles tensing as if she expects him to hit her. Backwards, that - she expects him to hurt her. She waits a breath, two, her fork halfway to her lips, ready for it all to be taken again, even as he continues...

Then she dares peek up at him again, her lower lip pulled between her teeth, her brow furrowing slightly as she listens. Then she nods slightly. Not that she understands, exactly, but that it's what he expects. She offers a compromise, instead. "Not tave ho. want to."

Only then does the fork complete it's journey, and she savors the bite of his mac and cheese with a soft little moan of delight, before digging in as if she hasn't eaten all day.

[Alexa Thanos] "What he is saying," Alexa interrupts, "is that he doesn't want help." Her voice isn't harsh but that doesn't mean that it won't be taken that way. Dark blue eyes drift up from where she had been putting some food on her own plate, glancing over to where Rory is eating, starved.

Her gaze slips to John then, offering a small nod which leaves a lot to be interpreted, before she eats some of the spaghetti on her plate, twisting it in the fork against the spoon and eating from it in small mouthfuls. She had settled on the opposite side of the picnic bench, across from where Kyle is, and she gives him a small glance as they're all chewing down their food.

"The river cleanup went well." Changing conversation.

[Kyle] Kyle had wandered off but soon came back. Without saying anything he simply grabbed a plate of food and sat down. A smile to Alexa as he ate and listened to everyone.

[John Brendan Cavanagh] John glances at Alexa as she interrupts, a hint of irritation in the way his brows draw together, that smooths abruptly as he glances between the Garou. He's willing it to smooth away, he's belaying judgment because he doesn't entirely understand their animal dynamics. He doesn't want either of them to spark with anger while his staff are an open door away scrubbing the kitchen clean, listening to one of K'Naan's mixed tapes.

"Listen," John says, with as much directness and compassion as he can muster. He meets Rory's retiring gaze as if he didn't feel her rage. "Rory, you've got a job to do. With your - " a glance at Alexa, careful with words lest they drift back to his staff. The tribal tattoo on his right forearm seems to undulate as he flexes his fist, working it out, working to be clear with her, not reasonless. " - with the other ones like you. That job doesn't include fixing my walk-in. This is my place, and it's - look, I know what I'm doing. There's not much I can't take care of myself. And if I can't fix it, then I need a specialist not a - "

JB grimaces, briefly, swallowing back the word Garou. His volume rose the more he went own, and he pulls that back now, with a glance back toward the open kitchen door.

"There's this, too. When you - " he pauses, frowns, " - insist on making a transaction like this, you insult my blood. My hospitality. And I know you don't want to do that." He speaks to her clearly, carefully, as he would to a child, really, looking her right in the eye as he does so. There's no dissembling. He means every last word.

Then, audibly exhaling, he takes another draught from his bottle before glancing back over at Alexa. "It wasn't bad for business, either - " he agrees, to her comment about the work day. The sort of folk who volunteer for such things, who enjoyed his food and drink provided gratis, are exactly the sort of customer who will come back to his place again and again and again. Organic food, locally grown, seasonal, afforable.

"Though I think Lucy might've dropped more trash than she picked up." Mostly, she spent the day playing under someone's watchful eye, bossing the other kids, organizing them into teams, into packs.

[Rory] Alexa interrupts and not harshly, but Rory reacts to it anyway, her shoulders hunching, flinching, preparing herself for a blow that doesn't come. Yet. There's a tremble that works through her as she swallows the bite in her mouth carefully.

And then John claims insult, and her eyes widen and she looks up in shock to meet his and shakes her head, curls bouncing across her shoulders as she tries to stammer that its not.. it's...

It's expected of her. always has been... but the words won't come.

She drops her gaze to her plate, to the food that's by far the best she's had in days, which he won't allow her to pay for in the only way she can, the way she should.

A moment. Two. And then a careful breath, as she keeps her head down, and reaches for the music box, and tugs it to her, folding it in shaking hands against her belly. She's torn now, and another aching tremble weaves visibly under her skin as they speak of other things.

It's a long, quiet moment before she reaches for the fork again, expecting it to be taken from her at any moment as she finally dares to timidly take another bite.

[Alexa Thanos] John explains himself, his reasoning's, throwing her a glance beforehand. She gives him a small side glance, says nothing, and continues to eat quietly. Watching between the three of them she's content to sit, eat, listen, and leave the Kinfolk to fighting his own little dilemma's. Put it as he might it comes down the the crux of what she said, much simpler: he doesn't want their help.

She understood it before he even had to say it, all these little things, but apparently there's social ways to go about it. Sometimes she forgets these things or overlooks them. Her compassion isn't the same. She is, after all a Garou, like Rory.

Who reacts to them like a whipped dog. Alexa doesn't know she is a Metis, she knows only of that Rage and Breeding. She could guess. After glancing over towards the Fianna Garou, Alexa drops her gaze back to her plate and continues to eat.

"Do you get much business? This food is wonderful." If she tasted better she'd never say so anyway. "I'm told cooking is an art, what inspired you?"

[John Brendan Cavanagh] Rory's trembling spikes a new wave of pity in him JB glances at her, as she sits there, her head down, hiding behind her hair, quivering as if he were about to hit her. No: Garou don't mind hitting. God knows the scraps his brother used to get into. The day he beat another kid senseless underneath the tetherball pole over some insult he forgot by the time they got home. The last day his brother went to school, twelve years old. Violence is in their blood. Quivering as if he were about to beat her senseless and murder her dog and replace her meal with rusted nuts and bolts, a sprinkling of rat poison for good measure. There's a wave of pity that goes through him, and something else rather less - empathic, after. The thing that pity turns into. "I'm not taking away the food." He tells her, reading that much into her reaction. He speaks a bit more loudly to her now, as if that might - make the words make sense to her. "You're welcome anytime."

A glance back at Alexa, then, that drifts toward the restaurant. "Just opened. We're - building a clientele." He can float the business for six months before it has to turn a profit. After that, though. It has to turn a damn profit, and the tension of that is a different sort of tension, more remote. He gives her a grimace-smile, made taut by the - way Rory cringes and hides, shying away, by the way her rage makes him away of her, always. The heat against his skin.

Then she asks what inspired him, and JB laughs. It' a genuine laugh, not quite as deep as it normally might be. "The real world inspired me. Strangely enough, no one's clamoring to hire someone with an undergraduate degree in philosophy and a 2.38 GPA to be a high-powered anything."

[Rory] He's not going to take it away, and she nods slightly. Despite what she's lived, what she's survived, how odd she is - she isn't stupid, she's just... inexperienced in anything other than what she's had to learn here - and she's still learning. Every day. Even though some reactions simply can't be hidden... only endured.

She's a champion at enduring.

They speak business, clientele, inspiration, and she simply eats. Slow at first, then hunger takes charge once again.

[Alexa Thanos] "The exposure that day was smart strategy," she offers him a half smile when she throws him a side look. he already knows this, she's just complimenting him, "so while they may not be clamoring, I'm sure you're going to stick it to them with this place."

Setting down her fork and spoon, she reaches for the beer. The label is turned for her to read what she's about to drink, and with a quiet pleasure she lifts it to her mouth to take the first sip. It goes down well with the lamb meat and the sauce of the pasta. "Hmmm." Nodding her approval, she sets it back down on the table again.

"In this country, organic is stylish for those with money." Long fingers pluck up her cutlery again, ready to finish off the rest of what's on her plate. "You've picked a good location, and I like the... different staff you have. It's good to see the mold broken." She noticed all the sorts of staff he had and finds it a pleasant change. Exposure to differences, breaking cultural boundaries. Of course she likes that, even if she doesn't say it in such words.

"How is your busking going, Kyle?"

[John Brendan Cavanagh] "Hell," he says, "them? Par for the course in any restaurant kitchen, really. S'only the front of the house where you find the perfectly coiffed, white-bred part-time actors future weather girls. We - " and that is an expansive term, as he uses it. Meaning not - dudes who own their own restaurants - but (mostly) men who work the line. " - are a fucked up tribe of misfits, pirates, and would-be brigands. Just that we can filet a trout. And some of us can do it blindfolded." - a bit of cockiness, a hint of male bluster, there.

A glance at Rory, who is enduring, silent, eating slowly, then with gathering speed. When there's room on her plate, he serves her more, silently.

"I'm less concerned with organics. Mostly we do that because our customers expect it - it's more about food that's fresh and seasonal, using ingredients that are local, when they're fresh and abundant." Now, though, that male bluster shifts, into something rather more impassioned. " - so we work to get at least 75% of what's on our plates from within 150 miles during the harvest. If we make it a year, I aim to have that up to 90%. So, you support local farmers, drastically reduce your energy footprint, get the food when it tastes the best it possibly can, from local farmers whose fields you can see and whose livestock you can touch."

[John Brendan Cavanagh] (........and, once more liz - pumpkin! so it is written!)

[Alexa Thanos] [well then, I think this time a wrap. Alexa can wander off after helping put things away.]

[John Brendan Cavanagh] ( - (what! no more lectures about the moral imperatives of making your own pickles! I HAVE ONE PLANNED :( ahem. That works for me. next time, y'all!) )
[Alexa Thanos] [will be around tomorrow for any around. thanks for the scene!]

[Roman Turner] "Ya should of seen it. This nut case used spiders for his spies. Kind of ingenious when ya think about him as the spider and the webbing his telegraph. But he was also making Frankenstein's monster meets the transformers or something."

He moved forward to open the door for the ladies.

[Alexa Thanos] Alex raised an eyebrow at Roman when he came over to where she was standing, but she stepped out of his way so that he could be the gentlemen and open the door for the lot of them. Under different circumstances she might have been bemused. She waits for others to head in before she follows through. It's not pleasant inside, but it's a lot better then when they first had walked in.

[The Truth] The insides itself resembled a strange amalgamation of chop shop, hospital, and slaughter house. Save for the fact that no effort had been made to sterilize, or properly store the decaying flesh tossed about like it was useless trash. The entire operation would appear crude though Imogen, being a doctor herself, might pick up on the precision with which the one behind the entire thing worked. He seemed unbothered by the lack of sanitation, not because he was unsanitary but because the decay served as bait. It called to and lured the creatures who, to this day, still lurk beyond the horizon casting a thin haze of rage over the area.

The strange machine things that were being constructed were not the sterile weaver creations one might expect. Just as the wyrm uses the power of rage and the kiss of the wyld to weasel its way into the minds of the Garou so too can the Wyrm manage to take the intentions and desires of creative humans and twist them to its own end. There is no doubt at the sight of decaying corpses, and half constructed mechanical abominations that this was one such instance.

Cleansing the place is more than just a matter of a simple ritual... This entire operation will need to be dismantled and covered up. That would take effort on its own...

Still none of this matter would give answers. Perhaps it was best no one be given a glimpse into the mind of a monster. Perhaps it would be best to simply burn the place to the ground and forget about it. Still this operation was surprisingly well hidden and seemed to serve some kind of function.

For those brave enough to seek answers there were possibilities. Three separate computers were networked together. Three separate computers loaded with all manner of interesting data. Tucked away in the office... No doubt their owner had not intended them to fall into the hands of anyone. Unfortunately his plans didn't work out as he had intended did they?

[Alexa Thanos] [I think that the garou have been here doing clean up since it all went down Nick. Like, I'm sure that there's not decaying bodies lying around anymore, at the very least.]

[Sorrow] So: the four of them outside the only doors to the warehouse that were not bricked over or welded shut or otherwise firmly sealed. Kora pulls open the door. There are lights inside, those battery powered camping lanterns, just a handful if the electricity is not on, and against the chance that it might, at any time, go out if the power grid still words. The first long hall is filled with the freezers that were both prison and tomb to most of them men who died to make the corrupted doctor's super soldiers.

"We've gotten all these cleaned out," Kora says, grabbing the lantern just inside the door. The smell of bleach and oher strong chemicals is sharp, here. "We've been bleaching to get rid of the blood, and have cleaned up, cleansed, and burned most of the bodies we found here. There are a bunch of computers in the office, too. I know we can't just throw those away."

[Imogen Slaughter] "Magnetize them," Imogen says. "Strong magnets on the harddrives and the motherboards t'wipe any potential data."

Her nostrils pinch slightly at the burn of cleaning solvents in the air as she steps through the doorway, her gaze moving over the long hallway of freezers. She is silent, taking in the scope of them.

"Though," she says mildly. "You may want to check them for his suppliers first. And his source o' income. This," a movement of her hand, gesturing at everything. "Does not come cheap. I find it hard to believe tha' someone financed it privately."

[Roman Turner] "Ya might find his schematics and plans. Maybe even his Dear Diary notes on them computers."

He didn't like this place and found himself constantly knocking spider webs down.

[Sorrow] "I can transfer iTunes to an iPod. I can send an e-mail or an instant message, if you let me near a computer, doc," a sidelong glance at the doctor as they continue down the long hallway, the stench of the cleaning producs makes a grotesque admixture of old blood and the sharper scent of bleach applied with a liberal hand.

" - but I haven't touched one in what - four years? Maybe five. I'm not going to get much of anything from his computer. I'd like to know, too, though, who was helping him snatch those patients, you know? Someone had to find him folks who didnt have much in th way of family, or whose families wouldn't really notice that they were missing." She glances at Roman as he suggests that they might find his Dear Diary notes. She gives him this twist of her mouth, edging toward a smirk, made sharper by their surroundings, by the brutal work of the clean-up.

"Maybe you know someone who could pull that info from the machines before we destroy the data?"

[Alexa Thanos] [dont wait on me, fixing lunch for kids.]
to Imogen Slaughter, Roman Turner, Sorrow, The Truth

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen's mouth twists slightly, though it's not a smirk, something more like a grimace.

"I can try," a brief glance, wry, in Kora's direction. "I know a bit more than instant messaging and email."

[Roman Turner] "Glasswalker could. Me, I'm, good ole home schooled. I can tell ya the right crop to put in and when to rotate them. Work on a combine and I can buck hay till the sun goes down, but computers are a curse. Ma says ain't got nothing but them poor naked girls on them. And them girls lost their way, that's why they are on there with all the bomb makers looking at them little parts God didn't mean to be shared with more than one person at a time."

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen's glance to Roman is sharp, her mouth twisting - and this time, it is a smirk, barely suppressed.

"The naked girls are with the bomb-makers, are they? That seems like an unwise distraction when dealin' with bombs."

[Roman Turner] "No, no, they might be the bomb, but they ain't the boom bomb makers. They are showing their little girly parts to them searching the web for bomb plans. And speaking of web. Kind of funny...the web...the webs this guy had all over. Sounds like more than one kind of webbing going on and yet they crossed."

[Sorrow] "C'mon, then," Kora returns, low-voiced. She's hushed in this tomb of a place, except when Roman's comment about naked girls and bomb makers makes her laugh, briefly, surely, a flare of her nostrils, the subtle whuff of air from her nose and mouth.

Their footsteps are sure down the long hallway; they pass through a much larger room, then, with a huge purpose-made freezer in the center. The door has been brutally wrenched away from its welds, smashed through from without. The largest of the soldiers has been dismantled. Kora removed the weapons and the armor for trophies, but cleansed and burned all traces of the body parts used to construct the thing.

Then, they take another turn, down the last hallway toward the office that Alexa first discovered, where they found the computers. "What the hell," Kora asks, as head to the office, with the computers, if only to distract Roman from discussions of naked girls and bomb makers. "does it mean to buck hay?"

[Roman Turner] "Ya ain't never bucked hay?"

He was clearly surprised with that response.

"Well sucks Miss Kora, folk been bucking hay for centuries. Ya gotta cut it first, then someone drives the baler with a truck where all the bales get caught as they come out all nice and neat. Then when ya get to the barn, one guy goes on up in the barn while the other stands in the bed of the truck and bucks the hay up to the catcher. The catcher bucks the hay up to the top of the pile. It's called buckin cause ya lift up one of them 75 to a hundred pound square bales and ya catch them on your gut, supporting it with your thighs. Then ya buck against it as ya thrust up with the bale to give it lift. Ya can always tell the jeans worn during bucking, the thighs are all worn and faded."

[Imogen Slaughter] "Hm." This is all Imogen says to Roman's ramble, letting Sorrow divert him as she leads them into the office. Once inside, she surveys the computer(s) first. Brand, set up. She looks for a modem, a router, any signs of a network or any signs of a network which would possibly go into other parts of the building, indicating computers elsewhere.

[The Truth] The computers themselves are storage devices, and looking through any of them would reveal they weren't used in the typical manner as raw data storage. These devices were extensions of their users brain... As if he was using them to multi-task in his project.

All three were left on, and not a single one was currently connected to the outside world... Though a nearby connection could be plugged in to change that it was apparent that he was not looking to make himself readily available to the outside world. Projects like this tend to get frowned upon by the local authorities these days. Ahh the good old days of Nazi Germany when a scientist could be free to pursue science instead of being limited by small minds standing in the way of true understanding.

Each computer was custom built and scattered about the office was a number of computer parts... It was hard to tell but one could probably put together a number of computers from the scraps left lying about alone. Though the three active computers were pretty impressive themselves. Streamlined for speed and function and a glance at the keyboards would reveal that most of the letters had been worn away from use. Implying these computers were used a lot more than just casually. It's really hard to smudge the ink off a keyboard that can't be more than three months old without constant use.

[Sorrow] "I ain't never bucked hay." Kora responds, throwing in an ain't and a double-negative as she responds to Roman in a casual tone that is rather dry. Her dark eyes linger on Imogen, and she holds up the lantern for general light, offering Imogen the direct beam of a flashlight if and as necessary to trace the networking wires or ethernet cables or - Kora does not know the names of these things. She cannot identify the parts scattered around the office. She stands, alert and wary, ready to act if and as necessary. The room is quiet except for the humming of the computer fans, and the strange banter between the packmates.

"Shocking, isn't it? You ever buck hay, Two Step-yuf?"

[Roman Turner] "Two Step, I like the Two Step. Even better if it'd done in a line."

[Sorrow] "Don't tell me you line dance, Roman," Kora returns in that same, dry voice. Quiet enough. No echoes in the room.

[Alexa Thanos] "I've never bucked hay," she tells Sorrow with a small curl of her mouth. "I've bucked in the hay, if that counts?" Standing off to the side, her fingers are tucked into one of her jean pockets, at the back. She chuckled quietly at Roman's little nudge at her deed name, which is something she's heard plenty before.

"You know it's Two Step in the Blindside, in case, you know, you missed the whole thing." This is said with another small quirk of her mouth. "A bit hard to do that in a line."

[Roman Turner] He snorted with Kora's question.

"Everyone line dances on Friday Night and special occasions and any party. I mean, it's simple standard dancing, though I prefer the Cha Cha steps."

[Sorrow] Kora lifts her pale brows in a neat furrow of a question. "Does that count, Roman?" Before he answers, though, he shakes her head and casts a look back to Alexa. "I don't think that counts, though. And Roman will be scandalized when he figures out what you really meat." Then, back to Roman, "Show me a cha-cha step."

[Alexa Thanos] There's a quiet chuckle from her at Sorrow's remark, and she looks between them after a brief glance to Imogen, to see what the Kinfolk was up to. She really is a quiet Garou. Not much for her to say, only the small quip here and there. They're all waiting to see what can be found out on the computers. Alexa doesn't even know how to turn one on.

[Roman Turner] Well, it ain't easy without music with the right beat, but it's simple enough. Just follow my moves."

Slowly he went from one foot to the other and back again with a rocking of hip and backside. After a few one two three steps slow enough to follow, he kicked in to full speed. His back straight and on each rocking cha cha cha step his hind end and hips made the proper rocking pop motion.

"It's better with music."

Yeah he could dance, infact he liked dancing despite it making Sparrow giggle at him.

[Alexa Thanos] A young Garou, cowboy, telling the Get of Fenris how to do the Cha Cha and showing how in the middle of a warehouse that recently housed a spider man doctor, intent on making some monster-man-machine, out of soldier body parts -- Alexa absorbs it all in, the absurdity of it all and scrubs her hand through her mane of hair before looking out through the office door and onto the main floor.

She might as well do something, so with a small nod to the others, she left them in the office to wait for answers, and headed back to grab up a thick bristled broom to resume some scrubbing with bleach on the floors.

[Roman Turner] So he gave his lesson in brief and after a bit like Alexa, he wanted off to his own chores here. His involved ratchets, screw drivers, drills, drill punch, saws all and even a welder's torch. Back to dismantaling he went. He wanted all the creatures to be headless, brains drained and limbs removed.

[Roman Turner] (and now I must sleep for work) (Tank you)

[The Truth] [*Chuckles*Alright gfolks... Since I was late and kept everyone behind... I am gonna go ahead and send some private messages out to folks detailing what is found on the computers... I will also put up a little detail on the status of the War. I know what you all are looking for out of it so I will try to customize the posts so as to include what folks want!]
to Alexa Thanos, Imogen Slaughter, Roman Turner, Sorrow

[Alexa Thanos] [kay, thanks Nick!]
to Imogen Slaughter, Roman Turner, Sorrow, The Truth

[The Truth] [So yeah everyone can head off and I will get you all on umm... Whatchamacall it! The Forums!]
to Alexa Thanos, Imogen Slaughter, Sorrow

[Imogen Slaughter] (awesome. *bleary eyed* Thank you very much Nick! *Grin*)
to Alexa Thanos, Sorrow, The Truth

[Sorrow] (Thanks Nick! I'm going to drag Alexa off for fifteen minutes and then crawl off to bed, too. Appreciate both your patience and your accommodations!)
to Alexa Thanos, Imogen Slaughter, The Truth

[Sorrow] So they work; Imogen at the computer, with Kora standing guard, though she never calls it that. Now and then, she frowns, her eyes narrowing, dark eyes fickering over the information Imogen has discovered, making notes in her peculiar shorthand that she does not bother to explain - if necessary, only if necessary.

When the kinswoman is satisfied that she has whaever is necessary from the computer, they magnetize them. They magnetize them and remove the motherboards until Imogen's direction, sanitizing the remaining pieces as necessary, wiping down prints, putting them aside for recycling at office supply and/or electronics retailers scattered around the city.

Sometime after midnight, Kora joins Alexa and Roman in the primary room, where they fought a desperate battle against just one of the monstrous soldiers, scrubbing down the walls, cleansing. And on, all night. Even Garou - with their legendary stamina cannot work indefinitely, though. Close to dawn, they put away their tools, drag whatever incriminating remains might be left out of any direct line of sight, and make their weary way to the front entrance of the warehouse. Kora's Nalgene water bottles are almost empty. There's a swig or two left in both, and she offers one to Alexa as she takes the second for herself.

"Someday," the Fenrir remarks, quiet, "I'm going to ask you how you got your deed name." The faint curl of her mouth at the corner looks - haunted, perhaps, lingering at the edges of consciousness, exhaustion evident in the texture of her eyes. "I'm too tired to remember it now, though." The curl deepens, briefly acknowledging the hint of her own humor. "You have a place to stay in the city, while you're about?"

[Alexa Thanos] It's the sort of work that leaves the limbs aching in ways that battle does not. This isn't brute force, but time consuming, never ending motion, repetitive over long hours, that puts crooks in the back and kinks to work out later. Outside, she takes the bottle and has a small sip of it, washing it through her mouth and savouring the wetness against the dry burn chemicals had left behind.

Her gaze cuts over to Sorrow as she remarks on the deed name, wanting to know how she got it, or what it means. It makes the Strider smile faintly and nod, accepting. One day she will tell her about her deed name and how it came about. It's certainly a colourful one, that leaves plenty of open imagination to what it could entail.

"A Kinfolk has a place I can stay," she tells Sorrow, her voice a little raw from inhaling chemicals all night, "and there's the Brotherhood." Not that she's even been there yet, other then to glimpse at it from the outside when visiting the Caern.

"There's always somewhere dry to find."

[Sorrow] "There's an abandoned church on Broad and Pine," Kora tells her, with a minute nod eastward, downriver toward the lake. The Caern is that direction, too, amongst long-abandoned dockyards that linger on the edge of the city, remnants of another age. "North of the Caern, bordering the river. Neighborhood's mostly industrial, but there's not much industry left." Like this one, it's fled. To China, or Alabama, Nebraska, or the suburbs at the least, leaving an economic wasteland for most of what was once a thrivng working class in the city of broad shoulders.

"It's dry there, too. My pack's house. Roman and Sparrow have a lease on another place, but that's the center of things. Plenty of space to find a den. Plenty of room to practice two-stepping in the blindside," she adds, a faint curl of her mouth. "Or the cha-cha. It's in the center of our territory. You're welcome there, if you're looking for someplace dry. Cool?"

[Alexa Thanos] Her gaze drifts in the direction that Kora indicates with her nod, letting her gaze take in the stars briefly, or whats left of them with the pre dawn colours starting to move across the sky. When she lowers her gaze, it's to look at Kora and give her a nod. Her smile is slower to come, but it's laced with something a little warmer at the generosity. "Thank you, she who offers sorrow."

"I'll come by, sometime." Not tonight then, not today. "But I'll see you back here tonight." It's as much of a question as it was a statement. She assumes that the others will return, like she has, to clean up more. The first few nights Alexa had actually stayed within this area, keeping an eye out, but since then had moved on. She was getting no sleep around this area. Today she had plans to find somewhere more open, with fresher air, probably somewhere by the lake. The chemicals have given her a serious headache and she's really beginning to miss wide open spaces of grass or sand.

[Sorrow] "Absolutely." Kora responds, her voice quiet. She's not looking at the sky, but at her hands, raw from the chemicals they've used to clean, from the work of scrubbing, sluicing, breaking down, breaking apart what remains of the monster and his creations. "We're here until the end."

She means that in more ways than one.

[Alexa Thanos] Nodding once, she wipes her hands on the back of her jeans and begins down the few stairs. "I'll see you then." Her pack she has somewhere around here, stashed away where it won't be dirtied or soak in the stench of chemicals. Tonight she'll head to the Brotherhood, wash there, and head over to the Caern. She needed to replenish her Gnosis, this was taking quite a bit out of her.