An Encounter With Gina and a Fenrir

[Gina McClaren] *Cabrini was no place for a girl like Gina to be walking alone. Thugs prowled the streets like predators in the long grasses of the savanna, scenting for prey that was weaker or sickly to bring down. Pimps cruised slowly in low-riding caddies, eyes on their women, minds on their profit. And the women, oh the women. Stalking the streets in boots as high as their self esteem was low, spreading venereal disease to overworked housewives with every hasty slam of a john’s car door.

Gina shouldn’t be walking alone. Gina isn’t walking alone. A pair of stiletto thin blades tucked in the sleeves of her jacket keep her company, and give her the confidence to walk back to her hotel from the home of the Get widow she was visiting. Red jacket a beacon, but no more so than the whisper of strider blood carried along with each swing of wide hips. Road dust, spices, and the faint underpinning of owl to accompany dark skin and long hair. Kohl rimmed eyes taking in her surroundings carefully. Confident – not stupid*

[Remy de Tournieres] Sunday night’s not a traditional night for drinking, but then very little about Remy is strictly traditional. So there he is, under a blown-out streetlamp — his big grey-and-blue ski jacket mostly grey in the shadows, the collar snapped up to his nose and the hood pulled forward over his head. He’s facing the wall, one hand planted on the icy brick. He ignores the lowrider rumbling past behind him, ignores the calls of a hooker down the street hawking her wares. He might just be too plastered to realize they’re there.

Even if it weren’t for his distinctive wide-legged stance, the positioning of his free hand, it’d soon be unmistakable to poor passing pedestrian Gina to notice Remy’s taking a good long piss against the foot of the wall. He’s also humming tunelessly to himself under his breath, muttering a word or two here and there as they come to him. And occasionally, he snickers at himself.

Any woman, particularly a confident but unstupid woman who’s seen her share of trouble, would be crossing the street to get away from him now. Before she gets a chance to step off the curb, though, Remy abruptly throws back his head and bellows:

Fuck ME, I needed to piss! YEAH!

[Gina McClaren] JAYSUS.

*One word, in a voice that on a person from a more respectable background would slot them for a life as a songstress or politician. It slips out in shock before Gina can call it back. Remy’s pure joy at his own urinary release startling a pikey. She’s unsure whether to be alarmed or impressed, taking a blind step back in case the drunken fool turns and marinates her well worn boots, and knocking over a dented trashcan with a clatter. *

Jaysus fookin christ.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] You know, when you put a bullet in a giant squishy suckery wurm thingy and it just so happens to be the bullet that put said thing down, you tend to get a confidence boost. (Let’s not argue over the fact that she basically tapped the thing after three ahrouns had ripped the shit out of it. That’s TOTALLY not the point, and besides, who the hell are you to say? You weren’t there. So nyah.)

Anyway, where were we? Oh, right. So yeah, kill a wurm monster thing, get a confidence rush. And when your confidence is already near the point that people call you foolhardy (if they’re high-talking Silver Fangs, anyway…most just call you fucking nutrs), that confidence boost is probably NOT a good thing. It’s liable to get you killed.

Hey look! Walking target, making her way down the street. Sarita’s dressed in her usual duster and a little bit of extra OOMPH in her “I own these streets” walk. She doesn’t really own the streets, but she’s willing to lease. That can be negotiated later. She takes a drag off her cigarette, humming that new Lonely Island song about having just had sex…even though she didn’t. It makes it ironic, see.

As she walks along, she heard Remy’s roar, and looks that way. She also sees Gina and hears her, and she crosses the street without looking both ways (see? FOOLHARDY!) to get over to her kinfolk. “Hola, you.”

[Remy de Tournieres] [btw folks, don’t wait on me. i’m operating on 3.5 hrs of sleep and wonky as shit *LOL*]

[Gina McClaren] Och, fookin hola.

*Gina’s accent mangles the spanish word into something closer to “Hula”, pikey not caring one wit as she puts a trashcan to rights. Streets were filthy enough without her dumping a full can across the road – still, she doesn’t exactly tidy what fell out so much as put the thing upright. There were needles in there, she was willing to bet her shirt on it. The slight chill of cloudy night has caramel cheeks pinking coral, annoyance setting a brightness to dark eyes. Steamy breath puffs from her lips, a loop of deep chestnut hair rising and falling as she attempts to huff it away from her face. Belatedly, the pikey looks to traffic, and back to Sarita.*

Gintae gi’ yerself het by a damn car. Ye kain tha?

[Remy de Tournieres] Remy’s back stays turned. He doesn’t seem to care that he scared the Jaysus — the Jaysus fookin Christ, to be exact — out of some passing Pikey, either. He finishes his piss, and when he’s done there’s a sizeable patch of melted snow at the corner of the building, which he looks at with some pride.

Hah.” And he laughs at himself, uneven little chuckles under his breath, swaying. “Nice.”

Then he’s tucking away, zipping up. When he turns around his gait is loose and heavy: too much strength, not enough coordination. He looks at Gina and Sarita with some surprised.

“The fuck. Haven’t you heard of — of giving a man a little privacy?”

A yard or so sideways from his makeshift urinal, Remy lets his back thump heavily against the wall. Tugs the collar down from his mouth and pushes the hood back. Even completely wasted he’s a sight for sore eyes. The world’s too blurry to look at with two eyes, though, so he closes the left one, peering at the females through the other.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She grins widely to Gina as she crosses the street and gets scolded. One imagines that the Latina woman wouldn’t mind getting hit by a car. It’s just another adventure after all, and she’s all about adventure. Besides that…

“Let ’em hit me.” She winks as she hops up on the sidewalk. “If I’m lucky it’ll be a Porsche, and I can dent their Eurotrash piece of shit AND sue them for bookoo bucks.”

She takes a drag off of her cigarette and looks over at Remy. The grin widens, and she gives a light shrug. “I have, but I don’t believe in it. I’m a priv-atheist.” It comes out sounding like prive-atheist.

[Gina McClaren] *The curvy strider kin snaps her head around in a double take. Well now, the man looked like a drunken slug from the back, but from the front, he was hardly unpleasant to look at. That was a shocker, like realizing your dreaded highschool math teacher was actually a part time stripper, and was good at it. Sarita is spared whatever else the churlish kin was no doubt going to cluck at her about, as Gina darts a dark eyebrow up at the drunken hotness.*

Lookin like ye dae darlin, reckon ye dinnae need any privacy. Asides, tha’s why thes area yer takin a wizzer en es called “Public”. Awn account o ets nae “private.” Ye catchen wha ah’m sayen tae ye?

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] Gina scolding the pretty Fenrir man seems quite amusing to Sarita. Not that the category of “Things that Amuse Sarita” is a particularly exclusive club, but…okay, misisng the point. The point is, she grins a little and shifts her weight to one hip, exhaling a drag of smoke.

“I think the kids today call that ‘being pwned.’ That’s what I hear, anyway.”

[Remy de Tournieres] The Strider kin’s mouth opens…

…and what comes out may as well be gibberish to Remy. Shoulderblades heavily to the wall, feet planted wide for balance, jacket still rumpled up where he’d fumbled it aside, he sort of just stares at her blankly. A few seconds go by after she finishes. Then he computes that last sentence, at least.

“No.” He shakes his head for emphasis. “I have no idea what just came out of your mouth.” He turns that one dark eye to Sarita — the other’s still closed, as if too much depth in the world would result in his harfing up his cheap booze — “Is she one of yours? She smells like one of yours. Can you translate?”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] A little shrug to Remy and she chuckles. “I think I can do that, yeah. Rough translation, chico… ‘You wan’t privacy, don’t drop trou in public. No matter how much some of the lay-dees may appreciate it.”

[Gina McClaren] *There’s a certain fire to Remy that Gina’s only just beginning to register. Coupled with his comments to Sarita as to her smell, a goodly portion of the gutter-snipe’s own incomprehensible snark rings in her ears as folly. When next she singsongs, its calmer, and slower.*

Och. Reckon, ah’d best be gi’en along soon, aye?

*A glance up to Sarita, Gina’s smile gone thin.*

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] The grin fades, just the tiniest bit. Dark brown eyes roll upward and right for a second as she searches her brain to backtrack over the last few moments. She’s coming up empty, but she knows something happened.

“I….said something wrong, didn’t I?” She’s not above asking.

[Gina McClaren] Nae darlin. Jes nae sooch a beg fan o’ trueblooded strangers these days.
Easier tae ‘ave em die when ye dinnae kain their names.

Ah’ll see ye aroond, aye?

*Hearkening back to a conversation the two striders had shared previously, Gina offers Remy a half apologetic smile, and it would seem thats that. A wiggle of fingers to Sarita and the buxom pikey is headed to the nearest bus stop. Making her escape.*

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She watches Gina go, sighing a little. Well, you can’t win ’em all. Sometimes you can win most of them…a fair amount of the time you can win some of them, and it’s not that tough to win a few of them. Winning none of them is unfortunate, but it happens. But not all of them. That’s how the saying goes…and as everyone knows, ALL sayings are correct, right?

Once her kin is gone, she looks back at Remy, looking him over. “So, hola. S’up?”

[Remy de Tournieres] While Sarita is ‘translating’, Remy’s tipped his head back against the brick. Is staring straight up at the orange clouds over the city, closing the right eye now and opening the left. He wonders which eye it was Odin gave for the gift of wisdom. Someone taught him that once, surely. Beat it into him. Lost it a week later like he lost everything else, over and over again, eight years of that bullshit running until finally someone managed to cram his head full of enough things, enough wisdom and knowledge and tricks and spells, that they could rush him through a Rite of Passage before it all leaked out his ears again.

When he lowers his chin Gina’s gone. Remy looks a little surprised, a little disappointed. “You scared her off,” he says accusingly. “What a shame. Fine-looking piece of tail, too, and she was totally into me.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She looks him over, amused. The New Mexican normally loves hanging around guys who are wearing eau de oblivous…but only really when there’s someone else to help her enjoy the whole thing. On her own, she has WAY too much tendency to try and get the potential target in on the joke, and that usually results in her ass being served up fricasseed.

Still, there’s no one else around, so instead of being disappointed, she stays amused. Remy gets a sympathetic look. “Aww, don’t take it too hard there, cowboy. I’m sure there’s several young lasses who will be all sorts of into you that can take her place.” She walks over, even if she very clearly is NOT one of those particular young lasses in question, and extends a hand. “Sarita. Nice t’meetcha.”

[Remy de Tournieres] Remy shifts, rolling one shoulder off the wall to extend that arm, that hand. The final outcome of that heavy, felt motion: his gloved hand wrapping around Sarita’s and giving it a staunch shake. It’s hard to see much of him under that big ski jacket, but there’s strength in that hand. He moves like someone’s who’s strong, athletic.

“Rémy,” he says, the accents French, not English. He’s apparently too drunk to follow that up with the usual warning not to mock the name. Settling back against the wall the way the truly exhausted settle into a comfortable armchair, he eyes her through his one open eye. “What kind of name is Sarita? Doesn’t sound Egyptian to me.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] “Yeah, that’s ’cause it’s a special dialect of Egyptian. We call it, ‘Spanish.'” She grins and performs a smooth side step, 180 degree body rotation and then backward lean so that she’s against the wall right next to him. “I’ve never been Egypt in my life. Or Africa, for that matter. Or east of the Atlantic.”

She shrugs, chain lighting a new cigarette off the old one. “My mother was Mexican and Navaho, and my father was…I think full-blooded Mexican. You’d have to ask Amy about that to be sure.” She looks at Remy. “I’m a rebel, and I break the rules. We don’t need no steenking Egyptian names.” A little wink and grin follows.

[Remy de Tournieres] Special dialect, she says. Both of Remy’s eyes open. For a second, he looks genuinely intrigued. “Really?” — she informs him it’s called Spanish, and he scowls. “Oh, ha ha.” The left eye closes again. She takes up position by the wall and he eyes her new cigarette, holding his hand out for a drag. If she offers it, he takes it, sucks on it like it’s a bong, and then explodes into a chain of coughs.

“Awful,” he chokes out. “Thought it was a joint. Guuh.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She does offer when he asks. When he takes a hit off it and starts hacking up, she grins a little. The Strider certainly knows the difference between the two and she knows his confusion before he vocalizes it by the way he tries to get a hit off of it.

“Shit, dude.” A light chuckle comes from her throat. “If you’re looking for that, lemme know. I just donated more’n I probably should have to a good cause, but I still got some left.”

[Remy de Tournieres] Privately, Remy is glad Sarita doesn’t ask how the fuck anyone could mistake a cigarette for a joint. It’s not even like he has some deep dark secret to blame it on: I’m a metis and I was born with NO NOSE! I lost all my olfactory cells in a horrible accident involving a toaster and a broomstick! It’s just that it’s cold. And his nose is running a bit. And he’s pickled every last brain cell in his head. All one of them, if that slick fuck from the cafe the other day is to be believed.

His thoughts float randomly along, pinging off one association after another like a pinball. Remy’s still coughing a little as he hands the cigarette back: low little coughs in his chest.

“I don’t trust you anymore,” he rasps. “But if you want to donate more to a good cause I live at the Brotherhood. Room … shit, I don’t remember. Four or five.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She takes the cigarette back, shaking her head with a smile as she takes a drag. She’s not really the donating kind as a rule…she’s gotta make some scratch somehow, and Amy’s been too busy recuperating to pull her usual money-making schemes. But Sarita’s also a smart enough girl to know that it’s wise to make nice with the locals–or at least, the more-local-than-her-at-this-point–and she gives Remy a light shrug.

“Well, if I’m feelin’ charitable at any point, I know to stop by. I’ll just knock at doors until I hear you yell at me.” That doesn’t seem like something she’s unused to–getting yelled at, that is–by the way she says it.

She gives a sigh and looks around. “On that note…I should go make my rounds. The pot-smokers ain’t gonna give their money to the air to get high.” She pushes off the wall and grins to Remy. “I’ll see you around, ey?”

[[Gettin’ late-ish for me. Thanks for the scene!]]

[Remy de Tournieres] “Yeee-ah,” Remy says, like her goodbye was actually a question to be considered, pondered, and responded too. “I’ll see you around.” A pause. “Just in case I don’t recognize you when these beer goggles come off, don’t take it personally, okay?”

He returns something that looks sort of like a grin. White teeth … a smile that might be even otherwise, but is crooked as all hell right now. He snaps his collar back up to his nose to protect himself from the chill, then dunks the hood back on his head. Without further ado, he heads off in the opposite direction. Or maybe just in some random direction. Sarita can hear him singing something as he goes — both the melody and the words are slurred beyond recognition.

[same here, falling asleep at keyboard *dies* thanks!]

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] [[Laters! *Poof Flees!*]]

The Owl Girl Meets The Mack Daddy and Others

[Adamidas]
Pop.

flush.

Water runs, then shuts off. The Black Fury walks out of the bathroom as though nothing ever happened.

[Hunter]
Hunter isn’t exactly a large man, but standing next to Howard Ivers he looks like a veritable wall. He could keep out Mongolian raiders if he wanted to. Whilst Howard is taller, Hunter is stocky, but they both have green eyes and they both smile far too often to be healthy.

“I think ya’ got’em mixed up a bit, this one’s the big mouth.”

[Howard]
One would think that that storm cloud moving over Remy’s features was the achromat’s version of a ray of sunlight bursting through the clouds the way the hipster breaks into a grin as he ambles over to the table. For someone who looks and oftentimes smells as though he doesn’t bathe with any regularity, who is rarely without some sort of burning herb in hand, he has well-cared-for teeth.

Where’s his bigmouthed packmate. The Fiann extends his right arm until his wrist pops out from beneath the sleeve of his leather jacket and consults the back of his wrist. There isn’t a watch there; he stares at it for a few seconds anyway, then returns his hand to his hip with something of a flourish.

“Probably writin’ a sad song on his guitar and havin’ himself a cry,” he says.

Hunter thinks he got them mixed up. Howard shakes his head.

“Nah… I’m the loudmouth. Very easy to mix up, especially if…” He turns to the table. “True story: I caught this fucker walkin’ around with two left shoes on the other day.”

[Tabitha Reese]
Tabitha laughs loudly all of a sudden, hand clasped over her mouth to stop it as she elbows Tala. “Stop!”

[Tala Whitedeer]
“I’m not doing anything. I’m sitting here, Tabby.” She shakes her head and sighs.

[Tabitha Reese]
“You’re a goddamned liar.” She elbows Tala again, then looks up to the two men. “Hey. How are ya?”

[Hunter]
“I only got one pair’a a shoes you simple fuck.” Hunter says, snatches out a chair from a nearby table and pushes it with the back facing towards their table. He straddles it with his elbows resting on it.

“I’m Hunter, and I’m good thanks.” He says, eyes flicking between the occupants of the table. “This fuck here,” and he throws a thumb over his shoulder and turns.

“Is Howard.” He saves the insults, Howard proves how much of a dumbass he is without any help.

[Tabitha Reese]
“Tabitha” She hides her hands in her pockets again, nodding to her packmate. “This is Tala. We’re new.”

[Tala Whitedeer]
“Hi.” She looks the two over, not bothering to conceal it as she sizes them up.

[Howard]
“And it sounds like you’re thinkin’ about one of us naked,” he says. He looks between Hunter and Remy, then jerks a thumb at the Fenrir. “It was him, wasn’t it?”

[Hunter]
“Well we know it wasn’t you Howard, that’s for sure.”

[Tabitha Reese]
“Maybe not so much naked as on fire.” She offers Remy another charming smile.

[Remy]
Now, all things considered, Remy’s been more or less easygoing tonight. Sure, he laid down the law so far as his kin was concerned. Sure, he turned around and smacked said kin upside the head. Sure, he seems to have no social graces whatsoever, or at least pretends that’s the case — but the teasing between Fenrir and Fury tonight has, on the whole, been of the friendly-ribbing sort.

That sort of changes when Howard and his big buddy approach. Something in the young Fenrir’s face tightens down. He sits back in his chair, a sort of exaggerated and deliberate broadening out of his physical presence that claims the air around him, the space around his feet.

“Why don’t you two jokers quit pretending we’re friends and take your comedy show on the road,” he says. “If the bulldykes here want to join you that’s their call. But I got here first and I don’t much want to eat my sandwich looking at your pipsqueak faces.”

[Howard]
“‘Bull… dy…'”

Howard turns to Hunter and drops into a crouch rather than sitting. When he speaks, it’s in an exaggerated stage whisper.

“I don’t speak Ignorant Twat, what’s a bulldyke?”

[Tabitha Reese]
“Oh for fuck’s sake. We are NOT fucking.”

[Remy]
“It’s a woman that doesn’t want to fuck you on principle,” Remy replies instantly, almost lazily, “and not just because your face looks like a kicked-in pile of horse shit. You noisy little cunt. Get lost.”

[Howard]
“Alright, alright, don’t get your knickers in a twist, Prettyboy,” he says, holding up a hand in a lopsided Don’t shoot gesture.

[Hunter]
Hunter is amused, he really is amused. He might not be so amused if the two females he is calling bulldykes weren’t Garou. They can take care of themselves. Hunter would like to see Remy call Joey Oliver a bulldyke. As it stands he is trying his best but then Howard has to go and be Howard, and it comes out.

“pffffffftttttttttt.” Air escaping as he laughs with a look of Oh shit on his face.

“Didn’t ya’ say he don’t like that Howard?”

[Remy]
Remy’s eyebrows hop up on his forehead. Then he pops down the last of his sandwich — and might we add that even with a mouth full of half-chewed food, through which he lets out one of the fouler belches of the century, he’s still pretty enough to turn the heads of two college girls across the room — and dusts his hands off.

“Okay, pipsqueak,” he says, food-muffled. “You asked for it.”

[inits!]

[Izzy Montoya]
Speaking of noisy little cunts… [Ok, not really, but it seemed like a good enough line to steal.]

The door opens, as doors do when nudged from one side or the other, and she stalks in like she owns the joint. She doesn’t, of course. She walks into most places like that – it’s all in the attitude. She pulls off her gloves and stalks to the counter, and orders her coffee – hot and black, just like she likes her… well. Coffee.

Her features are strong, her breeding pure, her blood that of Viking Heroes. Her hair dark and longish, her eyes dark, her smile non-existent. She is lean – and by the looks of the bags under her eyes that have luggage of their own – exhausted.

[Howard]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 9
Oops.

“Oh, shit,” he intones, trying not to laugh even in the face of an impending ass-kicking. Even though he’s several inches taller than Remy, the term ‘pipsqueak’ isn’t entirely a misnomer: the Fenrir has somewhere in the neighborhood of seventy pounds on the Fiann, and it’s all muscle. Thrusting the coffee into Hunter’s possession, Howard says, “TellPatrickIlovehim” and turns to run.

[+7!]

[Adamidas]
This is where a Fostern should really… really… really give some semblance of a shit about what was going on. She steps way from the bathroom door, and the corner with all the banter and one very Attractive Rage-o-holic draws her attention. She is the spiritual equivalent of jet lagged. Her head is swimming, and her eyes come in to focus just in time to see a fight break out.

Her hands go to her hips. Attire is comfortable. Jeans with holes (air conditioning she insists), tights (because it’s still developmentally appropriate for her to believe that tights with jeans are cool) and a hooded sweatshirt. The Fury carries a messenger bag with her. She shrugs her shoulders and wanderes towards the fray.

Literally, wanders, like the budding fight was more like finding a sale on bonbons.

[Remy]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 3 (Failure at target 6)
[+7!]

[Patrick]
Of course, this would be the moment that Patrick, Howard’s long suffering Galliard decides to grace the Cafe with his presence. Prayers to Broken Stone, a broad-shouldered kid with a head of sandy hair and brows to match; coupled with impossibly blue eyes was what most referred to as the quiet side of Caldera.

Put him beside Howard, and he was all but a mime. His conversation often little more than well timed shrugs or gesturing on one front or another. Presently, he’s wearing his work attire — that being dark blue coveralls and his battered leather jacket atop them. There are black fingerless gloves on his hands, and he’s crossing the street toward the Cafe in question when he sees Howard, shooting out the door.

His eyebrows rise.

He watches, then flicks them toward his pursuer.

[Remy]
[last call for inits! i’ma go review another section of my manuscript, and if there are no other inits when i get back i’ma declare.]

[Patrick]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 9
[Oh, why not! TUSSLE! +6]

[Tala Whitedeer]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Tabitha Reese]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Tala Whitedeer]
((+6))

[Tabitha Reese]
(+7)

[Remy]
[1. yell BOO! as Howard streaks out the door, sit back down.]

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
She’s whistling just for the sake of whistling as she makes her way down the street in the general direction of the Cafe, walking at an unhurried pace. She’s got a hand-rolled cigarette out one corner of her mouth, and she pauses once she crosses at an intersection to light it before continuing on.

[Patrick]
[1. Look disgusted with Remy
2. Lean against wall, James Dean style, and smoke a cigarette.]

[Howard]
[1a: realize Remy’s not chasing him
1b: wander back inside]

[Tala Whitedeer]
((grab a fork. Hold said fork in deathgrip))

[Tabitha Reese]
(Trip Howard as he attempts to flee)

[Remy]
[ok, i’ma wait to see outcome of the trip and then probably just go back IC *LOL*]

[Tabitha Reese]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 3, 7, 7, 7, 8, 8 (Success x 4 at target 6)
(Rolling for the trip!)

[Howard]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 1, 3 (Failure at target 6) [WP]
[Athletics+Dexterity: GO GO HIPSTER BOOTS]

[Remy]
“OOGLABOOGLABOO!” Remy yells — nay, roars — as Howard turns to run. Heads turn all around the room, and not just because Remy is fucking hot. The ‘pipsqueak’ streaks toward the door. Tabitha sticks out her foot. Howard goes sprawling. Neighboring tables gasp in alarm. Are you okay?! someone wants to know.

Remy picks his toppled chair back up off the ground, sits again, uses the pad of his thumb to pick up a few crumbs of his sandwich. “Dumbass,” he comments, and reaches across the table to high-five Tabitha.

[Tabitha Reese]
She returns the high five, settling back in her seat and gently prying the fork out of Tala’s hand.

[Izzy Montoya]
Her coffee arrives as one is running off. There’s a tension about her lower back, dancing up her spine, as she turns her head enough to track what’s going on. Only when everyone stands down – for now – does she turn to wrap her fingers around the cup, and move to the side so others can order as needed. She tucks her gloves into her pocket, then lifts her cup to take a swallow that’s far to big for how hot the coffee is. She makes a face, a slight grimace, as the hot liquid burns over her tongue.

[Howard]
He wipes out in spectacular fashion, nearly taking out one of the table’s neighbors as he crashes into the floor, and a normal person would be pissed off, Rage flaring from embarrassment or pain or any other strong emotion that comes from being tripped while in the act of running from a man who looks like an underwear model.

Howard doesn’t yell, or strike back at the bulldyke, or fire back when Remy calls him a dumbass. Granted, he loses his sunglasses, so all he can do for several seconds is squint, but he doesn’t start fumbling for them. He flops onto his back and starts laughing.

“Oh Jesus,” he announces, laughter dying down, then points where he thinks Tabitha is supposed to be; his finger ends up aimed somewhere around her navel. “Y’know, you ought to be careful, in some cultures that’s considered foreplay.”

[Tala Whitedeer]
Prying the fork loose is easier said than done, but Tabitha IS stronger, so with a small whine of protest, off it goes.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
She exhales a drag of smoke and goes back to her whistling, the shrill tones of “Twisted Nerve,” as the cafe grabs her attention. With a shrug, she directs her steps toward it, stubbing the cigarette out just outside. Someone could use a coffee.

[Adamidas]
She looks at the pile of people. The Fenrir, who puffed up all nice aand big, the Fianna who started to run, then was tripped… and then faceplanted. She inhales slowly, and a little more deeply than she realizes. The younger Fury clenches her jaw, and heads over. There’s high fiving. Then laughing. Her jaw unclenches. She shrugs, and heads for the door.

“Hey,” she says to Patrick on the way out, “I don’t think you can smoke in here.”

[Tabitha Reese]
She’s about to answer Howard when the dark haired woman matching the description she was given captures her attention. Now her, she’d go bulldyke for. Getting up quickly, she pats Tala’s shoulder and makes her way over to Alethea.

[Patrick]
(Patrick is still outside! He’ll stay there til I return with dinner in a min!)

[Tala Whitedeer]
“Where are you going?” She seems alarmed suddenly.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
She glances at Patrick as she slips in the door, recognizing him from the other night in the hallway of crowded bathrooms, towels and such that she’d stumbled upon. She gives him a nod and a wink as she slips inside, glancing around on her way toward the counter.

[Remy]
“You know,” Remy says to Tabitha and Tala, “you two aren’t half bad. I’m staying at the Brotherhood. You should look me up sometime. Like if you want to go hunting or something.”

On that note, he finishes picking crumbs off his plate and cocks his eyebrows at Drew. “I’m taking off, girl. You want me to walk you to your car so you can drive me to my boardinghouse?”

[Tabitha Reese]
“I’ll be right back. No stabbing anyone.”

She nods to Remy “We’ll do that.” Then she’s off to catch up with the other Fury.

[Adamidas]
(ohshit! Sorry, delete last line!)

[Tala Whitedeer]
“Bye.” She nods curtly at Remy, then looks over at Tabby, watching her go with a look of growing displeasure.

[Drew Roscoe]
Drew spent the whole of this ruckus just leaned back in her chair, watching the goings-on while looking like she couldn’t be bothered to be upset or anxious about it anymore. The potential of a scuffle is left with a roar of ‘ooga booga’ to chase the curly-haired Fianna away, who winds up tripping over Tabitha’s foot and crashing into some chairs and a table. The people who work are arguing near the end of the counter about whether they should kick them out, leave them, or call the cops and claim someone’s disturbing the peace.

Her coffee’s empty for the most part, cooled off enough that it’s not as enjoyable anymore, when Remy finishes the crumbs from his sandwich and, in a roundabout way that made it sound like he would be helping her, asked for a ride back to The Brotherhood of Thieves. Drew took a last drink of her mug, set it on the table, and stood up. “Alright.”

He keeps calling her Girl and she doesn’t correct him. Just goes ahead and pulls her dark blue winter coat on, buttons it up to her collar bone, and makes a beeline for the door.

[Howard]
Hunter has performed one of his disappearing acts or is eating paper napkins or something equally constructive, leaving Howard to either fumble around for his sunglasses for another two minutes until he finds them or do what he ends up doing, which is abandoning them in favor of attempting to grope his way from the floor to a chair. In order to pursue Alethea, Tabitha has to step over or around the prone Fiann; that doesn’t seem to be an impediment, and he doesn’t take the opportunity to trip her as she does so.

He lies still a moment, blinking so slowly he ends up squeezing his eyes shut a few times, then sits up. His hand finds the chair Tabitha vacated, and he clumsily–silently–picks himself off the floor and sits his skinny ass down. When his eyes, a shade of green similar to Hunter’s, move around it isn’t with the same sharpness and precision that the rest of the patrons’ do: they don’t focus on anything, and his brow is furrowed.

Slowly, it dawns on him that someone’s still here.

“I think she fancies me,” he says, and folds his hands on the table.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
She pauses a second in her walk as she sees Howard on the floor, recognizing him from that other night as well. She opens her mouth as if to ask why he’s on the floor, then looks to the table everyone’s at before shrugging it off with apparent acceptance. On her way to get her coffee she goes.

[Remy]
It wasn’t a very subtle way to ask for a ride, but Remy looks downright delighted when he actually scores one. The resultant grin makes at least one of the arguing baristas lose her train of thought. Remy buttons back up in his winter coat, his scarf and hat and gloves, and pretty soon there’s just that little sliver of face showing again.

“Okay,” he mumbles through his buttoned collar. “I’m good. Let’s go.”

[Tala Whitedeer]
She looks over at Howard, blinking slowly. “What?”

[Patrick]
All the while the Fianna Galliard has been outside, foot propped against the wall; smoking like a wannabe rebel. He’s flicking it away when the Fenrir appears, exiting with his ride. “Well hello, gorgeous.” Patrick drawls, for no real reason and cants the man a salute.

[Tabitha Reese]
She stops herself just short of grabbing Alethea’s arm, settling instead for brushing her fingers on the other woman’s arm to get her attention and clearing her throat.

[Drew Roscoe]
Remy was good to go, and at this point the mayhem in the coffee shop had driven up the little Kinfolk’s blood pressure to the point that she was barely paying mind to anyone else. Family first and that was all, if he wasn’t a Fenrir she would have hit the pavement long ago. She only just notices Izzy as she’s holding the door open and waiting for Remy to catch up, and the detective Kin gets a long stare before a nod of acknowledgment. No warm smiles, no waves, no ‘Hey Izzy!’, just the nod.

Once Remy’s caught up, Drew’s stepping outside along with him…..

…right into the face of another show of provocation. Drew looked up at Patrick, some guy she’s never seen or met before, calling him ‘gorgeous’. While this was a truth there was no point in denying, it had caused him to snap at the Black Fury, then charge the Fianna to scare him off. Drew was giving him a ride, she wanted to get her ass back home, have a drink or two to calm the nerves, and go to sleep so she could get her ducks in a row for her interview on Monday.

So she breaks her act of ‘good, quiet kin’ and jams a finger at Patrick. Everyone has a last straw, and the number of them wane as the hours tick by. “You. Smug guy. Shut the hell up and let us go home. Your pals are in there waiting up for you.” That finger retracts so she can jerk her thumb toward the cafe door.

[Adamidas]
She stops and turns around. Someone touches her arm, and she looks up. Her lips upturn, and something about her seems… distinctly more grounded than Tabitha remembered. She is also, simultaneously, less there than she was when they first met. She perks up-

“Oh! Hey!”

[Tabitha Reese]
“Hey.” She smiles, looking relieved. “I was going to call you. To let you know we’re here. How are you?” She’s babbling, gesturing too much with her hands as she talks.

[Howard]
“What?”

When he turns his head towards Tala, his eyes land in the general direction her voice came from. They aren’t bloodshot or red, nor are they marred by bruising or scars; there is no discernible reason why it’s dark out and he arrived wearing sunglasses. There are some bizarre females out there who claim this young man is attractive, that he has pretty eyes or the whole skinny mop-haired asshole thing is a turn-on, but none of those bizarre females exist on this side of the fourth wall so the ones left standing shall be spared.

“Which one are you?”

[Tala Whitedeer]
“Which one am I what?” She looks confused.

[Izzy Montoya]
Izzy takes a seat at an empty table, setting her cup down and rubbing her fingers together to warm them. Drew notices her, and gives a long look, which Izzy simply returns. She arches a brow, slightly, just as Drew nods, and turns to go outside.

Izzy, likewise doesn’t call out, doesn’t smile, doesn’t wave. And she likes it that way just fine.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
She gets her coffee, paying with a grin, and turns around to look over the room once more. She considers for a moment before heading over to the big, occupied table and nodding at Howard. “I remember you. How’s your ass?”

[Adamidas]
She doesn’t say anything, she just hugs the other Fury and holds on like she might fall apart and float away just by being there. She is warm, and she is surprisingly solid for being… well… being her. It’s a little known, less cared about fact that Alethea Adamidas has a heavier build than her height suggests. Even with the apparent weight loss, she’s solid.

“Where are you staying?” her voice is muffled.

[Remy]
Another night — the night Patrick called him a Silver Fang, for example — and Remy might have flown into a fury. Tonight’s a pretty good night, though. He traded jabs with a Black Fury that gave as good as she got and miraculously didn’t get pissed; he scared Patrick’s loudmouth alpha off; he watched said Black fury trip said loudmouth alpha on his way out. Good night. Good happenings.

So there’s no frothing at the mouth. There’s no sudden lunge for the throat. There’s just a smirk that widens when Drew gives Patrick the one-finger salute.

“Aw, don’t be jealous,” Remy says, slinging his arm unapologetically around Drew and hugging her against a side that feels as solid as a slab of beef. “Charming fella like yourself, I’m sure you’ll find some company tonight.

“Better stay off this one though. Don’t think you can handle her kind of fire, Stag-boy.”

[Patrick]
He ignores the finger, breathing smoke out his nostrils as he straightens. His bright eyes consider Drew for a beat, and he glances back at Remy. “I like her,” he notes as mildly as if he’d been commenting on a new car, already turning his shoulders toward the Cafe door.

“She’s almost got the mouth of a Fianna.”

He pulls open the door, turning with his back to it to raise both eyebrows at the pair of Fenrir. “Have a good one.”

[Howard]
He sits in furrow-browed thought for a grand total of two seconds, which is something of a record between Howard being asked a question and Howard spitting out an incendiary response. When he comes up with it, he snaps his fingers in an unspoken I got it.

“No, wait, you’re not the one with the–”

At which point Sarita arrives at the table. Its occupancy has dwindled significantly; only the Uktena and the Fiann are left, now, and the Fiann doesn’t appear startled or anxious that someone whose voice he’s never heard has wandered up asking him about his ass.

“I don’t remember you,” he says, without missing a beat. “What’d you do to my ass?”

[Tabitha Reese]
She hugs the other Fury back tightly, looking considerably more settled now. “It’s good to see you. We’re just in motel rooms for the moment. Come meet Tala”

[Tala Whitedeer]
Another unidentified person, and she’s definitely looking overwhelmed. Not quite shutting down, but getting there .

[Adamidas]
“But-” she says “-I have to go. There aren’t a lot of- I’m needed on the other side.”

Because when is a theurge ever not needed on the other side.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
“It’s grandfathered into Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. Next time, spend a lifetime building an immunity to iocane powder, or as I like to call it, Rohypnol.” She looks over at Tala and does the upward chin tilt can be construed as a greeting. “Hola.”

[Tabitha Reese]
“Oh…” She nods. “Right, of course. I”m sorry. Some other time.”

[Drew Roscoe]
Remy’s arm is tossed about her waist and draws her in against his side with no hint of shame or apology in the gesture. On another night he’d feel her shoulders hunch up uncomfortably and her muscles go tense. In another setting being hugged into so handsome a man’s side with his hand at her waist, hip, belly… anywhere in that area, that might coax a blush.

Tonight she just looks like she just figured out that the candles on her birthday cake were trick ones. Her frown is less aggressive and more annoyed, the hand that she was gesturing at the Fianna (she gets that from Remy calling him ‘Stag-boy’) drops to her side, and she just stands loose-limbed against the Godi’s side and stares up the street while Patrick compliments Remy by saying he liked her, wishes them a good night, and heads inside. One can only guess that Drew’s counting from ten backwards in her head.

A tick of the second hand passes on the clock inside the cafe, and Drew reaches into her pockets to tug on her white mittens, but doesn’t jerk her shoulder into his side or try and wrench out from under his arm. “Truck’s up the road. You’ll have to nevermind the plastic.”

[Adamidas]
She gives Tabitha a quick squeeze.

“I’ll come find you,” she tells her.

[Tala Whitedeer]
“Hi. Hello.” she nods at Sarita as well, definitely tense.

[Howard]
“Oh, hey, look at that, startin’ off with a date rape joke!” He lifts two thumbs to indicate his approval, sarcastic as it is, then indicates where he thinks a chair might maybe be with his finger. “You’ll fit right in.”

[Tabitha Reese]
“Alright.” She nods, kissing the Fury on both cheeks before leaving the Theurge to her work and scooting back to her table and the increasingly panicked Tala.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
“Hey, I like putting by best foot forward. Wherever that may put it.” She grins and takes a seat, at least nice enough to not sit too close to the timid one. “I’m Sarita. Saw you during the thing with the limping and the bathroom and all that shit. It’s understandable you may not have seen me. You were focused on something else.”

[Tala Whitedeer]
“Who was that?” She snaps at Tabitha, bristling for some reason known only to her.

[Tabitha Reese]
“That was the one that I told you about.” She resists the urge to dump Howard out of her old seat, taking the one vacated by Remy instead.

[Tala Whitedeer]
“Oh.”

[Howard]
“Love,” he says, sitting back with a sigh, “you’ve no idea how many days of the week you managed to describe with the words ‘limpin” and ‘bathroom.'”

His attention jumps the tracks with a speed that is enough to induce whiplash in the unconditioned.

“You seen a light-eyed fella with skin like mashed potato and a–”

Who was that?

“Jesus!” Howard says, as though she’s startled him. When Tabitha returns she’ll note that the young man, whose tribe does not announce itself in his blood and whose Rage is so scant it is barely noticed by even the most weak-willed of humans, is sans sunglasses; his expression is focused but his eyes are vacant, as though he’s staring into fog and can’t see a damned thing.

[Remy]
To be fair, Remy lets Drew go pretty much as soon as ‘Stag-boy’ goes in. He tugs his hat a little lower over his forehead, obscuring even his eyebrows now. Must not be from so cold a climate. God knows where he’s from — for all that easy american slang, there are sometimes hints and glimmers of muddled, myriad accents in his voice.

“Sorry about that,” he explains. “That jackass called me a Silver Fang the last time we met and then got lucky enough to win the fight.” He doesn’t even bother to explain why there was a fight. Or what it was about. It’s obvious in his mind. At least he’s honest about losing, though, shameful as it is. “That was his Alpha in there that the Fury sent sprawling. That was pretty satisfying.”

And, “Plastic?”

[Tabitha Reese]
“What’s wrong with you?”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
“If limping and bathroom describes multiple days, you may be quickly becoming my favorite person I’ve met here so far.” She looks up as Tabitha approaches, going quiet for a second as she looks her over and seeing how this changes the table’s dynamic.

[Tala Whitedeer]
She gives Tabitha a scowl, saying nothing.

[Howard]
What’s wrong with you?

“Who?” He points in Tala’s direction. “Her? I think she’s jealous.”

[Tabitha Reese]
She looks Sarita over quickly, then offers a nod. “Hey.”

Her nose wrinkles at Howard. “No, you. Why would she be jealous?”

[Drew Roscoe]
Not one to question why a pair of Garou will get into a fight, Drew instead started walking up the sidewalk once Remy’s arm unwraps from her back and side. He was gentlemanly enough not to let it linger, even went so far as to apologize for the act (though the necessity for it was beyond her, she wasn’t bothered enough to pitch a fit over it). Her shoulders shrugged, white mittened hands adjusted the lapels and collar of her coat, and she walked the curb as he explained himself, and while she explained herself in turn when the plastic was brought up and questioned.

“Huh,” is what she has to say on the pack that he’s talking about, how satisfying it had been for him to see Stag-boy’s alpha eat floor. And “Don’t worry about it,” for the apology.

As for the plastic: “I haven’t quite had a chance to get the blood cleaned off the seats yet. The week’s been hectic, to say the least.” She doesn’t have to tell the whole story, not unless he asks for it specifically. She doesn’t need to say that it’s her own blood that cakes most of the vehicle, and the rest is from an ally– none of it is from an enemy. It was a part of being Garou and, unfortunately, these situations tended to spill over and make it a part of being Kin as well. It was just a shame that they were so much more fragile.

[Tala Whitedeer]
“I’ll see you back at the motel, Tabitha.” She nods to Sarita and Howard, standing and heading for the exit. ((bedtime))

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
“Nice meeting you…uh, person,” she calls in Tala’s direction as she departs.

[Howard]
“Lady,” he says, laughing slightly as he sits back in his chair, “do I look like I’ve the slightest idea why girls do the things they do? We aren’t wired the same, for Christ’s sa–oh hey later!”

[Hunter]
At some point Hunter walks back in, slaps Howard in the ear and sits down in a chair.

“Stop it, I don’t care what it is, just stop it.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
“Well, in all fairness it WOULD be dull if we were all wired the same.” She looks over at Hunter as he comes up. “You I remember too.”

[Howard]
“Ow!!” He sounds indignant; however, this is Howard, who only expresses genuine emotion by affecting the exact opposite. His hand goes up over his ear, and he starts laughing. “You got me in the ear, you wanker!”

[Patrick]
Patrick steps into the Cafe — though he has been taking his own sweet time about it and saunters up to his Alpha; Howard’s shoulders get the benefit of his pack-brother’s large palms pressing down firmly on them as the Bone Gnawer resurfaces from — elsewhere — and slaps the Theurge’s ear.

Patrick sets his gaze over the assembled; his Rage like a persistent heaviness in the air.

“Hey.”

[Tabitha Reese]
She quiets, watching the three as Patrick joins them.

[Izzy Montoya]
At some point, she’d finished her coffee. Now, she stands, pulls her gloves back on, and heads toward the door.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
And then she looks up at Patrick. “And you, of course I remember. Hola.”

[Remy]
Remy laughs, a single muffled Ha! echoing down the quiet street. “Transporting bodies, were you?”

[Hunter]
“Ah..” He scratches his chin “Oh.. that’s right, you was at the fuckin’ broho last week or some shit. Good ta’ see ya’ again.”

He ignores Howard’s at least for now. He’s like one of those fake babies, it will always be there, crying and moaning and being useless. They take hundreds of years to degrade as well. Those annoying little fucks. Somewhere in a dump there is an underground city of crying moaning cabbage patch dolls.

“Hey patty.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
She checks her watch. “Oh…yeah, I guess it is last week by now. Huh. Nice to see you too though. S’up?”

[Drew Roscoe]
“Only mine and a friend’s.” There’s a beat, and she corrects herself. “No, there was a body in the back, but that was easy to hose off.” She’s not scowling so hard now, being out of the cafe and back on the street, walking away with the knowledge that a bed and room all her own was only thirty or forty minutes away was promising enough a thought that it calmed her down some.

Her dark cherry painted Dodge Ram is near the end of the block, and when close enough to it she extracts her keys from her coat pocket and presses the button that has the lights flashing to indicate where the vehicle is and that its doors are now unlocked. The story leaves much to be desired, plenty of details left out (like exactly what the fuck happened and why she and this friend were bleeding rather than all the bad guys dead bodies), but the fact was that she was standing there looking as fit and healthy as could be. There’s no limp in her step or pain in her face when stops at her truck and pulls open the passenger door. On a street like this with drunk drivers and taxi cabs alike dominating the road, it was just safer and smarter to go in through the passenger side if you could.

All’s well that ends well right?

[Patrick]
There’s a Black Fury whose face he does not recognize, another he recalls from the Brotherhood and a Fenrir Kinswoman whom he last glimpsed the night Howard took a swandive off a fire escape.

And Hunter.
Who calls him Patty and gets the benefit of a frown.

Izzy is gone too quickly for the Galliard to salute her, so his attention re-focuses on the newcomers. “Hey, I don’t think I caught your name last time.” To Sarita, those blue, blue eyes all hers for a beat, then they shift to the Black Fury. “And yours is a face I don’t know at all.”

He sticks a hand out; it’s rough and his movement brings with it the wave of motor-oil and cigarette smoke. The latter far fresher than the former. He clasps hands where he’s offered and adds, with emphasis: “I’m Patrick, people call me Prayers to Broken Stone.”

He nods at Howard.

“This one’s pack-mate.” Speaking of, Patrick glances at Howard’s face; the frown returns. “Did you lose your sunglasses when the Fenrir chased you? Fuck, how many pairs have you lost being chased around?” He starts making some cursory sweep of the Cafe floor.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
She affects a terrible British accent. “Ecos de la Risa. Sarita…Ecos de la Risa. I take my martinis neither shaken nor stirred, but thrown the fuck out so I can have tequila shots.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
And she takes the offered hand with a hearty handshake.

[Howard]
“I’ll have you know,” he says, “it wasn’t the chasin’ that made them fall off, it was…”

He blindly points a finger towards Tabitha, knocking over an empty cup in the process. There has been a period of palpable silence over the totemphone, Howard not screaming for help or recounting his last will and testament prior to being destroyed like he usually does.

“… the tripping. Don’t usually have an man-hater pop out of nowhere to help a woman-hater, man, I’ll be on my toes next time.”

[Tabitha Reese]
“I don’t hate men. Some Furies DO have to like men, you know.”

[Howard]
“Oh, come off it,” he says, “I have sex with people I hate all the time.”

[Remy]
“Huh.” Remy thinks for a while. Maybe it’s that handsome, handsome face. Maybe it’s all the muscle. Whatever the reason, thinking looks like it takes more effort for him than, say, throwing a punch. Or ripping off a scathing insult or three. If Drew knew his auspice, she might be surprised. Most people are. Then they find out how long it took him to earn Cliathhood, and it’s not such a surprise anymore.

“Was the body in the back responsible for the blood on the seats, at least?”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
She laughs a little bit. “I picked the right coffee joint to frequent tonight, I see.”

[Tabitha Reese]
“Masturbation doesn’t count, sugar.” She smiles sweetly, then looks at the door. “I should probably go make sure Tala got back okay.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
The laugh turns into a full cackle. “Instant classic right there.”

[Drew Roscoe]
Drew pegged him for a Rotagar. It was the crotch grab that nailed it. He’s pondering what she had to say about the blood on the seats, even as she steps up onto the foot hold of the truck then climbs across the truck’s bench to slide in behind the wheel, plastic that covered the back and seat of the bench crinkling noisily in protest while she went. The plastic sheet was clear but cloudy, but even through that the dark brown of dried blood that interrupted the light gray of the seat beneath could be seen. There was a lot of it behind the driver’s wheel, right where she sat.

His question is met with a curious expression, a moment to think about how to answer that, and she waits until he’s in and the truck door’s closed to answer. “Mostly, but it wasn’t the only one. The rest of them followed us and it turned into a full-out battle maybe forty minutes or an hour later.” Keys in the ignition and she starts the truck. “No casualties on our side…. but it got pretty close.” Both mirrors are checked and doors are locked before Drew’s pulling out into traffic.

[Howard]
It’s only for five seconds, but that comeback shuts Howard up long enough for Tabitha to make her exit. He laughs, but the fact that he doesn’t have an instantaneous game-ender to hurl back at her means she’s either struck a nerve, or that was simply too well-played an insult to recover from right away.

“What, your ‘phone’ busted?” he asks. “Tabitha, love, if you can’t stand your attraction to me, just say so. You don’t have to go runnin’ off. It’ll save us all a lot of pain and heartache in the long run.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
She smirks, waving to Tabitha. “Nice to kind-of meet ya. Have a good’n.”

She then turns her attention to Howard. “You just got ‘powned,’ as the kids these days say. Y’know that, right?”

[Tabitha Reese]
“You’ve got me. It’s all I can do to not throw myself at you right here, right now. If I don’t leave now, I’m sure to do something that you regret.” She leans in, delivering a toe curling kiss to Howard before nodding to the others and breezing out. (Bed!)

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
Her eyes widen, and she laughs. “Correction. You just got old-school motherfuckin’ OWNED.”

[Howard]
To say that Howard does not see that coming isn’t an exaggeration. He literally does not realize she’s there until she’s inches from his face, and then the Fury has her mouth on his. A Litany-following, Gaia-fearing servant of the spirits would be pushing away from her as fast as he possibly could; Howard, stunned as he is, doesn’t even think to reciprocate. He smells like Febreze and marijuana smoke but his breath is vaguely fruity, as though he’s been chewing gum. His eyes stay open, and when she pulls back and disappears, he sucks in a breath.

He got old-school motherfuckin’ owned.

“The fuck did you just say?” he asks, feigning belligerence, before reaching down to unceremoniously adjust the crotch of his jeans. “Speak English.”

[Remy]
“Hm,” Remy makes another thinking noise, “so my question really is: did you take care of them all, or do I have to kick some asses?”

[Drew Roscoe]
“We got ’em,” is the short answer.

The addendum is tacked on with a lift of one eyebrow and a half a smirk to accompany her glance in his direction before eyes return to the road. “But I don’t think anyone will ever have all of Them taken care of.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
“That was English, Mack Daddy.” She grins. “Si quieres que no hablan Inglés, puedo hacer eso también.”

[Howard]
“Estamos en los estados unidos, chica,” he sighs, suddenly sounding weary, pinching the bridge of his nose for effect; “los americanos no les gusta cuando los extranjeros hablan sus lenguas extrañas.”

[Patrick]
Meanwhile, Patrick has been on a sunglasses hunt. Or, one assumes as much, anyway. There is, after a time no small amount of scuffling beneath a corner table and a female seated nearby gives a little shriek when Patrick’s shoulder brushes into her bare leg.

“Aha.”

He says, voice muffled. A hand emerges with a pair of sunglasses, followed by the rest of his body. He shakes dust out of his hair, glances at the woman; she quivers a little. It’s the Rage, that’s all. “Sorry, you were in the way.” Then he gets to his feet, and wanders back to his Alpha; taking his hand and firmly slapping his glasses into his palm.

“I’m fitting ’em with a fucking pager.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
She nods, the grin ratcheted up. “Sí, pero usted conoce a alguien mejor, cuando no ver lo que los enfurece. Y los americanos son muy, muy bueno en el supuesto que alguien que habla español no sabe Inglés, que es ideal para espiar.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
The fact that Patrick just emerged and missed the whole ‘owning’ bit seems to amuse her, and she nods to him. “Welcome back.”

[Remy]
We got ’em, she says. Remy, climbing onto the plastic sheets and shutting the door and buckling himself in as she gets this show on the road, tosses her an approving glance.

“Good girl. I hate having to clean up after someone else. So you got a name, or am I just going to call you ‘girl’ for the rest of your life?”

[Drew Roscoe]
He finally gets around to asking about a name, and that gets a bit of a chuckle from the Kinfolk. “Girl works fine. Or Drew. Or if you wanna get on my great side, Long Shot.” Kin had to work hard to get something close to a deed name, you better believe she was proud of hers.

The drive back to The Brotherhood of Thieves wasn’t a difficult one, she didn’t have to ask him once about directions, she’s obviously been a few times before (truth be told, she’s driven there several times but it was a rare thing that she would actually go inside– paranoia instilled by a fanatic was a difficult thing to shake). A few turns, stoplights, and a dozen or so blocks of main road are eaten up by the unnecessarily large truck for an urban setting before they’re in the parking lot, around by the employee door that the Garou typically used rather than the customer entrance.

Remy’d get dropped off with a name, phone number, and an explanation that she could be reached at any time because Family didn’t get a day off.

[Howard]
“Eso es muy, muy profundo,” he says, nodding. “Maar as ek praat soos hierdie, die polisie dink dat ek hier is onwettig. En dan–”

His brother grabs his hand and slaps his sunglasses into them. There is no melting relief from the Theurge, but he does say something strange as a dog walking on its hind legs:

“Thanks, man.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
“Oh, now changing tongues on me, that’s just not fair.” She smirks. “Was the one you had still tied in knots?”

[Patrick]
Patrick has absolutely no notion of what the pair are speaking when he slaps those sunglasses back into his Alpha’s hand. He therefore possesses the expression of someone standing amongst a number of his peers speaking Chinese on the bus while he stands among them; entirely unfocused on their conversation.

Howard thanks him; and his pack-mate doesn’t comment, but sets his hand on his bony shoulder as he passes by on the way to the counter.

[Howard]
After he returns his sunglasses to his face there is no dawning change in the young man’s demeanor; he did not shut down simply because he couldn’t see a damned thing. Any difference in how he typically acts wasn’t likely to be noticed by anyone other than Patrick, who was too busy hunting for his aviators to notice he wasn’t standing up or flailing his arms around like an over-caffeinated college professor.

Black shades in place, he sees her smirks and raises it with a self-satisfied, teeth-baring grin.

“Now why would my tongue be tied in anythin’?”

[Remy]
[thanks for the RP, all! *jets*]

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
She leans back with a chuckle. “I don’t know. It sure seemed to be twisted around something not very long ago. I thought maybe whatserface could maybe pull off that trick where you tie a cherry stem with your tongue.”

[Hunter]
Hunter has been dozing off, his head in his arms on the table. Thankfully he doesn’t snore, that’s reserved for those of.. larger calibre.. He sleeps quietly.. if you don’t count the yips and puppy noises that come out of his mouth as he chases cars down never ending streets in a city where it’s summer all the time.

When he wakes it is sudden, his head comes up and he looks around for familiar faces.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
“Morning. sunshine.”

[Howard]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 1, 3 (Botch x 2 at target 7)
“I’ve got somethin’ she can–”

Up comes Hunter. Howard seems to have found his sunglasses again, or had someone find them for him.

“Good mornin’, sunshine!” he crows, almost simultaneously with Sarita, and hauls off to kick Hunter under the table.

[HIEYAH!]

[Howard]
[IGNORE THE ROLL HURR]

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
“1, 2, 3, JINX!”

[Howard]
“What?”

[Hunter]
Hunter seems most confused by all of this. “The fuck?”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
“What, you’ve never heard of that? Two people say the same thing, whoever says ‘1-2-3 Jinx’ first means the other can’t talk and if they do, they owe the Jinxer something to drink. I’ll put it on your tab.”

[Howard]
Howard looks over to Hunter as if to confirm what he’s about to say before he goes ahead and says it.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard all fuckin’ night, and I’ve been hangin’ out with this dickhead since about five o’clock.” He stands, somewhat abruptly, and starts off towards the restrooms. “I gotta take a leak, hold that thought.”

[GOTTA BOUNCE YO]

[Hunter]
“That sort’a shit will get ya’ fuckin’ beat up in LA.” He says and pushes back from the table to stretch his arms and back. It’s a glorious stretch, bone popping and groan inducing.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
“Mmm, they can try.” She grins, like she would enjoy the opportunity. “I may not hit harder, but I fight dirtier.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
She takes a sip of her coffee. “So, this a usual hangout, or just a place lucky enough to serve as such for the night?”

[Patrick]
The Galliard of Caldera has been placing an order at the bar. He turns, eventually, with a steaming mug of coffee in his hand and makes his way over to the table where Sarita and Hunter are sitting. He turns his chair the wrong way, and braces his elbows on the spine of it; cradling his coffee.

He studies both faces as he sips.

“Howard in the toilet?” He asks the Bone Gnawer, with no small amount of surprise. Howard was always in the bathroom, if he wasn’t outside smoking. “Guy has a bladder the side of a walnut.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
She grins. “I assume we’re not talking about some genetically-engineered super-walnut that grows to ginormous size and rampages through Walnut Tokyo, right?”

[Patrick]
“Nah,” Patrick says with little inflection save the way his pale brows rise. “Would you want to see his super walnut?” He shakes his head, leans his weight back from the chair back; it protests the motion with a wooden creaking.

“I sure as hell don’t, and I live with the guy.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
“Yeah, no thanks. You seen one walnut, you seen ’em all. Besides, I left my industrial-strength nutcracker back in the van.”

[Patrick]
That earns the female a chuckle, a brief, almost soundless affair before the Galliard drains his mug; glances at the bathroom door, then at the (apparently) dosing Bone Gnawer. “I hate to leave you alone with this guy,” a nudge of the Ahroun’s leg, he twitches but does not stir.

“But I gotta head home, hit the showers. I reek of motors.” Patrick rises, and twists the chair right way around. He nods at Sarita, and heads for the bar to deposit his empty mug on the way out. “Take it easy, yeah.”

With that, the Rage-intensive young man pushes out the door into the night.

[Sorry guys, my brain is pretty well mush! Thanks for the RP! ]

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
She grins and watches him go. “Don’t have too much fun. Have a good one.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
[[Probably a good place for me to go get some sleep too.]]

She finishes up her coffee and rises. “If you’re awake, tell the Mack Daddy I’ll talk to him later. Amy’ll kill me if I don’t get up at a halfway decent hour tomorrow. Don’t have too much fun.” She grins and moves to turn in her mug before heading on out the door.”