"Shut up, smile, and nod?"

[hazlogs]

It is currently 21:11 Pacific Time on Sat Jan 17 2004.

Currently the moon is in the waning Crescent Moon phase (29% full).

You paged Cutter with '*ring ring*'.
Cutter pages: After three rings, the phone picks up. "Go."
You paged Cutter with 'There's a pause, then a young female voice with a New
      York accent goes, "Uh, izzis Cutter?"'.
Cutter pages: ...Could be. Who's calling, please?"
You paged Cutter with 'Um, I'm like, uh, a cousin a' yours or something? Calina
      gave me this numba'.'.
Cutter pages: Did she? Well any cousin of mine is a friend of Calina's. Come to
      town to visit?
You paged Cutter with 'The caller makes another 'um' type noise. "Well,
      _Calina's_ my cousin really, I think, um, we're more, um, distantly 
      related or something. Um. I'm goin' ta school here."'.
Cutter pages: Oh. Hunh. Sounds like you're from closer to my neighborhood than
      hers. Anyway. What can I do for you?
Long distance to Cutter: Crocuta's voice takes a turn for the sullen. "I dunno.
      I thought it was what I'm s'posed ta be doin' fuh _you_, an' everybuddy 
      _else_ around here." The girl sounds resentful.
Cutter pages: Whoah whoah whoah. Did Calina tell you what an amazing asshole I
      am already?
You paged Cutter with 'Pause. "Uh... no? She jus' gave me ya numba'... some
      otha' guy's, too. Konstantin."'.
Cutter pages: So. Maybe you and I should sit down and get to know each other,
      on a less public channel.
Long distance to Cutter: Crocuta, resigned, mutters, "...Yeah, okay. Where?"
Cutter pages: My place. Your place, if you feel comfortable talking there.
You paged Cutter with 'Nah, not my place, I live in a fuckin' dorm still, it
      ain't private.'.
Cutter pages: Well I'm only a couple of blocks off campus. If you want to bring
      Calina along, make you feel safer, feel free.
Long distance to Cutter: Crocuta says, "Nah, fuhgetit, it's okay." She still
      sounds resigned and resentful, like a teenager forced to do chores. 
      "Where are ya?"
Cutter pages: If you go out that big metal gate at the edge of campus, you go
      two blocks then turn left. I'm at 1049 Monroe.
Long distance to Cutter: Crocuta repeats the directions slowly, muttering,
      "...four-nine Monroe. A'right, I'll be ova' soon, 'kay?"
Cutter pages: Looking forward to meeting you. Can I ask your name, before you
      get here?
You paged Cutter with 'Ya can call me Crocuta. Like the hyena, 'kay?'.
Cutter pages: Like... the hyena. Gotcha. See you soon.

Bungalow

Fairly spartan, the main room is hardwood floor and its main furnishing is a
      futon with jewel green bedclothes. A minifridge sits in one corner, and 
      there is a beautiful framed watercolor of a stormscape on the wall 
      opposite a large window.

Not long after the phone call comes a knockity-knock-knock on Cutter's door.

Cutter peeks through the security lens, and then opens the door. "You must be
      Calina's cousin," he says amiably. "Come on in."

Tall, lean, wiry, with long legs and an angular face. Bright blue eyes shine
      from under long dreadlocked dishwater blonde hair. One of the locks has a 
      black feather tied to it with a thin leather thong. Pointed ears poke up 
      through his hair. He wears a black canvas duster, sturdy work boots and 
      what look like a pair of battered Armani designer trousers.
Cutter pages: Around the house, he's usually dressed in sweats and a t-shirt.
      His free weights are racked near the futon.

Crocuta peers at Cutter, then shrugs and slouches in, hands stuffed into her
      coat pockets. "Yeah." She glances around, then back at him.

Cutter throws the bolt behind. "Okay, one of my men was infected recently. So
      I'm pretty hard core about security right now. I hope you understand."

Crocuta blinks, her brow furrowing. "Infected?" she echoes.

Cutter dips his head. "Compromised. Turned against us. I was considering a
      strip search, but I'd like to think I'm not that paranoid." A shrug, and 
      a flourish of his hand toward the futon.

Crocuta takes a step back at 'strip search', her nose wrinkling up. "Fuck," she
      mutters. "Fuckin' _hope_ not." She shifts her weight, then sits down, 
      perching at the edge of the futon with her elbows on her knees, still 
      eyeballing Cutter warily.

Cutter strolls over to the fridge. "Yeah, me too. I'm not big on the running
      scared thing. So tell me your story, and tell me if you want a beer, or 
      water. ...Because that's all I've got."

"Beer," says the broodling girlpunk, twisting her fingers around each other and
      picking at a scab on the back of her hand. "Whattya wanna know?"

Cutter plucks out two bottles, kicking the door shut, and holds one out. "Who
      are you? What brings you here? Nothing too personal."

Crocuta takes the proffered refreshment and twists the cap off. "'Kay..." She
      swallows some and wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. "My name's 
      Anna Vogel, _really_," she says with a frown, looking back at him. "From 
      Long Island. My grandpa's one of you guys, a Ragabash." She shrugs. "I'm 
      goin' ta school here, so they said I should look people up. Help out, all 
      that shit." Another shrug, and a second swig of beer.

Cutter says "They're probably right. I'm from New York. What's your grandpa's
      name? Maybe I knew him." He pops the top on his own beer. "And how much 
      do you feel you can help out?"

Yet another shrug. "Eyes-of-Storm," the girl says, looking down at her bottle
      of beer. "Ragabash an' old as fuckin' sin, so he's retired or somethin'."

You paged Cutter with 'Another Russian-descended Shadow Lord. Old crotchety
      bastard, heh.'.

Cutter shakes his head, seeming perhaps a little relieved. "I must have been
      out of his circle." He settles on the futon, making no effort to sit 
      close or far away. "So in case you haven't heard, I'm Cutter Thomson. My 
      father was Thomas Rimer. I'm a Fostern Theurge. The town's got some 
      troubles with the Russian Mafia, and apparently somebody's told them 
      something about us. Right now, there's something of a tribal leadership 
      crisis on top of that, on account of none of the Lords are interested in 
      following Jarred, who claims Eldership."

Crocuta looks sidelong at him as he sits down, and keeps looking as he talks.
      Her brow furrows. "Calina din' mention a Jarred. Jus' you an' Konstantin."

Cutter nods. "Yeah. Like I said, none of us are terribly fond of him. We're
      trying to find a way to quietly shuffle him offstage. There's also Jean, 
      who you should at least know about."

Crocuta wrinkles her nose a bit, then shrugs again. Though she affects a
      nonchalant air, she seems uneasy. "'Kay. So who's Jean?"

Cutter says "She's another local Lord. Is the number you used to call me good?
      If so, I'll see you two can contact each other."

Crocuta nods. "Yeah, it's my cell."

Cutter nods. "Okay. So, I'm not telling you to choose sides, but I think you
      should be warned about local dangers. Those are the two that come to 
      mind."

Crocuta's brow furrows, her lower lip poking out into a pout. "'Kay..."

Cutter eyes her. "If you *want* to choose sides, I'd be happy to let you. Is
      there a problem?"

Crocuta shakes her head and looks down to study her beer bottle again and drink
      from it. "Nope."

Cutter purses his lips. "Okay. If you do have a problem, you can call me.
      You're here to help us, and we're here to help you. That's the way it 
      works around here, at least." He sounds like he might actually mean it.

"'Kay," says Crocuta again, sounding dubious but not too resistant.

Cutter finally smiles, and extends a hand. "Welcome to Saint Claire. And thank
      you for calling."

Crocuta hesitates, then takes the proffered hand and shakes it, her return
      smile uneasy and wan. "Yeah, well." She releases and shrugs. "My parents 
      were buggin' me."

Cutter squeezes quickly, professionally, and releases. "You want me to call
      them? I can get them to relax maybe."

Crocuta's eyes narrow. She frowns, chews her lower lip, then nods. "A'right...
      but don't tell 'em about the mohawk or anythin', okay?"

Cutter chuckles. "Okay, you're on. Anything else they shouldn't know about,
      just tell me. I'll call them tomorrow morning--it's after midnight back 
      home."

Crocuta shrugs. "Jus' let 'em know I'm bein' a good girl an' all that shit."

Cutter says "You're on." There is an exchanging of contact information, and
      Cutter makes some sort of extra note in his hitek machine. "We'll be in 
      touch, I suspect."

"Yeah." The punk girl finishes off her beer and gets up. "So, like, if this
      Jarred guy finds me an' starts talkin' an' stuff, what? Shut up, smile, 
      and nod?" Underneath the sullen babypunk teenager facade, there's a 
      certain shrewdness about Crocuta. Go figure.

Cutter says "Pretty much. It's what we're doing for the time being. I think I'm
      going to forget to mention to him that I met you, so hopefully you can be 
      spared having to deal with it. I'm trying to keep Calina safe, avoiding 
      direct confrontations, and there's no reason to endanger yourself."

Crocuta chews on her lower lip and nods some more. "'Kay. Thanks." She looks
      around for a place to throw away the beer bottle.

Cutter reaches out to take the bottle, setting it on top of the fridge.

Crocuta pushes her hands in her pockets, looking awkward for a moment. Then she
      goes, "Yeah, okay. I'll, um, see ya around, then."