Safehouse Attack: Cornpop's POV

[hazlogs]

5/30/02

Just like any other dark and dingy alley in this area. The occassional bum can be seen passed out drunk and slouched beside the dumpster. Cats fight over 'treasures' from the garbage cans. Random graphetti is spraypainted along the brick walls.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is mostly sunny today. The temperature is 67 degrees Fahrenheit (19 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the west at 9 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.08 and falling, and the relative humidity is 43 percent. The dewpoint is 44 degrees Fahrenheit (6 degrees Celsius.)

J.C. slouches in the entrance to an alley not far from the Walker building, leaning against dirty brick and keeping an eyeball on the place, as well as the street nearby. Her raw, chapped nose is at full run; she snuffles and wipes at it every few moments.

A taxi rolls to a stop right outside the alleyway across the street--an unusual place to stop, really, if you were to think about it. Four trenchcoat wearing figures get out of the Taxi, which abruptly spins its wheels as it escapes, careening recklessly down the street. The figures head down the alleyway, one of them bundled up pretty much from head to toe. Muffled, insane laughter seeps constantly from one of them.

Any decent Rat has a bit of the old paranoia bug, and J.C., while less afflicted than most, knows when something just Ain't Right. She stands frozen for a moment, fingers in mid-scratch, indecisive. Then she slips out of her alley, the scuttles across the street to a spot a few storefronts down from the alley where the Taxi Gang vanished into.

By the time J.C. moves into a strategic position the crew has managed to disappear down the alleyway. It deadends though, so they're likely behind the dumpster doing whatever it is that they might be doing. There's a faint scraping sound, then a second one, then the muffled giggles, barely audible even at the mouth of the alleway, fade away. Otherwise, it's a normal night out in this neck of the woods. Or city, as the case may be. Traffic and people and bums. What you'd expect to see in the less than reputable section of St. Claire.

Long distance to Tskilegwa: J.C. drops into rodens form and scurries into the alley. They gone, I take it?

Tskilegwa pages: We can continue via pages. Yeah, they're gone. There's a manhole cover back there, too.

Long distance to Tskilegwa: Cornpop chitters fretfully, then switches back to humanform to heave at the manhole cover. She activates Mama Rat's gift for seeing in the darkness, poking her head down to scope out the scene; if it's more or less clear, she'll climb down.

Tskilegwa pages: Coast /looks/ clear. Muffled giggles can be heard, but it's hard to tell what direction because of the pipe's accoustics. It runs in two directions. Towards and away from the Walker's Safehouse.

Long distance to Tskilegwa: Cornpop takes an educated guess and skulks after the giggly noises in the direction of the safehouse, picking her steps carefully.

Tskilegwa pages: You sneak, sneak, sneak, sneak in closer. You're pretty sure you're really close to the safehouse now. The giggling got louder all of a sudden, then stopped abruptly again. There's this sense of impending danger in the sewers, certain danger that someone with your experience just gets a feel for by instinct and experience.

Long distance to Tskilegwa: J.C., rat-senses tingling, as it were, decides that paranoia wins out over curiosity and starts backing off, heading back the way she came.

Long distance to Tskilegwa: J.C. actually feels a glimmer of pity for the Garou. Well. Okay, a _short_ glimmer.

From afar, Tskilegwa forgot about you! J.C. makes it out without incident. It doesn't take many brain cells to see how bad it could be if the BSDs have allied with the existing sewer spirits.

You paged Tskilegwa with 'No shit! Gonna hunker down in the alley across from the safehouse and keep a watch.'.

Tskilegwa pages: You sit around for a while. Watching. After about ten minutes you notice a.... Is that a rifle barrel poking out over the roof of the house across the street?

You paged Tskilegwa with 'On the same side of the street as the Garouplace? Pointing toward it, or?'.

Tskilegwa pages: If it's a rifle, anyone coming out of the Safehouse is in for a case of lead (or silver) poisoning.

Long distance to Tskilegwa: J.C. sits tight. For now, anyway.

From afar, Tskilegwa watches the BSDs' plans play out to the letter.

You paged Tskilegwa with 'Stupid wolf people!'.

Long distance to Tskilegwa: J.C. stirs herself, and starts skulking over toward the house where the sniper's staked out.

Long distance to Matt: J.C. is hunkered in an alley across the street, watching the safehouse and the street in a nonchalant-ly, twitchy kinda way. Depending on how perceptive you are, you might or might not notice her.

Kaz comes up Regan from the east.

Kaz has arrived.

Matt slips carefully into the alley, bat drawn from its sling. He steps quietly and slides sideways, keeping his back to the wall.

You paged Matt with 'My alley, or the one by the safehouse?'.

Matt pages: By the safehouse. Headed for the door.

J.C. straightens up, seeing Matt head for the door. For a second or two, she chews on her lower lip in indecision, then sticks two fingers into her mouth and lets out a shrill, piercing whistle.

The metis shows up, in the alley, soon after; just in time for the whistle, in fact, which makes her start and completely fail to get into sight of either of them.

At a little under six feet tall and wiry, Matt is trim the way a cross-country runner would be. His hair is white-blonde and short, gelled spiky. His eyes, the blue-grey of rainwater, stand out from his pale skin, the most striking part of his countenance. His hands are firm and workman-like, with scars on the knuckles from a few rows in his recent past, a motif that is echoed, for different reasons on his back. Starting at the nape of his neck, a maze of wire-thin scars trails onto his back, cris-crossing it like a road map. For the most part, they're hidden by his clothes.

Matt is dressed comfortably for the weather in a t-shirt and his ubiquitlous jacket, covered in embroidered patches from British punk bands like the Sex Pistols and the Stigmasochists. His face is decorated with what looks like dark blue make-up, a large triangle from his left temple to right cheekbone to hairline is covered in the stuff, and a fianna glyph is drawn on his left cheek.

Matt brings the bat between himself and the whistle, dropping into a low, kendo-like stance. "Oi! Show yersel'. Roight Fookin' NOW!"

J.C.'s glance flicks upward. Unwilling to come out of the shadows, she kicks a soda can out of the alley and into the street, and then takes a few steps further back in. "See if y'got a brain," she mumbles, under her breath.

Kaz drifts forward; the movement may or may not make her visible.

Matt frowns, turning to face he source of the can. "Not acceptable, mate. Woulda been smarter ta shoot me." He takes a bold step toward J.C.'s hiding place, shuffling his back foot forward to maintain his ready stance.

Kaz grunts at nothing in particular, and breaks cover to completely ignore JC and head straight for the Safehouse's front door.

J.C. retreats further back, muttering whispery little subvocal noises. She starts another whistle, but it's choked off by a bout of wet, mucus-y hacking.

As the Bone Gnawer reaches the door, a white-hot stab of bullet pain crashes into her leg. The report of the sniper's gunshot comes a moment later.

Hands firmly stuffed into her pockets and shoulderss hunched, Renee makes her way toward the Safe House.

"Wrong again. Not your fookin' day." Matt's eyes gleam, possibly from the fresh woad on his face, and He leaps into J.C.'s hiding place, aluminum bat high above his head, proudly displaying its name: "Worth." As he lands, he brings the bat down, preferably on the gun but the gun-wielder will do, carrying his momentum into the swing.

Alas for the Fianna, J.C.'s not the shooter -- at least, there's no weapon in evidence as she lunges back and away from Matt's swing. "Wasn't me!" she yelps, voice high and shrill, attempting to scramble further away. The words tumble out of her. "Sniper! Roof!"

Renee head shoots up at the sound of gunfire and she swears, taking one quick look around and running after Matt. She knows him and mabye she can help, without becoming a target in the open.

Matt snarls. "Whot th' FUCK were you finkin'? Does th' Fuckin' FBI dress like /this/?" He sheathes the bat across his back and looks for a fire escape to start climbing. "Now either help me or get out o' my fookin' way."

J.C. bares crooked, yellowed teeth, pressing flat against the brick wall. "Tryin' to save your fucking _ass_, much fuck _good_ it does me!" Again, the words come out quick and breathless. She makes no move to follow the Fianna, not yet, but adds, "Was four of 'em, went down sewers t'th' house. Came inna taxi. Only one sniper I've spotted s'far."

Renee's eyes widden, as she sees who Matt is aiming that bat at. Lips pulling back in a snarl, the Cliath nearly has a cub attacking his back. Fortunatally, Renee is able to control that impulse, if barely. She darts over to J.C.'s side, hands shaking. "Whats happening?" She rumbles.

Matt will happily apologize or straighten things out later. Right now, he's jumping for the bottom rung of a rusty iron ladder, and pulling himself up. In the process, he gets a little bigger, hairier and stronger, though it's doubtful anyone would be able to tell in this dubious light.

J.C. snaps a twitchy, paranoid gaze toward Renee; the Ratkin is breathing hard, and she has to loose another lungful of phlegm before continuing. "Attack. On that house." Hack, pant. "Followed ya t'it, s'where ya--" Cough, hack. "--hang out, innit?"

Renee shakes her head. "I moved back ta the junkyard. They don't know that we're livin' there, so its safe. Only come here to swipe some of their food, sometimes." The cub's gaze shoots over to Matt and she growls softly, before returning her attention to the ratkin. "Ya should get outta here. It ain't safe. I don't wantcha gettin' hurt."

J.C. crouches down. She coughs and hacks a moment more, then leans over and spits out a massive wad of blood and sputnum, all yellow and green with red flecks. Yum. "M'okay, kid," she says, wiping her mouth with a dirty sleeve.

Matt reaches the landing and starts making quicker progress toward the roof, clambering over the railing and beginning to take steps up, three at a time.

Renee stares at the bloody and puss fulled mucus blob. "No you ain't," she growls. "Get outta here now!"

A figure appears briefly at the roof, aiming a rifle down toward the climbing Fianna. Another gunshot; the bullet spangs against the brick near Matt's head. Then the figure's gone from view, footsteps hauling ass across the roof and heading away.

J.C. lifts her head and fixes the Garou cub with an angry, almost hateful glare. Something about Renee's insistance has pissed her off. She pushes to her feet. "I. Can take care. Of _m'self_. _Thank--" She breaks off, ducking back at the sound of another gunshot.

Matt growls. "Fookin' Barney's whot you're in, mate. Guaranteed," he mutters still climbing. A chip of brick slices open his right cheek as the bullet strikes near, but the Fianna doesn't slow. If anything, seeing his quarry spurs him on.

Renee nearly jumps out of her skin, the moon phase and current stess levels causing her to shift into Glabro. "Fine," the suddenly larger girl snarls at J.C.. "Excuse me for givin' a shit about you!" With that, the cub begins to run up the metal staircase, following Matt.

No good sniper is without his getaway car. Or in this case, motorbike. By the time the Fianna hits the roof, the figure is down the other side, shifting from Crinos to Homid as he reaches the ground; in short order, he leaps on the bike and zooms away.

J.C. leans back against the wall, trying to catch her breath. She cranes her neck to eyeball the climbing Garou.

Matt Gets to the edge of the roof, and in one smooth motion draws the bat and swings it vehemently into the crenellation. "Mother Fucker. Misbegotten descendant of Paki camel rapers. May his fuckin' orchestra rot off an' crawl down his froat." This said, he turns, acknowledges Renee, and returns to the fire escape. "We should try ta 'elp inside."

Renee reaches the roof shortly after Matt, growling. ~Dammit! I should have gone around the fuckin' building.~ With a nod, she follows the Cliath, heading back down the stairs.

J.C. remains where she is, watching the two Garou with bloodshot eyes, her arms folded over her chest and her hands jammed into her armpits.

Matt drops to the ground. "Renee. Help inside. I'm still going after that bastard, if only to make sure he heads out of town. You," he looks at J.C. "Just a suggestion: learn a better 'friend or foe' message than 'Look out for Pepsi Twist!'" He shifts back into homid and lopes in the direction the motor bike left in. Damn. Where's Books when you need her.

J.C. flips a middle finger up at Matt's departing back.

Renee hits the ground with a grunt and watches Matt's departing back. Closing her eyes, the cub takes a deep breath. As if trying to calm herself.

J.C. gets up, after a moment, and then steps toward the mouth of the alleyway, eyeing the safehouse across the street and chewing on her lower lip. She lets out a small cough.

Renee calms enough to return to her birth form, before walking up to J.C. and standing behind her. "This ain't good," she rumbles.

J.C. mutters, "Duh," but there's no ire or meanness in it. She just sounds troubled, and glances sidelong at the Garou. "Whatever shit's in the sewers, yer enemies 'r friends with it."

Renee sighs heavily and rubs at her face. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," the girl snarls. "I'm gonna go in. No fuckin' idea what is happenin' in there. Wish me luck." After this way and that, Renee runs to the safe house door and hits the buzzer before looking directly into the security camera.

J.C. stays right where she is. Thankfully, nobody shoots Renee as she heads for the door.

Renee is still stading at the front door, looking more fustrated with every second that passes.

J.C. shifts her weight tensely, squatting on her heels in the alley, snuffly and hacky.

(Much much later, bunches of Garou and Kin come tumbling out of the safehouse, and it goes kablooey.)