An Unpleasant Return

[hazlogs]

It is currently 11:36 Pacific Time on Tue Oct 13 2015.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is partly sunny. The temperature is 59 degrees Fahrenheit (15 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the northeast at 7 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.23 and rising, and the relative humidity is 87 percent. The dewpoint is 55 degrees Fahrenheit (12 degrees Celsius.) For more detail, see: http://www.wunderground.com/cgi-bin/findweather/getForecast?query=98501

Currently the moon is in the waxing New (Ragabash) Moon phase (3% full).

Pack> Salem pops back into the pack-link after months and months of 'radio silence' with some really inventive and angry Serbian, cursing the Fae and saying some really shockingly vile things -- the kind of cussing that doesn't truly translate well into English; only the telepathic nature of the link lets the rest of the pack get the gist of things.

Pack> Emma says "Salem!?"

Pack> Salem is definitely in an emotional state, full of anger and consternation, but when Emma 'speaks', he pulls back a little, grasping for mental composure. There's something 'off', though it's hard to say what. "...Yes. What's the date?"

Pack> Emma says "Thirteenth of October. We've not heard a peep out of you in over six months. Are you alright?!"

Pack> Salem takes in a mental breath. Behind the near-iron control, he's agitated as fuck. "I'm... back. Kavi isn't. I recognize this shopping center, so I'm near St. Claire, at least. The assholes emptied my pockets, so I don't have my cell."

Pack> Emma says ""Was he with you when you were ... leaving?" There's an uncertain tone to the phrasing of her question."

Pack> Salem says "I don't know. I remember a little from the very start of the trip. Everything else is a fucking blank."

Pack> Emma says ""Alright," she offers with a more steady tone. "I'm with Nick now, you want us to come pick you up?""

Nicodemus pages: When Salem next checks his pockets, there's a battered, flimsy $20 bill that's practically a part of one of the seams in one of them.

Pack> Salem hesitates for a little bit before saying, "Yes," as though resigned. Over the pack link, he shares a view of his current location; it's a small shopping center off of I-90 -- there's a shoe place, a GameStop, a frozen yogurt place with a cutsie name, a Safeway grocery store, etc. "I'll be around back."

Pack> Emma says "Oh... um. Nick just told me to tell you to check your pockets again..."

Pack> Emma says "And we'll head out there now."

Pack> Salem indicates acknowledgement, nonverbally.

(...)

The shopping center is just as Salem 'described' over the pack link and reasonably busy to judge by the fullness of the parking lot. Driving around to the back, the Get is confronted with the grimier backsides of shops, each one with a couple of dumpsters near the back entrance, a few places for employees to park (no cars, though), and a scrubby expanse of grass with a half-assed 'picnic' area -- basically one ugly concrete table-and-benches combo, with a trashcan nearby. There's no sign of Salem that she can see right off. No sign of anyone, in fact, except for some skinny middle-school-aged kid with long black hair and too-large clothes slouched over at the picnic area.

The monster of a vehicle that the small Get woman drives makes its way into the back area with the low grumble of a V8. No Eco-Friendly points for this Get today, but the Suburban at least serves its purpose of getting her to her packmate. The car slows to a crawl as she rolls down the driver side window. She scans the area as well as she can, but shakes her head with a small bit of frustration at not seeing who she's looking for.

The kid at the picnic table looks up to stare at the car and its driver with an intensity that's kind of freaky -- and also kind of familiar. Especially when he reaches up to use a maimed hand to push the hair away from his very scarred face with its one dead white eye and oh dear Gaia the kid is her formerly old-as-fuck missing packmate.

This kid is heavily scarred; it looks like he's been through a war, though he can't be much more than twelve or thirteen years old. He's only a few inches over five feet tall, skinny and pale, with long black hair that's just past his narrow shoulders. Thick scar tissue rips down the left side of the kid's thin face (his eye on that side is blind white), while another line runs crookedly across the bridge of his beaky nose. There are pockmarks from old shrapnel wounds as well, and half of his right ear has been torn off at some point. His eyes (the good one's dark brown) are deep-set under thick black eyebrows. The kid limps a bit when he walks, favoring his right leg, and his left hand is missing its smallest finger and half of its ring finger. And marking the right side of his neck, just under his jaw, are three small teardrop-shaped scars, easily unnoticed.

The sheer amount of violence that this barely-adolescent youth has obviously experienced is troubling enough, but the aura of tightly-controlled rage is enough to make most mortals blench.

To say that his jeans, t-shirt, and boots fit poorly is a massive understatement, as they were made to fit a grown man about a foot taller.

The slow rolling of the car comes to an unexpected jolt of a stop as Emma hits the brakes hard. Her mouth drops open, though it may be somewhat difficult to see through the windshield- then again, the craning of her neck toward that windshield might just be the deal breaker on any hope for subtlety. There she sits, along with the car, in a suddenly silent stupor.

The kid -- Salem -- grimaces, tight-lipped, angry and embarrassed. It's a good thing the moon's new. He gets up and limps over to the car, awkward in ill-fitting boots. "If you laugh," he says in his pre-adolescent kid voice -- once he's gotten close enough -- "I'll..." He trails off, scowling.

"The fuck happened Salem?" is Emma's reply; no laughter or amusement in her tone at all. She waits until he's in and the door is shut before she turns to her alpha. It takes only a moment to notice her inability to to hide the concern that her scrutiny produces.

Salem buckles himself in without looking much at her. "Fae," he says, as if this explains everything. "Kavi and I followed Stag to some other realm. Exactly what happened, I don't know. As I said over the pack link, I remember a little of the start of our... trip, and then nothing until I found myself... here. Like... this." He makes an up-and-down gesture at himself.

"Well. Crap," comes next as she turns the car around and starts it moving. "Where you want me to take you? Edgewood or somewhere else? Nick's at the caern... he's usually good for possibile solutions to weird things?" The Get frowns at this, posture drooping slightly as she offers very little real help.

Salem drags thin fingers through uncombed black hair in a familiar gesture. "Not Edgewood. Not the caern. I'm not... not yet. Take me to Maxwell Tower." He glances sidelong at her, adds, "Walkerspace."

Emma offers only a nod this time and turns the car in the direction requested. She remains quiet for the journey; not necessarily that tense quiet that fills the empty space between an argument, just, contemplative in timbre. "You want something to eat? Drive-thru?"

Salem starts to shake his head, then stops. "Actually, I do have a craving for tacos. Since you mention it."

That breaks the solemn face for just a moment, an Emma style half-grin escapes and she nods. "No problem. We'll grab enough for left overs." The drive continues as promised; to the taco joint, then onward to the Walker tribe's hidey-hole and Mouse's hangout. "Not too much has changed here since you left. Shit's still all broke. But there are some little tidbits of potential... things to try. But. We're holding our own at least."

He doesn't smile back, and his mood doesn't lighten much. Still, several of the tacos vanish on the way to the Tower, and at least he doesn't look /more/ grim at Emma's news. "That's... good. I'll do my best to get back up to speed."

(...)

The Hub: Main Floor(#2309RAJ)

The main floor of 'the Hub' is a spacious, almost sprawling room, with a two-story high ceiling and a large loft that looks out over the room itself, accessed via a winding metal staircase set at the opposite end from the heavy security door. One side of the floor is completely open, with a bank of windows facing north and offering a brilliant view of the city, especially at night. The other side contains a series of doors and doorways that lead into other rooms, large and small. One is clearly a kitchen (a very nice large kitchen with its own island and eating area), one is a bathroom, and one a repurposed conference room with a smaller central table than likely existed before, and comfortable rolling chairs that have clearly been reclaimed from various goodwill sources. Other rooms serve as storage, with one standing out as a well maintained server room, from which the local Walker server, various databases, and hardware responsible for the block's free wifi can be accessed.

The open floor itself sports several areas clearly designated for various purposes, though none have been walled off from the rest in any real fashion. One contains a comfortable, beat-up couch and armchairs arranged in a semi-circle around a large flatscreen TV and coffee table, another is a bank of multiple computers, each with their own desk and office chair, while a third is a modest exercise area mostly consisting of an open space of floor covered in a cushioned mat and several free weights. A number of monitors have been mounted on the wall next to the security door; the largest displays the area immediately on the other side of the door, with another showing the interior of the private elevator. The third and largest is split into sections, with one section dedicated to the sub-basement, another to the roof, and the others switching routinely between various parts of the interior and exterior of Maxwell Tower.

Salem leads Emma through the parking garage and up the private elevator to the Hub, limping as he has for years, occasionally almost tripping over his own feet (and cursing under his breath whenever he does so). Once in the elevator itself, he pushes hair out of his scarred face and turns it up to the camera, letting Mouse (or whoever else might be up there monitoring) get a good look.

Emma stands just behind and to the side of her alpha, watching him proceed and then lowering her head behind his own as if to get her face in on the camera too. A deep breath is taken and expelled as she shifts the taco bag from one hand to the other.

5'3" of proud energy packed up into a body all too willing to use it. Emma could easily look appropriate dressed for elegance, but her attitude paints her style far more brute efficiency than subtle charm.

Somewhere in her early twenties, her features are strong but decidedly feminine. High cheekbones and full lips work well to compliment her almost button nose and deepset eyes, while dark, ash blonde hair frames her face. It's mostly straight, but has that wild-style look to it that just brushes against her shoulders. Her eyes are a cool blue, reminiscent of a bright summer day - but like the weather they seem to hold an amount of unpredictability. There is a hardness to her gaze, and while her smiles can be warm and sincere, they are well guarded.

Her posture is one of confidence and boldness, and she carries herself with a stoic restraint on something that hints very strongly of being dangerous.

Naturally, there's no way to tell if anyone is watching the camera feed. Not until they've both disembarked on the top floor, faced with the stark emptiness of the entryway, another camera, and the heavy, reinforced door that leads into what now serves as Walker central. As soon as the elevator doors close behind them, the reinforced door unlocks with an audible click. Its weight is deceptive; lock undone, it's quite easy to swing the door inward. Mouse isn't immediately visible, but she's easy to spot once they're inside; the Walker elder is halfway down the stairs leading up to the loft, with a look of intensity on her face that suggests more than a reaction to her visitors. Rather than looking at the door, she's staring intently at the computer attached to the security monitors.

Salem glances sidelong at Emma, then looks back at Mouse and clears his throat. "I'm back," he says simply.

Emma nods her head toward the other; a nod that no longer needs to be aimed upward at all. "Picked him up just a bit ago. Extra tacos." She holds the bag up. "I can make a booze run too if you guys need something to wash them down."

"Yes," Mouse says slowly, with an air of utter distraction both in her scarred face and her voice. "I know. She noticed." It takes her a moment, and a visible amount of effort to finally blink and tear her gaze away from the machine. "/Jack/." Now she sounds more like herself, and she takes the rest of the stairs at a very brisk pace. "I'd punch you," she says, sounding a little breathless now that she's not so sluggish, "but I think you'd still laugh. Though..." There's a faint twitch in one cheek as she looks at him more directly, "Maybe you're the one that should do the punching." To Emma, she says, "Oh, I've got plenty. Help yourself." One hand gestures toward the kitchen.

The scars draw the eye so immediately they might as well be her face. Most prominent are the five thick, puckered gashes that go from left to right across forehead, nose, cheeks, and chin, miraculously avoiding her eyes, and that look for all the world as though she had an unpleasant encounter with some sort of large, angry predator, but there are others, so many others. Thinner, spidery, older scars trace over areas the larger and newer ones don't fully cover, such as her lips, jaw, even one eyelid, and seem to continue down her neck. Her hair is unremarkable--brown, terribly short, with a tendency to stick out slightly in utterly random directions--apart from a few locks of stark white around her left ear. Her eyes, when not obscured by dark sunglasses, are yellow and black, like those of an animal rather than a human being.

She's not really tall, maybe 5'7 or 5'8 at best, but there's a gawkiness to her body that creates an illusion of extra height, a sense of her torso being just slightly too long. She's stick-thin too, which only adds to the overall image. Beanpole for certain, this one.

As for the woman's clothing, it's functional, if fairly nondescript. She appears to favor loose and comfortable, button-up shirts and slightly baggy pants, with simple black street-walking shoes. What can be seen of her skin beyond her face seems to echo the motif above--thin spidery scars, mostly randomly placed, but a few seem to form meaningless designs. They're heavier and more intricate on the backs and palms of both hands, and perhaps for this reason she also seems to favor wearing fingerless gloves when she can get away with it.

"No, please, feel free," the newly-young (/so/ young) Philodox says sourly. "Because I'm going to have to tell you that I have not a damned clue where Kavi is."

Emma looks from Mouse to Salem and back. "Thanks. It was, um, more my asking if you guys needed some private tribe time..." She gives a soft heh at this, "Clever I am not..."

Mouse shakes her head slightly at Emma. "Nah, unless you need some of your own." There's a tightening her her expression and her voice at mention of Kavi, but it's small, subtle, and doesn't last. "Neither do I. I'm still waiting on that."

Salem swears briefly in Serbian and limps awkwardly toward the sitting area. "Maybe they let him go somewhere else. Maybe they still have him. Maybe--" He cuts himself off to swear again.

Mouse makes a motion that suggests she's going to follow after him, but instead she turns and heads into the kitchen herself. There's the sound of the fridge, and when she returns, it's with two cold cans. Beer, but perhaps she's feeling optimistic. Or just in the mood to give alcohol to a minor. She sets one down in front of Salem before settling into a seat of her own. "I don't think he's dead." She doesn't elaborate. The statement is very matter-of-fact.

Emma makes her way to where the drinks were offered and rummages about to find something. She opts for the same that Mouse grabs, then returns with them, falling into silence. Eager to listen, but not looking to interrupt.

Salem cracks open the beer and takes a good-sized slug of it with no regard at all for his decreased body mass. "Pack-link?" he guesses.

"I don't feel anything from him," Mouse clarifies, with slightly thinned lips. "But I haven't felt anything bad either. Skokiaan..." She pauses, then continues, "she's not very strong these days. We were mostly waiting for him to get back to make it official. It's not fair of us to try to hold onto her at this point, but she doesn't want to go until..." Another beat. "things are resolved."

Salem grimaces. "Shit," he says, sympathetically. "That's... I'm sorry."

Mouse shrugs, but then she seems to decide to elaborate a little more. "Packs aren't forever. I don't like it, but I think I'm okay with it this time. No regrets. It's been good." She takes a sip of the beer, then leans forward a little. "There's plenty of spare room here, obviously. Give me a rough estimate of sizes and I can go shopping, or...ask someone to go shopping. What else do you need right now?"

"Sizes, fuck, I don't know." Salem rubs at his chin -- briefly. Something -- the reminder of the lack of beard, maybe? -- makes him drop his hand abruptly and take another swallow of beer. "The last time I was..." He gestures at himself impatiently rather than put the situation into /words/. "...was a long time ago. And I wasn't buying my own clothes." Another slug of beer, and then he sets the can down and fishes into his jeans pockets. "I'll need a new phone. Fuck knows what happened to it. But, look." He lays out a few objects -- three crow feathers with a drop of dried blood on each stem and a heavy metal coin the size of a silver dollar, unmarked on one side and with some apparently meaningless scratches on the other.

"Phones aren't a problem," Mouse assures him, but the pocket objects interrupt anything else she might have been intending to say. She leans forward a bit more, and reaches out to take one of the crow feathers. Salem is given a questioning look as she picks it up.

"They were in my pockets when I... came back," he says, taking the beer can back up. "Don't ask, I have no idea. Everything's a goddamn fucking blur except for a bit at the start, and even that... I don't know. We were in wolf form, we were avoiding some kind of hunter, we hid inside a tree, and there was this... girl." The youthful face scrunches up as he drags through foggy memories. "Not human. Not plant or animal, either."

Mouse sniffs at the blood on the feather stem, even though with her human nose she can't hope to get anything from it, and then sets it back down again. Next she picks up the coin. "Unfortunately, the Fae are one of the things I think I can say I have some of the least experience with." She rubs her thumb over the coin's surface. "This is weird though. Iron maybe? I don't think it's nickel."

Salem grumbles. "I don't know what I fucking thought. I should have fucking told Kavi to just goddamn learn Mother's Touch, fucking Christ." He eyes the coin. "I could let Nick look at it."

Mouse doesn't exactly smile, but her mouth moves in that general direction for a moment. "I...have a feeling Kavi was drawn to the sacrifice part of that gift a little more than he should have been." She passes the coin back. "Couldn't hurt. Of course, I say that, the universe likes proving me wrong."

Salem tips the beer can back -- it sure didn't take him long to kill it -- and stifles a belch. "That's true for both of us." He waggles the empty can, looking at it. "How have things been? Emma mentioned we were holding our own."

"Worryingly quiet," Mouse replies. "Considering what we've got lurking around. There's your usual fomori, banes...but nothing big has hit." The unspoken 'yet' is fairly deafening. "I've been trying to keep digital eyes and ears open, but I can't get near Queen's Tower without risking discovery."

Salem slouches back against the couch cushions, arms folded across his chest. "Right... need a good Ragabash. Or something. No other attacks, though? Attacks on other caerns?"

Mouse shakes her head. "Nothing beyond what's already been happening. Salt Lake is still fighting it out, but they've been holding. Some skirmishes here and there. We haven't lost any more, and the bulk of their force is either consolidating what they've got or they're...doing something I can't guess at."

Salem nods, frowning. "So... business as usual, more or less." He's quiet for a short bit, scratching at the stump of his left ring-finger, then asks abruptly, "How bad is it?" It's not entirely clear, but he doesn't seem to be talking about the state of affairs in St. Claire and its environs.

"Bad's a weird way to put it," Mouse says, but she looks Salem over again at the question. "Young though. Really young. It's going to be annoying for you, for a while."

"I know." He studies his hands as if he's never seen them before, flexing the thin fingers. "My balance is off, though I'm hoping some of that is my goddamn boots not /fitting/ anymore." He actually sounds kind of peeved at this. "My network of street contacts is /fucked/. Granted, I can still shift, but--" He frowns, head tilting. "Am I drunk? I think I'm buzzed." He looks at the empty beer can, accusingly.

Mouse clears her throat. It's quiet, but still entirely noticeable. "You might be. Shift up?"

Salem eyes Mouse for a second before nodding. His glabro form is just as young, though the added hair and mass does make him look a little bit older. "Christ on a goddamn crutch." His voice is only slightly deeper.

This hairy young brute is only a bit over five and a half feet tall, but he's built like a bruiser, broad-shouldered and muscular. His face, partially hidden by the mane of black hair that falls past his shoulders, is bony and feral, with a heavy shelf of brow and an out-thrust jaw; sharp fingernails, pointed ears, and overlong canine teeth add to the general impression of animalistic menace.

The young brute is heavily scarred, like he's been through a war. Thick scar tissue rips down the left side of his face (his eye on that side is milky white, obviously blind), while another line runs crookedly across the bridge of his beaky nose. There are pockmarks from old shrapnel wounds as well, and half of his right ear has been torn off at some point. His eyes (the good one's dark brown) are deep-set under thick black eyebrows. He limps a bit when he walks, favoring his right leg, and his left hand is missing its smallest finger and half of its ring finger. And marking the right side of his neck, just under his jaw, are three small teardrop-shaped scars, easily unnoticed.

Mouse regards glabro!Salem thoughtfully for a moment, before she wordlessly produces a half used pack of cigarettes. She takes one for herself, then offers it out to the man-turned-boy.

Salem takes the cig with muttered thanks. "I'm going to regret the lack of cigarette machines in this day and age."

Mouse produces a lighter next, and also offers that over. "Yeah," she agrees. "I'll have to keep an extra stock around. None of the places downstairs sell."

"I suppose I could quit. Again," he says, lighting up and then sucking in a deep lungful. Quitting doesn't actually seem very likely.

Mouse lights up herself with a soft 'heh'. It's clear she's not taking that suggestion seriously either. "The smoking isn't going to draw as much attention as the scars."

Salem shifts back down to homid form. "...Fuck me, you're right." He takes another drag off the cigarette, brow furrowed in thought.

Mouse lets him think. For her part, she sits there, silently puffing away in even, measured breaths. Occasionally she stops to take another sip from her own beer, still far from finished.

After a few minutes, he shakes his head tiredly. "Short of having them healed away somehow..." Something he sounds reluctant to contemplate, it seems. "I don't know. I'll have to keep an extremely low profile."

"Spend the night here for a few days," Mouse part suggests, part tells him. "Building security is on Maxwell's payroll, and most of them are kinfolk. They won't raise any alarms once I talk to them. I can get you a ride out to the woods when you want it, I'm usually around."

Salem nods. "Appreciated. I think... I could stand to get some sleep. It feels like it's been a long day. Week. Season." He gestures vaguely. "Something."

Mouse finally does manage a crooked sort of half smile. "Yeah," she agrees. "I can try to imagine. Go ahead and take the master bedroom. I've got some coding work that's going to have me up all night, and half the time I sleep down here anyway. Plus, there's a tub up there. A really nice one."

He sucks in another lungful of cigarette smoke and lets it out like a long sigh. "All right." He heads off, taking his odd little collection of souvenirs with him.