Decker Rohl

Imogen Slaughter

Sat 08:43PM EST
Eight thirty this morning; her pager had gone off, because her phone's been turned off for weeks, the answering machine taking the brunt of the reporters calling, and fending off the telemarketers she'd very likely hang up on, anyway. It's the old familiar lines.

Hey doc? Got a body for you. Easily familiar, as is the callousness that rides through it. And it's expected, because nobody else pages her, but for a few odd pages once and a while. Pen scrawls across paper, ugly left handed writing barely legible, perhaps proving the old edict that doctors can never write legibly.

The apartment number ran a chill across her spine, settling as frozen ice at her tail bone. Goose walked over her grave. The phone is hung up, and within five more minutes, she's out the door, air frosting white, pulling on a wool jacket against the chill.

Some eleven hours and a half hours later, she's back. the SUV parks, the alarm chirps. Half an hour past that, she sits out in the cold (perhaps winter would be a deterrent for smoking, though it does not quite seem to be working yet), cross legged on the lounge chair, ashtray resting at the cross made by her ankles, cigarette burning warm and sullen red between her fingers. The sky today is a blue, and somehow that makes the thirty something weather feel just that much more bitter.

The woolen jacket still worn to keep some vestige of warmth through her torso, the cigarette to warm her fingers. It doesn't do much good, but it's better than nothing.

Decker Rohl

Sat 09:17PM EST
Eight thirty this morning, she's out the door and on the case. Skip ahead four hours: twelve thirty in the afternoon, Decker stumbles into Rune's condo where all is calm and all is not bright, through the living room and down the hall, into the spare room. The door slams behind him. Six hours of silence.

6 or 7pm in the evening, there's the thud of feet hitting the ground behind the door. There's the thumping of feet back and forth, and then the door opens and the Modi pads down the hall to the bathroom. Door shuts, water blasts, shower shave take a piss. Door opens, steam roils, head down the hall. Door slams again. God knows what he's doing in there, but the grind of stone on steel sounds like he might be sharpening his grandfather's greataxe. Weapon upkeep. Modi-type stuff. This goes on through Rune and James' quiet conversation upstairs, their quiet appreciation of one another. Then it's 8:30, 9pm, and the condo is freezing cold because the windows are still blasted, and Decker comes out of his cave in full battle armor (overstuffed winter jacket) to forage for food.

Leftover Italian in the fridge, a package of Carnation hot chocolate mix and a hunk of french bread on the counter. Scrape off the mold, heat up the Italian in the microwave and slide up on the stool to eat by the light of the microwave, whose door he forgot to shut properly. Ten minutes after that the front door opens and Decker steps out on his balcony with a steaming mug of hot cocoa and the intentions of smoking down the first joint of the night - glances over at the neighbor's. An eyebrow goes up. Without a word, he vanishes back inside.

Two minutes after that, he reappears with a second mug. Leaning out across the gap between the balconies, he holds the mug out at her ("3D GAMERS CONVENTION 2001 - SAN JOSE") with a glance toward her cigarette. "So much fer the twelve-step."

Imogen Slaughter

Sat 09:29PM EST
She turns slightly to watch as the door to Rune's condo opens, Decker walks out, back in, and out again. He leans across, offering a steaming mug, and her weight shifts, leaning forward to ash the cigarette, stubbing out the fag, smoked to the filter. Boots scrape against the balcony's floor, and she crosses the distance to lean across, taking the cup from him, wrapping her fingers around the warm cheap ceramic. "This is step five," she replies, ironically, pulling back, one hand resting on the curve of the balustrade. "And, thanks," raising the steaming mug in gesture. Instead of returning to the side of the balcony, she leans against the armrest of the other chair, holding the mug in her hands as she waits for it too cool. The heat seeping through the cup half burns her fingers, so one could guess it would burn her mouth. "I've got an address for you. Some other information, as well."

She'd had the few days that she'd said she'd need, even though he'd just asked for the address, for now. Red tape, jump through hoops. Pull strings, make a scene. Whatever.

Decker Rohl

Sat 09:34PM EST
"Ain't nothin'," he brushes off her thank-you, and then smirks at her 'step five'. "What's step twelve? Die o' lung cancer?"

He sticks to his balcony for now, wrapping his hands around the mug where he sets it on the balustrade. His weight rests on his forearms, and his forearms on the railing, and he watches the steam rise from the mug until she speaks again. Grey eyes on her, then. "Yeah?" he prompts.

Imogen Slaughter

Sat 09:47PM EST
"Damned if I know," she replies, a faint smirk tracing her lips, "I'll tell you when I get there."

She nods as he prompts, sliding back somewhat to sit on the armrest, one foot dangling while the other, rests tiptoe on the ground for balance. "Cops did their usual routine, trying to find out if there's somebody who might wan' a kill a little girl when her parents were already dead. Pretty dead leads, all in all, but at least they found out shite," she pauses, eyes drifting away to look at the streetlamp, it's bright lights cutting through the shadows, darkening the surrounding area while it lights up a single spot on the walkway. She can see the case file behind her eyes, the words swimming in front of her, typed files, bearing cold facts. "I don't know if means anything to you. Little girl stopped going to school some two weeks ago. Teachers said she wasn't particularly all that good at showing up anyway, which was odd for some kid who's like.. six, so they didn't take much notice. Uh...Poor grades, always sleepin' in class. The actual family had some... five or six... maybe more, calls on domestic disturbance. Real sweet parents, these ones. Neighbours had complaints, too, odd weird comments. And," one hand holds the coffee mug on her knee, while the other hand rests on the opposite knee. Her thumb swipes lightly across the indentation of the old scar on her finger, "It used to be two kids in the family. One of them died. SIDS. They thought it was odd, but since the parents were dead, nothing worth investigating."

Decker Rohl

Sat 09:56PM EST
Decker listens, but with all he knew of children, and all he knew of non-dysfunctional families, and all he knew of non-dysfunctional lives in general, none of this really rings a bell with him. He lifts the mug and sips to buy himself a moment to think. Then, settling it back on the balustrade, licking the chocolate moustache off his windchapped upper lip, asks, "Hell's SIDS? 'N what do you think?"

'Bout what? He sets his elbows down on the top of the stone balustrade, crossing his arms under his chest. With his large dark jacket and his fierce eyes, he could be some strange bird of prey, feathers ruffled for warmth. A puff of breath out the side of his mouth absently stirs the steam rising from the mug. Then the Modi sees fit to elaborate.

"You think it's anythin' odd, worth investigatin'?"

Imogen Slaughter

Sat 10:08PM EST
"Sudden Infant Death Syndrome," she explains, "Basically a catch all for 'baby died, and we don't know why'," her shoulders lift in a slow shrug, and she takes a sip of the hot drink, swallowing slowly, before adding, "There are some who think that SIDS doesn't really exist, per se. That in some, if not all, cases, it's a catch all for children dying from being smothered."

She hadn't answered the second question, because she hadn't understood it. As he sees fit to elabourate, her attention sweeps back to him, dark blue eyes settling on his face, "Well. You said fomori don't come out of no where," she says after a moment, resettling her weight a little more comfortably, her brow furrowing faintly in thought. She hasn't got a clue if this is worth a Garou investigation. Had the parents been alive, she would have thought it was definitely a police investigation. But the parents were dead. Her shoulders shrug, "It's odd. Children don't just stop going to school, and the parents not call in. If I'd seen more of the body, I could have told you had she been abused," a shrug, a motion with her free hand, indicating how useless that comment was. "And what I did see, I didn't get quite through the examination." Cold dead fingers with pink nail polish gripping her flesh and ripping. A suppression of a shudder.

"How does..." a moment, as she frames the question, pause, because she's asking for more information. The beginning of the sentence is abandoned with a slight shake of her head, "What usually causes a fomori?"

Decker Rohl

Sat 10:20PM EST
"Smothered?" he repeats, a hint of surprise in the quiet slow tones. A pause. "Like - what - by 'is parents?"

A slight nod of his head up as she quotes him back to him. "Erik 'n Rune," he seems to be making some small attempt, at least, to explain the actions of his pack, "thinks we oughta go take a look. Question is when, how, 'n how much backup we bring. You dig?"

Maybe she did. Maybe she didn't. Garou didn't often include their kin in 'business' matters. Kin didn't often ask, either. Most are taught to keep their mouths shut and their eyes open for ways to help (signs of danger); to assist whenever asked (and take off their clothes whenever propositioned); to stay out of a Garou's business otherwise. Someone obviously didn't teach her. Or, more likely, she obviously didn't intend to listen.

And for that - for her questioning about things that, in the accepted Garou worldview at least, really didn't concern her - he watches her, maskedly, slowly straightening. Expect a chuckle. Expect a reprimand. Expect a blow. Expect nothing at all.

He curls on calloused hand around his mug and then tilts his head in the direction of Rune's door. "Best you come inside to talk 'bout that," he says, and climbs in the window to let her in the door.

Imogen Slaughter

Sat 10:30PM EST
"That's some of the theories, yeah," she says with a slight shrug, "parents or babysitter. Family member. I couldn't tell you in this case, though." He straightens, and she watches him. It would not, in any way, bother her, in the long run to be told this was not her business. She did not want to know, really, and why she asked, reluctantly, was difficult to discern. HE answers. A faint blink, a slow frown.

Whoever taught her kinfolk 101 either taught her very badly. Or far too well. Well enough to know how poorly she fits the mould. After a moment, she gets to her feet, nodding, and beginning down the stairs. He's already through the window, and she isn't about to cross between the balustrades with hot chocolate in her hands. Either she'd fall and split open her head, or spill the hot chocolate all over her. Neither a pleasant prospect. A few moments later, she's walking up the opposite stairs, approaching Rune's door.

Decker Rohl

Sat 10:35PM EST
He's already there holding the door open for her. Close up and personal, no amount of winter clothing can disguise his angry eyes. The inside of the condo is as cold as the outside, and she probably wonders if Rune was ever going to fix the windows, or if she actually liked living like a modern cavewoman.

Shutting the door behind Imogen, Decker heads for the breakfast bar, setting his mug down before sliding up on a stool in a rustle of rough cotton and denim. "Know what a bane is?" She might've flunked Kinfolk 101, but Wyrm 101 is now in session.

Imogen Slaughter

Sat 10:39PM EST
She looks at him for a long moment, before passing him, and into the frigid air of the condo. She must wonder why he's so angry all the time. Or perhaps she doesn't need to wonder at all.

Hands slide into the pockets of her jacket, and she turns to face him, shaking her head, causing tendrils of hair to fall forward and over her shoulders, half obscuring her features, only to be pushed back once more by an impatient hand, "I know it's wyrm. S'all." Half overheard conversations, stories, half remembered. The darker side of a Garou's life is rarely presented to the kinfolk in whatever passes for training and learning for them. No, let them discover the dangers of rage. fill them instead with dreams of duty and helping fight a war they have no way of understanding.

Decker Rohl

Sat 10:46PM EST
He spins the mug slowly between his hands on the top of the breakfast bar, looking for the right words to make it comprehensible. Someone had taught him this years ago, but it was different. However apathetic he may have been, however inattentive, the knowledge was already there - in his bones, in his blood. What the elders spoke of, he could feel, however dimly, in the very core of his being.

Half flesh, half spirit.

"They's spirits," he says, then. "There's all different types, but banes are Wyrm-spirits. They like decay. Corruption. Despair, violence...all that shit. Attracted to it. You 'member that one apartment, where Asher killed that kin?" Of course she did. It wasn't something you forget easily. "Lotsa banes waitin' in the spirit world near that, I bet. They love places like that, 'n they love people who either do shit like that - or git shit like that done to 'em.

"Fomori are people who get possessed by banes." Simple as that, then. "Erik says sometimes people who work for the Great Serpent get possessed on purpose, or even go around churnin' fomori out like cars from a factory, but lotsa times it just happens by itself, too." A movement of his shoulders, stirring the folds of his overstuffed coat. "Banes prey on those who invite 'em in, or who're too damn weak to keep 'em out."

Imogen Slaughter

Sat 10:53PM EST
She listens, and maybe she learns. Or maybe she just swallows what information she needed to give him the opinion, discarding the rest.

She has no connection to the spirits, and the umbra is more of a half believed in place that perhaps she might equate to as untouchable, the way a catholic believes in heaven. Knowledge without substance. All she has is the blood (that burns) and a lineage that she knows of but it is stories of family members she never met.

He just explained something to her that most kinfolk never hear. She is not quite sure completely what to do with it.

After a moment of silence, one hand in the pocket of her jacket, the other wrapped around the cooling mug of cocoa, she speaks, "It would be the house. If it's anywhere, that I could find, it would be there."

Decker Rohl

Sat 11:00PM EST
And he looks at her.
(And he watches her.)

And sometimes late at night he wonders how it happened, and why, and if it was fair that she should be thrown into the midst of this, that he should be thrown into the midst of it all, and - most times, he doesn't think about it.

"Yeah?" Rhetorical, question, that. Then he picks up his mug, drains it, and sets it down with a clink as he climbs off the chair. "All right then." Brushing past her, he climbs halfway up the stairs and raps his knuckles on the wall, loud enough for Rune to hear in the bedroom - whatever she was up to in there. "Rune."

Rune

Sat 11:06PM EST
...half a minute, perhaps a full minute, maybe a little more later, her voice in lazy response. "...the hell?" Loud enough for him to hear, even half-way down the stairs. Loud enough for Imogen to hear in the chill downstairs rooms, though for both the first word of the sentence that makes it a question and the last words of the question that make it an acceptable response to a call of one's name have been ellided into a mere muffle of sound.

what ...the hell d'ya want?

Decker Rohl

Sat 11:09PM EST
"Little girl, fomor, address." Succinct as ever, him. His footsteps thump the rest of the way up the stairs, across the hall, and to the door of the master bedroom. Impatiently, he jiggles the lock on the door. "Let's go for a ride."

Imogen Slaughter

Sat 11:11PM EST
Decker walks up to Rune's room, and Imogen leans against the corner where the front hallway meets the living room, and finishes the cocoa, straightening up to cross the distance of the living room, and leaving the cup for a moment by the sink.

She's leaning against the corner once more, when Rune's response is half heard along with Decker's succinct sentenceless reply.

Rune

Sat 11:13PM EST
"Fine fine fine fine fine," the muttered words form a moderate descrescendo of sound, distracted but somehow full, in some futile attempt to assuage Decker's succinct impatience. "Give me five fucking minutes and I'll meet you downstairs."

Decker Rohl

Sat 11:17PM EST
A pause, far from pleased. Five minutes. Five fuckin' minutes for the fuckin' Ahroun to pull herself out of bed (with the other fuckin' Ahroun) and get the fuck downstairs.

Finally, with no reply other than the thunder of his feet back down the stairs, Decker leaves. Downstairs, he drops down on the second-to-last step and reties his shoelaces, zips up his coat. Then he looks up at Imogen. "You comin' too?" - neutral.

Imogen Slaughter

Sat 11:24PM EST
She meets his gaze as he looks up at her, both hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket. It's a neutral question, and after a moment, her reply comes, equally grey, "Might as well. I don't have nearly enough excitement." Whatever sarcasm that might be in her reply (if there is any at all) is slight.

Weight shifts forward and she stops leaning against the cool wall, getting to her feet, waiting for Decker to tie his shoes, and Rune to take her five minutes to get downstairs.

Decker Rohl

Sat 11:28PM EST
All ready to go, and four minutes left on the clock. Decker's eyebrows rise a little, then swoop lower than before as he leans back on his elbows. Excitement, she calls it.

Moments pass. Then, as Rune's footsteps sound from overhead (a whole minute early - imagine that), his eyes flicker up as though he might see through the ceiling, and back to her. A snort precedes the pointless gesture of one hand. She was the one that got the address in the first place. Try to stop her and she'll likely go in herself the next day. Alone. "Yeah, whatever. Might see something we don't."

It's, as she said, her job to notice the tiny details.

Rune

Sat 11:31PM EST
Five fucking minutes. That's what she asked for, that's what she offered, and that's what she takes. No more than five fucking minutes, if only because the blast of Decker's fine Fenrir displeasure was like to peel the paint from her walls. Considering the state of her windows, it probably wouldn't drag the property value any lower, but Rune wasn't taking any chances.

Five. fucking. minutes. later, her feet are not-quite-thundering down the stairs, for she has a lighter step than her packmate. Five (four!). fucking. minutes. later, she's on the first floor, shrugging into a winter coat over her dedicated clothing and running a distracted hand through disordered black locks.

"Ready."

Imogen Slaughter

Sat 11:34PM EST
Try and stop her, and she would probably stare at him in stoney silence. And unless something happened, he wouldn't find out she'd gone, if she went at all. And she'd ask the pointed question ' then, why did you bother asking in the first place?'

Excitement, she calls it. Certainly, it appears to be a better alternative to staying at home and waiting, as the hours crawl by.

A faint non commital noise, acknowledging that he'd spoken, perhaps acknowledging she might see something they won't. Tiny details. Minutiae. Dark blue eyes strafe from Decker to the approach of the Glass Walker, five minutes, as promised.

Decker Rohl

Sat 11:36PM EST
He doesn't move aside as Rune stalks past him on the stairs, but he does look up, a brief flicker of heavy grey eyes as he gets to his feet: slow and rollingly. "Imogen's comin' too."

Three people in Rune's two-seater. Must mean Imogen is going to sit on his lap.

Rune

Sat 11:43PM EST
"Yeah?" dark eyes slide from Decker to Imogen, back again. "Okay."

She passes through the living room, back into the kitchen, and grabs a bottle of Evian from the fridge. It seems - sometimes - she has some sense. She even manages not to grab the pill bottle perched above the kitchen sink, not to down the pills that might make the long night more bearable. Walking back into the living room, rattling her keys in her right pocket, she looks up after taking a long drink from the water bottle. "You drive?"

Imogen Slaughter

Sat 11:49PM EST
Her hand leaves the warmth of her jacket pocket to slide into a back pocket of her jeans, pulling out a many-times folded sheet of paper, glancing sideways at Rune. "I suppose so," she replies, her other hand fishing keys from the depths of her jacket pocket, while her other hand rattles the paper, fingers fiddling to unfold the sheet, and reveal the address. She'd looked the street up on the map. Curiousity's sake.

Everyone seems ready, and after a moment, she turns, starting to walk toward the door.

Gabriel Alexander

Sat 11:57PM EST
This astoundingly odd person looks around, his eyes taking in the sight of the city, which hasn't changed much since he last look around. A breif sigh escapes his lips as he levels his eyes with the street. No, nothing about his appearance seems to be all strange. It actually seems to be the expression on his youthful face that is the thing that's so thoroughly out of place.

Yep, definitely the expression.

Most people scowl all the time, some people grin wryly, some people are blank-faced.

This person is none of those.

Apparently, this person wears a face of pure, utter, unadultured innocence. This visage is so innocent, he almost seems mentally impaired. It's not possible for someone to be of adequate intelligence, be of his age, AND be this impossibly innocent without having spent all of his life living in a bomb shelter.

This is Movie-class innocence.

If you could bottle this innocence, you'd put every other business that makes bottled crap, from soda to shampoo, out of business.

Okay, so that didn't make much sense. But you get the idea, right?

Decker Rohl

Sat 11:58PM EST
So the three of them file out of Rune's condo, waiting while the Glass Walker locked up. Who knows why she bothers, what with all the windows gone, but habit is sometimes all that divides man from beast. Glass Walker from the country cousins.

Down the stairs, across the parking lot, into the SUV. Rune gets shotgun. Pack order is so instinctive that he doesn't even think about it. Sitting on the driver's side of the backseat, Decker spends most the drive there staring out the window.

Rune

Sun 12:04AM EST
Rune follows in Imogen's wake, booted feet falling quiet against the plush carpet, then making a little more noise on the concrete. The few stairs are taken two at a time, devoured by her long-legged stride, which carries her to the SUV, which carries them away.

Rune has never ridden with Imogen before, and spends the first half of the ride wondering if she was going to turn up the music already, then spends the second half wondering if she should've just done it herself, back when the SUV was idling in the condo drive, waiting to make a left turn across traffic.

Gabriel Alexander

Sun 12:10AM EST
The mental-deficiency vote would be especially well-supported by the odd kid's behavior. Apparently he's never heard of sidewalks, or doesn't believe in the safety that they offer to those who intend to walk down a street. A spectacle such as this is somewhat visible to pretty much anyone out at this time, as many, many cars swerve out of the way to avoid hitting the odd figure as he walks down the road. What's especially odd is that he apparently is very considerate of those who bring themselves to the verge of death by avoiding him, because he waves his hand around in the air and shouts "Thank you!!!!!! at the top of his lungs to those who pass by.

Imogen Slaughter

Sun 12:11AM EST
Into the car they all go, and Rune gets shotgun, Imogen drives. As she buckles up with one hand, she looks at the address, held in the other, memorizing the number and street name, shoving it into a jacket pocket, and starting the engine.

Down the road. On the freeway. It's midnight, so there is very little traffic, and little to keep Decker's attention but for a few late night drivers. Imogen makes no conversation, and after quite some time of driving, pulls off the freeway, getting off in pratically in the centre of slums and sprawling faded once suburbia turned to decay.

It might have looked better, had the road been lit. The road might have been lit, had all of the street lamps been working. One flickers, down the way, low and shuttering. Off... onoffonflickeroff. It's not just greys and shadow, but a predominate shade of brown, like the colour of old meat, rotted wood. Some of the houses have lights on in them, and fewer still have their porch lights on. As they turn a corner, presumedly down a side street that brings them to their destination, a man, dressed in gothic black watches the SUV pass with death in his eyes, bleak and hateful.

Off the side street to another, and here a few of the lights are working, the beams swallowed up by the black of the pavement. Houses are greyed around the edges with neglect, but the driveway of the house she finally pulls into is pratically bent over with it, sagging beneath the weight of it's own beams and supports. It looks worse than the others, because it is completely dark with no lights breaking through the windows. It looks worse than the others, because all of its previous occupants are now weeks dead, and no one's bothered to do anything about it.

The engine cuts off, and she begins to unbuckle her seatbelt, "This is it."

Decker Rohl

Sun 12:22AM EST
Feels odd: the man watching them pass by, that look in his eyes. Feels odd because not too long ago (all his life) that would've been him or one of his. Walking down the street in his old mudstained bloodstained clothes and his cloud of marijuana, glaring at the rich people and their rich cars that dared to drive through his neighborhood, always with their privacy-tinted windows up, their doors locked. Out of reach, out of touch, and then out of sight.

The car parks and Decker pops the door open. He hadn't worn a seatbelt, so there was no need to take it off. His legs swing out of the SUV and his feet touch down on the asphalt simultaneously. He rises out of the car and flicks a glance around, narrow-eyed. You'd think he'd scent the air, the way he looks about him, but he settles for a single loud sniff, thuggist. A hand shuts the door behind him with an airtight snick. Passing Imogen by, he glances over the hood at the Glass Walker to see what she'll do.

Real nice place, this. Made his sardine can look homey. Made his ma's trailer look like a palace.

Rune

Sun 12:22AM EST
"Least we don't hafta worry about the neighbors calling the fucking police," Rune mutters as she unclips her restraining seatbelt and climbs out of the SUV. Boots make a muffled sound on the cracked and buckled concrete, mingling with a sound that finds its way to her through and barely past her lips as well, some half-muffled grunt. Too much time with a silent Fenrir and his equally silent (face it) mate will do that to even a motormouth like yours truly.

Dark eyes crawl over the brown muck that passes for a lawn ( - lovely - ) and then she's picking her way across, climbing the steps to the sagging porch.

"Don't think I remember - or maybe I never asked - how the girl got to the hospital, or how the parents died?" she comments, peering in through the smeared, dirty windows, sizing the place up before trying the front door.

Imogen Slaughter

Sun 12:33AM EST
"How much do you care about fingerprints?" inquired as Rune touches the door handle, jiggling the door. out of all the things in decay here, it seems like the only thing decent is the lock. The door remains stuck. "The parents died in a car accident. They were in a taxi, and there was a pile up. Taxi caught on fire. Little girl climbed through the window, apparently unharmed. Here, I have the keys." The last said reluctantly, because this was going far, and taken from personal effects of the dead. It may not be a good idea to ask how she got them. It would certainly not be a question she'd want to answer, directly.

Decker's between her and Rune, so instead the keys, in a plastic baggy are offered to the Modi. Several keys, a few keychains, blood long dried staining the plastic that states the previous keys owners name and address. "I checked the autopsy reports. Both died of smoke inhalation, and had enough alcohol in their blood to.. well. they had enough."

Even through the door both the Garou can catch the faint fine smell of decay, a whiff of it. Not human decay, no, but food. Nobody had bothered to clean out the fridge, it seems.

Rune

Sun 12:40AM EST
"Not as much as I should, apparently," Rune manages in response, a wry smirk fitting itself to the curve of her red mouth. "Can I wipe 'em off, or will that just make it worse?"

The inquiry is tossed over her shoulder as she steps back from the door and slides her hands into the pockets of her winter coat. The pockets bulge as she tries to slither her hands into fitted gloves individually, then she gives that up, withdrawing her hands from her pockets and taking the time to tug the gloves on all the way as she waits for Decker to tromp his way onto the porch with the keys.

Decker Rohl

Sun 12:43AM EST
'Apparently' unharmed. Decker snorts, a blast of steam from his nostrils diffusing away. Imogen hands him the keys and he takes them, looking at it through the baggie before opening the top up and starting to reach in.

...care about fingerprints? Hm. The Modi pauses, shakes down his sleeve over his fingers, and gingerly picks the keys out through that. Just in case. Be proud of him. Last time he just kicked the fucking door in. Fitting the keys into the lock one by one (flakes of dried blood crunch off) until he finds the one that works, Decker unlocks the door and drops the key back into the baggie, handing it back to Imogen. One whiff of the scent of rotting microwave lasagna and meatloaf convinces him to start breathing through his mouth.

Wait for Rune to twist the doorknob, push the door open. And two Garou, one kinfolk, stand in the doorway looking in.

Imogen Slaughter

Sun 01:01AM EST
A flicker of a smirk touches her lips as Rune speaks, "You should be alright about wiping them off. Door knobs are horrible for fingerprints." And if she finds out that someone has finger printed, she will quietly destroy evidence, though it meant re-fingerprinting the pack.

She takes back the keys, glancing inside, a faint frown touching her brow. She continues to breath normally, either because she's smelled worse, or her senses are more dead than the two Garou.

She can solve the Garou's fingerprints. Hers, however? Are on file for exclusionary purposes. Hrrm. "I'll be right back." Turns on her heel and starts back toward the SUV.

The two Garou enter, and the house is colder, if at all possible, than the outside, the air heavy and slick with rotted smells. The power has long since failed, because the bills were not paid, and a pile of letters, abandoned in the middle of the hallway, shoved in through the mailslot. The shadows are deep and all covering, but even the softening effect of darkness cannot hide that this place looks like it's been abandoned for much longer than it's occupants have been dead. The living room is hard wood floor, with a debilitated couch pushed by a window covered with grey drapes. In the centre of the room is a rug, looking out of place and marginally in bettler shape than the rest of the room, slightly newer and less worn. There's a fireplace in the corner, filled with soot and ashes and probably not used for eons. The mantle has an array of different objects, each of them with their own meaning. A liquor bottle half full, it's glass covered in dust stands beside a framed photograph of what might be a child, but in this gloom, you would have to look closer. A few trophies, dented and damaged, and a lamp, that looks like it's been reglued more than once.

The smell is heavier in here, and beyond the living room is a door, dinged grey and smudged with finger prints, some child height, presumably leading to the kitchen. To the left is a stair case, leading to the second floor. The door shuts as Imogen re-enters her fingers incased in thick latex gloves.

Decker Rohl

Sun 01:12AM EST
Standing in the gloom and the stillness, Decker's weight is unconsciously balanced on his toes, his eyes sweeping the room left to right, right to left, his ears open. The room had the feel of decay and abandonment, which is deeper than smell. It weighs heavily in the air, making the living room somehow airless as well as lightless. Decker clears his throat, and the sound is curiously flat.

He takes a few steps into the living room, circling it, leaning close to look at the pictures and the trophies on the mantle. Nothing unusual there, right?

Door to the kitchen, stairs. After a moment, the Modi clenches one fist, popping the knuckles lightly. "Goin' upstairs," tersely, as a few short gestures strip the heavy winter coat from his shoulders and leave it in a lump at the foot of the stairs. In the shadows, it looks like a sleeping animal, a curled and withered transient.

The stairs creak under his weight as he bounds up in twos and threes.

Red-Haired Man

Sun 01:27AM EST
The Time is ripe. The air is just. Feel death in your hands. Take control. Play the game.

Imogen Slaughter

Sun 01:29AM EST
The rug: brand-spanking-new. At least in comparison to the rest of the desolation. The colours are bright, even in the shadow. One of those jarring things that just looks wrong.

Imogen walks to the mantal, the trophies, and the fireplace, eyeing the picture for a moment, picking it up in a gloved hand, her head half turning as Decker announces where he's going. And up the stairs. She does not follow, instead staring at the dust of the mantle and the disturbance, still holding the picture in her hand. Voice, quiet. She's supposed to notice the little things, and the little thing here, would have passed beneath both Garou's noses. "Someone else has been here."

The stairs creak and moan beneath Decker's weighted step, and he comes up into a hallway. Three rooms, the doors open. A master bedroom, the bed unmade and in disarray, a wastebasket full of liquor bottles, another sitting on a bookcase, really appearing to be used for pictures and liquor bottles rather than reading material.

Two more rooms beyond. One is empty, desolate, scrapes in the hard wood where furniture was dragged out. The third has a name plate, bright enough in the gloom, plaster painted with moons and stars. Olivia. A child's room. Beyond the nameplate, the room is mostly devoid of childish things. Bed, perfectly made. A box that might hold toys. A desk, with a lamp on it. A few hand drawn pictures on the wall, and a few other pushpins marring the wall, with bits of paper stuck on them where the pictures had been torn down.

There's a smell, so slight that likely a human would miss it. Musty. Old decayed skin.

Red-Haired Man

Sun 01:34AM EST
Feel the world dance along its track, irrevocable, unknowable. The world slows, time does a wicked dance with itself... and soon you're the only man moving. The only man alive. All others in molasses...

Rune

Sun 01:39AM EST
Rune's head rises sharply at that, dark eyes sweeping through the shadows of the dusty first floor as if they might be here - say - now. Mouth narrowing into a fine, thin line, she edges back and glances around the kitchen, then relays Imogen's words to Decker, silently.

Imogen says someone's been here. Could be still here.

She makes another quick circuit of the first floor - the lowered shadows, the foul sweet rot of decay, swallowing and smiling hard against her rising gorge in the kitchen, before returning to the rug. Gloved fingers slide beneath the rug as she pulls her rattling keys from her pocket with her other hand. The thin, pointed beam of a powerful little penlight sweeps over the floor revealed beneath.

Decker Rohl

Sun 01:43AM EST
The master bedroom: old sheets and alcohol. Decker picks a liquor bottle out of the trash, sniffs at the mouth and then drops it back in.

(Shit, fingerprints...)

Lean down, pick it out, clean it up. Drop it in. Standing in place, he turns to look the room over, and then pads into the master bathroom. Closets smelling of mothballs. Toilet, brownish streaks running down the crease in the bowl. Hadn't been washed for a while. Decker's upstairs when Imogen makes her quiet announcement, and even his ears can't hear through walls and fifty feet of space. At least not in this form.

Halfway down the hall toward the child's room, the scent niggles at the back of his mind. The Modi stops in midstep, head turning, cocking as though he were listening. A light sniff, another, and then his Beta's words come into his mind.

Yeah, okay.

A moment later his clothes have melted into fur. On four legs, nose to the still air, the Fenrir tracks the scent into the empty room, ears swiveling for sound beyond that of Rune and Imogen downstairs, beyond that of rats in the walls, a dripping faucet down the hall, the night-creatures outside, the cars.

Imogen Slaughter

Sun 01:46AM EST
The parents' bedroom is beneath notice. It smells like liquor, like old sex, and sweat and carelessness.

The old decayed smell, and if he tried to imagine what it might smell like, he might consider it to be almost mummification, comes oddly enough from the empty bedroom. The smell of the child's bedroom has equal disturbance, a faint smell that he might associate with dried blood (how often his own clothes have smelled like that), and a sweeter smell that might just be the dead child's own scent, turned sickly with halted decay.

The kitchen reeks. Horrible smells of rotted garbage and food, sour milk. Frozen food long gone to waste. Dirty dishes pile in the sink, a dour green. It must be a relief to return to the living room and turn her attention to the rug. Rune lifts the rug, her pen light sweeping beneath the floor boards, uncomfortably discoloured a dark red-brown, the underneath of the padded rug stained with it slightly, a faint outline where dried blood had been damp enough to be transferred.

Imogen replaces the photograph, carefully, eyes sweeping the room, before falling on the crouched form of the Glass Walker kneeling by the rug with a pen light, mentally kicking herself for not bringing a flashlight.

Imogen Slaughter

Sun 01:49AM EST
Beneath the higher perception of his wolven senses, the smell is easy to track, and that much more cloying, sticking in the back of his throat. The room is, as mentioned, empty. The door, had he noticed, bears the marks of nails, the faint outline where a nameplate once rested. His nails scratch across furrows already in the floor. There's a closet in the far corner. Follow your nose, and it leads you there.

Decker Rohl

Sun 01:55AM EST
His thoughts run a restless undertone in Rune's mind, shifted now to the impressions of the lupine language. The scent is reproduced in Rune's mind, as is the sensation of furrows in the ground, perhaps as though someone had once tried to gouge his way out. The faint outline of a matching nameplate to Olivia's is also conveyed, a flickerflash of sensation in her mind before the powerful grey beast pads across the floor to the closet, his claws ticking softly on the wood.

It's hard to open a door without hands, so after a moment wolf becomes man, crouched before the closet. Straightening, goosebumps standing up on his arms in the chill of the house - he only wears a t-shirt now, after all - he reaches out and opens the closet door.

Rune

Sun 02:01AM EST
"Lovely," she half-breathes, cotton t-shirt expanding outward with the soft exhalation. The rug drags and catches a bit agains the floorboards as she tugs it further back, examining the shape of the stain - she couldn't tell much - and then glancing back to Imogen for her reaction.

Decker's thoughts now, the strange flashes of scent and impression that make an odd jumble in her human mind. The claw marks stand out, and the scent - beneath her cotton shirt, her mouth widens in a choking grimace - another breath sucked in a blown out, to clear the scent from her mind.

"He found something, upstairs." she offers Imogen, the details too multitudinous to break down into convenient words, the scent too raw and fresh in her mind.

Decker receives a response too: Blood under the carpet down here.

Imogen Slaughter

Sun 02:06AM EST
Cold, cold, cold. The door is victim to someone's inept replacing of the door knob, changing it from a cheap one, to an equally cheap one, but one with a lock. Tool marks scar the edges around the door knob, and he rattles the knob, back and forth, and for a moment, the door lock holds. Of course, now, Decker knows it's locked and can....

crack

... turn his wrist that much harder. There is not much that can withstand a Garou's strength, even in homid, and the door knob twists abruptly under his hand, and swings open.

It's somewhat dark in the empty bedroom, but he has the benefit of a window not obscured by curtains, and the moon and stars and general ambient light of the city. The point? He can see inside the closet. The smell is here, definitely, as if his lupine senses could have been deceived. The closet is empty, a few hangers left desolate hanging from the rung. And a large trunk, it's edges pressed against the walls.

Downstairs, Imogen comes up behind Rune, before falling into a crouch beside the Glass Walker, one hand reaching out to push the carpet back farther, her brow furrowing slightly as she inspects it, clinically. Size. Width. Colour. Type. Her eyes lift and begin to scan the surrounding floor for drops, "Can you..." a half question, as she gestures with a gloved hand indicating around them, "shine that around..?"

Attention shifts back as Rune speaks again, "What'd he find?" She's almost -almost- used to the telepathy of the packmates. At least she doesn't question it.

Rune

Sun 02:16AM EST
The Glass Walker rises from her crouch, straightening to get a better angle from which to shine her penlight. Keys clink quietly together, falling over the webbing between thumb and index finger as she shifts her hand and shines the light in widening concentretic circles drifting outward from the stain.

"An odd scent in an empty room, leading to a closet, scratch marks on the floor."

Imogen Slaughter

Sun 02:23AM EST
Imogen remains crouched, eyes following the circle of the light, passing over floor boards, warped and greying. A stain here, darkening of the boards that might be a spilled drink, a few other darkenings of floor boards, but nothing like the marring on the floor. "Whatever happened happened right here." A hand gestures toward the stain, it's edges discoloured where the fluids had begun to seperate.

She doesn't answer the elabouration, looking at the Glass Walker for a moment. After a moment, she turns away, her head turning instead to look at the stairs, fingers tapping lightly against a jean clad thigh, thoughtfully. Whatever questions she has, remain turning within. Let the two packmates converse, without disruption from the damned kin asking twenty questions.

Decker Rohl

Sun 02:26AM EST
As the door swings slowly open, Decker shakes his wrist out gently, peering into the gloom. Emptiness. Hangers. And a large chest.

His eyes are narrowed as he sniffs the air, forgetting for a moment that his nose isn't sharp in his form. A step into the closet (creeeaak, loose floorboard), and another, and then the Modi drops to an easy crouch in front of the trunk. Putting forth his hands, he touches the latches, the locks, and then tries to open it.

Locked.
Unsurprising.

He casts about, reaches up and grabs one of the hangers off the bar. Bending the upper hook of the hanger straight, the Modi works it into the keyhole, jiggles it around, tries his best to imitate a skinny kid he'd known when he was fourteen. Boosted more cars in a month than the kid had had years in his life. Than he ever did have, for that matter. Kid was shot dead in a gutter over something doubtlessly stupid when Decker was sixteen. By then, though, Decker was a Modi, and had other worries on his mind.

The wire wasn't working. Losing his patience, he shoves at the lock - hard - and then gets to his feet. His joints don't pop. He takes a slow step or two back. Casts a glance over his shoulder like he expected someone to be there. Turns back.

Kicks the lock once, sharply, a simple vicious arc of his foot. Just as sharply, Decker checks the follow-through an instant after impact: just the way he might if he were, say, trying to kick a man in the gut in a way that'd keep him right there for your next blow instead of heaving him back a few feet.

The little tricks you learn.
Crack!

Pulled back a little too late. The trunk's lid, taking the brunt of his upwards blow, cracks down the middle. Oops. Too late now. Leaning down, willing his olfactory nerves dead, he pushes the lid up and looks to see...

Rune

Sun 02:35AM EST
Rune nods to Imogen as she makes her pronouncement. Whatever happened, happened here.

The sense is conveyed to Decker as Rune crosses the room to Imogen. The collar of her t-shirt slips down, revealing the pained looking smile (not. gonna. puke) frozen on her face before the Glass Walker tugs it ruthlessly up again.

"We might as well head up," Rune offers, as she draws abreast of the opening to the stairs. What she means is this: I'm not leaving you down here by yourself.

Imogen Slaughter

Sun 02:43AM EST
The trunk's lid jerks upward with a rend of metal and a splintering of wood, slamming up against the back of the closet with a thud.

Wish your senses dead, because the smell got just that much stronger now. He's probably never seen a body that instead of being subjected to flies and maggots, or the decay of heat and moisture. An air tight space. Protected from the elements. In fact, many of the bodies he's seen are so fresh the consideration of decay had not even entered his mind.

It's pathetically small. Age hard to determine because with the flesh shrunk away, wrinkled and greyed, he cannot tell what size it would have been in life. Two years old. Three? Maybe four. Blonde hair trapped against a skull cap, laid on it's back so he can see the body's revealed death grin, where the lips have pulled back from its teeth. Tiny and pearlescent against the discolouration of decay. He can see a small filling on one front tooth, grey and metallic. Beneath the near translucent curve of lids, he can see the outline of eyeballs, long dry. Much of the body has pulled in on itself, as tendons had shortened and skin had tightened. Arms pulled up to it's chest, fingers half curled, nails sticking out in sharp relief against the bone sized digits.

Still dressed. oshkoshbigosh overalls. A t-shirt, the white discoloured now from leaked fluids.

-----

Downstairs, Imogen's head turns upward to look in the direction of the sharp crack as Decker's foot meets the trunk, once, twice, and then the thud of wood against wood. A sideways glance at Rune, as she straightens, quite a bit shorter than the Glass Walker, inclining her head slightly. "Right, then." Beginning toward the stairs.

Decker Rohl

Sun 02:53AM EST
The wave of scent and the sight (dimly perceived in the gloom, and that much worse for it) hit him like a tidal wave.

His first instinct is the same as any other nineteen-year-old man-boy who's never seen this sort of decay, this sort of extended epilogue to a death. Before he made his first kill - backalley, a knife, a few dollars and an insult, nothing glorious, nothing even remotely good - he thought of death in terms of the movies. Glorious red blood. After his first kill, he thinks of death in terms of rended flesh, in terms of the stench of torn intestines and that last expelled tidal breath, in terms of bladder and bowels emptied (unless the damage is so massive - and it often was, under his hands - that such natural reactions are checked, that such final arrangements cannot go through); in terms of blood. He barely considers decay beyond the day or so it takes to bury the dead - if even that. He does not consider rot. He does not consider the odd imperfect mummification that occurs in a dry, cool place.

His first instinct is to turn around and vomit. He gets as far as the turning around before he catches himself because his tribe. is not. weak like that.

"Fuck." This curse is choked out from vocal cords and across mindlink alike. Footsteps coming up the stairs. He backs out of the closet and turns toward the door right as Rune and Imogen appear. A low gurgling cough. "Think you got yer Sudden Infant Death there."

Red-Haired Man

Sun 02:54AM EST
Move!

Red-Haired Man

Sun 02:59AM EST
As the two women leave the room, a sudden change overcomes the environment. It's sudden, but not too sudden, more along the lines of an epiphany of the senses. All of the sudden, a man becomes apparent. Not along the lines of was-invisible-and-now-isn't, more along the lines of wait-when-did-he-get-here.

Red-Haired Man

Sun 03:01AM EST
He then begins to move silently across the room, his inherent abilities taking over as he makes his way towards a door. Any door. He begins to sneak...

Rune

Sun 03:01AM EST
We're coming up.

It's a veritable play-by-play that Rune offers to her packmate, though likely unnecessary. He can hear the stairs creak beneath Rune's weight, even if Imogen is light enough to pass without much noise. He can feel the Ahroun's approach, sense her presence below him, but rising, booted feet clomping on the stairs as she climbs in the kin's wake.

Gaining the top step, she turns toward Decker instinctively, dark eyes roaming the shadowed room beyond. Teeth grind into the flesh of her lower lip, for the rictus of a grin is no longer enough to stave off the natural reaction that forms itself in her roiling gut and expands upward.

"Fine, upstanding family." she mutters dryly, when some sense of control is regained, the distancing necessary in such situations.

Red-Haired Man

Sun 03:05AM EST
As he makes his way across the floor, his feet impact the ground with record efficiency. His movements are silent and swift, his confidence playing onto itself, until he reaches the center of the room. His step is a bit too zealous, and his feet impact just the right place with just the right amount of force to send his right leg crashing through the floor. The noise resounds through the house.

Red-Haired Man

Sun 03:08AM EST
As his leg falls through the floor, his entire center of balance is thrown off in. His world reels and his head plummets to the ground, bringing his chin to the floor with a satisfying crack . He'll be lucky to NOT have his jaw broken.

Imogen Slaughter

Sun 03:09AM EST
The smell assaults her senses, and her features flicker in a movement of suppressed gag, her hand raising to touch at her nose, the smell of her own skin helping dispell the smell that permeats the room. Inhale. Exhale. There must be things she does to get over the smell. Part of it is she forces herself to smell it, so her mind will begin to deflect it. After a moment her hand falls away shoving into her pocket, eyes turning toward Decker as she starts to walk forward, "What do you ...."

Whatever question she'd been about to ask is cut off, as something crashes downstairs, a shatter of wood, and then a sudden fumble of footsteps and crunch as Red Hair's jaw hits the ground.

Red-Haired Man

Sun 03:11AM EST
"Phhhhhit."

The man, now on the floor, wrestles himself onto his arms, and begins to vigorously attempt to extract his leg from the floor.

Decker Rohl

Sun 03:13AM EST
"No f--" Decker begins, and then the crash of wood splintering, followed by the crack of someone's chin hitting the ground, breaks him off mid-sentence. There isn't an instant's pause - not even that proverbial moment where everyone stares at everyone else and demands to know what the fuck that was.

The Modi's out the door and hammering down the stairs, bending double to see into the living room before he's even halfway down. Man: leg in ground, head on ground. Door: still locked the way Imogen left it. That means...

One hand grabs the banister and Decker vaults over it, fluid as a striking adder. The Fenrir-turned-missile crosses the distance and (injury to injury) lands on top of Gabriel, smacking him back into the ground. Low, and oh-so-quiet, a question which does not lilt up at the end, "The fuck are you."

Rune

Sun 03:16AM EST
That certainly brings a reaction.

The Glass Walker's eyes, narrowed on the shadowed darkness of the empty run, widen and the world is apprehended in a spinning arc as she turns quickly on her heel. The collar of her t-shirt falls from her mouth and nose as her head whips around, fifteen degrees ahead until her body finishes the about-face and catches up.

Two sharp tugs, and the winter coat drops from her shoulders, flung carelessly aside as she gains the stairs and eases down them. Free hand trails along the drywall, just above the cracked bannister, a leading edge, when Decker vaults over it and down.

Eh, so much for subtlety.

Two feet behind Decker, circling for a better view - blocking, indeed, the path to the door - the tall woman stands, weaponless hands hanging open at her side, ready. already moving downstairs,

Red-Haired Man

Sun 03:18AM EST
"Who He Huck An I? Whah he huck hust ha'end?"

The man removes his leg from the floor, and swings it up next to him. His jaw hangs slack, apparently dislocated, and yet this man is still trying to form words with it.

Looking at him, it's a wonder anyone missed him. He's wearing a long black coat that looks like it's straight out of a bad movie with wizards in it, combined with a rather nice outfit all in black. He's also wearing a jewelry store's worth of Silver crap. Silver circlet, silver armbands, silver pentagram, silver bracelets, silver rings. Silver everything.

How the HELL do you not notice a guy who could act as a directing beacon for airplanes?

Imogen Slaughter

Sun 03:22AM EST
Decker had been farther from the door from her, and she steps aside, quickly freeing up space for the Garou to get through. Reactions are immediate, and the only indecision Imogen has is whether or not she would be actually useful downstairs, or if she should stay and find out what the hell Decker was talking about.

Her foot steps follow, more sedately out to the top of the stairs, remaining out of the limelight, and out of possible innocent bystander radius.

Red-Haired Man

Sun 03:22AM EST
Fight or flight. FIGHT OR FLIGHT!

Both.

Rune

Sun 03:23AM EST
"Let's try this again. We're asking the fucking questions here."

Dark hair falls across the pale skin of the woman's cheek, bare arms crossed narrowly over the lean expanse of curving hips, where white-cotton tee meets black leather pants.

"Who. the. fuck. are. you."

Red-Haired Man

Sun 03:25AM EST
"Hut he huck uh, hitsh."

The man appears defiant, despite the fact that half of his face is not exactly behaving like it would in a perfect world.

Red-Haired Man

Sun 03:27AM EST
Upon closer examination, as Decker quite obviously has the ability to make right now, this man is very, VERY armed. And not in the usual run-of-the-mill armed, either. He has a sword, in the sheath, two sidearms at his sides, and some sharpened stakes.

He also doesn't appear to be bleeding in the slightest sense.

Decker Rohl

Sun 03:29AM EST
Yeah, Decker'll shut him the fuck up. The thug takes one step forward, feet planted firm and wide, and drives his fist into the unfortunate stranger's ear. It's not the flailing strike of an inexperienced brawler, either - it's short, reined in, to the point, and targeted to bust an eardrum.

"Answer the motherfuckin' question."
Kill 'em? Impressions of all the silver on the man, as well as the bizarre weaponry, flicker to Rune.

Imogen Slaughter

Sun 03:56AM EST
Decker's fist lashes out. He's skilled. Born fighter (born killer). It's only by the injured man's want to survive, and want to have his ear drum intact that keeps Decker's fist from landing solidly on the ear.

A jerk of movement. Decker's fist clips the vampire's head, causing the interloper's ear's to ring, and his head to spin.

Red-Haired Man

Sun 03:57AM EST
The man is struck alongside the head, his neck and body jercking to the side, and his body ricocheting off of the ground, making a rather painful picture for most living beings. The man, by all rights, should be, and in fact is, dead. But that doesn't keep him from pushing out his hand to heft himself off of the ground, and back onto his feet. His hearing rings...

Red-Haired Man

Sun 03:58AM EST
The man allows for his senses to dialate, his body then flows with the power that he denies himself except when absolutely necessary. He burns blood and feels the world slow...

Rune

Sun 04:02AM EST
The impressions flash through her mind. Decker punches. The man - rises - "Fuck." The Glass Walker lifts her chin drops it, nodding sharply.

The assent is carried over Eagle's wings as well.

Kill 'em.

Senses expand and fill, dark eyes narrowing on the man as she calls upon her own gifts of spirit and flesh, shoulders and feet bracing wide.

Red-Haired Man

Sun 04:07AM EST
He slowly reaches foreward with his bruised hands, calling out to his interior powers and abilities, aching to release the burned blood as the flame that encompasses his being. Upon evocation, his hands begin to glow, the light, and begins to emit the white-hot light of pure, irridescent flame. He balls his hands into flame... and is consumed with fear at the prospect of harming the woman...

Red-Haired Man

Sun 04:15AM EST
His fear spreads about him, and his response is sudden... violent... He spreads the flame arounds himself, lighting campfires on the rotting-dry floor, then breaking for the door. He then burns some more of his Vitae in order to allow himself the attitude for escape...

Decker Rohl

Sun 04:18AM EST
The Modi takes a slow step back, his striking hand coming up to brush across his mouth while the other delves into the pockets of his baggy, low-slung jeans. Ghetto-style, they pool to the ground, the cuffs frayed and chafed; his t-shirt, however, is old, thin, and a few sizes too small with his latest (last) growth spurt. Beneath it, the musculature of his upper body moves and slides as his hand closes around something in his pocket. One can imagine what it is. Brass knuckles. Knuckle-knife. Switchblade knife. Something like that...

A glance at Rune, grey, hard as a stone flicked her way beneath knotted eyebrows. Assent (permission) comes over the mindlink.

Off the leash.

Hand comes out of his pocket. A metallic gleam as the blade locks into place, dull in the darkness; in the next instant, the gleam bleeds into a streak of liquid light as the Modi accelerates impossibly.

rage burns.
blood burns.
death burns.

Rune

Sun 04:24AM EST
The woman who bears down on him with the same swift speed as the man.

Impossible.

He has a nice switchblade knife. She has her fists and a pair of brass knuckles slid from her pockets and fitted over her hands. Fortunately (for the Glass Walker, at least) her fists are as efficient as her packmate's.

Red-Haired Man

Sun 05:25AM EST
As the final moments of awareness approach, barely ten seconds after the beginnings of the fight, the man slowly realizes that this is it. The end. The long, drafty end to it all.

I'm Free

He falls under the blade and fist of the two advancing Garou, his blood flying out of his body with a spectacular sheen. He slowly loses awareness, and yet gains so much more...

I'm Free

As he ascends into what could be called the final resting place for all men and all women, he realizes that he just set a tinder-dry house on fire.

Oh well. I wonder why I don't feel anything in particular?

OH, THAT WOULD BE GLANDS. IN ORDER TO FEEL FEAR, OR ANGER, YOU NEED GLANDS. WHICH YOU HAVE CONVENIENTLY LEFT IN THAT BURNING HOUSE.

Wait a moment... Are you Death?

YOU'RE NOT ALLOWED TO USE THAT NAME IN A PUBLIC PLACE. IT IS COPYRIGHTED. YOU SHALL HEAR FROM MY LAWYER.

And so the Red-Haired man whose name was never mentioned in his short, violent chronicle, passed from this world and into the world where he is being sued by Death for Copyright Infringement.

Imogen Slaughter

Sun 05:30AM EST
Fire spills from the interloper's hands igniting on dry hard wood floors, quickly beginning to demolish the flooring.

Decker is faster than humanly possibly, ripping through the fire, his clothing catching, skin singeing (1 aggravated to Decker) and lunging at the vampire, his knife singing through the air. The vampire leaps backward, the knife slicing through the air, cutting through the fabric of his shirt, but nothing more.

Rune, farther away, had farther to go. The distance is closed with the same brutal speed as her packmate has shown. Through the fire she steps, her clothing catching, her skin beginning to redden (1 aggravated to Rune). Brass knuckles connect against the vampire's shoulder. It is not a vital position. Barely leaving a mark against his flesh.

The onslaught of two Garou is too much. Too fast. Decker swipes out, his knife digging between the undead's ribs. If he'd had a beating heart, he would have spilled blood. As it is, it must be odd for the Garou to know he'd caused damage and feel no warmth of blood, only the cool clammy feeling of skin.


The vampire makes an attempt to flee, the fire burning in his eyes, fueling his terror. It is simply that the Glass Walker Ahroun is faster. Stronger. Her hand touches the vampire, and ... nothing.

Decker however touches the vampire and the undead falls beneath his touch, in a sprawl. The blood that comes after, under fist and claw. The vampire never had a chance.

Unfortunately, by the time the dirty work is nearly finished, the flames have begun to grow, spreading across the floor, inching toward them, and the door. The rug of the living room, piled in a corner has caught.

Even if Imogen could find the fire extinguisher she'd gone into the kitchen for, it would be no good. The flames are too damned high. Too damned hot. It had started as the size of a bon fire, and from there, with fueling and precious air, it had gone from there.

Decker Rohl

Sun 05:48AM EST
Blood on his hands. Blood on his jaws, cold and clammy already as blood should never be. Somewhere between then and now he had shifted to his direwolf form; points of accidental contact with the silver the vampire had worn have burnt right through his pelt, leaving reddened patches on his skin not unlike those that the fire had caused.

Fire? Grey-furred (singe-furred), the creature drops to the ground and rolls. Kindergarten lessons come back to you at the strangest times. By the time he springs back to his four feet, the fire is huge in his eyes, chasing away even the chill of the house, stirring that instinctive fear that roots so deeply in the hearts of man and beast alike.

Especially beast.

The beast-form Fenrir leaps the stairs in two huge bounds (pausing to snatch up Rune's jacket, leaving his own to burn), skidding on the wood of the upstairs hall, claws digging in for traction as he springs at the door marked Olivia, striking it with his full weight - striking it down. Rune, across Eagle's wings, her name, and an indistinct impression of Imogen - you'd think him frantic. You'd almost think him afraid.

Into the girl's room - sniffing, choking on black smoke, overturning things to look for - find - anything that might aid them.

Rune

Sun 05:51AM EST
Half-a-moment to beat out the fire caught on her clothing, hands reddening from the flames - fuck - rising from the now still corpse, dark eyes flashing over the growing conflagration.

"Fucking hell."

At least the blaze would destroy the leech's body and end whatever chance it had of rising again. At least they wouldn't have to cart it to Imogen's SUV and take it out to the woods to burn, or to stake out for the morning sun. There's that, at least.

It's not much.

As the fire eats a wider hole among the wooden floorboards of the deadly dry clapboard house, silent communication between the packmates - where's imogen - upstairs - i'll get her - you go - the picture of her jacket discarded on the floor. Decker leaps up the steps, and Rune charges back through the fire, flat-out running (rage-fueled speed through the licking flames, down the narrow, smoke filled hall and into the disgusting kitchen, searching for Imogen, made frantic as much by the silent feel of her packmate's panicked thought as by the heat of the fire now at her back.

Imogen Slaughter

Sun 06:05AM EST
Fire casts eery shadows and flames, coating everything with light, but somehow it doesn't chase away the desolation of this place. Rune's skin sears as she dashes through the living room to the small hallway and the disgusting kitchen beyond the door. The flames have not quite yet reached the kitchen, though the smoke has, and the flames have reached the door frame. Imogen had found a fire extinguisher, before realizing two things. It's too fuckin' late. And the goddamned thing was empty.

She spins as Rune bursts through the door, head turning up toward sounds of wolven claws pounding across the wooden floor, barely audible over the flames, "Jesus christ, he's..." trails off, shaking her head sharply, eyes turning toward the kitchen door where the flames have begun to lick around the edges, catching the wallpaper, "Out the back."

The flames that have licked at Rune's clothing have thankfully hardly caught, perhaps because the woman refuses to stop moving. A quick glance of dark blue eyes once over the Ahroun, before turning on her heel and heading toward the back door. If Rune follows her, she still goes. If Rune doesn't follow her, she still goes.

Imogen Slaughter

Sun 06:12AM EST
The bedroom. The flames hot, even here, and the smoke has begun to seep through the ventilation, and his rapid searching sends fabric and papers spilling across the floor. Tinder, for when the flames do reach so far. Unfortunately, from the feeling beneath his feet, it's more likely to come up THROUGH the floor, than sedately through the stairs.

The pickings are slim. If he bothers to think of it, the subject of some of the crayola drawings are disturbing, predominant with blood and gore. In the bottom of the closet are some clothing, the neck of one shirt stiff with blood, the pants at the very bottom, in a similar state.

Perhaps there was nothing more. Or if he'd had the time to look more sedately, he'd have found more. As it is, the floor beneath his feet is getting quite hot, and the sound of the fire has become a muted roar, punctuated by cracks of wood as the beams begin to threaten with the weight.

Rune

Sun 06:15AM EST
"He'll be fine."

The words are offered to Imogen - to her back, actually, as the kinfolk has already spun and charged through the back door, Rune hard on her heels, half-a-thought ahead of the spreading flames. The seconds come more quickly than her rapid breath, it seems, though her pulse races faster than either of breath or time or even hungry fire. Booted feet pouding on the thin linoleum spread across dust-dry floorboards.

Out the door goes Imogen. (And there's an image in her mind, an image in Decker's mind: Imogen from behind, hair spilling over her shoulders, smoke pouring through the sudden opening to the world, running out the back. Safe.) Out the door goes Rune. Down the buckling steps, smoke billowing in her wake.

In contrast to the neglected house, the postage-stamp yard is damp from the November rains, and sucks at the soles of Rune's boots as she circles through to the side of the blazing house, dark eyes searching the windows for her packmate.

The window. He'd have to come out the window. Rune knows Decker, and he certainly wouldn't be able to sidestep in time.

Imogen Slaughter

Sun 06:22AM EST
She pauses what is hopefully a safe distance from the flames, coughing to try and clear her airway of smoke, a sharp sound, before straightening, and turning to look at the house, beginning to follow Rune's path, eyes trained on the windows, as she slowly removes the plastic gloves that had kept her finger prints from the scene.

Useless, now.

Decker Rohl

Sun 06:29AM EST
Too much. Too fast. Fuckin' ground was burning his feet and there's entirely too-damn-much to look through and -

Safe.

- that settles him. Slightly. He grinds his teeth and ignores his pain and forces himself to calm, look about, look carefully, if only for an instant. Beneath his feet, the floor creaks and tilts drunkenly, a ship in a storm. Nothing. Nothing else. Fine - he snatches up what he can (crinosformed somehow), a picture, a shirt, pants, and then leaps the buckling floor into the hall - ragefilled blur of grey and white.

The fire might be coming up through the floor, but it was climbing the stairs too. The hall is fast being enveloped. No matter; he wasn't going that way anything. Lurching sideways, he crashes into the empty bedroom (clothes and pictures and whatnot stuffed into his jaws) and hauls the trunk up in both handpaws - heads (sprintsdashes) for the window.

Imogen Slaughter

Sun 06:39AM EST
The heat has begun to singe his fur, almost hot enough to start another fire in and of itself. It's like being in an oven, except the oven is poorly constructed and about to come apart around his ears.

His claws slipeslide digging new furrows into the wood, great rents in the floors. The trunk with it's grisly cargo is scooped, and it's then that's become nearly impossible to breath, even for his Garou senses, the smoke becoming thick enough to almost overload the healing powers already stretched thin, and for a moment his vision blurrs. Clears, as his garou metablism rights itself.

He crashes through the window, sending shards of glass through his skin and flesh, adding kindling to the flame that is already his seared skin.

The Modi comes from the house, with quite a bundle. Trunk and it's occupant; Rune's jacket. Blood smeared clothing and pictures stuffed in his jaw.

Inside the house, a great crack signals the beginning of the ceiling falling in on itself, nearly simaltaneous with the sound of sirens.

Someone finally called the fire department.

Rune

Sun 06:47AM EST
Circling, circling, boots sinking quietly into the wet ground.

One window - he's moving, she feels him - the other, crossing the yard to watch for him at the new window - she can feel him, his frantic movement through the house - "get the fuck out of there." - sometime in the middle of all this, an order and not a request. Whatever information he might find was hardly worth his life.

Somewhere there was a black spiral dancer with his death in its future, somewhere there was at least a woundable enemy, not just fire.

As Decker crashes through the window, Rune takes two gianet steps back, burnt arms rising unconsciously to shield her face from the falling shards of glass. He hits the ground, and she's half-on-her-knees, scooping up some the his finds (which spilled from his mouth as he charged through the window) into her jacket, now a makeshift pack.

"What kinda response time out here?" the question, rapidly uttered to Imogen as Rune rises from her knees, tying the sleeves of her jacket together to form a make-shift sling. Sirens sing-song in her ears. "Can the three of us get out of here in your car without getting stopped, or do Decker and I need to step over?"

They are warriors, but Imogen is, after all, a professional too.

Imogen Slaughter

Sun 06:55AM EST
Decker comes barreling out of the window, and she steps back to avoid the shards of glass, staring at the grey furred, black singed form of the Fenrir for a moment, before her attention jerks toward Rune.

She has to clear her voice twice to speak, turning her head to look toward the sounds of sirens, "We've got at least another three minutes or so. Maybe as much as five or seven." guessing from the sounds of sirens, and the area, "If we go now, I can take you in the auto."

Toward the Garou now, scooping up several pictures, smeared with the vampire's blood, and the Modi's saliva, adding it to makeshift pack of Rune's.

Decker Rohl

Sun 06:57AM EST
For his part, Decker's tumbled on all fours, melting into his human shape while he coughs half a lung or so up. The heat still bakes on his back, hot as an open oven; behind him, the house is caving in on itself like a badly made soufflé.

When he finally expels the last of the smoke and catches his breath, one hand still on the trunk with its rather unpleasant contents, he pushes himself straight, resting a moment on his heels while he snatched up one escaped picture. Then, staggering to his feet, he sends a glance over his scorched shoulder. It tells him all he needs to know - a house lit up like a christmas tree, fire belching from every (remaining) window while the roof tumbled down. Another second and a half and he'd be Fenrir barbecue.

Incongruously, the Modi remembers that he'd left his coat in there, and his stash was in his coat. His switchblade was probably twisted steel by now - and then the decision is made. He picks the trunk up again, strength augmented by the Eagle, throws it unsteadily over one shoulder (don't think about the stench). Another stray cough, "Let's go then."

Rune

Sun 07:06AM EST
And just like that: the decision is made. Decker grabs the trunk, Rune swings her scorched jacket over her shoulder, gritting her teeth to supress the wince as the wool catches across burned skin. Long strides, the pounding of feet, the rattle of the rusted chainlink fence, hugged as they dash around to the side, hugging the far edge of the property, as far as they can get from the side of the collapsing house.

The house - on fire against the night - is an oddly lovely vision. Once drab and dying, it now blooms with all the colors contained in Imogen's rich hair, all those colors and more. Rune - less burdened, a bit faster - gains the SUV and opens the doors: driver's side for Imogen, back seat for Decker, tossing her jacket onto teh opposite floor before shifting to help Decker load the trunk in after it. Smoke, scorched flesh, vampire blood, long-left decay, Imogen would need some detail work done, and soon, to get all those scents out of the upholstery.

Imogen Slaughter

Sun 07:13AM EST
Doors are unlocked, along with the trunk, beneath a button, and she slides immediately into the driver's seat, shoving the key into the ignition, and starting the engine.

Vampire blood, old decay, smoke, scorched flesh and hair. She's had nearly-as bad things in the SUV before, though she is not able to say she's had them all in the car at once. Cleaning out the smell should be an interesting prospect.

Though really, the question that truly remains is what to do with their mummified body.

Rune and Decker have closed their doors, when Imogen pushes the gears to drive, and pulls away from the fire, which is probably the brightest thing many of the neighbours have seen in their drab little lives.

They pass the fire trucks on the way to the freeway, lights flashing, horns blaring. And for once, Imogen drives the speed limit to get them all home.

Decker Rohl

Sun 07:37AM EST
Imogen driving. Rune riding shotgun. And Decker, turning while his singed clothes fell literally apart on his body, craning around to watch the house go up, go down, whichever, whatever. The flames light their own smoke, and coming antiparallel to them, the frantic shrieking lights of the fire engines streaking past, fading into the distance.

A dead vampire in ashes. A house in cinders. A child in pieces. And then there's the three of them in their hurtling tube of stillness. The collective silence of her companions is enough to silence even Rune, and for his part - Decker has nothing to say. Whatever there may have been (couldn't see you) to say (scared the fuck outta me) or do (glad you're all right), the moment had passed. The moment had never existed in the first place.

The hush of the passing distance, the soft hum of Imogen's radio, these are the things they fill the silence with all the way back. Some miles later, the SUV is parked in the lot beneath three hundred upscale identical identityless condominiums full of upscale identical identityless men and women who would never in their wildest dreams imagine the events of the night. One far-from-ideal kin goes right on the path into an tasteful, if austere condo: a picture of who she should be. One singed Glass Walker, one burnt Fenrir, and one mummified child in a trunk go left into a modern cave: no windows, few lights. A picture of who they are.

What the fuck were they going to do with the remains--
Doors shut, lights out. Think about it tomorrow.