It is currently 14:29 Pacific Time on Thu Apr 7 2005. Currently the moon is in the waning New Moon phase (10% full). Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining lightly. The temperature is 50 degrees Fahrenheit (10 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the southwest at 9 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.73 and rising, and the relative humidity is 86 percent. The dewpoint is 46 degrees Fahrenheit (7 degrees Celsius.) Safehouse: Grey's Room It's a spacious bedroom, if not as big as the one across from it. The door at the end of the second floor hall opens into a small space about five feet deep which, to the left, opens out into a wider area. Windows along the longest wall and near the top of the other outside wall provide plenty of sunlight, and the room is bright for most of the day. The walls are a dusty pastel teal above a polished maple hardwood floor, and the furniture, though not new by any means, is in good shape. Though the room doesn't lack for tidiness, there's a certain absense of the little touches that would give it personality; either its inhabitant hasn't made it a home yet or simple doesn't care to personalize. A neatly-made double bed is set lengthwise against the longer of the two interior walls, its head near a small nightstand which holds a reading lamp and an alarm clock. The closet door, which is usually closed, is across from the foot of the bed, and a large, solid-looking dresser stands against the middle of the longest wall, on the other side of the bedroom. A small stereo sits on top of it. There's a somewhat venerable armchair in the corner made by the two exterior walls, and a low bookshelf (mostly empty) squats along the shorter of the exterior walls, underneath the windows. A couple hours after lunch, and well after the painfully silent morning jog, there comes a brisk double-rap on Grey's door. "You in there?" Natalie's voice, of course. "It's open," comes the reply, rather muffled through the closed door. The galliard hesitates a moment. "May I come in?" There's several moments of silence from the other side before the door opens in answer. Though Grey's showered and dressed since the morning run, he hasn't shaved, leaving the normally neat beard surrounded by black stubble. "You've been quiet," Nat observes, looking up at him. "Thought I'd stop by. See if I... see if you wanted to talk. I've got an auspice on our new girl, if we can believe her birthday." Grey's gaze skitters away from the Galliard's as he turns away, leaving the door open invitingly. "Oh? What is she?" Early afternoon sunlight leaks in through the window, making it just below comfortable reading level. Not that he appears to have been reading. The bed's unmade, too. Natalie pads in after the man, swinging the door mostly closed behind her. About four inches of hallway can be still be seen. "Philodox, so I want you as her primary teacher. She's still pretty much a brat, but I think we can get her around to our way of thinking soon enough. It can't be pleasant living down in the basement, which works to our advantage." As usual while in his room, she keeps her hands tucked behind her back. Grey grimaces, though his back's to her and thus she doesn't see it. "Mnh. Yes." A hand comes up to rake back through his unkempt hair, and then he turns around, giving Natalie an unreadable look. "...I thought that you had told Megan about... this." He holds up a scarred forearm; he's wearing short sleeves. Up go Nat's eyebrows. "Huh? No. I figured that was your lookout. I told her you were back in town, and that you two -really- needed to see each other... but that was it. I don't like going into too much detail on the phone." Her path takes her to the near side of the dresser, and there she stops, between it and the wall. "They're not secure, you know that." Grey folds his arms across his chest, mouth pulling into a thin line as he nods. "...Of course they're not." He stares at a spot low on the wall halfway between Natalie and the door. "Stupid of me to assume." His voice is dead flat and far too calm, though the tension in him doesn't feel like anger; the lunar temper's as asleep as it's ever going to be. Natalie begins, "Did she... did you talk to her?" As soon as the question's asked she shakes her head, frowning at herself. "You must have. Stupid question." Instead she studies the silent figure for several seconds before asking, concerned, "Did it... go all right?" Grey grunts. "It'll be fine. So long as I don't make any more mistakes." He meets her eyes bluntly for a moment, something very like despair leaking past the edges of the otherwise stony facade, and then he turns away and drops himself into a seat on the edge of the bed. "Any more mistakes," she repeats, each word as delicately placed as if she was navigating a minefield. "That's... that's good. Isn't it? Hell, I've screwed up more than once and I'm still here." Her hands migrate around from her back to her front, then arms defensively cross across her belly. "It's just... --When did you talk to her?" This different angle lightens her voice. "Last night." Grey rests his elbows on his knees, fingers laced together. He stares down at them, not at her. "While you were busy with the new cub." Natalie says "So it's over and done with then," clearly pleased that this Sword of Damocles has been safely blunted. "Good. We can move on, then." A hesitation, and she studies what little she can see of his face. "Right?"" Several long seconds go by before he echoes, "Right." Then he takes a breath and forces himself to sit up, pulling himself together. What's left of himself, anyway; Megan's visit seems to have knocked bits out of him. He says again, "Right." Despite her bravado, Nat seems unwilling to wipe the slate clean -quite- that easily. She stays quiet, searching his face worriedly. Grey glances up at her, sees her still looking, and turns his eyes away with a grimace that's at least partially shame. The bedsprings squeak as he stands up. "I know. Moping. Sorry." He pushes his hands into his pockets. "I should be grateful she didn't exile me." "Hell," Nat says with a snort, "/I/ ought to be offering to do her housework. I need you, Thomas. If I haven't said it already, I'm damn glad you're back. With you areound I finally have some connection to the past, instead of just flailing about uselessly." Grey grunts. "Maybe I should have renounced to Galliard." Bitterness roughens the otherwise bland voice. "Or just stayed an Ahroun." His first suggestion brings a tight little smile to her mouth. "Thomas... take this with as much tact as possible, but you'd've made a shitty Galliard. And I -like- you... hell. I find it hard to imagine you as an Ahroun. You've got too much... too much... hell, I don't know. Self-control. I think of Ahrouns and I think of Signe. Or Emma. Or even White Bear. Aim 'em at a problem, give them a little shove, and say 'kill'. That's not you." Grey cocks his head, eyeing her sidelong, hair falling partially over his eyes. "You think so?" He sounds dubious, rather than fishing for reasurrance. "I'm a shitty Philodox, obviously. Worse than useless, now." Natalie shakes her head impatiently. "No, you aren't. Look... when did you meet Lara? You said it was Las Vegas, right? And that was before you renounced, if I'm remembering Alicia's story. So you were still an Ahroun." Grey's eyes narrow. "...What does when I met her have to do with anything?" "You were an Ahroun when you met her," Nat repeats, letting a touch more impatience creep into her voice. "-Not- a Philodox. You probably gave a rat's ass about following rules. Face it, /nobody/ thinks about the Litany as much as Philodox do. Just like nobody cares as much about spreading news as a Galliard, or chatting with spirits as a Theurge." Her eyes widen expectantly. "Right?" Grey grunts something that sounds like reluctant agreement, though he can't seem to meet her gaze directly. Natalie plows onward, her hands dropping back to her sides. "So you were an Ahroun. And you met her. And then you decided to become a Philodox instead. But you've still got her trailing along behind you. Like... well, hell. If I decided to become a Ragabash tomorrow, I wouldn't stop having feelings for Jon." She pushes off the wall to pace, hands fluttering in the air like she's been taking lessons from Rina. "So you're now a Philodox, and you still love her. Stupid? Sure. Understandable? Yes. Regrettable? Hell yeah. But I'm -not- going to attack you, not going to let you -wallow- over one stupid mistake. If /you/ do that, then /I/ get to wallow for the rest of my life over Scream-of-the-Machine. You have to /move on/, Thomas. Everybody gets to vacation in stupid-land, but it's just that. A vacation. You have to come back. We -need- you. -You-, not some, some... some perfect doesn't exist icon that you think you 'ought' to be. Dammit, Thomas, you aren't a Sanctified Dead Walker. I won't let you be." Grey stands very still, listening, his face gone blank and bland. "...I have no more leeway. If I screw up again, if I step the slightest bit out of line, I'm a dead man." That Sword doesn't seem so blunted now, does it? Natalie whirls on him, mouth pursed. "And if -I- screw up," she points out, exasperated, "So do I. That's the joy of being Garou. Gaia doesn't give us a do-over if it turns out that single Fomori was the bait in a trap of a pack of Dancers. -I- got a do-over by coming here. And now you've got one too. So take it, say thank you, and get your head out of your ass." Grey looks away from her and tilts his head slightly, baring throat. "You're right, of course." Granted, he still looks like the Sept Alpha cut off his balls and fed them to the mutts down at the Odeon. "Did you get a name out of the new cub?" "Of course," Nat echoes sarcastically, only to shake her head and rake a hand back through her hair. "--Yeah. Yeah, I did. Cy. And she's just turned fifteen too, if you can believe that. She looks more like she's twelve. So far it's pretty easy to get her to behave with food - poor kid's starving - but I don't know if that's going to last." Grey doesn't react to the sarcasm, even if he notices it. "Hopefully long enough for her to start listening to us." Natalie shrugs, then paces back to her spot by the wall. "S'why I want you to take point on her training. Right now she's convinced we're going to use her for a snuff film or some such crap. I want... I want her to be fixed on -you-, not on me. I was thinking we could start tweaking with her mind, play with the lights and when we bring food. That sort of thing. That'd make things go a lot faster than just sitting there and being patient." Her thumbs migrate into her beltloops, as they are wont to do. "But I'll let you decide. Gaia knows you've successfully trained more cubs than I have." Grey guardedly watches the Galliard pace and frowns. "Tweak with her mind?" It's not as bad as if Natalie suggested they actually /do/ a snuff film, but it's close. Natalie shrugs again, each shoulder rising, then falling in sequence. "Yeah. It's just an idea. It's what some of the tribe did back in Minnesota, when they got a cub who wasn't... briefed. Before hand, I mean. I never helped them do it, but I picked up a couple of things." Disquiet and disgust twists Grey's mouth. "...I think it's better to be patient." "The other way'll be faster," she offers, in case he wasn't quite sure about the contents of door number two. "But she's your cub. She's made a mess of the bunker - the cot's a total write off, and so's the first set of clothes I got her. I gave her a t-shirt and another pair of sweats yesterday, but all I could manage for now was blankets. So." The fingers of her right hand flicker as if annointing him with oils. "She's yours. Merry Christmas, happy birthday. Let me know anything you need and I'll get it for you." Grey grunts. The gift of a cub doesn't leave him looking terribly overjoyed. "When's she last eaten?" Natalie tilts her wrist so she can look at her watch. "Mmn, about six, seven hours ago. I took her something after our run. Didn't stick around to listen to how were were drugging her, it was all a hallucination, and we were just going to film her rape before throwing her body in the river." Nat adds, "So she's probably hungry." Duh. Grey grimaces again. "She probably is. I'll take care of it." Being able to cook makes him not /entirely/ worthless, one may suppose. He starts past Natalie toward the door. Natalie says "Thanks, Thomas. The sooner we can get her out of there the happier I'll be. --Want me to come down with you and do the locks? I haven't been wanting to give her an exit, so I've been relocking them once I'm on the inside." Grey pauses in the doorway to give the Galliard a grim look. "I think I can handle one cub." Natalie frees one hand, tosses him a two-fingered boy-scout salute. "You're the boss. If If you need anything, just give me a holler. I think I'm going to work Kevin on the Tongue until Jon gets home. After that," a one-shouldered shrug, "No plans. Maybe we could all have dinner or something." "Or something," the Philodox agrees, blandly, and then heads out and down the stairs, leaving Natalie alone in the dim-ish room with the unmade bed. [...] Safehouse: Basement The basement runs about half the width of the house above, with a concrete block wall separating the two. Most of the the area is open and unfinished and sports the usual basement decor of cobwebs, exposed rafters, and cockroaches scuttling along the walls. The furnace and hot water heater stand in glory in the northeast corner along with the fuse box; the northwest corner has been set up as an open workshop with a pair of fluorescent lights bolted to the ceiling. In the southwest corner stands a vault: more concrete blocks enclose a room perhaps ten by ten and a sturdy steel door denies passage either into or out of the place. Steps lead up from the southeast corner. Though it's difficult for the cub to tell, it's only a couple of hours past noon -- a long damn time since the lights first came on and Natalie brought breakfast -- when footsteps approach the bunker again. These are heavier footsteps than Natalie's and the voice that accompanies the knock is deeper. Masculine. "Are you awake, Cy?" There's a slight hesitation and sounds of movement on the other side of the steelplate door. Finally, she mumbles an answer: "Yeh." The door opens slowly enough, and in steps the /other/ kidnapper, the angry-looking black-haired man with the scars. Truth be told, he looks more tired than angry at the moment, like he hasn't slept. In his hands is a plastic plate with a home-made hamburger -- complete with lettuce, tomato, pickle, and ketchup -- and a generous amount of steak fries, along with a twenty-ounce bottle of Coke. "Lunch-time. More or less." The newest addition to the safehouse is on the floor against the wall farthest away from the door; she looks more tired than he does, if that's possible. She tenses perceptibly as she recognizes him, dark gaze cutting rapidly between the scars on his face and the food in his hands. [Cy] There's not much to look at beneath the ratty shock of crimson hair; five-foot-four would be a generous height estimate. She has a pale, weak-featured face that adds to her apparent youth--she could be taken for about twelve at first glance. Round cheeks, snub nose, and brown eyes are haloed by a hacked-off bob of hair that's been dyed fire-engine red, with an inch of dark roots starting to creep back in. She's not wearing any piercings, but her earlobes are notably stretched into loops more commonly seen on people in tribal documentaries. She rarely smiles, and tends to squint. On the occasion she does show her teeth, it's obvious that she's missing her upper left incisor. She's in a worn black t-shirt and gray sweatpants with the elastic at the ankles torn out; the latter are so baggy they almost fall off of her narrow hips, and have to be rolled up at the cuffs. Within her too-large clothing, she's got a sexless build with a short torso and nimble, stick-like limbs that are obviously underfed. Grey lets the door swing shut behind him, but there's no sound of clicking that signifies the latch being thrown from the outside. He's alone, then? The good eye looks her over blandly, and then -- making no comment about the wreckage -- he steps forward, sets the plate and coke bottle down on the floor between them, and then steps back to stand near the door. "Natalie seems to think you're in denial." Cautious as an animal of prey approaching an exposed watering hole, the scrawny girl inches forward towards the burger. Her nostrils flare, and she crouches on fingertips and the balls of her bare feet just inches away from the plate of food. Still wordless, she eyes him warily, then croaks: "W'you want?" She seems to be accustomed to bargaining for her food. Grey slips his hands into his pockets, his lean face difficult to read. "Right now? For you to eat." She doesn't need any more coaxing than that: snatching up the plate and bottle, she scampers back to 'her' wall. The burger begins to disappear in swift, enormous bites--she eats like she's never seen food and will never see it again--but all the while, the skinny kid's eyes track his movements carefully. Grey's posture isn't casual, but neither is it poised to attack. "You can call me Thomas, by the way," he says after a few moments. "Or Grey." He straightens up. "I'll be back later to check on you again." He turns to leave. Cy devours a steak fry in two bites, and informs his turned back through a mouthful of food, "I'm n'a werewolf." Grey pauses to glance back. "Yes," he says firmly. "You are." And then he's gone, and the door closes and locks behind him.