It is currently 17:28 Pacific Time on Wed Sep 14 2005.

Currently the moon is in the waxing Gibbous Moon phase (74% full).

Safehouse: Common Area

The foyer of this house is set off from the living room with its octagonal
      bump-out by a four foot high halfwall. Stairs lead up from the foyer, 
      turning and disappearing to the right, and a wooden door with a keycard 
      lock claims the wall opposite the living room. The rest of the main floor 
      is taken up by a small bathroom across the hallway from a dining room 
      which is separated from the kitchen at the back of the house by another 
      half-wall. The decor is decidedly sparse - white walls, beige carpeting 
      in the living and dining rooms and down the hall, unremarkable vinyl in 
      the foyer and kitchen.

A used couch and a pair of recliners are grouped around a coffee table in the
      living room, with a foursome of wooden chairs claiming the bump out for 
      quieter conversation. The dining room boasts a white laminate table with 
      four aluminum and vinyl-upholstered chairs - too new to be 'vintage', too 
      old to be trendy. The appliances and cupboards in the kitchen are new - 
      or at least refurbished to look like it - and a door leads out to the 
      backyard from there.

Up the stairs are a number of empty rooms where anyone affiliated with the Sept
      can crash and an office for private meetings. The Glass Walkers have 
      their own area accessible via a locked door off the foyer. The main doors 
      themselves lead back out to the front porch of the house.

Until one enters the living room, all would seem completely normal in the
      safehouse tonight. To the very sensitive nose, one might /just/ be able 
      to make out the faintest scent of marijuana smoke, but it's over fourteen 
      hours old, and fading. In the living room itself, however, at the foot of 
      one of the chairs, a white wolf is partially curled, head on paws, to all 
      appearances taking a snooze. Her injury is hard to miss--one of her back 
      legs comes to a rather jarring stop just below the knee, and the leg 
      itself is gouged, clawed, and tooth marked. Hurrah.

Scratch enters, preceded by his usual loud clumping and thumping on the porch
      outside. The door doesn't open so much as woosh inward as if trying to 
      get out of Scratch's way as he stumps in at top speed. His face is a 
      bloody mess and his cane leaves little half-circles of blood where he 
      travels. "Goddam /punk/!" he mutters under his breath. He's /angry/ and 
      he's /pissed/ and -- he stops in mid-stomp. The head comes up and his 
      eyes are suddenly alert. He inhales deeply as the door squeaks to a close 
      behind him. "Pot..." he murmurs like a fat kid whiffing ice cream. "I 
      smell pot.." He doesn't seem to notice the wounded wolf at all.

Grey's arrival comes not long after Scratch's and is foretold by the growl of a
      car engine, the slam of a car door, and the rattle of a key in the front 
      door. Looking as glowery as usual, perhaps moreso, the Philodox shuts the 
      door behind him rather more firmly than is necessary. 'Slam' is a better 
      word for it, really. Like Scratch, he stops short not far from the front 
      door, though his focus is on the Ahroun's face. "What," he says with a 
      frown, sweaty black hair hanging in his eyes, "...the hell happened to 
      /you/?"

For all the commotion in the entryway, one would think it might garner a fairly
      strong reaction from Skip Tracer. Not so. Her ears twitch at the first 
      slam, Scratch's curse, and Grey's followup entry, but apart from a small 
      sniff, there's nothing from her at all. She doesn't even bother to open 
      her eyes.

A thin-limbed she-wolf, entirely white from head to toe, with a pair of black
      rimmed, watery-blue eyes set above a long, well formed muzzle. Her coat 
      is thick and healthy, and in warm lighting shows hints of cream 
      undertones.

Scratch is distracted from his weed hunt by Grey's entrance and comment. He
      reaches up and rubs his chin, looks at the red on his fingers. "Hm." He 
      makes a half-hearted face swipe with his shoulder and succeeds only in 
      ruining his shirt. "Nothin.' Some little turd thought he knew the rules 
      of nine-ball. We had a gentlemen's disagreement." A thumb jerks behind 
      him. "From what I hear, the real story's asleep on the floor behind me."

Cross Peter O'Toole with Alice Cooper. Scratch is about six feet tall,
      broad-shouldered, and leanly muscular in a way that suggests he was quite 
      a scrapper in his youth, and the occasional sharp, predatory glint in his 
      blue eyes hints that those scrapping days are not quite over. It matters 
      little that the man has recently seen the start of his sixth decade, that 
      his face is lined, that his hair hangs limp and gray past his shoulders, 
      or that he walks with a cane; one glower is enough to make most mortals 
      blench. An old wolf is a wolf nonetheless.

He's currently clothed in a wife-beater with a rip on one shoulder; it hangs
      out over a pair of extremely ratty blue jeans. Battered black combat 
      boots, real shitkickers, are on his feet. Looks like he shaved about a 
      day ago, and his long hair hangs loose around his shoulders.

The cane he leans upon -- there seems to be something wrong with his left hip
      -- is black and looks quite sturdy, like it could deliver a good smack 
      upside the head as well as provide support for its master.

Grey's brow furrows. "Come again?" He glances past the Ahroun, frowns, and
      circles around to enter the living room proper, thereupon to stare 
      narrowly at the wounded wolf. "Who the hell is that?"

Thomas Grey is a man hard-used by the world. It shows mostly in his face, a
      hawkish visage that's extensively scarred down the left side, twisting 
      keloid making a ruin of aristocratic features. If not for the scars, he'd 
      probably be fairly handsome in a severe sort of way. The angles of his 
      face are sharply defined, the nobility in them scoured nearly to the 
      bone. His thick, shaggy black hair brushes near his shoulders, often 
      hanging messily in his face. There's grey at the temples, visible if one 
      inspects closely. There's grey in the few days' worth of stubble on his 
      face, too, around the mouth; he looks older than his thirty-something 
      years. His deep-set eyes -- the right dark brown, the left pale and 
      clouded -- have the shadowed look of someone who does not sleep well.

At six-foot-three, he stands taller than most men, and an inherent athleticism
      indicates that he could probably hold his own in a fight. There's also an 
      aura of pent-up violence about him, a tightly-controlled rage within the 
      lanky, muscled frame that could be lethal if unleashed.

He wears a white button-up shirt open over a plain black t-shirt along with a
      loose-fitting pair of blue jeans and a much-battered pair of black jungle 
      boots. The chain of his pocketwatch clips to one belt-loop and vanishes 
      into a front jeans pocket.

Skip Tracer continues to feign sleep, though the truth is in her ears. They're
      like miniature radars, turning ever so slightly as the other Garou speak 
      and move. Also telling is her breathing--it's not nearly slow enough for 
      someone who's supposed to be snoozing.

"Spooky." Scratch offers by way of explanation. "Got her leg chomped by a
      dumpster on the flip-side. So I hear, anyway." He pauses a moment, then 
      scrutinizes Grey with a narrow gaze. "Been hearing lots of entertaining 
      shit of late -- not as entertaining as teaching a young little fucker how 
      to chew his teeth before he swallows them, but interesting just the 
      same." Leaning on his good leg, he lifts the cane and begins picking 
      flakes of drying blood off the tip. "Why'd you move out, hard rock?" he 
      asks in a disinterested tone. "Natalie wouldn't cough up her half of the 
      rent?"

Grey turns his attention away from Skip Tracer and turns his eye on Scratch. "I
      moved out," he says flatly, "because I refuse to live under the same roof 
      as that cowardly, little /shit/ of a Ragabash, and since Natalie won't 
      throw the little fuck out..." He shrugs tightly, arms folded across his 
      chest. "I just came by to pick up the last of my things. You can have my 
      room, if you want it."

The theurge's forelegs slide forward as she arches her shoulders, going into
      some approximation of a lupine stretch, though without any help from her 
      back legs whatsoever. To this Skip Tracer adds a wide, drawn out yawn, 
      and then, finally, she opens her eyes into a beady squint.

There is a quick knocking on the door from outside, sounding a bit rushed.

Scratch glances at Skip and then shakes his head at Grey's remarks. "Hell no,
      I'd have to move my shit, and it's three inches deep in the room already. 
      Fuck that." He pauses, and puts the cane down, leaning heavily on it 
      until the floor squeaks softly. "Kid seems like a nice enough sort, but a 
      fucking doodle is poor form for a raggie. That's not how they did 
      business back in the day." He looks at Grey grimly, but then his gaze is 
      broken by the sudden knocking.

"Little shit's fucking lucky Brom decided to play Judge..." Grey's grumble
      trails off at the end. He stalks over toward the door and answers it with 
      a bare minimum of good grace and courtesy. "Alicia. Come on in." He steps 
      aside, holding the door open for her.

Skip Tracer's hooded eyes shift slightly as the door knocks, though she's not
      bothering to look completely in the door's direction. Her ears, however, 
      have zeroed in on that noise, and are raised even higher than they were 
      before.

Making her way in easily, the acting Sept Alpha has a tired and fatigued look
      in her eyes. "Yi told me all about last night. She holding up?" Alicia's 
      eyes fall upon the fallen Theurge and a wince comes across her eyes.

Scratch nods at Alicia and looks back at the wounded wolf. "Casper's kickin'
      the reaper in the sack. Fucker'll have to come back some other time." He 
      sniffs noisily and picks at his left nostril where blood is beginning to 
      crumble. "Son-of-a-bitch, hold on..." He wipes the tip of his cane on his 
      pants leg so it doesn't bloody the hall carpet, then heads into the 
      bathroom to clean up.

Grey watches the old Ahroun limp off, his arms folded across his chest. "What
      he said." The halfmoon's voice is flat.

There's an echo of Alicia's wince in Skip Tracer's posture. In spite of the
      fact that the Galliard is looking right at her, she turns her nose toward 
      the chair she's resting beneath, lowers her ears, and closes her eyes. 
      The capital letter in the message is quite readable. This one is Sleeping.

Kneeling down next to the wounded Walker, Alicia reaches out and puts her hands
      over the stump of the leg, gritting her teeth some. "Geezus Christ, you 
      are nuts girl. Chewed yer own leg off to escape a damn dumpster." Her 
      fingers begin to tingle as she concentrates, taking in a deep breath and 
      letting out slowly in a whispered prayer.

Sloshing sounds come from the bathroom as Scratch tries to scrub most of the
      blood off his face.

Grey watches for a few seconds, then abruptly turns and stalks off; he
      disappears through the door leading to the Glass Walker half of the house.

Skip Tracer emits a wolfish grumble in response, which doesn't quite mesh with
      her attempt to be a convincing sleeper. The injury reacts under Alicia's 
      care only just--one or two of the higher marks fade away. The theurge, 
      however, lifts her head, the motion significantly less sluggish, and 
      noses at the injury. There's no sign of the rest of the leg itself 
      growing back.

Alicia rocks her shoulders back as she looks at her work, then grits her teeth
      loudly as she shoots out a loud curse. "Fucking hell... " She squints her 
      eyes, then stands up quickly. ".. Fucking.. god fucking... dammit." She 
      spits out as she starts to pace. "I can put Jarred's fucking arm /back 
      on/, but I can't even grow her god damn leg back?" Her eyes jerk upwards 
      to the ceiling, staring for a moment, then says. "Gaia, don't tell me 
      that I've already used up all of my miracles?"

Scratch turns off the water and heads back out to the living room. His face is
      now clean save for a few reddish streaks that he missed. He stares at the 
      two for a moment, then murmurs -- almost to himself -- "Friend of mine 
      always used to say 'Gaia helps those who...'" he trails off suddenly and 
      shakes his head. Maybe it brought up an unpleasant memory.

Skip Tracer nips at Alicia's fingers. It's not a hard nip by any means, but
      there's nevertheless a sharpness to her motions. Starting at her 
      forelegs, she pushes herself up--shakily, yes, but growing steadily less 
      so--and then gets her remaining leg under her. This takes three tries, 
      the last of which involving a rather embarrassing stumble, but at the end 
      she's standing, with most of her weight leaning to the side with two legs 
      to support it. The wolf turns to look at Alicia again and flags her tail 
      up, every line of her body defiant. I am /fine/.

"Sure you are, and I'm mother Theresea." Alicia says with a loud breath, then
      flops her hand on the Lupine's head, giving it a good ruffle about the 
      ears. "I'm glad you have such courage. I have crutches at home, a wheel 
      chair also from when Tom used to live with me. Would you like me to 
      donate them for you? Um... you guys can do.. bionic limbs and stuff, 
      right?" She asks dumbly. "I know John mentioned something like that a 
      long time ago."

Here we have Alicia Jackson, a young woman who appears to be in her early 20's,
      but has that hard look in her eyes which could easily be mistaken for 
      older. Lean and toned, her body is well developed with muscle. She looks 
      quick with those long legs of hers, appearing to have a very track 
      athlete like figure. Her eyes are a dark brown, curious and wandering, 
      lit up playfully most of the time. She stands of average height, perhaps 
      about 5'6 or so, carrying herself well when she moves. Her skin is 
      lightly tanned, kissed by the sun from the many years of running about 
      under the open sky. Four ear rings adorn her left ear, two more upon the 
      right, composed of small, goldeny hoops. Her left brow tends to be 
      pierced with a simple diamond stud set into the skin. The Galliard's hair 
      falls down just past her shoulders, mixed with a bit of red, blonde and 
      brown.

Her clothing consists of a pair of baggy solid black jeans. Upon her person she
      wears anything from simple T-Shirts to more revealing sports bra that hug 
      her upperframe revealing a golden hoop in her navel. A pair of black 
      sneakers fit her feet, looking a bit scuffed from use. Finishing off, she 
      has a worn, dusty old black trench coat which hangs just below her knees.

Scratch blinks and does an exaggerated look over his shoulder. He turns back.
      "Are you talking to me?" He grins and sits down in a chair, no doubt 
      dirtying it a bit. "Heh, I don't do any of that biometrics shit, Alicia. 
      I'm a Walker from way back, when the Beach Boys still regularly made the 
      top ten and our elders always had some linguini before whacking a vampire 
      -- and that's what they would call it, 'whacking.'" He coughs and snorts, 
      probably swallowing some blood.

Skip Tracer punctuates her answer with bared teeth and a low growl. /No/. With
      her tail still flagging high, she turns her head away from Alicia and 
      shuffles one of her front legs forward. Then the other. She can't seem to 
      figure out how to get the weight off of her remaining back leg, however, 
      in order to complete the step.

The interior door opens again, shouldered open. Grey's arms are full of a large
      cardboard box, and he curses underbreath as a thick lock of hair falls in 
      front of his good eye and obscures his vision. He gives his head an angry 
      flick on his way to the front door.

Alicia pushes herself up and looks as if she was about to fire back at the
      Theurge, but instead shakes her head and lets out a breath. "Well, my 
      help will be on the table if you do need it." She says, nodding lightly 
      to Scratch. "I'll call the Steel Angel down South and hook up with a few 
      contacts. Maybe we can do /something/ for her, somehow."

"Give the leg time," Scratch advises before glancing over at Grey. "Need any
      help, Tom?"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Alicia," snarls Grey. "She said 'no'. She's not a
      fucking /child/." Scratch's offer gets lost under the wave of verbal 
      temper.

Skip Tracer's growling continues, though it's somewhat lost under Grey's
      outburst. Abruptly she shifts, hanging slightly at glabro before 
      continuing straight down into homid. There's a little of the growl still 
      in her voice, though that might very well be due to the strain present in 
      her expression. It's not possible for her to look paler than she usually 
      does, and yet she somehow manages. "I'm. Fine," she states. "And I'm not 
      using any fucking wheelchair, thank you. It's not the fucking Apocalypse, 
      guys, calm down."

"I know she's not a fucking /child/, Grey, but how about we lop your fucking
      leg off and see how well you work without it?" Alicia turns on the Half 
      Moon, eyes narrowing as her arms cross over her chest. "Its one thing to 
      be proud, but its another to simply give in to crippling yourself in the 
      long run. "Do not suffer thy people to tend to thy sickness. What is she 
      going to do? Fucking hop around on one leg from one place to the next, 
      you ganna carry her to moot? I'm just trying to find some /fucking 
      options/."

Elanora snaps immediately, "I am NOT CRIPPLED. Don't quote the damned Litany at
      me. I'll take care of it."

Alicia opens her mouth, clamps it shut, then lets out a loud hiss as she starts
      for the door. "Fucking hell. Sorry for assuming the worse. I'll be in 
      touch."

Scratch's up in an instant. He scents blood. "We gonna fight?" he asks
      eagerly. "I got no quarrel, but I'm game." He flicks his head to take in 
      the Elanora. "We'll give her a ten point handicap." The sarcasm in his 
      remarks is hard to notice thanks to the influence of the moon.

Grey grits his teeth visibly, muscles tightening in his jaw as he clamps down
      on his anger. "Fine," he snaps at the Gaian's back, then turns an eye 
      onto Scratch. "Are you joking?"

Alicia jerks herself around for a moment to size up Scratch, then lets out a
      snort. "Elanora, if you need me to heal you again in a few days, I'm 
      willing to give it another shot." Jerking the door open, she excuses 
      herself with a light tremble as she shakes off her own anger. "Take care 
      Glass Walkers, may Unicorn lead your path home with Luna's light."

Elanora is still on her hands and knee--she rocks back, settling on her
      non-wounded leg, and utters a quiet, Spanish curse under her breath. "Can 
      we stop discussing it now? S'my problem. I'd rather talk about the damned 
      thing we ran into last night."

Scratch grins at Grey. "Almost certainly," He answers easily, but the look on
      his face would probably make sane people cringe. Fortunately, Garou are 
      nothing like sane people. He gives a quick wave to Alicia without taking 
      his eyes off the Philodox.

Grey goes stock-still, box weighing down his arms, his stare fixed on
      Scratch's. Very deliberately, he blinks and looks away, stares down at 
      Elanora for a moment, then rasps, "I'll be back. Going to load this into 
      the car." He heads out the front door, letting it swing closed behind him.

Scratch slowly sits back down and stretches his shoulders. "Ughh..." He falls
      quiet for a moment, then looks over at Elanora. "Personally," he says in 
      a gruff tone, "I would love to hear about Petey the psychotic dumpster."

Elanora clenches her jaw and takes this opportunity to scramble into the chair
      she was sitting beneath. She gives Scratch a dark look, daring him to say 
      anything about her less than graceful movements. "Yeah, when Grey gets 
      back."

Scratch shoots her an incredulous expression. "You don't have to be
      embarrassed, stumpy." he says with no rancor. "You know, I've been 
      hobbled for over ten years now. I /get/ it." He looks down at his cane, 
      running a gnarled hand over its equally gnarled black surface. "Knew this 
      one guy. Get. Frothy son-of-a-bitch. Got his spine snapped like a celery 
      stalk trying to teach a crawler how to throw down." He looks back up at 
      her, his eyes glittering in the light. "He was more blood than flesh by 
      the time I saw him, like a face floating on a red pool. You know what his 
      last words were?"

Elanora's jaw remains somewhat tight, but that dark look has almost completely
      faded. "What?"

Grey returns, boxless, in time to catch the last bit of Scratch's speech. He
      pauses to listen, one hand coming up to push hair out of his face.

Scratch screws up his face into a tortured grimace, and does his best imitation
      from memory: "Scratch... I can't feel my /cock/." The Ahroun straightens 
      up and shrugs. "Then he died. And you think you got it bad." There's 
      something very amused in the set of his mouth.

"Hmm." It's not.../quite/ a laugh, but Elanora's not completely able to hide
      her amusement. "--And I don't think I've got it bad. I'm fine. I'll be 
      fine. S'not like I'm a frontlines fighter anyway, yeah?"

Grey's snort is almost like a laugh. At the very least, the man relaxes a
      notch. "Depends on what kind of front line you mean," he says, coming 
      back into the living room. "We are, after all, Glass Walkers." He cocks 
      his head, eyeballing her. "And you /could/ get a prosthetic, if you 
      wanted to."

Scratch smiles at Elanora like she's passed some personal test of his. "He's
      right. And so are you; you're gonna be aces, kiddo. I mean, I'm a 
      frontlines fighter and I'm a fuckin' geezer." He stretches and pulls out 
      a battered plastic ball that might have once been a cigarette pack. The 
      Ahroun begins to carefully unroll it. "The only good thing about living 
      in the end times is that everybody -- no matter how mangled -- gets a 
      chance to play."

Elanora avoids Grey's gaze, even if she's clearly aware of it. "If I can find a
      prosthetic that can handle half a ton of weight on it, sure. But there's 
      no way I'm rolling around in a fucking wheelchair. 'Sides, I've seen my 
      share of three legged dogs. It's just an adjustment."

"I meant for human form. You can go three-legged in Crinos." He rakes fingers
      back through his unruly hair again, making it stick up in a less than 
      dignified way.

Scratch doesn't add anything, save for a "Ha!" as he manages to extract a
      cigarette from the pack. He produces a cheap lighter from his other 
      pocket while he pokes the bent smoke into the corner of his mouth.

Elanora grunts. "Well, yeah," she mumbles, though she doesn't seem at all
      endeared to the idea. "Probably what I'll end up doing." The theurge 
      shifts in her seat, and so doing, she attempts to shift the topic. "So, 
      this dumpster shit thing that we found."

Grey grunts. "Right." He puts on an attentive, if dour, expression.

Scratch lights the cig and sits back, taking a deep drag. He blows out the
      smoke with a grin. "I swear these things keep me from frenzying." He 
      looks over to Elanora. "Fire when ready."

Elanora slumps into the chair, relaxing visibly. "So Wyrmshit tends to be
      creative, but just in case there're actually more've 'em. We went about 
      three blocks past the park, toward Regan, and saw what you'd 
      expect--lot's of spiders, webbing, yadda yadda. Then we found a spider 
      that was acting strange--acting drunk, really. It was about cat sized, 
      and it was wobbling and banging into walls. We thought'd been injured, so 
      we, me and Gauntlet-Runner that is, followed it carefully down an alley 
      until it ran under a dumpster."

Grey nods as he listens.

Scratch smokes quietly, listening intently.

Elanora continues. "I don't know spirit speech, and obviously neither did she,
      and when I tried talking to it in Mother's Tongue it didn't respond. It 
      seemed scared. So we decided to head back to the others, 'cause it 
      doesn't pay to stay in one spot too long and we couldn't figure out what 
      was going on with it. Next moment, the whole damned dumpster came 
      alive--there was webbing too. Like sirens leading sailors to the rocks. 
      So there you are. Don't follow drunken Weaver things, especially if they 
      run under dumpsters."

Grey says dryly, "Truer words never spoken. Is it still alive?"

"I've seen some weird shit on the flip-side, honey," Scratch murmurs around the
      smoke, "but that's a new one on me. Fuck." He turns to Grey, then his 
      eyes light up and he nods. "Yeah... that's the idea." He turns back to 
      Elanora with a savage grin. "I wanna kill it."

Elanora's lips twitch. "To be honest, I haven't the foggiest idea. I don't
      really remember anything after--" she gestures, very vaguely, at her 
      missing limb. "I guess it didn't chase us, 'cause we had to wait in the 
      park for a little. I think. And there was a net spider there too, trying 
      to block the alley. But you'll have to ask someone else who was there."

"Who else was there, besides Yi?" asks Grey, his frown deepening.

"And do you remember where the alley is?" Scratch adds.

Elanora rubs two fingers over the bridge of her nose. "Tabitha, one of the
      Gnawer cubs, and a Fang, Burned-by-the-Dragon's-Blood. And yeah, I 
      remember."

Scratch's eyes dart towards Grey. "Road trip. Definitely gotta plan a road
      trip."

Grey's eyes narrow. "Dragon's Blood. Russian accent, painful amounts of noble
      breeding?" He glances over at Scratch and nods. "We'll want to hit it 
      soon. Before the moon starts waning."

Elanora nods. "That's him." She glances between the two, and her lips twitch
      again. "Look, if the thing's still alive, there is no way in hell you two 
      are going without me. I'll dedicate Alicia's fucking wheelchair to myself 
      if I have to."

Scratch stands abruptly, leaning on his cane. "You're in." He answers simply,
      then turns to Grey. "You're the slick one, Tom; I'll let you put together 
      the plan of attack. In the meantime, I'm heading to bed to get some 
      sleep. Night kids." He turns and begins heading up the stairs in the 
      awkward -- but practiced -- gait of someone used to not relying on a hip. 
      He mutters as he goes: "No way does a fuckin' trash-can fuck up one of 
      /my/ tribe in /my/ town..." He disappears upstairs, gone save for an 
      extinguished cigarette butt that comes bouncing down seconds later.

Grey grunts and gets up himself, uttering a deadpan, "Hear hear." He looks down
      at Elanora. "I'll be in touch. Let the others know there'll be another 
      hunt for the thing, if you would."

Elanora nods very slightly. "Sure. I'll give my cell phone a workout, it's
      getting fat and lazy." As for herself, she remains slumped in the chair, 
      not at all keen to go through the trouble of moving so soon.