fucked up beyond all repair.

[Hatchet] It is dinner time for most Chicagoans. Those are the people downstairs in the dining room being served by Jenny's crew of wayward kinfolk. Upstairs, what meal is eaten depends entirely on the schedule of the Garou in question. As far as Hatchet is concerned, it's morning now, and that would probably explain the hash browns on the plate in front of him. He's sitting on the sectional couch, leaning over the coffee table, eating shredded potatoes. There's a cup of coffee nearby, and the remains of some scrambled eggs. The television is off, the common room is quiet.

[Lee] Lee hasn't come to The Brotherhood for food, though if she were hungry she certainly could. Her new apartment is just a few blocks away, walking distance really. That's how she's come to be here.

It's why when she reaches the second floor her cheeks are red from cold. Her wool coat is unbottoned, and she's tugging a scarf free from her throat. Her hands and head are bare, a hat and gloves either not worn or tucked away in her leather bag. There's a pint of Reuben's special in her free hand.

When she sees the man seated on the sectional, a corner of her mouth lifts in a grin.

"Hey." When the scarf is free, she doesn't immediately shrug out of her coat. Lee sets her glass on the coffee table and digs out a set of keys, working one of them free.

[Rory] You'd think that the days after Christmas would be a good time to forage for change, for food, for leftovers and generous folks. You'd be wrong - which is what brings one extremely shy, unassuming, trying desperately to not attract attention, full of rage under the swelling moon, purebred Fianna mule to the Brotherhood. That, and the need for a shower - don't ask how long it's been...

She gratefully takes the food that Jenny shoves on her downstairs, and is shoo'd to the second floor with a plate that's overflowing with a mishmash of leftovers, including some she can take with her when she goes. She's wearing everything she owns, and the pack on her back clanks and clatters when she moves, hanging from her shoulders over a coat that's not near warm enough for the weather outside.

Wen she clears the landing, she hesitates, unsure, then sort of scoots quietly to the opposite end of the couch, and settles to sit on the edge, balancing her plate on her knees so that she can dig in.

[Hatchet] Rory has only met her tribal elder in this city once. She's seen him at moots -- at least one. She knows that he's tall, that he's broad-shouldered, that he's got natural strength that resonates greater than it is because of the touch of his totem. He, though, unlike the other Fianna Fostern in Chicago, hasn't a trace of their tribe's genetic and spiritual breeding in his veins. There's a faint coppery cast to his blond hair, but only in the right light, and he's not in the right light right now. His beard is slightly reddish, but he lacks the pale skin or freckles that usually mark their kind. His skin is such a golden tan, even in December, that it's clear it's his natural skin tone, not the kiss of the sun. His eyes are not a gleaming green but a pale, almost metallic gray.

He smiles when he sees Liadan, who -- like Rory -- does scream her heritage in both appearance and spirit. She says hey, and since his mouth is full he nods a response, then picks up his coffee to wash down his hash browns. "Hey," he responds, then looks over at Rory entering. She, too, gets a nod. A bit deeper.

"What's that?" he asks, indicating the keys Lee is holding.

[Lee] Though she's facing Hatchet, Lee can see the shock of curly red hair before the rest of Rory follows after it. Her shoulders tense at the increase of rage in the room, at the way it assaults her senses. It stiffens her spine and makes her fingers want to clench, an urge she valiantly resists.

Her hair is free and loose, framing her pale face in waves of vibrant red. Rory gets a glance, and a shift in stance so that she stays in the taller redhead's peripheral. If they've met, if they've even seen each other before across a crowded room, Lee has long since forgotten.

When she finally works the key free, she holds it out to Taggart. "I found it when I went to turn over the keys to my condo. I forgot I still had it." She holds out the key to room 1, dropping the rest of the ring into her coat pocket.

[Hatchet] Hatchet does not take the key to his room. He looks at it in her hands, looks up at her, and tips his head to the side. "I didn't ask for it back."

[Rory] When Hatchet nods to her, he's offered a slight, shy smile that's hidden behind curls as she ducks her head over her food again. There's a pile of roast beef, potatoes, vegetables, all the fixings in a heaping portion, and she reaches into a pocket and pulls out a soda too, setting it on the floor by her foot.

As she does so, she peeks at Lee, just the slightest of looks that sears the woman into memory, even as she rips another piece of meat free and shoves it inot her mouth. She eats as if she hasn't in a week, as if she's afraid someone's going to take it away, as if she were a gnawer and not merely packed with them.

...was....packed with them.

A shadow passes through her eyes and she rubs a finger across her nose lightly before resumes eating once more.

[Lee] Lee'sr brow furrows in a frown, but she doesn't pull her arm back.

"Well, no. But, when you left the city I was still sleeping here, and now I'm...I'm not." She pulls her arm back, holding the key in her palm, dark eyes flicking to it, then back to Taggart, looking confused. "Do you still want me sleeping here?"

[Echo] Echo had been dead to the world for a while since returning from her shift. The tall, lanky Glass Walker had fallen like a cut tree onto her unmade bed-covers and there she had stayed, one leg dangling off the single bed, one arm hanging so that her fingers tipped into the remnants of week old coffee, left on her bedside table.

[Echo] (Ack! ...I so didn't mean to post that yet.)

[Echo] Echo had been dead to the world for a while since returning from her shift. The tall, lanky Glass Walker had fallen like a cut tree onto her unmade bed-covers and there she had stayed, one leg dangling off the single bed, one arm hanging so that her fingers tipped into the remnants of week old coffee, left on her bedside table.

One blessing for her room-mates was that she didn't snore.
At least, not loudly.

She had finally stirred about a half hour ago and per her usual method of waking up, the distinct sound of a boxing bag being put through its paces sounded from her room. The door at half mast showed any that walked past the lean figure, her body curled into a boxer's stance, fists lashing out to hit the sides of the bag.

The No Moon's foot work was impressive, she did all but dance.

[Hatchet] His coffee mug is half full. He takes it black. His plate is mostly empty now, with nothing but crumbling remnants of breakfast. One eyebrow quirks as she tells him that now she's not staying here. It goes down a moment later, as does his fork, clinking quietly on the plate. "Don't I have a key to your place?"

Hatchet can hear the thud of fists onto a punching bag, but he's far from Room 8. He keeps his eyes on Lee. "Keep the key. I want you to be able to get in whenever you need to."

[Rory] The sound of someone beating something pulls her gaze in that direction, as if she could watch through walls. She can't, of course, and soon enough her attention wanders back to Lee, Hatchet, and her food.

She's not obvious about listening, but then again, they're not trying to be private either, so it really doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things. She pauses in the midst of her meal, her stomach sated enough that she can slow down, and slides her pack off her shoulders, setting it on the floor beside her feet with a clattering clank. She unzips her coat, and peels that off a minute later, revealing a t-shirt in desperate need of a wash - the top of at least 3 layers.

Laying her coat on top of her pack, she digs in again.

[Lee] Don't I have a key to your place?

"Um. No, actually. I sold my place, but I'll get you a key to my apartment," she says, curling her fingers around the key to Taggart's room. It gets dropped into her coat pocket to be reattached to her ring of keys later. "Thanks."

Rory hasn't been forgotten, how could she be? Lee is still somewhat worn from the club last night. The intensity of Rory's rage is matched by Taggart's, sets off the kinswoman's nerves and puts her on edge more than it would have on another night. But the metis eats and keeps to herself, and the photographer leaves her to it.

Lee lowers her bag to the floor and shrugs out of her coat, revealing a black t-shirt that reads "All Your Base Are Belong To Us" over a dark grey long-sleeved thermal. The coat and scarf are tossed carelessly on top of her bag.

[Alexander] First, the back door of the Brotherhood slams open. Next, pots and pans clatter; cupboards bang open and shut. Then footsteps tromping up the stairs, so heavily that one might expect an olympic weightlifter to show up -- but no, it's just Alexander, coming up in motorcycle boots, his head bent as he scarfs cold stew out of a earthenware bowl large enough to feed three.

His motorcycle helmet hangs from his elbow, his arm looped through the visor. Snow is melting off the shoulders of his red motorcycle jacket, and off the front of his ...

... black leather chaps. Which, although surely useful for staying warm while biking in subfreezing temperatures, nonetheless carries certain connotations when seen outside of traditional farm and ranch scenarios.

"Who the fuck left my Xbox on all night again?" is the first thing out of his mouth, seeing the green light glowing from the front of the console. "For fuck's sake, if I get the red ring of doom I'm making everyone buy me another one."

[Hatchet] He can't fault Lee for not telling him earlier that she moved. He couldn't even tell her himself that he was leaving the city, could only trust that his packmates would let his kinswoman know what was going on and why he couldn't go anywhere near her. So: Hatchet doesn't give her a bewildered or dismayed look when she informs him of the change. He just smiles faintly when she tells him she'll get him a key.

Truth be told, his attitude towards Rory is much the same. She knows where to find him if she needs help, and as far as he knows she has her own pack to attend to, and be tended by. The moon is nearly full, nearly at Rory's own birth phase, and he hasn't been bothering her.

That changes.

As Lee gets out of her coat, he turns to the metis. "Ho, Rory. How goes it?" he asks dryly, and eats another -- one last -- bite of breakfast.

[Rory] Her head snaps up when she hears her name, and then color splashes across her cheeks as she realizes how jumpy she is. She grabs her soda from the floor, opens it, and hastily takes a drink to help wash down the mouthful of food so that she can answer.

He's the elder. She wouldn't dare not answer.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and pale eyes flick to Alexander, confused briefly, before she looks back to Hatchet.

"Ok." Single words are easy. The rest? Not so much, as she looks down at her plate. "Alpha died."

[Echo] It might have been freezing outside, below it, actually, but inside Room 8 one of its occupants is covered with a fine sheen of perspiration, her bare arms gleaming with it, the tattoo of her tribal affiliation all but dancing on its own as the muscles in her shoulders pulled and flexed the skin. Echo Quinn wore little but what she'd slept in, that being a pair of bottle green slacks tied at the waist and a white wife-beater.

She forwent a bra; there was little there for her to concern herself with sagging.

The sounds of a boxing bag being tortured finish with a decidedly female grunt of exertion and a rather violent thunk of a leg belting into its side. Then, footsteps, and the tearing of tap as the pixie-haired Glass Walker emerges from her room into the common area, wiping her brow with her shoulder as she unlaces her gloves.

Her eyes travel the assembled idly.

Hatchet. Red. Alex... Alex.

Leaning against a wall, she smirks outright. "Oh, precious. Do you need your boo-boos kissed? Nice ass pants, by the way."

[Ethan] The body coming up the stairs is not large, is not cumbersome, yet while he does not move with Alexander's bull-in-a-china-closet exuberance, neither does he move with a spirit-like silence or a Ragabash's refusal to make noise. Boots thump, the distressed wood of the steps groan in places, creak in others, and there isn't a hint of purity of blood or press of Rage to identify or announce the identity of the man before he actually appears.

When he does appear, it's without fanfare. One moment all they can do is hear him, and the next there he is, tall and dressed for the shitty, shitty weather. The peacoat he had had on the night of the bonfire was destroyed two nights later, hacked through by a meat cleaver--or, to put it in a clearer light, hacked through by a meat cleaver-wielding madman straight out of some poor bastard's nightmare--and beyond repair. It had gone in the garbage as soon as he'd gotten home, along with the rest of the clothing that had been on his athletic body that night.

He'd slept in his son's bed for the first time since they left New York, and by this point the kid has to be realizing that that means Something Bad Happened; he hadn't asked his father what had happened, but had rather politely requested that he not steal the covers like he did last time and dropped back off.

There is no hint of the injury he had sustained Wednesday, no hint of lost sleep or anxiety. He wears dark boots, jeans distressed by time rather than a machine, and a camel-colored Carhartt jacket. He pauses at the head of the stairs to digest who's here and where, his eyes briefly moving to the raging owner of the Xbox before they find the man who was introduced to him as Hatchet.

Who's speaking to a Rage-infused young woman.
Who announces that her Alpha's died.

A subdued flinch crosses over the kinsman's features, and the first thing he says is, "I'm sorry."

[Echo] Echo's eyes jump to Ethan then, and she smiles at him; pure flirtation.

"Hello, lover."

[Lee] [I know who you is! percept + alert on Ethan]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 3, 4, 5, 8 (Success x 1 at target 7)

[Hatchet] His brows tug together as he leans back on the sectional. Hatchet takes up more space than a regular person, just by virtue of the fact that he is bigger than a regular person. He seems to take up more space because of his rage, too, which is -- oddly -- more controlled these days than it was even when he was in possession of less fury. He addresses Rory first: "I'm sorry to hear that. Who's leading your pack now?"

And he means it. The sympathy is thin but sincere, as his interest.

Echo saunters in, dressed and sweating like an athlete and flirting with every male kinsman currently occupying the space. Hatchet mostly ignores Alex's bitching about the Xbox, partly because he's not sure what in this room is an Xbox, and he does not exactly need to acknowledge Echo's entrance. She's his packmate. She's there in his head even when she's not there in person, and she hardly needs his advice or leadership right this second.

He does glance over at Ethan. And gives a small nod of greeting.

[Lee] Her recent move is just one of many things Taggart hasn't known about his kinswoman. Where she was for a month, or even that she left the city at all for one. Unless Lukas found him between last night and now, what she did last night for another.

Taggart turns his attention to the girl with the curly hair, and Lee drops back onto the sectional, not quite beside the Philodox. Then she leans forward to retrieve her glass of beer.

Which is when several things happen at once.

Alex comes upstairs, snow melting to water on his jacket and chaps, ranting angrily about his precious Xbox.
The curly-haired girl announces that her alpha died.
Ethan arrives, and expresses his sympathies. Lee's dark eyes survey the tall figure, and knows him for who he is rather than confusing him for his brother.
Echo comes in, makes a crack to Alex about kissing boo-boos that makes Lee tilt her head, and calls Ethan her lover.

Lee forces tension from her shoulders and spine, makes it easier for herself by taking a sip of her drink.

[Rory] Ethan says that he's sorry, and she looks up - and tips her head, her brow furrowed slightly - that's when she remembers who he is... and who Lee is - and embarrassment stains her cheeks, bright red as drops her gaze, her chin, and fervently hopes they don't recognize her, that they've already forgotten her social ineptitude.

He says he's sorry, though, and she nods, slightly, and it encompasses Hatchet as well.

She frowns, a furrow appearing across her brow as she contemplates a question that should be easy to answer, but is not. "Chloe, but.." a pause and her fingers, long and thin, pale and fragile looking, curl into a lose fist as she taps her temple. "Hear her. Can't hind fer."

There's an ache in those words, born of adoration of her one true friend, her sister, who's not been here to grieve with her, to decide what to do. She doesn't note the words are mangled, either. As always. she hears what she intends to say, rather than what she does.

[Rory] [OOC: Correction - FEEL her, not hear her! Whoops!]

[Ethan] One of the immediate tells, or what ought to be one of the immediate tells, that Ethan is Ethan and not Aaron is how he enters a room. Should that fail, there's the way he speaks. His accent is watered down rather than beaten into submission, still clings to his vowels and occasionally consumes softer consonants at the end of words. He doesn't leer at the female populace in whatever room he happens to be in.

He looks horrified when Echo calls him lover. It's hard to tell whether he's truly rattled by the flirtation or whether he's putting on an act, but it dissipates after a breath and is replaced by a good-natured, "'ello, flower."

When he feels the Half Moon's attention on him, even for a second, he looks away from the teasing boxer and catches the nod. It's returned with a closed-lipped but nonetheless genuine smile, and he reaches up to unzip his jacket. He's here on a mission, but he doesn't interrupt the conversation the two Fianna are having. He looks back to Echo.

[Echo] One of the first things you noticed about Echo Quinn upon immediate association with the young woman was that she very rarely cared about the opinion of those around her in regards to her actions. She was loud, and rather brash but she never came across as the type that would push one beyond their boundaries of comfort.

Unless you were evil, and then you were basically fucked.

Right now, the brunette has lowered her face to finish unwrapping her wrists and flex them, stretching out the muscles in her hands. When she's done, she's half-tuned in to the conversation her Alpha is conducting with Rory and frowning in sympathy at what she does hear. Then she catches sight of Ethan's regard, and her eyebrow perks upward in returning cheer.

"You after me?"

[Alexander] For what it's worth, Alexander's chaps and jacket are minimalistic in cut, more functional than decorative. There are no fringes, no studs and chains and spikes; nothing but thick supple leather that creaks when he squats down to thumb his Xbox off with an angry jab of his thumb.

Standing up, he grabs his crotch and points at it with his free hand, indicating rather graphically and wordlessly where Echo could plant that kiss. 'Course, since his free hand isn't really free -- he's holding a bowl of stew, after all -- he's actually pointing with one finger. His middle.

"Go ahead, Sugarlips, I won't find you too forward or nothing," he adds, unzipping his padded motorcycle jacket, starting from the snaps at the throat. Bright, ferocious and dark, his eyes flick over the rest of the room, taking in the pickings tonight.

"Now isn't that sad." No one asked him for his opinion on Rory's Alpha, but he offers it anyway, butting right on in. "I'll play the world's smallest drums for you. Christ, who are all you people? Stay off my fucking Xbox."

[Echo] Echo smacks Alex's head with one of her boxing gloves.

"Don't be a dick, show respect or I'll do more than kiss your crotch, I'll color it with bruises."

[Hatchet] A lack of interest in how others see them is a rather common trait in the Sentinels. It isn't easy to follow a totem so widely regarded as honorless and disgraced as Bear. To do so, sometimes you just have to learn to shrug off the opinions of others, to do what's right regardless of what they think, to earn your honor despite the fact that the entire Nation is biased against letting you have it. You keep going.

At least they do.

Now, Hatchet doesn't get up and put Alex's head through a wall when he suggests that Echo give his crotch a kiss. Nor does he throw a mug of coffee at him for mocking Rory's grief. Tonight his rage is riding close to the surface, just like everyone else's. The moon is swelling. Again. He does look at the kinsman levelly, the one he once started to beat down only to have Aidan jump in and tap him into unconsciousness. He watches Echo smack his head.

And then he blinks at her, vaguely horrified at the idea of her bruising a penis. "Ow, woman, what the fuck?"

[Alexander] Alex grabs Echo's glove with a swipe of his hand; hurls it back at her. Not nice and underhanded but viciously, lightning-quick, like a pitcher throwing a fastball. He aims for her face. "Don't fucking touch me, bitch, you started it."

...because that was the mature thing to argue. Yes.

[Rory] Alex speaks, and there's a confusing reaction in the slender Fianna. Her rage spikes - so close to the surface in this swelling moon - and she says nothing. She just nudges the rest of her food around on her plate, absently, holding her control by thread, but holding it tight and close.

And in their distraction, like as not no one notices when she lifts a hand and swipes along he corner of her eye, then across her nose, before she leans forward to set her plate on the coffee table, unfinished.

[Hatchet] The humor, thin as it was, drops out from Hatchet's visage like a trapdoor being sprung. He doesn't move. He still leans back in his seat, and he still watches Echo and Alex with a sort of detached interest -- she's his packmate, and he's seen this particular kinsman's delight in provoking their kind -- but the tenor of his attention has changed dramatically, and instantly. And everyone in the room can feel it. It's not a spike of rage. It's not rage at all, though plenty of Garou would feel their tempers rising.

He's watching them. Very closely.

[Echo] Echo isn't phased. She catches the glove without a great amount of fanfare, and laughs at her Kinsman. "Oh, shut it. You only open your mouth to have the whole world listen, don't get testy with someone when they feed you back the bullshit you spout."

She gets a little closer; smelling like sweat and Rage.

"Also: I'll touch you five ways till Sunday, Alex. And if you don't like it, then you'd better back your shit up with action. But either way, I'll come out on top, precious, cuz in this food chain, I'm the Dom and you're the bitch."

[Lee] Lee's grip on her mug tightens, the knuckles of her hands turning imperceptibly whiter. She drains the still mostly full glass quickly, easily. She's Irish, she's a year and a half out of college, and she would hate to waste Reuben's beer by dumping it or leaving it behind to go flat.

Echo smacks Alex on the head, and Alex retaliates by throwing a glove in the woman's face. Lee finishes her beer and rises, gathering up her things to go. He quota for danger has been filled for the weekend.

[Ethan] Echo threatens the gesturing kinsman, beating him with her boxing glove and making a none too subtle threat concerning his crotch, and whereas Hatchet blinks and voices a question, Ethan winces.

And then things start to escalate. The leather-clad young man bops the glove back at Echo's face, and rather than intercede, rather than clamor for peace or simple knocking-it-the-fuck-off, Ethan draws a breath and waits. Not to see if he'll have to jump in to keep them separated, oh no; to see if he's going to have to move to avoid catching an elbow in the face. There are two other Garou in the room, one of them the Ragabash's Alpha. Whatever it is he's here for, it isn't getting involved in a pissing contest.

[Hatchet] Echo.

Hatchet's voice across the totemphone this evening is level, and it is flat. It sounds like a single heavy paw being laid down.
to Alexander, Echo, Lee

[Echo] Yeah. She answers her Alpha, acquiescing to an unspoken request. Yeah, alright.
to Alexander, Hatchet, Lee

[Alexander] (ack! *jarred* leave me outta totemphone! *laughs* i'm playing ALEX!)
to Echo, Hatchet

[Hatchet] [Fiiine. Make me post it on the board later. Nngh.]
to Alexander, Echo

[Hatchet] Hatchet may be watching Echo and Alex with intense focus, but when Liadan rises to her feet, he says quietly: "Lee, wait a moment."

He doesn't have the attention to spare for Ethan just yet, not with his kinswoman balking and his packmate browbeating one of her own and a secondary conversation going on silently, behind the scenes.

[Alexander] Alexander, on the other hand, lives for pissing contests. And while typically one might consider women automatically exempt from such things, in Alex's worldview possession of teeth and claws and formshaping ability made up for phallic lack. Which is to say:

the compact, muscular kinsman doesn't wait for an engraved invitation. He shoves the Glass Walker back, straightarmed, hard enough to send your average girl sprawling.

Not that Echo is your average girl.

"How's that for backing it up with action? And who the fuck lit the fuse on your tampon, Echo?" Just in case she comes back fighting, he turns to put his stew down on the TV stand. "You were a hell lot more personable on turkey day."

[Hatchet] There's a bright flare of rage in the room from the sectional couch a moment later, when Alex straight-arms Echo away from him. But the Philodox doesn't move. He's leaning on one of the padded arms, his chin against the heel of his hand, watching. He looks calmer than he feels. No one with that much rage, under a gibbous moon, could ever seem truly calm.

[Echo] "Her fucking Alpha died, Alex!" She is shoved backward, and she makes a noise that can't be mistaken for anything less than a snarl. She jabs a finger in Rory's direction, though her eyes are blazing on Alex. "You can't even show her an ounce of respect for that?"

She's disgusted, frankly, with the room at large.
There's nothing, nothing that comes back across the totem-link.

"Fucking... waste of goddamn space." She mutters, turns and walks back into her room, slamming the door.

[Rory] her alpha DIED

Rory flinches, visibly, and then reaches for her pack, and her coat, and stands. Her control is slipping, and she recognizes it, and simply steps back, and moves around the couch toward the door to the hall and the laundry room beyond.

[Lee] Lee doesn't know that there's a conversation going on between Taggart and his packmate. All she knows is the tension in the room has spiked, and as much as she'd love to see Alex's face beaten and bloodied again, she'd much rather be elsewhere if fists are going to start flying.

A word from Taggart has Lee paused in the middle of draping her coat over her arm, the strap of her bag in her free hand. When she straightens, she rests the bag on a cushion of the sectional, and waits.

Whatever altercation might have occurred ends as quickly as it began. Alex shoves Echo, Taggart's rage spikes, Echo snarls at the kinsman. And then she leaves.

In however brief a silence follows in her wake, Lee turns to Taggart to say, "I'm going home. I'll bring you a key in a couple days."

[Alexander] "Oh bullshit if that's what you're concerned about!" Alexander yells after Echo. "You started sniping at me the minute I walked in the room. Nice excuse though! A plus for effort!"

[Hatchet] Echo's gone.

Rory's out.

Then Lee, because this time, Hatchet doesn't stop her. He just nods, a muscle in his jaw tightening and then relaxing.

He understands. Bizarrely, because he lacks the background of interaction and socialization that so many of them have, he actually gets it. The chip on Alex's shoulder, the ache in Echo's heart, the exhaustion present in every movement of Liadan's body. That's what doesn't come across, no matter how much he actually senses, no matter what insight he actually has. The fact that Taggart sees and understands the people around him so rarely seems to impact what he says to them, how he deals with them.

Maybe it's laziness. Maybe it's selfishness. Whatever the motivation for this quirk of interaction may be, that's how Hatchet is. But that's all digression. Every female in the room makes a hasty exit, and when they're all gone, Hatchet exhales heavily and gives a rather obvious roll of his eyes.

"Good fucking god," he says, and leans over to pluck his mug of coffee off the table to take another drink.

[Ethan] Lee and Rory have the right idea.

As the tension in the room ratchets, as Rage surges like a fire fed by fresh wood, Ethan is not standing gawking at it all as though this is something new to him. This is a man who had planted his feet and fired off bullet after bullet at a Gorehound despite the fact that it could have easily taken his head off in one strike; he had remained calm then, and after, even when four dire wolves set upon the creature's body and tore it to crimson-splattered shreds, and if he wasn't calm, if on the inside his heart was pounding and his vision was tunneling and his blood was running cold, he had kept it together.

The Rage of the gathered Garou is not what has him averting his gaze and taking a step back to vacate the room, nor is it the threat of violence. He doesn't come out and say what it is, doesn't make an attempt to flag down the attention of any particular person in this room. He watches Echo, and then Rory, stalk out of the common room, then turns to look at the epicenter of the outburst. The expression on his face is muted, hard to tease out. Bemusement is close enough to the truth.

Hatchet picks up his coffee with an exclamation, and the taller of the two kinsman just huffs out a breath of unamused laughter and asks, "Shall I come back another time, then?"

[Alexander] "Hey," Alexander says, huffy as shit, "all I wanted to know was who the hell left my Xbox on all night. Wears out the DVD mechanism."

[Hatchet] "I know," Hatchet says simply, and does not otherwise discuss what just happened. Alex is a Walker. He doesn't belong to Hatchet.

His attention drifts from the irritable chaps-sporting dickwad and over to the nice man who can face down a gorehound but not hold his liquor. His eyes flick over the coat Ethan's wearing now, then back up to his eyes. "If you're waiting for a time to come by the Brotherhood when no one is in a bad mood or threatening to get into a potentially lethal brawl, don't hold your breath. What's up?"

[Rory] The door to the laundry room isn't closed, so much as pushes shut a little. Once she's sure she's not followed, though there's no reason she would be, she lets loose a shaky breath and closes her eyes. A shudder works through her, rage fighting to break free, to destroy, to hurt - and she batters it back, bit by bit by bit.

Her control is a mighty thing - how she learned it is a story she does not tell.

When she's reasonably sure she won't break the machine she's about to use, she pushes from the wall, and sets her pack on the floor by the washer with a clank and clatter - and then she starts to peel off her clothing, layer after layer, and toss it into an empty washer. She has no modesty, no shame in her naked form, all pale, pale skin and freckles that number too many to count, and doesn't bother to grab a towel from the clean pile to wrap around her slender form until after she's managed to add soap and start the washer correctly.

Once wrapped up in the towel, she grabs another one, slings her pack over a shoulder, and exits the laundry room - only to follow the hall toward the bathrooms, and the shower waiting there.

[Ethan] Ethan hasn't travelled too far from the stairwell in the last several minutes. If anything he'd decided that that was the safest place for him to be while tempers were flaring and sporting equipment was being used as a blunt weapon, as though this were an earthquake, some sort of act of God, and not a day ending in Y for the people living under this roof.

There isn't anything timid about this man. He's not trying to make himself smaller, or fade into the woodwork. He's reserved, perhaps, but not shy or terrified. This is a man who had approached a pack of strange Garou and asked if he could drink with them. He's got something resembling a spine even if he hasn't got the mouth that the Xbox owner has.

A question, and Ethan answers easily enough, sliding his hands into the pockets of his antiquated jacket.

"I may or may not have been under the influence when I saw you at the pub the other night," he says. "I seem to recall you saying you still have my flask, though."

[Alexander] "Yeah, well." Alexander has a sort of careless way of breaking into a conversation that suggests he's not even aware he's interrupting anything. "You going to put your fist through my face again if I give your kinswoman a ride home?" He's talking to Taggart, of course.

[Joey] When Rory heads into the showers, someone is already in there. Over the splash of water on tile a clear voice sings.

Never gonna give you up
Never gonna let you down
Never gonna run around and desert you

That's all the metis hears before the water is turned off, a shower curtain is pulled back, and a blonde girl with a few less freckles than the Fianna Ahroun steps out of a shower stall. Joey seems unconcerned that she's being seen in the nude by a stranger. She's a jock, has spent most of her formative years playing competitive sports. Her own or others' states of dress or undress while within a locker room or a communal shower doesn't bother her. The former softball player just plain doesn't give a fuck about being naked.

That said, Joey in the nude is nothing to write home about. Her figure is compact, athletic, muscular. What curves she has are small enough that baggy clothing can almost completely obscure her gender. Rory, if her eyes stay on the Fenrir, can see the marks of battle on the young woman, the four raking claw marks across her stomach, the slash at her throat. There are other scars, internal ones, that give her grief.

She feels the press of rage, the hint of breeding before she notices there's another person in the bathroom with her. When she sees that she's not alone, Joey tilts her head at Rory curiously. "Oh. Hey." She grabs a nearby towel and wraps it haphazardly around herself.

[Hatchet] "You did not imagine that," he tells Ethan mildly, and turns to Alex. When he laughs at the question, he doesn't seem to be forcing it. "No," he replies, smirking slightly in amusement. "What are you, a friend of hers?"

[Rory] Someone's singing. Rory doesn't have to hide her shy smile at that, because no one's looking directly at her, at the moment - at least not until the singing stops and the water does too, and Joey comes out of the shower. She isn't bothered about being nude any more than Rory seems to be. Her towel is more for others than herself, which is shown as she finds a shelf to place her backpack on, close enough to the shower stall she chooses to be grabbed if needed, even though it also means it might get wet. In it is everything she owns - and it's with reluctance she lets go of it even now.

The towels are draped on top of it, the first still folded, the other dropped from her body without a care for being seen. No one would write home about her figure - she's too skinny from eating so little, her curves are slight, skin pale, freckles eeeeeeeverywhere. There are two scars, one across her flank, the other along her right thigh. Most of her scars, however, are not physical at all.

She starts the water, lets it heat, and then smiles that shy little grin once more, this time in greeting. "Hi."

[Alexander] "No," Alexander replies, picking up his stew. "I sincerely doubt that." Down the stairs he goes again, more noisily than he came up -- if that's possible.

[Liadan] Eugenie Terrace on the Park. That is where Lee is headed when she sets out from The Brotherhood. It's only a few blocks from The Brotherhood, is within sight of the Lincoln Park zoo. Walking distance, really.

So that's what Lee is doing. Her grey wool coat is buttoned up, an emerald green scarf wrapped around her throat. Her hands are thrust into the pockets of the coat and her head is bare, her long hair loose to offer what warmth it can for her ears. It's snowing, small cold flakes that gather in her hair and on her shoulders. For as cold as it is, she should be dressed warmer, should have a hat on or a thicker coat or be taking a taxi even though her home is just a few blocks away.

Lee doesn't seem to mind the cold.

[Alexander] Liadan doesn't get very far. She's barely at the mouth of the alley when the back door of the Brotherhood bangs open again and Alexander comes after her, breath steaming in the cold. It's not hard to be ready to go again when you've barely gotten in the door.

"Hey," he calls after her. "Give you a ride."

[Liadan] Lee stops, turns back to see who is calling after her. When she sees that it's Alex standing in the dim light of the back lot, she whips back around.

"No, thanks."

[Alexander] Alexander isn't particularly tall, and will never have the long lanky stride of a born sprinter. Despite that, he's quick. He reaches his motorcycle in a few quite steps, and then Liadan can hear it firing up, the exhaust note bouncing between the narrow alley walls, deafening.

He eases it up behind her, walking it along the curb. "Was I asking?" he retorts. "Get on. It's fucking freezing. You can thank me by making me a cup of hot chocolate when we get there."

[Liadan] She hears Alex's motorcycle fire up behind her, excessively noisy just like the man himself. No matter how fast she walks, how much she lengthens her stride to take advantage of her longer legs, Lee cannot outrun a motorcycle. So she doesn't try. Nor does she stop walking.

"It doesn't matter if you're asking, I'm refusing," she says coolly. Then adds, "It's not that bad," even though her cheeks and nose are already reddening. Soon her face will be numb, her fingers in her pockets might begin to tingle, even her quads will begin to freeze through the denim of her jeans. Or they will, if she's out that long.

[Alexander] One might expect Alexander to ride a great blaring Harley around, but it's actually a red Buell. A sportbike, sleek and angular, with swooping muscular curves and sharp edges. It's not as easy to walk as a lowrider would be, so he keeps one foot on the rest, the other on the ground for balance, following along with short, low bursts of throttle.

"Let me ask you something, Liadan. What's your problem with me, exactly? Do you even know, or are you just in hate with me because that's the vogue these days?"

[Liadan] Lee finally stops walking. It's a moment before she turns to face the man on the bike following her despite her continued attempts to brush him off. When she does turn to look at him, she is for once neither snide or sneering.

There's no question that Lee has disliked Alexander Vaughn for some time. There is also no question that her dislike has intensified, has grown and blossomed into something like outright hatred.

She tilts her head to the side, regarding Alex through slightly narrowed eyes. "You mean you don't know?"

[Alexander] "If I knew," Alexander replies, irritated, "would I be asking you?"

[Liadan] "I don't know, maybe," she says, shrugging. Then she turns and starts walking again, slower than before. Her eyes stay on the snow covered walkway, then she tilts her head to look up at the sky.

"Who the hell rides a motorcycle in the Midwest in winter, anyway?"

[Alexander] Alexander's nothing if not tenacious. Another short burst of throttle keeps pace with the redhead. His eyes are fast on her, fierce and dark, ignoring the road ahead. No one parks on the curb this part of town anyway.

"Hey," he barks at her, "how about an answer, Lee? Or do you not have one?"

[Liadan] She stops again, turns again, faces him again.

"Lots of people hate you, Vaughn. There're some folks back there," she jerks her chin back in the direction of The Brotherhood, "who are far from fans. I have just as much reason to loathe and despise you as they do. You and I both know you don't like me, either, so why do you even care?"

[Alexander] Alexander lets go the handlebars, letting the bike move on its own inertia. "Marrick," he says, holding up one finger, "might qualify as hating me because she decided she was in love with me, and the feeling wasn't mutual. Aidan probably hated me because, y'know, I broke his fucking face." He smirks as he raises his second finger. "Twice.

"Gabriella might hate me," a third, "because I moved into her precious little space and then didn't become her best friend forever or her big brother or her fuckbuddy, whichever it is she wanted from me. Annnnd... honestly, that's about all I can think of. Everyone else might be annoyed or buttfuckinghurt at the things I do or say, but hate? No, Lee, I'd say that's just you.

"And frankly, I've asked you three times now, and you can't give me a good reason why. Which makes me think, you've just decided it's somehow the cool thing to do to hate me. Which, frankly, is pretty pathetic."

[Liadan] "If that's what helps you sleep at night," she says, shrugging a shoulder.

[Alexander] "It doesn't help me sleep at night," Alexander fires back. "It doesn't bother me that you're such a snitty little bitch. But it does make me fucking curious why you apparently despise me so much you'd rather freeze your ass off than accept a ride home. And it does amuse the fuck out of me that you can't seem to produce a single reason why."

[Liadan] "That's funny," she says, utterly without mirth, "because there's a difference between having reasons and choosing not to give them. It's also funny that you keep saying it doesn't bother you, but you won't. Let it. Go. You want a reason?" she asks, voice dripping venomous sarcasm. "Your face makes me sick. Something about your nose. Or your eyes. I can't really decide. Is that enough of a reason for you to leave me the fuck alone?"

[Alexander] "No." There's something low and vicious about the way they're speaking to each other now. "That's not enough. You can't seem to make up your fucking mind, Liadan. You fuck me, and then you forget me, and then you're visiting me in a hospital with flowers, and then you're throwing a laptop at me. You snark your face off at me like you're still in high school or something and then you're breaking into amusement parks with me. And then you disappear for X months and come back in bitch mode again.

"And there's no explanation. Not for when you like me, and not for when you hate me. No reason. No fucking sense whatsoever, Liadan, and I think I'm actually sick of it.

"So let's hear it. Why can't you make up your mind? What crawled up your ass this time? What's your damage? Lay it the fuck out for me, babydoll."

[Liadan] Lee pivots abruptly away from Alex, turning in a full circle and letting out a frustrated growl.

"Stop trying to understand me," she snarls. When she's facing him again, her body thrums with tension, with something like anger, like frustration. She doesn't move forward to get in his face, doesn't step away to storm off. Lee just stands there, on the sidewalk in the snow, the city dark and silent around them.

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe, just maybe I'm not giving up information because I don't want you to fucking know? So stop asking me why. Stop throwing me off by acting like you give a shit. Leave. Me. Alone!"

She does try to storm off now. Not back to The Brotherhood, to Taggart who might defend her, who might protect her from whatever it is that Alex offers or represents. It doesn't even occur to her to head back in that direction.

[Alexander] "Leave Britney alone?" Alexander mocks -- ruthlessly, and rather viciously. "Leave Liadan alone? Is that it? Get back here -- "

he reaches out, quick as a snake, grabs her by the wrist and turns her around. His motorcycle gloves are still on. The thick pads obscure all warmth, but his fingers are hard underneath, his grip absolute.

"You know what I think? I think that's exactly the problem. You know I don't give a shit. But you know I understand you on some level and you can't fathom, or can't stand, the idea that someone might understand you without giving a fuck about you.

"So you keep asking. Over and over. You dress it up as something else; you act like you're throwing it in my teeth or withholding something from me, but every time you say why the fuck do you care or what do you care, anyway what you're really saying is do you care? And every time I blow that right off, I'm telling you no, babydoll, I don't care.

"And that's why you yo yo back and forth. Every time you get all friendly with me, it's 'cause I've done something that makes you think I care. And then every time you decide you hate my guts again, it's because you've actually asked if I do or not, and I've said no."

A beat. Then he yanks her a hard inch closer.

"Well, babydoll? Am I right?"

[Liadan] He grabs her wrist and pulls. She resists. He has to yank hard to make her budge that final inch, and still she's leaned back, her weight against the pressure of his grip. Maybe he expects her to beg again, like the last time he held her fast like this, when she asked him 'please' quietly, timidly, pleading. She doesn't.

And then, suddenly, all the fight goes out of her. She laughs.

"Is that what you think?"

[Alexander] (EMPATHEE!)
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 1, 1, 9 (Failure at target 6)

[Alexander] (ALEXANDER VAUGHNS DON'T FAIL!)
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 6, 7, 7, 9 (Success x 4 at target 7) [WP]

[Liadan] [resist anyway!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 3, 4, 7, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6) [WP]

[Alexander] Alexander says nothing. His eyes flick between hers, and there's no rage, no gnosis, no supernatural threat at all. Every ounce of burn there, every quantum of hardness and perception and implacability there is simply him.

No more or less, no greater or mightier than the weak, thinskinned, frailboned sack of meat he, and all the rest of their half-bred kind, is.

After a second he lets her go.

"I am right," he says, softly now. "Aren't I."

[Liadan] Once released, Lee doesn't step back. She doesn't rub the red ring around her wrist, nor does she hide her bare hands in her pockets. Her arms hang slack at her sides, and she looks down at the man on the motorcycle.

"Alex, I seem to recall thinking you were a fun ride. If I actually thought for one second you gave a shit about me, I would have fucked you more. I would have fucked you in your hospital room. I would have fucked you anywhere you wanted, in any way, regardless of who might be trying to claim me. If I actually thought you cared about me in any way, we wouldn't be having this conversation because I would've gotten on the back of your bike, let you take me home, and we would be fucking right now.

"No one in their right mind would you think you gave a shit about anyone but yourself. And I may be 'damaged,'" she says, hip jutting to the side, hands coming up to form air quotes and everything, "as you put it, but I'm not so fucked in the head that I would ever think you cared about me as anything more than a fall back for a fuck."

[Alexander] There's a quiet after that. And Alexander is frowning, though perhaps not for the reasons one might ordinarily attribute to such a situation.

When he finally opens his mouth again, he doesn't argue whether or not she ever thought he might care. Maybe he's convinced. More likely he just figures there's no point in debating a point that, in the end, exists only as ephemera in Liadan's head. Or maybe he just doesn't give a fuck what she thinks, or what her truth is, or what the truth is, because all that matters in the end is what truth exists in his head.

Whatever. When he speaks again, it's to say:

"Liadan, would you let me fuck you again if you thought I cared because you care for me too? Or simply because I care?"

[Liadan] Lee tilts her head to the side, her expression thoughtful. Her left brow quirks.

"Are you asking me if I have a crush on you, or, god forbid, am in love with you?"

[Alexander] Alexander shakes his head. "No. I'm asking you if it's me, or if that's the truth for anyone who seems to care for you."

[Liadan] "I can't stand you. You're an arrogant jerkwad who struts around like he's king of the mountain, pissing in everyone's Wheaties because you think it's fun." She takes a step back, hands sliding into her pockets. "If I fucked you again, it wouldn't be because it's you."

[Alexander] There's perhaps something defensive, or self-protective, or even desperate and pathetic in the way Liadan lashes out this time. Maybe that's why it rolls right off Alexander; doesn't change the look on his face at all.

"Jesus, Liadan," he says, and if there's anything worse than being picked on by Alexander Vaughn, it might be being pitied by him. "That's really ... "

deeply fucked up, he might say. Well and truly fucked up. Maybe even fucked up beyond all repair. In the end, for once, he keeps his big mouth shut. Nods at the back of his bike again.

"Just get on. Will you?"

[Alexander] (sorry, mistook lee's tone in that last post!)

[Liadan] Alex starts to say something, something that is probably the truth, and Lee knows it. Of course she knows it. If Líadan Whelan didn't know how well and truly fucked up she was, well, she wouldn't be half so well and truly fucked up. It would be sadder then, more pitiable if she didn't know her flaws so well that she hides them.

She shrugs a shoulder at his unfinished statement. In the end it doesn't matter to her if he pities her or hates her, or if he thinks she's a spazzy, psychopathic bitch.

He tells her to get on, and words cannot describe the look of utter incredulity on Lee's face at the suggestion.

"No. Stop acting like you care about my wellbeing, Vaughn. It's demeaning." Demeaning for him or for her, she doesn't say.

[Alexander] Like that, Alexander's temper tears in half. His twin brother is a Philodox, born on the cusp. Alexander, if he had ever Changed, would have been a waning Galliard. It fits him. Moody, impulsive, handy in a fight ... vicious. Too goddamn evolutionarily fit, or something, for honor.

"You can be such a sanctimonious bitch, Liadan!" On the cold, barren streets near the Brotherhood, the shout falls away into silence, echoing off nothing. "It's not all black and white. It's not love or hate. I don't love you. I'm not into you. I don't give a fuck, most of the time, just how fucked up you are or how fucked up you're getting. But you remember that day on the train platform, when that thing tried to eat me alive and you jumped it, and so it bit you instead and nearly killed you? Well, guess what, Liadan, if you'd actually died I would've felt pretty fucking rotten.

"Just because I don't adore and love you doesn't make me completely heartless. Just because I don't let people get away with whining, weakness and bullshit doesn't mean every last thing I do is for my own personal gain.

"Now get on the fucking bike."

[Liadan] If Lee had changed, she'd be a waning Ragabash. If she hadn't grown up so twisted, so broken, so damaged who knows how well that Auspice would suit her? She's creative. Deceitful. And she always wants to know why why why.

Alexander's temper snaps, and Lee does not react. Not to recoil, not to placate, not to care. He says he'd feel rotten if a monster killed her at a train station. Lee doesn't even bother trying to find the lie in there. He's probably telling the truth, but she doesn't believe him. But for once she doesn't try to argue with him over it.

Her apartment is just a handful of blocks away to the south, within sight of Lincoln Park Zoo and -- though she neither knows nor cares -- is on the edge of territory belonging to the Eagles. Walking, regardless of the time of night or the weather, she'll be there in less than ten minutes.

Of course Alex doesn't know this, more than likely thinks she still lives down by Grant Park. The only person within the Nation who knew the location of Lee's new residence is a dead Theurge.

"Alex," she says, switching again from his last name to his first, and now she just sounds exasperated, "I don't care how you'd feel if I died. I don't care if you are or aren't into me, I certainly would never believe you if you said you loved me. I don't think you're trying to be a knight in shining armor or whatever other bullshit you think this is. I don't. Need. A ride. I'm fucking halfway to my aparment. Save yourself an ounce of gas and go home."

[Alexander] Alexander's eyebrows twitch sharply together. "Where the fuck do you live now?"

[Liadan] "Eugenie Terrace. Right," she turns, walks out into the middle of a street empty of traffic this time of night, cranes her neck. Then she waves her hand in the direction she was looking. "Well, over there. You can't see it from here because of buildings."

She walks back over to the Glass Walker kinfolk she's fought and argued with more than anyone else in her life, brow quirked. "Where did you think I was going, a bus station?"

[Alexander] "The busses don't run up this way at ass o' clock a.m." Now Alexander's cranky. "I thought you were walking all the way down to Grant Park. Well fuck you, I just wasted a lot of breath and twenty minutes of my life that I'm never getting back."

[Liadan] Lee scoffs, huffing out a breath. "Like you're the only one? Maybe next time when I tell you to go away you'll listen instead of trying to turn it into caring and sharing time." She's walking backwards, away from Alex as she talks. As soon as she's done, she turns and continues walking down the center of the street. Despite spending twenty minutes standing in twenty degree weather, she doesn't shiver or shake with cold. This, as she said earlier, is not so bad.

[Alexander] "Maybe next time," he snaps back at her, never one to leave without a parting shot, "you could inform your local good samaritan that you live four fucking blocks away up front. Fuck's sake."

[Liadan] Lee stops, turns to call, "Who in their right mind would-- you know what, nevermind."

She turns back, leaving Alex with his final parting shot.