alex and sinclair have officially grown up.

Alex

And where else would Alex be, of course, but the game room. Where there's an Xbox, and a reasonable - albeit slightly dated - collection of games. He's mashing the controller grumpily, paying little attention to what's going on on-screen. When Sinclair walks in his head snaps around; he stares at her for about point five seconds before he tosses the controller aside, jumps up, comes across the room in great big Alex strides and

pretty much throws his arms around her as far as they'll go, and squeezes.

There's another guy in the game room, idling shooting some pool. He looks between the two of them. He looks a little uncomfortable. After a moment, he sort of just ... shuffles out. Alex is still hugging Sinclair, though now he's also kissing her neck and her shoulder, whatever he can reach.

Sinclair

They don't buy brand new fancy anything for the game room. Cubs go there. Cliaths try to leave it behind as soon as they get their names. Fosterns and Adrens sometimes spend time here, just to relax or to try and help the cubs when they have them. It's there for when you can't go back to your own den all night. It's there for when you're waiting for the moot to start. It's there for when your world just got smashed to pieces.

The Glass Walkers have so many lost cubs enter their ranks that it's no wonder they have so many different colors and shapes. They are a profoundly diverse tribe, a meritocracy, and morals matter less than aptitute. But Sinclair isn't the only cub that one might think comes from Fenrir stock that's been diluted. There have been kids in here with jet black hair and icy pale eyes, Eastern European noses, and many of them are just as violent and confused as Sinclair was. You put shit in here that you don't mind getting broken.

The furniture is like a dorm's common area for that reason, and some of it has obviously been mended repeatedly. Some of it is mended with duct tape. Glyphs are drawn here and there with Sharpie, as well as more human-looking graffitti. Words are carved into any wooden surface. Smells like teenage hormones and rage in here. Also, it smells like Alex, and Sinclair's heart gives a little jump when she sees him, like tonight didn't happen the way it did, she's just... excited, suddenly,

and reminded of the first time she met him, playing Soul Calibur IV, in something not unlike a dorm's common room.

Sinclair jumps across the room and all but slams into Alex, their bodies meeting with sudden force. They are both solid, quick fighters, and they tend to almost hurt each other when they meet halfway like this, arms encircling. Sinclair instantly puts her face against his neck, smelling him, all his fading anxiety and sweat and Self, holding him with strength that, given her appearance, will never cease to be surprising. She's ignoring Threads the Needle, he's a nice guy but kind of a geek, and it doesn't shock her that he's weirded out by this.

Alex starts kissing her all over, and even though she scrubbed she's uneasy that he's going to taste blood, smell it, he's going to recoil. So she squirms, and then starts rubbing her face against his, against his neck, her hair under his chin, nuzzling him with the forcefulness of an animal and the urgency of someone scratching an itch. A noise partway between a growl and a whine rumbles in the back of her throat, her hands clutching at his back through his shirt. The fight was bad enough. But that would have been fine, if they hadn't been separated. They were. It wasn't fine.

Alex

Sometimes when they're together and Doing Something Badass, which is Alexcode for doing something for the Sept, Alex gets the sort of rush he gets when he's in the ring, when he's on the surfboard, when he's in bed with her. He feels high on life. He feels like he can do anything, live forever. It doesn't stop him from being cautious, and cunning, and quick - but it sure as hell doesn't stop him from having fun.

And then sometimes they're not together, and he knows she's off Doing Something Dangerous, which is Alexcode for doing something for the Sept not-together, and he's a tangled knot of nerves. He can't sit still, he doesn't want to focus, he wants to put his fist through something, he keeps looking up at the door whenever he hears someone coming.

And then she shows up again. And she smells a little like blood, a little like chaos, a lot like herself, and they fling themselves together and her hands are clutching at his back and he's kissing her where he can find her and

it's probably a good thing that what's-his-face cleared out because in the next minute Alex is all grabbing Sinclair by the face and kissing her; doesn't really care if he tastes blood.

Sinclair

Up until this moment, the last thing on Sinclair's mind was sex. She didn't want to go home and make love in the shower or bathtub, or get out naked and dripping wet and maul each other on the top of their bed like they sometimes do, which they really shouldn't because they just soak their bedding since they can't fucking wait to dry off. She certainly wasn't planning on grabbing and hugging and kissing at the sept. No, she'd be very professional and cool and talk to him about the drop off and how she thinks she should go but she wanted to talk to him first, see what he thought, she's curious, etc. Have a really adult conversation about it and make a decision together, because she doesn't have to have a mateship like anyone else, no matter what tribe or rank, this is her mate and her reputation and she will make up her own damn mind what works best, because she's not Lukas or Kate or Regina or StupidpantsMcGrumpyFace or whatever the Ritemaster's name is. She's Sinclair.

Up until now, she had a lot of other thoughts. But now he's here, and as he kisses her there's a flicker of anxiety that is suddenly engulfed in a wave of closeness and certainty. She touches his face, feeling him in her hands, feeling him against her body, warm and solid and so familiar she could shape him out of thin air if she had to, craft him out of clay. She will never blame him for the stress he has when she's Doing Something Dangerous. If their positions were reversed, she would feel the same way; and that is, if their positions were truly and totally reversed. If he were Garou and she Kin. It wouldn't matter. It doesn't matter that she's strong and can survive being shot at with an AK-47. Alex being anxious doesn't mean he doesn't understand what she is or know that she's strong. Sinclair freaking out when he gets hurt has less to do with the fact that he's 'just Kin' and everything to do with the fact that he's her mate.

She can't stop moving her hands. She wraps her arms around him again and holds him tightly, her brow furrowed with the urgency of kissing him, of feeling him, and she presses herself to him, her skin flaring up with heat. She doesn't even know if she wants sex. She just knows she wants to be close. Closer than this. She wants to be naked and with her mate, warm skin to warm skin.

So she yanks back her head and then tips her forehead to his, breathing. She doesn't let go of him. "They're gonna go figure out who those guys were after us and probably get into a fight and the Master of the Rites is going to mess with these laptops I found and the stupid fetish and to tell the truth I kinda feel like I should maybe go just to see what all that was about and why we had to fight and why we got shot at but right now I do not care. I just want to go home with you." Her eyes close. "Don't think less of me or think I'm weak or lazy or something, I just really wanna go home and be with you."

Alex

"Oh, baby." His hands on her face are gentler suddenly. He touches her like she's far more fragile than she is; a caress, far more tender than he looks and acts. "Baby, why would I think less of you? Ever?"

That's punctuated with a kiss. It's soft, it's light, it's just his mouth on hers for a second. Then they draw apart a little again, their foreheads pressed together, her eyes closed. Sometimes it still surprises him how pretty she is. And how all-american, this girl from Kansas with her great big american muscle car and her parents who grill burgers on the back porch under a huge, huge blue sky.

Game pause music is playing on the TV. The Xbox is on, the TV is on, the controller is still on the floor. Alex doesn't care. He extricates himself from Sinclair just long enough to grab his keys off the battered coffee table. It feels like a dorm in here. He vaguely remembers the BroHo; he remembers the first time Sinclair slept in his bed, and everything was so awkward, and he would have never thought they'd end up here. Like this. Together. That she'd be, as they say, the one.

He puts his arm back around her when he comes back. "Let's get outta here," he says. "Let's tell the Sept we're on vacation so don't bug us for a month or something."

Sinclair

She knows. Kind of, she knows. Sinclair didn't wake up one morning and look out the window and realize that all of her insecurities were silly. They stab at her randomly, needles to her squishy parts, and she worries. Not often. Not as deeply-seated as before. But sometimes, still: please don't think less of me.

For what?

For wanting to be with you more than I want to go to war.

She nuzzles him again, kissing his neck, under his ear, kissing his mouth even though she's a little worried it's gross. She lays her head on his shoulder, and she doesn't mind the thought of anyone walking in and seeing her like this. She doesn't care if some elder walks in and sees her being affectionate and tender with her mate, even vulnerable. They are not her mate. They will never have that vulnerability from her, but their seeing it cannot change it. It is held behind bulletproof glass, visible but untouchable. She smiles a little, resting on him the way she does when she falls asleep mostly on top of his chest. This close he can see every freckle on her nose, and the way the tiny steel feather dangling from her earring rests against the juncture of her jaw.

"Love you," she murmurs, and he squeezes her, and they wriggle apart, her hand going into his, his hand grabbing his keys. They head out, both of them remembering the Brotherhood but neither of them mentioning it. She remembers him calling her Astaroth for awhile. She remembers being unable to show him that she respected him, awkward and horrible about showing him that she wanted him, and as much as she liked him he didn't seem to want any Garou to like him and she didn't dare risking real vulnerability because she knew, she just knew, he'd reject her. She remembers wishing, and hating herself for wishing, that he would just hold her.

It's hard to believe they ended up here.

"We kind of did take a month-long vacation awhile ago," she mentions, fitting herself into his embrace. She breathes in, exhales, and heads for the elevator with him. "Thanks for being so awesome tonight," she goes on, laying her head against him in the elevator, too.

Alex

"Doesn't mean we can't take another one," Alex argues. And the truth is, regimented as his daily life is, Alex instinctively hates any rule he doesn't impose himself, bucks any yoke that he didn't take up himself. And they're heading for the elevator and he's seriously thinking about turning around and going back in and telling the Warder not to call for a month, he'll do it, seriously, you know he will, but then

the elevator dings and arrives and they get in. And Sinclair wraps her arms around his middle, and he wraps his arm around her shoulders, and they're both so solid and warm and alive, and he's happy.

"Lubyewtew," he says, silly, and kisses her hair. "And I was pretty awesome, wasn't I? Didn't get a scratch on the Elantra, and I was doing some tricky driving for a while there. You should tell all the other geedubs that your boyfriend's the fuckin' Transporter."

Sinclair

That makes her snicker. And he hasn't freaked out over some holes in her clothes that look suspiciously bullety. And he isn't marching back in to yell at the Warder, which is a good thing. And she's just glad he's here. Glad they're going home. Glad he's hers. "Done and done," she tells him, rubbing her face on his shoulder. "But we still aren't taking a vacation. When you get right down to it, any time we help the sept it's out of the goodness of our hearts. That's... kind of a nice benefit of you being totally and technically and officially Mine," she goes on, musing as they descend towards the garage level again. "Nobody can just snap their fingers at you to get you to do something or threaten you if you don't. And since you know you don't have to like, ask my permission to do stuff, it's up to you. And no one can say shit about it."

The doors ding open and they start walking out, Sinclair separating just enough so they can move but putting her hand in his. "So even if they call, you don't even have to answer unless you feel like going out and being a badass."

Which says nothing about what she'll do. Tonight she could say no, and she's still conflicted about it. It doesn't look good. But it's forgivable. Next time, though, and the time after that, it doesn't sound like Sinclair will tell the Warder nope and hang up. In this area, at least, she is not quite as free.

When they get to the Elantra, Tripoli is inside, little hands and bucket head pressed up against the glass. Seeing them, he waves excitedly, muffled eees sounding from inside.

Alex

The thing is, though, Alex is too smart not to hear what Sinclair's not saying. As her hand's sliding into his, he turns to look at her, his flicker of post-badass-savage-joy shifting into something at once warmer and more serious.

"Yeah," he says, "but that doesn't really include you. You're not really part of this Sept. So like you said, every time you help, it's outta the goodness of your heart. But that still doesn't make you feel any less of a duty to help, every time you can."

Up ahead, Tripoli pops up and eees at them, little metal hands waving for all they're worth. Alex grins and waves back.

Sinclair

Her hand squeezes his.

She doesn't say it, but she rests her head on his shoulder as they walk a few steps. It means something that he gets it. There's no running from the fact that this is what she was born for. She cannot go through life at its happiest -- the road trip comes to mind, for example -- and not shapeshift. Walking away from a fight is disorienting at best, wracking at worst. It doesn't quite feel right, even as 'right' as going home with her mate feels. She's never going to stop being Garou. She exists for a sole purpose.

When she's with Alex, though, that purpose expands. She can be more. And maybe he doesn't know all of that in so many words, but he does get it. The same rules that govern his existence don't apply to her, and vice versa. It's as it should be. It's as it was meant to be. But the way things are is not always easy to live with.

She kisses his cheek at the car, tapping the glass to say hi to Tripoli. "You want me to drive home?" she asks, with a lopsided grin. "I mean, I'm no Transporter, but if you wanna take a break..."

Alex

She'll always be Garou. She'll always be a wild animal, just like he's always be not-quite-human, himself. Even before he and his brother started hearing about Garou and War and all that stuff, they noticed the little things. They tumbled and romped and got scraped knees like every other kid on their block, but their cuts and scrapes just healed so much faster. He could always kick balls farther, throw them harder, run faster, run longer. And even though he can't slip his skin and change his shape, it felt so right so follow Sinclair into the Everglades. To run through the marsh at night. To whip his clothes off, feel the mud between his toes, the night on his skin,

make love in the grass and the muck, grasping at each other, communicating in the wordless noises of animals. That was how they made love in Rio de Janeiro, too, the second time - a very, very long time ago.

At the car, his mate kisses his cheek. She wants to know if he wants to take a break, and something inside him aches for a moment. He shakes his head. "Nah. I can drive. You rest. It's not like I got shot." As they're parting to get in the car, he shoots her a mock-stern look over the roof. "What, you thought I didn't notice?"

Sinclair

It was the same when she was a child. She had no idea what she was. Her parents were so far removed from any Garou ancestry that they had no idea, either. Had they married other people -- pure mortals, for example -- she would never have been born, but those other children would have only been further diluted Kin, until one day down the line the entire lineage just vanished, bloodless and human. But as unconscious as they were of their heritage, as unaware as she was in childhood, there were signals.

Sure, she got over illnesses quickly, but they thought that normal -- they both had sturdy constitutions, too. Sure, she was rough and tumble and energetic and confrontational, but there weren't many toddlers they knew who weren't. Sinclair didn't remember her dreams enough to tell people she dreamt about Changing years before it happened. Surely every teenager dreamt stuff like that. She didn't want to talk about it, cuz someone would probably say it was about puberty or sex or her period or something.

It was her temper that actually worried them, growing ever more vicious as she got older. Sinclair was never a cruel child -- far from it -- but when she got angry, people felt things they couldn't explain. Her teachers acted like she was a genuine threat to their own safety and the safety of her students. When questioned -- by Sinclair's mother, while her father sat on staring levelly at Mr. Tupton, 10th grade History -- about what Sinclair was actually doing to suggest she was violent, there wasn't much they could say. It was something in her eyes. It was the way they always knew when she entered a room by the way the hairs on the backs of their necks stood on end.

At home, it was the way she started wanting rarer and larger cuts of meat. She wanted bone-in, to gnaw at it. They watched her as she curiously, thoughtfully snapped a bone in half once and sucked out the marrow, something they had never mentioned, something they had never done, something she did on instinct.

It took Sinclair a very long time to reconcile what she was with what she'd believed in before, after a rather traumatic first Change. But it's happened. She is herself. She does not try to be more or less than that. And when her instincts tell her something is good, something is right, she follows it with all her strength. That is how she ended up here in San Diego, standing with Alex and smiling at him, feeling warm and feeling right despite everything else. He always felt right. Whatever else was wrong, it felt right when she was with him.

She kisses him again before she goes to circle the car and get in on the other side. He gets all stern and she hops her eyebrows up. "Look, when we get back and shower you can do a full body search for any holes that aren't supposed to be there, and if you find so much as a bruise, you can hold it over my head til the end of time."

Alex

And Alex smiles again, that mock-sternness dissipating like it never really was. He gets in the car and so does she and they're immediately glomped by Tripoli who's eeeing and iiiing and somewhere in the midst of that he manages to say, "I don't need to. I know you're all right."

And he does. And once upon a time that wouldn't have been enough; he would've needed proof, needed to see it, needed to run his hands all over her before he'd believe what she was already telling him with her eyes, her demeanor, her very presence. He knows her better now, though. He was worried - scared, even - when he hadn't heard from her, didn't know what was going on, but that was then and this is now and ... well.

Alex believes that he knows Sinclair well enough to be able to tell if something was genuinely not okay. She wouldn't act like this. She would be entirely different, and he would just know. Like magic.

And yet for all that - just before he starts the engine, and after Tripoli has calmed down, he reaches over, finds her hand with his. Squeezes.

"You are okay, right?"

Sinclair

"Well you should still probably check everywhere," Sinclair says very seriously, opening her door, "just to be safe." Tripoli jumps on Alex with a CLANG! and she laughs, tugging the little guy off of him and giving the non-robot an awkward flesh-on-metal squeeze herself, too. She doesn't send him in back but lets Tripoli hunker down on the floorboards next to her, long arms wound around her denim-clad leg in spirals, freeing up the space between her and her mate.

For their hands. She smiles when she feels it. "I'm good," she answers, a step above okay. Turning her head to look at him, still smiling, she says: "Baby, you know that if I'm really not-okay I won't hide it from you, right?"

Alex

They smile at each other for a quiet moment, which is a rare thing when they're both so brilliant, so active, so noisy, so vivid.

"I know," Alex says. "You never tried to hide it from me, I think. Even at the very beginning."

Sinclair

"Well, you're not some fainting debutante," Sinclair tosses back, a little less quiet, a little less rare, still smiling. "You think I'd have gotten such a big fucking crush on you if you weren't okay with a little blood and guts?"

Alex

And Alex laughs - and laughing, leans across, squooshing Tripoli between them a little as he plants a firm kiss on Sinclair's mouth.

Then, leaning back, he starts the car, backs it out of the space and maneuvers it out of the Caern's garage. "Back in Chicago," he says, "while I was living in the BroHo, there was so much shit going on - in the city, with the kin, in my life - that I don't think I even really ... saw you that clearly. I think between dealing with the crazies and with my own onoz Garou gonna oppress me! stick up the ass, all I saw was onoz Garou who might be crazy and oppress me!

"Wasn't til I got to Rio and had time to just chill that things started calming down and clearing up. And then when you came to visit it was like ... how did I not ... see?"

He glances at her, then. Smiles, a little awkward. "Aw, baby," he says, "I hope I'm not, like, bumming you out."

Sinclair

"Mmph!" is all Sinclair can say to that -- the kiss, that is. She receives it with a trace of surprise that dissolves a second later. She puts her hands on his cheeks for a moment, very soft, before she kisses him back. She's smiling when he draws back, smiling as they start to drive out. She's eager to be home, glad he's driving, reaching down and playing with Tripoli a little. When they get out the city is still very much awake, though nowhere near as crowded as it is during business hours. She listens, looking up and over at him occasionally.

There's no trace of upset on her face, or bummage. Just a soft sort of fondness, the memory one that used to ache but now too old to sting. When he asks, she shakes her head, laughing quietly. "No, baby, not even a little. To be honest," she goes on, "when you and I first met in Chicago I was really different, too. I hadn't even been a Cliath very long. I still had a ton of baggage from my Change and my fosterage and I think I was actively -- if subconsciously -- avoiding any other Garou that would kinda... help me evolve and grow up a little. If you weren't seeing me clearly, it wasn't just because of the chips on your shoulder. I liked you, and I respected you, and... I had no idea how to show that to anyone, especially Kin. Even if I had known how, I was too scared to follow through."

She smiles at him, the expression gentle. "What I mean is, I don't think I made myself that easy to see clearly, either. I'm glad we met when we did, but... I think we both needed a lot of time to grow up and work out some of our bullshit before we could be together."

Alex

"Well," Alex replies, "I'm just glad we worked that shit out and grew the fuck up."

The grin he flashes her is quick, laughing. But then it gentles. He reaches over to find her hand again. He holds it for a moment, and meanwhile they're cruising up the San Diego Harbor because their place really isn't so far from here and it's easier to just go local. He likes living here. He likes living close to the sea. He likes living with Sinclair. He even likes having guests coming in and out, even if sometimes they're a pain.

"I really am," he says a little later, and a little softer.

Sinclair

"Me too," Sinclair says, smiling, even though she knows he knows that already.

They hold hands. A lot, sometimes. They are not overblown in their affection, but they don't hide it, either. They remain in physical contact while he drives, the way they do when they sleep, and when she climbs sleepily into the shower with him after he gets back from a run, wrapping her arms around his waist and all but falling asleep again with her cheek between his shoulderblades. Watching movies with or without guests, they usually sit together on the couch. Sometimes her legs are draped over his lap, his hand resting easily on the outside of her thigh. Sometimes he follows her around in the kitchen when she's cooking, staying right next to her and getting in the way until he's laughing and she's poking at him with a spoon or bumping him with her hip to get him to move.

All the way home, they hold hands. She looks westward at the darkness that is the sea, rolling down the window the breathe in the night air. It's getting cooler, but it will never quite be all that cold, not like it gets in Chicago. She thinks again of moving back. He was looking at apartments this past summer, but then, she also wants to get married outside. She likes the idea of getting married on the beach out here, too. And it would be silly to move back, then drag everyone out here from Florida and Kansas and Illinois to go to a destination wedding.

Sinclair puts the thoughts out of her head, as she usually does. They can plan later. For now she reaches under the seat, gets out the jar of pretzel bites, and offers one to Alex.

Alex

So they munch pretzels and hold hands on the way home. They don't say much more than that, and the silence is comfortable, underlain by the hum of the engine and the quiet clanks of Tripoli doing whatever Tripoli does when he's amusing himself. Alex sort of thinks they should get Tripoli a friend. He mentioned that to Sinclair the other day, musing if it'd be possible to find another baby elemental or something, which made them both laugh because he sounded like he was proposing having another kid. Just think, little Johnny could have someone to play with.

Which made him think, as it makes him think now, that he still hasn't proposed for real. And he really should. Because they both want to get married in the spring, when it's warm and the world is waking up and summer is around the corner and the air is full of promise. Because he knows Sinclair would have a ball planning the whole thing, a nice wedding on the beach with all their friends and family. Because he can't wait to marry her, even though they're already mated, even though they both already know this is it, this is special, they're the one.

They're pulling into their parking space at their apartment, and Alex is switching the engine off, and Sinclair is recapping the jug of pretzel bites. They get out of the car, and he puts his arm around her again. Tripoli goes in her pocket. He kisses her cheek. Her phone buzzes in her pocket, and later when she checks she'll find a text from Smoking Gun telling her everything went down smooth as silk, everyone made it okay, they captured two of the pickup men and they're asking questions now.

Ill update u if u want, the text ends. When we kno more well prolly hit em.

But that's later. And unimportant. Their apartment, their den, is still warm from the day. They have no guests tonight. They open the windows to let the air in, and in their private bathroom they undress with no shyness, leave their clothes on the ground, and even though Alex said he wasn't worried, really isn't worried, he still puts his hands on Sinclair's skin where the bullet holes were. Her skin isn't even scratched. He bends down and he kisses her where she was shot, or at least shot at, and her skin is warm beneath his lips, and this

is how he ends up kissing her the whole time they're in the shower together - long slow kisses while their hands drift over each other, kisses that lead eventually to their stepping out of the shower and drying themselves, touching each other, pulling each other to the bedroom and into bed

where she wraps her legs around his hips and he pushes into her with a soft, tattered groan, and they make love crosswise on their little bed, atop the covers, leaving a wet patch where her hair spread over the comforter. It's tender, and close, and when they finish they wrap their arms around each other and their feet are hanging off the edge of the bed and this is how they sleep, at least for an hour or two.

When they wake they untangle and it's gotten cold and they're kinda stuck together which is gross, which makes them both laugh, so they dash to the bathroom to brush their teeth and wash and come back to bed. When the lights go back off and they curl up under the covers they can hear the ocean booming in the distance. Alex thinks of his parents, his brother, all five of them on the beach that day; he thinks of Sinclair's parents out in Kansas, on a prairie as wide as an ocean. They fall asleep facing each other, the way they always do.

In the morning, he skips the run. It's nicer just to stay in bed.

aftermath.

Sinclair

There is a fierce urge in Sinclair to let out a howl of triumph when she finds the totaled car, the dead meat inside. She wants to tackle Smoking Gun and lick her stupid face. She wants to find Alex and and and --

Alex is not there and she all but lunges for the Ragabash anyway, to pin her, strike her down, roar in her face until she tells her where Alex is, where, where, WHERE?! But the first words out of Smoking Gun's mouth as Sinclair comes panting, galloping to the scene is that her guy is still on his way. So that means he's alive. He's okay. She paces a few times, chomping at air, spitting blood, all but dizzy with rage and bloodthirst that was not there at the start of all this. She can barely remember the taste of peanut-butter pretzels. She can barely remember her human body right now.

"Runs hurt. Healed some but wounds bad. Bad," she is snarling, unable to access human words or near-human words, unable to even achieve High Speech. So she growls and barks out this instead, furious and sharp. "We stay," she decides. "Get Runs. Clean. I call mate."

The words, even to Smoking Gun, sound more like she's saying she'll howl for him. She'll howl, and he'll hear her, and know all is well. He'll know because he'll hear the tenor of her howl and understand it, every pitch and undulation, he'll understand, he'll know, he'll hear, because

because

Sinclair shakes her head once quickly, sharply. "I call. I human-call," she snarls, half to herself, as she shakes again, this time her whole body. The steely sheen to her fur shakes off, dispersing into nothing, and she gives another large shudder and unfolds upward into homid shape, looking both bloody and dazed with her own fury, her own often untapped power and instinct. Too long, she thinks. Too long in human shape. She feels that danger sometimes -- how when she does shift it explodes from her, she can't help it, she wants it so badly, she can breathe again. How, when it's been a long time, she can forget her human body in an instant. It's out of balance. It makes her uneasy, and she knows deeply that it has to do with her distance from her pack. Out here, no matter who she runs with or how often she helps the sept, she is a lone wolf, protecting a few blocks of territory, protecting her mate, pretending to be human so much of the time that coming back to that shape after an escape is jarring.

She spits out bloodied saliva again. "If everything's clean enough here, we should get back to Runs With Scissors and make sure he's okay, clean up that area too," she says, digging her phone out of her pocket and leaving a red fingerprint on the screen protector when she taps a little icon on the home page that calls Alex. She could text.

She wants to hear him.

Alex

"Eh." Gun ashes her cigarette and hops off the back of the cruiser. "There's blood all over the road but I stuffed all the, y'know. Bits into the car. If someone runs a DNA test they'll raise eyebrows, but seriously, who's gonna? It'll just look like some asshole hit a deer and took off, and then the deer dragged itself off.

"Sorta surprised you aren't taking off after your guy though. Figured you'da leaped on that one. C'mon, get in, we'll rattle on back to Runs. What the fuck happened to his stupid ass? Wait, I bet I know. He got stupid. Psht."

Gun shuts up while Sinclair places the call. And whatever she said about Run, she drives fast - as fast as the heap-o-junk will allow - going back down the hill to find their earlier carnage.

Alex picks up on the first ring. "Fuckin' hell," comes his familiar voice, the expletive savage, "I thought maybe you were dead or something when that cop came tearing after us. What the fuck, Sinclair."

Sinclair

Bits, Gun calls them, and she talks about plausible deniability and human willingness to believe the believable and the state's refusal to spend money when they really don't need to, and then she comments about her surprise. In the midst of calling, Sinclair flicks her eyes over at her, hard and cold. It isn't a warning. It only looks harsh because she has been given whiplash a few times tonight by her own rage. The truth is, the comment causes something more like pain.

Yes. She'd like to take off after Alex. She wants him here, she wants to be able to feel his warm and alive body and smell him sweaty with exertion and stress and hear his voice snapping at her and swearing, she wants very bady to see his face and his eyes angry but widening, taking in her bloodied jaw and the bulletholes that have left her shirt and jeans tattered even if her skin is untouched. But she can only have one of those things, so she calls him, and he picks up and she's getting in the car and smacking the door shut

and he's swearing and snapping and she feels very happy, achingly tender. The whiplash soothes, and she remembers what it is like to not be on the verge of frenzy. She also, out of nowhere and for no good reason, remembers him gasping what the fuck, Sinclair, no question mark, when he was kissing her and toying with her little steel ring on her breast in Rio, asking her what the fuck kind of virgin pierces her nipple. But she doesn't stay silent, make him panic that it isn't even her on the other line.

"Hey," she says, meaninglessly but gratefully. So fucking gratefully, because he's there and he's her mate even when she's a wolf and even when she's a girl and even when she's something else entirely and it's okay no matter what she is, it's okay because he likes her no matter what, he likes her even when she freaks him out or when he's mad. And she likes him. Oh, she likes him so much, she's giddy for a second from the washing relief from so much fury and panic. "Hey, I'm here. I'm not dead. I'm not even hurt. You're clear, too -- no one's on your tail anymore. Just get to the sept. Soon as we clean up and pick up Runs, we'll come there.

"I know it sucked," she says, the words tumbling out even if Smoking Gun is right there. "I know it sucked having to keep driving and leave everyone behind you and not know what was happening. But that's why I called, I really needed to hear you."

She doesn't say she knew he needed to hear her, too. She knows. He knows.

Alex

"Sucked doesn't really cover it, Sinclair! I didn't know if you were dead or alive! Jesus!"

There's a few moments of rather noisy, grumpy breathing. Then a grumpy sort of grunt. Then: "Well, I'm glad you're okay." And there's a clearing of throat, and "Really glad."

Beside Sinclair, Smoking Gun keeps sneaking glances at the almost-Adren. She can't really quite wrap her head around the fact that this is Sinclair. Terror of the Midwest. Slayer of all sorts of Wyrmbeasties. Sole guardian and avenger of that six-block territory in Pacific Beach where Wyrm has basically been flattened with a steamroller. And she's so ... giddy, almost. And happy. And, and.

Gun rolls to a stop. The headlights hit Runs With Scissors, who's busily doing cleanup of his own. At least these Cliaths have been taught basic manners about putting away your toys and cleaning up after yourself. He stops when he sees lights, shielding his eyes with his hand, wary and battle-ready. Gun rolls her window down and yells:

"Dumbass, it's me! I heard you were a shit-for-brains again!"

He grins, lowers his hand. He yells back: "Nice to see you too, fuckface!"

Sinclair

"I know it doesn't," she says, and she's so happy he's okay and they're okay and it's all okay and okay that she wants to make a joke about how she'd have been more graphic but there's a Cliath in the car, but she knows better than to downplay it. It does suck. It sucked to run from the other New Moon not knowing if he was going to live, if he could get up after she crushed the gourd on him. It sucks right now, going back to do her duty and clean up and stick with her allies, however temporary, when she wants to tell Alex to just leave the phone in the passenger seat and she'll be right there in like two seconds, literally. But she isn't a near-Adren because she's as impulsive and selfish as she was when she was a Cliath.

She wishes he could feel her though. Wishes she could touch him. It's amazing to her how badly she can want this when she knows very well that she'll see him soon and it will be okay. She listens to him breathing instead. "I'll see you soon," she promises. "Drive safe. I don't want you to get pulled over for speeding or something if your plates or descrip are still going to send up a red flag. I love you." This doesn't come hard. This doesn't get danced around shyly. This is sacred but not so fragile that saying it in front of someone else is going to do anything to do it -- cheapen it, harm it, expose it. She only says what is as obvious and potent as a rich scent to anyone who sees them together.

Soon enough she's off the phone, and trying to clean it up with her shirt. They pull up to where Runs is cleaning up and she smiles as the Cliaths yell at each other. Then she gets out, and she knows the answer already

but she goes over to the first car, the two guys inside who got shot at because she and Runs ducked behind their cruiser for cover. She leans in, and she looks for breathing. For pulses. Anything.

Alex

[maybe there's a gaia!]

Dice: 1 d10 TN9 (5) ( fail )

Alex

[nope. guess not.]

Alex

Alex mostly answers in grunts and grumps, but when Sinclair is about to get off the phone he calls her back, his Hey!s tinny and distant as she's moving the phone from her ear.

So she puts it back. And he says this right in her ear, softly: "I love you too."

Then they hang up. And the two Cliaths are greeting each other with happy insults, and then they're getting to the cleanup, piling all suspicious "bits" into one totaled cruiser or the other. There's one more, of course. There's the one with the real cops inside, the two innocent men who were just doing their job. And Sinclair, even already knowing the answer, goes to check on them. That's who she is. And

it turns out, impossibly, that one of the two policemen is still alive. He's bleeding from three different bulletholes, one side of his chest looks large - dead giveaway of a collapsed lung - and his breath bubbles through blood. But he's alive.

Sinclair

Hey! Sinclair! SINCLAIR, HEY! she hears, and she puts the phone back, saying What? in a semi-bewildered tone. He loves her too. She smiles, almost sleepily, a faint thing on her mouth. They get off the phone then, and she gets out of the car as it rolls to a stop, going over to the real cops. Gun and Runs go back about cleaning up, and she leans in one window. The guy whose side was facing the gunfire. He's riddled with bulletholes. He's dead. She draws her fingertips back from the side of his neck, then walks around to the other side, reaching in. She's angry again, sad again, as she reaches for his throat. A moment goes by and she feels nothing.

Then she feels a definite something. And she sees bubbles through his parted lips. Breathing. Sinclair's eyes fly open. She doesn't know shit about medicine. She knows a sucking wound is a really bad thing, and that wound looks really big and sucking. Also, humans can't bleed too much or they'll die. "Are you guys done?" she shouts at the other two. "I need you to get done in about a minute, because I'm healing this guy!"

She could call an ambulance. And he could be dead by the time it got here. Or have months of recovery time, if he survives, if he doesn't lose the lung, if he's not paralyzed, if he's not brain damaged, if, if, if. It's not a decision most Garou would agree with, but most Garou wouldn't go back and check for a pulse to begin with. She reaches into a pocket of her jeans, which are too tight to hold something like a gourd, and gets one out. She only waits until the two Cliaths are ready to roll, barking at them to hurry up if they dawdle or gawk or question.

When the car rolls by, ready to take them to the sept, she crushes the gourd in her fist and lets the water and the dust trickle down from her hand to the man's mouth, that blood-red glow littered with gold sparkles inhaled through his nostrils, flowing down his throat, filling his lung, knitting together flesh. She watches perhaps a little too long. Not long enough for him to open her eyes. Sinclair jumps into the back of the half-totaled car with the Cliaths and tells Gun to floor it.

Alex

Runs with Scissors, always the more impulsive, less wise of the two, is gleefully tossing handfuls of fleshgunk into the trunk. "Almost!" he calls back.

Gun sees what Sinclair's up to. At least, she sees where Sinclair is, and who Sinclair's with, and she drops her handfuls of cleanup and turns around. The cigarette droops between her lips. "Wait," she says, "are we sure that's a -- "

"And, done!" Run hollers. And Sinclair cracks that gourd open. And Gun's eyebrows shoot up.

"Well, shit," she says. "Run, getcher ass in that car. You're driving. I'm with Sinclair!"

-- and doors slam, and tires screech, and not one but two fucked up police cruisers roar away up the hill.

Left behind, that one surviving cop in the car slowly, groggily swims toward consciousness. He's not a hundred percent. Truth is he might never quite be again, but he's still a hell of a lot better off than before Sinclair put a talen on him. His head rolls to the side and he sees his partner, and he's so tired, so cold, too cold and tired for true rage. Something like grief throbs slowly through him.

His radio is crackling. The other two cruisers didn't have radios. They weren't even real cruisers. When they pulled up this policeman was confused; he didn't think he actually had backup. Then they started shooting, and...

dispatch wants to know where he is. He reaches out with a bloodslick hand. He misses his first grab, gets it on the second. It takes him a second to remember how to operate it. Tells them his position. And,

Williams is dead. I need an ambulance. I...

They'll take him down to Hillcrest. Stabilize him, get the bullets out, stitch him back up, repair whatever damage remains. Later on the surgeons will shake their heads in incomprehension. They've never seen anything quite like him before. He should be dead, by rights. A miracle. Guardian angels. Tomorrow he'll give a statement, and there'll be a massive manhunt for the copkillers masquerading as cops, but by then the evidence will be long gone.

Tonight, in the two stolen not-cruisers, Sinclair and the Cliaths are off to make sure exactly that happens.

Sinclair

They cannot believe what they're seeing. She's healing a human being who was chasing them through the streets not twenty minutes ago. She's wasting a talen on a human being. She's fklsfjlwwakfljxawl; --

Well too late now. He's starting to breathe, gasp, cough, and Sinclair is jumping in the car with Gun and they're zooming off, in the direction of the sept, or at least away from this place. Sinclair kicks back in the passenger seat, not thinking about the guy back there, but of the guy up ahead. Her guy.

"What do you think those other guys were?" she asks, once they're far enough to slow down a bit, attract slightly less attention. "The ones with the AKs."

Alex

"Probably fomori," says Gun with all the blithe assurance of the young. "Not cops, that's for sure."

At last they're at the top of the hill. Here the road levels out and the neighborhood turns well and truly residential. They hit a red light. Gun stops and looks around warily. The intersection is deserted, all the good citizens of this little mcmansion community sleeping in their beds, but they're still two apparent cop-cars in very, very bad condition. When the light goes green, she takes off again.

"Maybe sent by whoever first put the fetish in the safe. Maybe that silent alarm automatically triggered some private alarm too or something. I don't know. But it'd make sense. I don't believe it's a coincidence that superhuman not-cops just happened to pick on us."

Sinclair

"Fomori that weren't Enticers and looked exactly like human beings but acted like robots." Sinclair just repeats that aloud, then shrugs, tipping her head to the side. "Maybe," she says, and she means it. She looks out the window at the people looking their way. "Drive like you're in a hurry but not a bat out of hell," she advises calmly.

"It sounds like you two broke into the safe with the fetish pretty cleanly but thought the wedding-dress vault was the cause of the fiasco. I'm willing to bet that there was some kind of unknown alarm on the fetish's safe. Maybe they're both owned by the same person. Maybe the real cops wouldn't have shown up if you guys hadn't gone into the vault. Maybe only the real cops would have shown up if you'd gotten into the vault and not the safe."

She's musing aloud, but shakes her head in the end. "Maybe the Ritemaster knows more about that thing. I just hope it doesn't explode or something with Alex in the car with it. Then I'd really be pissed."

Doesn't begin to cover it. As casually, offhandedly as she says that, there's something truly devouring underneath those words. The Wyrm's been flattened in her territory. God knows what she'd do if something happened to Alex and she went hunting it down. She looks back to make sure Runs is still with them, and then starts searching the inside of the not-cop's cruiser.

Alex

It doesn't take much searching at all for Sinclair to see this is no ordinary police cruiser. Or a police cruiser at all, for that matter. In addition to lack of dispatch radio, there are also a number of other inconsistencies that even the slightest scrutiny would undercover. No apparatus for making or recording arrests. No video camera mounted on the dash. The safeties on the back doors look about ten times as formidable as those on an average cruiser. And tucked under the dash in specially-designed compartments are a bevy of weapons: small submachine guns, grenades, empty sockets where the disassembled pieces of the automatic rifle would have gone.

A little more searching turns up something else rather interesting. There's a laptop under the seat. At least, it looks like a laptop. But if/when Sinclair opens it up, there's no operating system, no BIOS, nothing - just a screen that automatically begins to uplink to some unknown recipient.

Sinclair

Sinclair is curious about the guns. She doesn't touch them much, though. She looks under visor flaps, in the backseat, crawling around while Smoking Gun drives, and then -- finally -- beneath her own seat. No bombs, which is good. A laptop, which when opened,

turns on and starts connecting. Her head tips. As a cub she might have thrown the laptop out the window. As a Cliath she would have automatically, eagerly waited to see where it was connecting. As a Fostern, she would close it and give it to the Glass Walkers at the caern.

As a near-Adren, she checks with Smoking Gun to see how far they are from the Caern. She also finds the little lens for the webcam and covers it with her thumb.

Alex

A few seconds go by. Then UPLINKING turns to LINK ESTABLISHED. A cursor blinks on the screen for a few seconds.

A voice, tinny through the microphone:

"Unit echo-three, we read you. Is the package secure?"

Sinclair

Sinclair looks for a chat window -- a box, an icon that looks like a bubble, anything -- and, if she finds one, one-handedly types in the word 'affirmative'. Barring that, she looks for information on this connection. It's difficult to do with one hand, but she does it quickly, avoiding speaking aloud if possible. As far as she remembers, all the people driving these cars were male. She couldn't sound male if she tried.

Alex

The only identifying information she can find is 'alpha-one'. She can surmise it's some sort of home base, or at least some sort of cell leader.

Fortunately for her, there is in fact a chatbox. Affirmative goes through. There a pause. Then a text reply:

Is your location potentially compromised? Proceed text-only?

Sinclair

Sinclair considers, then taps out: Ran in to trouble. Throat wound. Text-only.

Alex

Silence for a few moments. Then:

Acknowledged. Confirm identity via biometric scan to proceed.

Sinclair

[wits/computers]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 7, 7, 7, 9, 9) ( success x 5 )

Sinclair

For a moment she balks. Her face screws up, pursed lips to one side as she thinks. She looks at the computer until she notices that the plain gray trackpad isn't very plain and isn't quite gray. So: she moves her other hand to cover the mic as well and says: "Pull over for a sec," she tells the Ragabash, pretty sure that even with her life this is the first time she has ever needed to say something like this: "I need to get an arm out of the trunk."

Alex

Smoking Gun has been looking at the laptop-thing askance ever since Sinclair booted it up. Now she gives the Galliard a quirk, then wordlessly pulls over.

On the screen, words appear:

Awaiting biometric identity confirmation. Please initiate scan asap.

Sinclair

"Grab it for me, actually," Sinclair says, as they're pulling to the side. "Fast!" She doesn't want to uncover the lens or mic, just in case. The last thing she needs is one of these guys taking a glamour shot of her. She does tap out, to buy time:

Already submitted. Not going through?

Alex

Please resubmit immediately, comes the reply. It seems terse. Can tone be read over text? -- Gun pulls sharply over, dives out the door, runs around back, runs back; there's a bloody severed arm in her hand.

"Here," she pants, shoving it at Sinclair.

Sinclair

Sinclair makes a face at the computer, silently parroting it back to itself with a grimace. Gun jumps back in a few seconds later with the arm, which Sinclair takes like a pair of diamond earrings at Christmas -- that is, with glee and titillation -- before pressing the dead man's thumb to the scanner. She wrinkles her nose. The decomp isn't even really going yet, but she can still smell it. It's just dead meat. Dead, gross meat that's probably all Wyrm-tainted and disgusting.

Alex

The trackpad glows orange under the thumb. It appears to be waiting. After a second Sinclair figures it out, and - with a bit of difficulty - jams all four limp, bloodslick fingers on the scanner. The entire trackpad flashes green, and then the computer chimes.

Identity accepted. Welcome back, agent echo-three-two. We've been out of contact with echo-three-one and echo-six-one and two. Can you confirm casualties?

Sinclair

"What a cute little noise," Sinclair mentions, as Smoking Gun pulls out and starts driving again and she gets the trackpad to light up. She tosses the arm in the backseat like the offal it is and finds something -- a glove, a screwdriver, anything -- to cover or destroy the webcam lens and mic so she can use both her hands. That done, she goes back to the chat window on the screen.

Affirmative. E31, E61, and E62 terminated. Two assailants also terminated.

Alex

Good work. Are you being followed? Do you require backup?

Sinclair

Negative. En route now.

Alex

Proceed to drop site B-4. Provide ETA?

[wits + comp to figure out where the fuck B4 is!]

Sinclair

[wits + comp!]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 3, 5, 8, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 3 ) Re-rolls: 2

Alex

There are Garou who would panic now. B-4. Where the fuck is B-4? Sinclair maintains her cool, though. Her eyes flick over the screen; it's all but blank, nothing but the chat box sprung up from the icon in the corner. There's another icon there. It looks like a map. She taps it. It is a map. There are points marked on it, too many to count, dozens at least. She'll need a minute to find it, but a quick mouseover shows that B-4 is almost sure to be amongst the number.

Sinclair

"Oooh, a map," Sinclair mentions, finding it. "Would that someone had a photographic memory." She does study it though, particularly the area around her own territory and the caern, and she notes the place where B4 is before typing:

35-45 minutes with traffic in account.

"Let's get to the caern," she tells Smoking Gun, checking the time. "The elders want this fetish; they can decide if it's worth going to a rendezvous with the other folks who want it."

Alex

Acknowledged. See you soon, echo-three-two.

The chat window goes grey. Gun flicks a glance at Sinclair, and nods.

"We'll be there in about ten or fifteen minutes," she says. "Should I call ahead and let them know we've got the fetish plus a laptop of doom?"

Sinclair

"I'll do it," Sinclair says, closing the thing on her lap. "You just drive. Quickly."

She pulls out her phone again, wiping it clean all over, and then calls the sept. She makes an annoyed hand-motion of let's get this going, assholes while she listens to the prerecorded message asking if she knows her party's extension or if she'd like to remain on the line while --

"I am not listening to that muzak version of Warren Zevon one more fucking time," she mutters, tapping in the Master of the Rite's extension, then her PIN when required, "yes I know followed by pound Jesus H. Christ on a cross --"

Alex

Two seconds later the Master of the Rite's phone is ringing, and four seconds after that. Sinclair has met the MoR only in passing: a thin, chainsmoking, dark-haired, fashionably sallow type with an equally fashionable stubble-beard and eyes sunk deep under a brooding brow. He looks nothing Chicago's frail, ethereal Ritesmistress. He acts nothing like her either. When he gets on the phone the first thing he says is:

"This better be worth my fucking time."

Sinclair

By far, Sinclair prefers the San Diego Master of the Rite to Bleeding Heart. It isn't to say she doesn't respect the frail Child of Gaia, or would like to see her dying in the mud one day -- not remotely. But she's a predator, and for all her spiritual strength, Bleeding Heart seems weak of will as well as constitution. She rarely finds Children of Gaia she would follow happily into the mouth of hell, as it's hard enough to find a Child of Gaia that she doesn't want to throw off a cliff. It isn't his attitude or his other bullshit that Sinclair likes: it is his strength. Even if it may be bluster. She doesn't know him. She doesn't pity him.

"This is Warcry, Brutal Revelation. The item Smoking Gun and Runs with Scissors retrieved is on its way with my mate, Alex Vaughn. After leaving the location, we were pursued by two human police officers and four others. One of the human cops survived. Smoking Gun and I are in one of the vehicles used by the others. A laptop inside connected me to whoever sent them, and whatever is at the other end believes we will be bringing the item to one of their designated drop points in roughly forty minutes."

Alex

There's a beat of pause.

San Diego's MoR is an unflappable asshole. Sinclair's seen him deal with the unmitigated disaster of a botched totem rite - a bunch of Walker Cliaths deciding that summoning up Wendigo would be awesome for their new pack. Long story short, Wendigo got loose, half a dozen Cliaths and a few Guardians besides ended up with hideous mastication wounds. All the Ritesmaster did was swear, roll up his sleeves, and get to work. Thirty minutes later Wendigo was appeased and gone and the Cliaths had healing bandages slapped on them. None of them were healed entirely. The point was to leave them something to remember.

With that context, even a beat of pause is worthwhile. A second later he's back in form:

"So? What do you expect me to do about it?" Chances are he already knows what he'll do about it. Or at least has options in mind. He's rather keen not to seem like the Sept fix-it man, though.

Sinclair

"Your duty," Sinclair says calmly. "Someone at the offices sent Gun and Runs to get this thing, none of us out here know what it does or why we nearly got killed when the Cliaths took it, and I'm not taking it to any drop point without backup. So be advised, and you and the other grownups can decide if it's worth assembling a team to hit the drop point or if having the item is enough. As for me, if I'm assigned to such a team, I need whatever information the elders can give me on the item and our enemy and what the goals for the sept are. If not, then I'm going to take my mate and go home."

Poor Smoking Gun must be half in shock, hearing her talk to the Master of the Rite that way. Or perhaps not: Sinclair's tone never changes, never loses an inch of strength nor gives a stab of real aggression. These are simply the facts, and this is where she stands. She only occasionally attends moots at this sept, she has gone through the necessary checks to gain access for her own spiritual health and connections to other Garou, but it's no secret that Sinclair's true allegiance lies across the country, to Maelstrom and to her pack. But she is here. She does her duty. And she'll keep on doing it until the threat is neutralized.

Alex

Smoking Gun is, in fact, giving Sinclair a sidelong glance of aghastness. Meanwhile there's a sour, grumpy noise from the other end of the line. Then a few seconds of grumpy breathing. Must be a San Diego Glass Walker thing. Also, some taptapping on a keyboard.

When the MoR returns, he gets right to business. "I'll have my intern crack the laptop when you get back and see what else we turn up. Bring the Fetish to me. I'll see how deep the damage goes. As for this drop you so wisely set up, you'll have to speak to the Warder about that. Not my business." He affects an overly saccharine tone: "Hold please!"

And Sinclair holds. And ten seconds later someone else picks up.

"Warder." It's like a title and a name in one. Of all the San Diego Sept officials, this is perhaps the one Sinclair has had the most contact with. She knows Sinclair -- her skills and badassery, if not her personality and all the rest. She's tipped Sinclair off on more than a few throwdowns she might want to be a part of, two or three of them in Sinclair's own neighborhood. "What do you want, Brutal Rev?"

Sinclair

Grumpy grumps and grumpy breathing. Sinclair rolls her eyes. She waits, tapping the top of the closed computer. There are then ten seconds where no one on the other line is listening and she bursts out: "God damn fucking corporate --

"-Rhya," she says, now talking to the Warder, her irritated tone changing instantly, and then she launches into a slightly more detailed redux of the information she already passed on to the Ritemaster. She includes the address of the drop point. The shortening of her name grates, but it always does. It doesn't matter right now. She finishes: "We should be there in less than ten minutes. Alex may already have arrived."

Alex

"Nope. But traffic's picked him up on the inbound scanner." A rustle, "ETA three minutes. Want to leave a message?

"In the meantime I'll scramble a team for the drop. They'll rendezvous with your car en route. I won't complain if you want to put some oomph in our corner, but if you wanna come back to base it's cool. Just pull over and switch cars with Runs"

Sinclair

"He has a package for the Ritemaster," Sinclair says, "just make sure it gets into the right hands. I've got to drop a laptop off for him, too, so I've got to come back anyway."

She doesn't say: if I don't see my mate in ten minutes he is probably a) going to combust, b) get put in lockup, and c) NEVER propose to me. She doesn't tell the Warder that if she doesn't let Alex put his hands on her sides and see that the holes through her clothes made by automatic gunfire have left no holes in her flesh he's gonna start worrying and spazzing. She doesn't tell the Warder that if she doesn't get to see him soon, see that yes, he did get away okay, that Smoking Gun just jumping out of the car and leaving him to get back to the sept by himself didn't end up with him dead, if she doesn't smell him within the quarter-hour she is going to fucking frenzy. She doesn't tell the Warder that whether or not she provides some oomph to their corner partly depends on how much strain it will put on her mate.

That last one is hard even for her to swallow. She wonders if Lukas would do that. She wonders if it's fair: the sept here is bigger and stronger than Maelstrom. She's seen the teams the Warder puts together and she knows that even being young and kinda fuck-uppy, Smoking Gun and Runs with Scissors are still about ten times less fuck-uppy than she was as a Cliath, and they've been in this from the start. She's not concerned that they'll really desperately need her: she is not the only badass in the world, in the city, in the sept. But this is her duty. She's curious about what is going on, what this is all about.

And she kind of wants to go home with her mate and curl up in that itty-bitty tub of theirs in some hot water and kiss and suckle and nibble his neck til she leaves him a big damn hickey. Then maybe laze in bed and watch Thor or something. She feels guilt for that. She feels completely justified in that. She's torn.

But regardless, she really does have a laptop and the Master of the Rite wants to see it. So. She finishes up with the Warder and hangs up. "Call Runs," she tells her Cliath driver, "and tell him to pull over. He's going to switch cars with me and you two are going to meet up with a team the Warder is getting together to go to the drop point. I'm gonna take this laptop to Bug-Up-His-Ass-rhya."

Alex

Smoking Gun lets out a surprised laugh. "Dude, he hears you calling him that, he'll lay down spirit armageddon."

She digs her bluetooth earpiece out of her pocket, pops it in. Hits the button and waits and says loud and clear: DIAL. RUNS WITH SCISSORS. Waits about ten seconds and then barks for Runs to pull the fuck over to Sinclair-rhya can take his ride. Why? Because I said so, that's why. DO IT.

The car in front of them - he passed them a little ways back, revving his rattling engine as he went, making Smoking Gun roll her eyes in disgust - pulls to the curb. They're almost at the I-15, and all around mortals are sleeping in their cookie cutter single-family-detacheds, and the two cabs are idling choppily as Runs gets out and comes back.

"You're just mad I was driving faster," he says, grinning, as Sinclair gets out and he gets in. "Hey fuckhead," he greets Smoking Gun, who promptly clouts him upside the head.

"We'll see ya back at the Sept," she says. "Or y'know. Some other time."

"Later," he puts in, waves, and slams the door. It nearly falls off the hinges. The last piece of glass in the window falls out.

"Nice job, fuckhead," Gun snorts, and takes off. And then Sinclair's left with herself, the laptop, and the (other) stolen not-cruiser.

Sinclair

"Well then don't tell him," Sinclair says, like this should be obvious. Which it is. She has to fight not to smile as one Cliath snaps at the other, and prepares to exit the vehicle. She misses the stupid Elantra so much right now. She mises her El Cam, too. They should take it out more. As the weather gets colder, definitely, when they don't need A/C and can just crank down the windows and drive along the highway for miles. Her smile softens for a moment, then they stop and she hops out, making room for Runs. The other cruiser is still running.

"Definitely," she tells Smoking Gun. She doesn't wait for them to drive off, but gets in the other cruiser by herself, putting the laptop in the passenger seat. Before she goes, she checks this cruiser, seeing if there's anything else -- maybe another laptop, she wonders. Maybe a bomb. After checking, she takes off towards the sept. She drives, perhaps, a bit faster than Runs dared.

Alex

No laptop on this one. Plenty of weaponry though. And for a while the two black-and-whites travel the same route, even if Sinclair soon leaves the Cliaths behind. At the 15, she goes south, and they go north, seeking whatever rendezvous point the Warder set for them.

It takes Sinclair another twenty minutes or so, flying down the highway at 90mph, to get downtown. San Diego's not a large city, at least not by Californian standards, and certainly not compared to its sprawling northern neighbor. Its highest building is a flat five hundred feet tall. Its skyline is sparse compared to the thickets of Chicago, Manhattan, even LA. But it's a photogenic city, and one deeply tied to the ocean. The Caern is located close to the waterfront, in one of those semi-skyscraping towers of the core district. She's been there often enough to know they can see the harbor and the vast, vast Pacific beyond it from the case room that serves as an assembly area.

Downtown's more populated, even at this hour. Pedestrians out for a night on the town look at her oddly as she drives by in the battered cruiser. It's something of a relief to be in the Caern's parking garage, where the attendant takes one look at her and opens the other gate, the private one that leads to the Caern's secluded lot.

One of the Guardians is waiting for her by the elevators. "The Master of the Rite wanted me to run the laptop and fetish over asap," he says. "And your mate's up in the hostel wing."

Sinclair

Around five minutes into the drive, Sinclair is annoyed. Ten minutes and she's smacking the steering wheel in frustration. Fifteen minutes in she is swearing, snarling aloud, kicking the floorboards when she has a free foot. She knows the way like the back of her hand. She knows this caern all too well. The game room where they stuck her for so many hours because it chilled her shit out. The hostel wing she wasn't allowed into for nearly a year. The cells, which are on a different floor, with the flat, smooth, cold floors that could be washed clean in case there was any blood. And in her case, there was. In her case, that's why she was in the cells so long, and why she wasn't allowed into the hostel wing.

Downtown she has to slow down, and she becomes a very angry driver. She snaps at pedestrians through a half-broken window. When she gets to the garage she's fuming, her hands gripping the wheel, and the 'attendant' doesn't even speak to her, which is probably a good thing for everyone. She slams the door just like Runs did and, yes, glass shatters again. Nevermind the automatic weaponry and a grenade or two; she storms over to the elevators, her clothing bullet-riddled and blood still streaked on her hands and arms, her leg where she was shot, her face where she was biting mofos.

The Guardian gets to the end of his first sentence and Sinclair is opening that mouth of hers, demanding to kn--

what he tells her. She exhales. "Thank you," Sinclair tells him with a nod, putting the laptop in his hands and entering the elevator.

Thankfully, there's no muzak. She appreciates that.

On the floor where the hostel is located, Sinclair jumps out of the elevator and, barring the possibility of seeing Alex right away, ducks into the nearest bathroom. It happens to be the men's, but it was closer. She scrubs her face and arms clean as quickly as she can, rinsing her mouth out with near-searing hot water several times. It's not great, and there are flecks of grossness here and there, but it's better than showing up streaked with drying, darkening red. She darts out then, and finds him.

cops.

Alex

That random, tender little kiss -- nothing like the scorching things they lay on each other in the middle of the afternoon, tripping up the stairs and thumping into their front door in their hurry to get inside, get each other's clothes off, get all over each other -- is received in the same spirit it is given. Which is to say: gently, tenderly, and with a smile.

Afterward, she tells him how she knew he was her mate. And to be truthful, he still doesn't - may never - really know what it means. Mate. Alex is an animal, resourceful and cunning and fierce, but he is a human animal; an evolution of man back toward the jungle, but still a man. He will always be a man, and he will never be a wolf. What matters to him is that she is his: his girlfriend, his fiancee, the Love Of His Life. That is enough.

It makes him happy, though, to hear her call him her mate. Because that matters to her. It means something to her, and through her, to him.

When they turn back to the bank, they glimpse movement. A shadow flits across a window. A side door pops open. One, two lithe figures slip out. "That's them," Alex says, and drops the car in gear, gliding forward from his parking spot.

Distantly, there are sirens.

Sinclair

Everyone knows they're going to get married. Sooner or later. Spring or summer, a few seasons from now. They haven't discussed it since leaving Florida, Alex blurting out their intentions right before getting in the car because he realized he'd totally forgot, and all the Vaughns just shaking their heads at him while Sinclair gave a blushing grin, looking down though that didn't come near to erasing the smile. Nobody in her pack has brought it up, simply because mate is mate, and marriage is a second degree thing, an unnecessary but sometimes practical and pleasurable thing. The depth and reality of their relationship needs nothing else.

And this may be Alex's feeling. That the whole...proposal and ring and ceremony and paperwork of it all is perhaps a little practical, and perhaps simply enjoyable, and it seems to make Sinclair happy in this ridiculous schoolgirl-esque fashion where it would not be unusual to see her throwing the bedding over her head and kicking and wiggling in unrestrained glee. (Before, of course, going back to being ever so badass.) The relationship -- what they are to each other -- is already settled. For Sinclair, strangely enough, it did not feel entirely done and sealed until that night they snuck out into the marshes. When he was hers, by primitive law if not by man's, and he ran with her, and they made love on the ground until they were filthy.

She has noticed that the way they fuck when they're outside is... different. It doesn't make loving him in their bed any less, and she was on the verge just now of asking him (half-teasing) if they were going to take so long robbing the bank maybe they had time to crawl in the backseat and fool around. Where and when and how matters very little, but she has noticed a change in Alex -- truthfully, in both of them -- when they are near the ground, when they're a part of the earth, and it stirs her heart a little to think of it. She does not try to understand it.

She reaches over and gets a pretzel bite, munching on it when their eyes flick and catch the Ragabashes. Sinclair grins and bounces into her seat, double-checking to make sure all the doors are unlocked. "Cheeseit, the cops!" she lets out.

Alex

"Cheeseit?" Alex laughs, even as he's glancing over his shoulder in the vague direction of the sirens. "Well fuck," he adds, and accelerates sharply.

Seconds later he pulls screeching up to the curb where the two Ragabashes are skidding to a stop. The female yanks the back door open and just about throws the male in. He thumps into the opposite glass with a plaintive ow! She snarls, "Shut the fuck up. Idiot." Slam! goes the back door. "Drive. Go, floor it!"

"Hey," Alex bristles, "you don't need to tell me how to do my job. What the hell happened?"

"This douchebag here," she punches the other Ragabash hard in the shoulder, "just had to try and break into one of the big vaults to see if there were any diamonds inside. Well, guess what we found. An heirloom wedding dress worth about shitall except to some Barbie doll somewhere and a silent alarm system. Good job, douchebag." She punches him again.

"Hey, live large or go home, right?" He tries a sheepish grin, then ducks and covers as Smoking Gun cocks back her fist again. Meanwhile, Alex has pulled away from the curb and is rapidly accelerating up the sweeping uphill boulevard. Behind them, the first of the cops - and there are at least three cars - are in view, their lights flashing in the night.

Sinclair

Sinclair is snickering, but then when they get to the curb and the Ragabashes pile in, she's suddenly sharp. Suddenly aware. She's heard of these two, seen them around, but she doesn't know them. They get in, Smoking Gun snaps at Alex, and he bristles, and Sinclair looks back at her. Not with a snarl, but a steady stare, the lowest volume on her scale of warnings to behave. The two females nearly smack Runs With Scissors at his quip about living large.

She looks back to the rearview mirror and thinks, would that she were an Adren now,

would that she could just make those cars stop. But she trusts Alex. She turns around to the other two Garou. "What's the fetish?" she asks. This does seem more directed at Smoking Gun.

Alex

"That's the best part." Smoking Gun, in person, is a bit abrasive. Then again, one supposes one doesn't get the guts to take down a Fostern - a Fostern Philodox, and while a cub besides, and on a corruption charge - without getting a bit of take-no-prisoners hardheadedness to go along with it. "We don't even know. All we got told by the Grand Poombas was that it's important, can't be in Wyrm hands any longer, and needs to be retrieved." She arches her hips off the seat, digging in her back pockets. "Here, wanna see it?"

Runs With Scissors says nervously, "Hey, should we be showing her? I mean, she's not even Sept."

"Hey," Alex exclaims, "my car, my rules. Rule number one: don't diss my girlfriend like she's not even there."

"Jesus, you've got a mouth on you," Smoking Gun remarks. Then to Runs, "Whatever happened to living large? This is me, going with my gut. Or whatever other stupid thing you like to say." And she hands a cloth-wrapped object to Sinclair, small and circular, about the size of a half-dollar.

Sinclair

Sinclair reaches back and hits Runs With Scissors even as Alex is snapping at him. She doesn't knock his head off, though one supposes she could easily black him out against the window, but instead she reaches back and smacks her palm against his forehead the way one might an unruly younger sibling. She doesn't say a word, but after Smoking Gun says Alex has a mouth, she looks between them. "First of all, I come whenever your sept calls for aid, whether it's in my territory or not, whether it's for the sake of the Caern or just a favor. Second, sept or not I outrank your ass and the next time you disrespect me or my mate I will bloody you.

"Third," she goes on, turning to Smoking Gun, "he fucked up by screwing around in vaults he had no business in and you fucked up by letting him. So maybe consider giving a little more appreciation to the kin you just put in jeopardy by fucking up." She isn't snarling. She isn't snapping. Her tone, all told, is almost conversational -- like she's casually reviewing a report on the matter after the fact, when in reality they're still zooming away from the police.

If Smoking Gun even still offers it, Sinclair takes the object from Smoking Gun, weighing it in her hand before unwrapping it.

Alex

Runs, already more rattled by his Epic Fuckup than he'll let on, shrinks under Sinclair's barrage. "Just didn't wanna get in more trouble, ma'am," he says meekly. "Precautions, right? I mean, it could be a hideous Wyrm fetish that calls down a Nexus Crawler or something. Though, I guess maybe you weren't gonna, like. Use it."

Alex snorts from the front seat. He glances in the rearview mirror. He goes a little faster.

"Hey, no disrespect meant," Smoking Gun says, kicking back in the backseat. Literally: she leans back, hoists a foot up against the back of Sinclair's seat, dangles her wrist over that knee. She's long and lanky with absolutely no tits to speak of, Gun is, with dark hair slashed into razor-edged layers. Bleached blonde at the bangs. Piercings in her nose and eyebrow. Bare arms, skinny jeans, big boots. Dark, dramatic makeup. "Just making an observation, and in my book it ain't a bad thing. I got a mouth on me. It gets me in trouble but it gets other people in trouble too. More often'n not they deserve it more'n me. And your boy does have a mouth on him. Bet he knows how to use it too, hey?" And she smirks.

"Are you hitting on me?" Alex shoots back.

"Nope, 'cause your girl'd kill me for it." Gun throws an arm over the back of the seat, twists around to look. "Oy, by the way, those cops are catching up. Doesn't this heap of junk go any faster?"

"HEY," Alex yells, "Elantras are fuckin awesome."

"Well, doesn't this fuckin awesome heap of junk go any faster? God, I wish I had a cig." She takes her foot off the back of the seat and kicks at Runs with the flat of her sole. "You got a cig, d-bag?"

"Kick me again and see what happens," Runs retorts, having evidently regained his courage.

"Whatever," Smoking Gun rolls her eyes. "And by the way, Badass-Rhya, I heard ya. I know I should've kept a closer rein on Runs, and I'll own up to that when we get back to base." Another glance out the back. "If we get back. Shit, I better not get busted again."

Alex

[fetish: is a small stone disc, carven with esoteric symbols, polished smooth on one side and rough on the other!]

Sinclair

[wits (quick on the uptake) + enigmas + 1 (waxing gibbous)]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 3, 6, 7, 8, 9) ( success x 4 )

Alex

With enough study, Sinclair can begin to decipher some of the symbols. They are not Garou glyphs, but whoever made them was Garou - it is a fairly novice artificial language, with syntax and grammar based entirely off of High Speech. She can guess at the fetish's intended purpose: cleansing of taint. It seems to be usable once every given period of time - exactly how long, she's not sure of, but she can guess it's somewhere between a week and a month.

Also, the fetish itself appears to have been altered or tainted in some way. It is highly likely its current purpose is not its original, and may even be opposite.

Sinclair

This time, Sinclair does snarl. She's just turning the object over in her hands, mostly ignoring Runs' comment, mostly ignoring Gun's chatter, til she mentions your boy, which gets Sinclair's eyes back sharp on her. At the smirky little comment on Alex's mouth, she bares her teeth and snarls. It's hard for Alex to tell, driving as he is, that it isn't possessive. To Runs and Gun, it may as well be another lecture about respect. There's no way she could take it as lightly as Alex does, when she genuinely does consider reaching back and snapping the other female's neck. Or hitting her. Probably harder than she hit Runs. She is not amused by the little bitch, whatever her Rite, her name, her reputation.

"Would you two just shut the fuck up for ten seconds?" she snaps, after sentence upon sentence of their prattle, turning the disk over in her hand with a frown.

Alex takes a hard turn and she leans against the passenger door, looking the disk over. She holds it carefully up to see it in the light. "Whatever's written on here is in a kind of cipher. And it's definitely been changed from what it was when it was made." She wraps it up again and hands it back to Smoking Gun with a nod of thanks. "Who's it for?"

Alex

The snarl gets Smoking Gun back in line. She puts her foot back down, sits up a little straighter. "Sorry Chief," she says, holding her hands up. "I just run my mouth when I get nervous. Don't mean any of it, honest."

Taking the fetish back, then, "Originally? Or now? I don't know who it was for originally. It was recently in the possession of some fomor. The bank vault's under the name Cave Johnson, which is a goddamn pseudonym if I've ever heard one. All I know - all the Sept knows, unless someone's not telling me something else - is that the fomor was gonna sell it to the highest bidder. Mostly Dancers. Heard there were a couple human magician types too."

"Pansies," Runs With Scissors puts in, lip curling in a sneer. "If I sniff one within fifty yards of me I'll show 'em what good their magic is."

"That's the point, dumbass," Gun retorts. "They won't let you get that close. Their magic works from afar if they're smart." She turns back to Sinclair. "And right now, we're on our way to deliver it to the Master of the Rite."

Sinclair

"You don't need to be nervous," Sinclair says. "The sept wouldn't call Alex for this sort of thing if he weren't good at it. You're not gonna get busted again." She's calm. This is the human equivalent of Gun rolling onto her back and showing her belly. The stronger female accepts the submission and gentles instantly, accepts that Gun knows her place now, is quite happy to be friendly. The change is jarring, perhaps even to other Glass Walkers -- to any Garou not as primal as Sinclair is.

The fetish changes hands. She snorts at the 'Cave Johnson' name. "I think it was originally supposed to be used to cleanse taint, but it seems to have like... a recharge period after being used. But it's been changed, so it might be corruptive. It might have some other purpose altogether."

She frowns at the mentions of magi. "I know there are some of those types in Chicago, where my pack is. Never ran into them, though." Gun tells her where they need to go. She looks over at Alex. "You are remarkably calm for someone involved in a high-speed chase through San Diego." Twisting, she looks at Runs. "Any bright ideas?"

Alex

"We're not getting chased yet," Alex points out, flicking another glance in the rearview mirror. "They're following us, but they must not have a vehicle descrip or anything. I think if we play it cool they might just pass us -- well, FUCK."

Right on cue, a police spotlight hits the car. The backs of their heads go white from glare. Sirens whoop, lights flash - Alex floors the accelerator; the Elantra kicks it into a lower gear, snarling up the big hill up from Sorrento Valley.

"Now we're getting chased!" he shouts.

And Runs, in the backseat, stares rather startled at Sinclair. "Uhhh," he says. "I could ... jump the gap and take out the cop!"

Sinclair

Sinclair, looking back at Runs, gets a faceful of spotlight and lets out a stream of profanity as she whips around, grabbing the OHSHIT bar as Alex slams on the gas pedal. He seems to be having a fantastic time so far, and she laughs, then squints back at the other two. "Wait, what? Say that again; I was swearing." So Runs says it again. "It could work if you go non-lethal and scramble their memories," she says. "There's no reason to kill or maim them for doing their jobs -- you know, catching bad guys who try to steal heirloom wedding dresses."

She looks over at Gun. "Get back to the Caern and see if you can get some of the tech wizards on removing any info about this car or its driver from SDPD's hot little hands." To Runs again: "On three, out of the car and into crinos. We are here to stop their pursuit, not kill them. You can take a few bullets if you have to. Ready?"

Alex

"Wait," Alex interrupts the impromptu strategy session, "am I supposed to just keep driving?"

His tone tells Sinclair how much he likes that idea. Runs is totally on board - his hand is already on the doorhandle, ready to pop out and wreak some havoc. Smoking Gun, a little wiser, a little warier, looks between Sinclair and her mate, waiting to see how that resolves.

And meanwhile, the little Elantra is screaming up the big swooping hill, up to the mesas, up to the million-dollar mcmansions dotting the San Diegan landscape. And the cops are hard on their tail, closing in, swerving to one side and then the other to try to fishtail the fleeing Hyundai. Alex, swearing under his breath, matches them move for move. Just like Gran Turismo, he tells himself. Just like Gran fuckin' Turismo.

Sinclair

"Yup!" Sinclair says, and wants to lean over and kiss his cheek but also doesn't want to distract him. She doesn't need to tell Smoking Gun to protect him, to die if she has to, that Sinclair will claw her skin into one-inch strips and peel it off if anything happens to him -- they may be Walkers, they may all be a bit on the wacky side, but the fact that Sinclair is dangerous and that Alex is her kinsman, her mate, is clear enough already. She does reach over and squeezes his leg. "I'll meet you at the caern," she tells him. "Don't wo -- well, worry, but know that worrying is about as useful as chewing bubblegum to fix the economy." She doesn't tell him she loves him.

It's really not that big of a deal, after all, jumping out of a moving vehicle at high speed and fighting some police cars. Pfft.

So she turns, and grabs the door handle, and looks at Runs. She's already moving into glabro. Loudly, she counts off one, two, "THREE!" and shoves the door open, as Runs opens his on the driver's side. She launches out, snapping into crinos and not tucking into a roll but slamming enormous hand-paws into the asphalt, claws tearing at the synthetic stone, all but sending up sparks. Oh, it hurts. But only for a second, before her gift settles over her like a mantle, refusing all pain.

The San Diego police hurtle towards two warformed Garou, and she prepares to grab the front grill.

Sinclair

[FTR: -1R to crinos, -1WP for Resist Pain]

Alex

"HEY," Alex says; his tone says he's about to protest. But then there's a split-second pause. And instead, he glances at her quickly, just a flash of his eyes, "Be careful."

And the doors bust open near-simultaneously. Wind howls through the cabin. Sinclair leaps out, the blacktop rips skin from her pawpads but that's closing up even as she's launching herself into the air. She bursts into her hugest form and through the windshield she can see the two cops inside, their dinner plate eyes and their slack jaws, the one riding shotgun - literally, he's got the police shotgun in his hands - screaming a OH FUCK ME that she can't hear before

she's slamming onto the hood, crumpling it down against the engine in a heartbeat. The car spins out of control. Beside her, Runs rips the top of the police cruiser off. He's not large, Runs isn't; he's a little shorter than Smoking Gun, in fact, but he's a veritable little ball of muscle and he puts that to good use. The top goes flying, lights flashing once more and then dying as the wires sever. The police cruiser, totally totaled, goes spinning off the road and slams into the drainage ditch. Airbags deploy. The two cops are unconscious, which is probably a blessing. They'd be screaming their heads off otherwise.

It's not over yet, though. There are two other cruisers climbing the hill, lights flashing, sirens wailing. They'll be here in about five seconds.

Sinclair

This is more fun than Sinclair will readily admit. She feels no bloodlust tonight, even though the waxing moon licks at her predatory instinct and seethes, urging her to hunt, kill, bring the slack-bodied prey home to her den, to her mate, to fill her belly and his with fresh meat. She keeps her attention perked towards the Ragabash nearby, knowing he's already gone off-book once tonight and if he does so again he could get someone killed. She sees the shotgun and roars directly at the cop inside holding it, a warning that spikes through his viscera, sets alarm bells ringing in his head. She lets him see the intelligence in her eyes, even if later on he will convince himself this is not possible, this is not what he saw. She wants him to fear, right now, that she can and will win -- can and will hunt him down -- can and will punish him if he fires.

He doesn't. They crumple the car, tear open the top, send it spinning. Sinclair follows it with her eyes, and she can't see if the two officers inside are alive and unconscious or dead and gone, but she doesn't have the time to worry about it, or to check.

"Both at once this time!" she snarls at him in the high tongue, making a snap decision. "Push them back!"

Alex

Police are trained for this sort of thing. High speed chases, uncooperative suspects. They're trained to work much as wolves do. Lights, sirens, horns, shouting: shock and awe tactics, all to confuse and bewilder. Hunting together, in packs, the lead car driving the prey off the road, the backup closing in for the kill. Or collar, in this case.

Except the lead car was utterly incapacitated when it attempted to push the Hyundai off the road. That Hyundai is long gone now, whipping away up the hill, just two pinpoint dots of red in the night. Then gone. And the two backup cruisers --

well. They do something not quite in the police books. About a hundred yards away, both slow to a stop. Their spotlights are fixed right on the werewolves, blinding them. The engines are idling. There's no sign that the drivers are panicking, are lost to delirium. There's no indication either cruiser is going to charge and suffer the fate of the one in the ditch.

[toss me a percep+alert or percep+PU with next post!]

Sinclair

Sinclair is perched on the road with Runs, ready to grab the next car, knowing she has to take this one on her own, knowing she has to trust Runs to disable the other one by himself, and considering how quickly they destroyed the first, she's not concerned. She knows that Alex and Smoking Gun are tearing ass to the caern and she hopes to god the Ragabash is smart enough to call the caern ahead of time to get them off of Alex's ass, get his plates and anything else wiped, do what the older Ragabashes of a sept like that are supposed to do. What they did after she killed Kenneth. What they do for cubs and for Kin.

But then the cars slow down. Then stop. Their sirens howl and their lights spin around, their spotlights blinding. Sinclair moves closer to Runs, on all fours, her tail swishing tensely.

[perception + PU +1 (moon)]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 4, 8, 8, 9, 10) ( success x 3 )

Alex

Particularly at night, it's nearly impossible to see past the intensity of those spotlights. It's nearly impossible to hear anything over the demented wail of those sirens.

Even so, Sinclair catches glimpse of it in the nick of time: a dull gleam of metal out of the passenger-side windows of those cruisers, raw instinct screaming at her to move, bitch, get out the way! an instant before

the sharp staccato of automatic gunfire splits the air.

Alex

[this is for I'M FIRIN MAH LAZER. roll some sort of defense against this!]

Dice: 10 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 5, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 6 )

Sinclair

"MOVE!" Sinclair roars to Runs when she sees the gleam of metal, when her moon-heightened senses shriek at her to get down, get out of the way, do something. She leaps aside as she snarls the single order, turning her side towards the car.

[dex + dodge + 1]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 2, 4, 7, 8) ( success x 1 )

Alex

[akshully, i was chargin mah lazer. NOW I'M FIRIN MAH LAZER.]

Dice: 9 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 5, 6, 6, 8, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 5 )

Sinclair

[soak!]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (5, 6, 6, 7, 7, 9) ( success x 5 )

Alex

Bullets tear up the night. Tear up the road. Tear into Sinclair, but don't really do much damage. One goes through her calf, through and through. The wound closes up even as she's leaping aside, rolling aside, getting under cover. An instant later Runs's back hitting the car beside Sinclair's. He's panting, and he wasn't as lucky. A bullet grazed his shoulder. He's bleeding, but his flesh is mending.

They can feel metal shuddering against their back as bullets riddle the car from the other side. Those cops inside were unconscious, but they might be dead now. Sinclair can smell hot blood, hot gunpowder. "What the fuck!" Runs yells. Or well; the Garou approximate of such an expression. "Since when did cops carry automatic rifles?"

The answer, of course, is never. The first volley over, the two cruisers begin to edge forward for a better angle, engines gunning quietly closer.

Sinclair

[rage]

Dice: 4 d10 TN4 (3, 3, 5, 9) ( success x 2 )

Sinclair

"Not [cops]!" Sinclair snarls back, as blood drips down from repeated bulletholes in her fur, her flesh. She doesn't even feel it. It doesn't do much to her. She is a goddamn werewolf, and her body shows the non-cops where Hollywood got the idea for that scene in X2. Bits of metal are pushed out by healing flesh, striking the asphalt with little clinks and rolling aside as the wounds close up. If she had the time, she'd smirk.

Then the car shudders, and she snarls, thinking that the officers are dead now, dead, when they didn't need to be. Rage boils up inside of her, fury at an attempt to do something right, do something good, walk away on one of those good days when everybody lives,

going wrong. Going like this. She thrashes her head, those pale eyes of hers flickering with wild fury, and makes another hard, fast decision.

There is a great depth of warmth and compassion in Sinclair that the world keeps telling her does not work, cannot compute, won't fit. She wants the people who don't do anything wrong to live. She wants cops to get to go home to their families, get medals for honorable conduct in horrific circumstances, make the world think about higher things than how much everything sucks and cops are pigs and the world is fucking ending. Sinclair is, at her heart, very tender. Had she changed in other circumstances, had her parents had any clue it was coming, she might not have become quite so vicious quite so quickly. It's been a long road to where she can begin balancing her rage and her hunger with her sweetness and her softness.

But she has run with Shadow Lords and Silver Fangs and Get of Fenris. Rumor has it that her family line, traced back far enough, may be the twice-removed-third-cousins of the kin of a Fenrir hero's sidekick, or something like that. With her flaxen hair and pale eyes she has been mistaken for a Get of Fenris many times. The Fenrir and Lords in particular are not gentle tribes. You protect your pack, your kin, your tribe. You protect your sept. It is all too easy to say fuck the mortals, to go out of your way to kill them just for existing and existing in such great, choking numbers, but Sinclair refuses that usually. She is a Glass Walker. She is a Warder of Men. She guards her pack, her kin, her tribe, her sept and the septs she passes through. She guards Gaia. But she tries, as well, to take care of the humans who aren't tainted, who aren't doing anything wrong.

These ones, even if they aren't mortal, even if they aren't human, have no respect for life. Have pursued her mate, shot those she tried to protect, shot her ally, shot her, and the hard, brutal decision she makes now against all softness and sweetness in her is this:

it doesn't matter to her anymore if they are cops, or if they are human, or if they are tainted by the Wyrm or not.

"Kill," she tells Runs. "Blur and come at them from behind."

With that she rises up, twisting, and launches herself over the wrecked cruiser, letting out a roar that shakes the entirety of the financial district.

Sinclair

[-1R TO HISPO W00T]

Sinclair

[steel fur: stamina + science, -1WP]

Dice: 8 d10 TN7 (1, 2, 4, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10) ( success x 3 )

Alex

Sinclair's roar blasts through sage and juniper bushland; resounds off the distant walls of the canyons. Somewhere out there, mortals in their expensive little suburbia castles stir restlessly in their sleep. A few night owls hear the noise and wonder

what the fuck is up with the coyotes tonight?

Here and now, the roar doesn't even seem to make the not-cops' aim falter. As she bursts out of cover she takes them by surprise, but there's no wide staring eyes and mouths forming words of terror and sick realization of doom. There's only machine-smooth motion from the passengers, the muzzles of automatic rifles tracking upward to follow her path

even as the drivers throw the cruisers into reverse, tires squealing as they try to keep her at a distance. That's where she's at a disadvantage. Their guns have range; what's more, automatic rifles need a certain range to do the most damage. Too close and the bullets just go through and through. A little farther, though, and they tumble through flesh. A little farther still, and they ricochet inside body cavities, destroying everything in their paths. There's a science to all of this, and the men in the SDPD uniforms who are most definitely not SDPD know it well.

[i'm shootin! +1 for moving vehicle, +1 for moving target]

Dice: 10 d10 TN8 (1, 2, 4, 4, 4, 5, 5, 7, 7, 10) ( fail )

Alex

[i'm drivin! +1 for backwards. sinclair: roll dex+ath against this roll to catch up! this is car 1...]

Dice: 6 d10 TN7 (1, 2, 4, 5, 6, 10) ( fail )

Alex

[car 2!]

Dice: 6 d10 TN7 (1, 4, 5, 8, 9, 10) ( success x 2 )

Sinclair

[NOTE TO SELF - EDIT POST LATER. CUZ. DEY NOT DOWNTOWNISH.]

Sinclair

[dex + ath + 1]

Dice: 10 d10 TN7 (1, 2, 3, 4, 4, 6, 6, 6, 8, 9) ( success x 1 )

Alex

Test!

Dice: 20 d10 (7, 6, 9, 6, 10, 8, 5, 7, 3, 7, 5, 2, 4, 8, 5, 9, 4, 8, 8, 8)

Sinclair

[CHOMP 1a! dex + brawl + perun + 1 -2 // +2 diff]

Dice: 12 d10 TN7 (1, 1, 3, 5, 5, 6, 6, 7, 7, 7, 8, 8, 10, 10) ( success x 5 ) Re-rolls: 2

Sinclair

[damage! str + sux - 1 + 2 (hispo)]

Dice: 12 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 2, 3, 3, 3, 4, 5, 5, 6, 6, 9, 10) ( success x 2 ) Re-rolls: 1

Sinclair

[1b chompin' again!]

Dice: 11 d10 TN7 (1, 3, 4, 4, 5, 5, 5, 6, 7, 7, 8) ( success x 2 )

Sinclair

[damage!]

Dice: 9 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 4, 4, 5, 7, 8, 8, 9) ( success x 3 )

Sinclair

[rerolling damage for the first bite since it screwed up]

Dice: 12 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 3, 6, 7, 7, 9, 9, 10, 10, 10) ( success x 7 )

Alex

The cars don't get very far. The asphalt is old and beaten here. The traction isn't great. One car just spins its tires - right up until Runs drops cloak next to the driver and slams a knife into his ear. He doesn't even have time to scream. The base of the brain severs; the driver slumps forward, dead as a doornail, hitting the steering wheel hard enough to start the horn blaring.

Sinclair was right: the name's a double entendre about Runs' weapons of choice. Butterfly knives, big enough for a crinos to wield. Look a bit like scissors, really. "[BOOYAH!]" Runs howls - literally. "How do you like that, you -- "

He's young. He's reckless. He didn't for a minute think the gunman, after watching his partner get taken out like that, would actually react. But react he does. The muzzle of the assault rifle snaps around. The gunman opens fire, automatic gunfire barking into the air. The Ragabash twists and drops, trying to protect his vital organs, but quick as he is he can't outrun bullets. They rip through his fur, punch right through his chest. Blood spatters the pavement. The Ragabash hits it a second later with an enormous THUD.

He's still alive. Barely. His breath is rattling in his chest, and meanwhile the gunman is wrenching the car door open and shoving his dead partner out and climbing into the driver's seat and

while this is happening, Sinclair is pursuing the other car. That one actually moves. Tires smoke and spin, but the cruiser starts to lurch backwards. Not fast enough. Fur gleaming, Sinclair closes the gap. That car's gunman is firing too, but the movement throws his aim off. Bullets cut the air, whipping past her fur, glancing off the steel tips. She weaves through the assault

and then she's on him, teeth tearing into his arm, and he's not a machine after all, he's flesh and blood and so fucking weak, like paper, he screams as that arm comes off at the shoulder. There's blood everywhere. He's trying to crawl away from her, but she shoves her head through the window and snaps his throat out.

The driver floors the pedal. The cruiser's tires spin again, screech against the pavement, and catch.

Sinclair

BOOYAH, Runs says, and she knows he's younger, he's reckless, he didn't think to whip around or climb over the car and take out the gunman as well. She knows because a second later he's riddled with gunfire, he's dropping heavily to the pavement and bleeding, and she's got her own problems to deal with. Should she have told Smoking Gun to stay with her? Could she have possibly known ahead of time that these cars might be operated by something other than Good Ol' Boys? Would she have ever left Alex in even slight danger without a Garou nearby if she could avoid it?

But back to her own problems. The here and now. The car she reaches into with her maw, bloodying the interior in a couple of quick, hungry snaps. She grabs hold and wrenches his arm off, she drops it without thinking and tries to do the same with his head -- succeeds only in carving halfway through his neck. Good enough. The car jerks as it catches, and there are two cars now, two drivers, one werewolf. Two cars that could take off after Alex. One car that could be readying to plow over Runs and finish him off. One car that she's already standing on.

Sinclair claws her away cross the hood of the car she's on and lunges for the other.

Sinclair

Sinclair

[SINCLAIR EVERYWHERE]

Alex

The other car is, in fact, doing exactly what Sinclair suspects. That gunman has killer instinct in spades. His dead partner has slumped to the pavement, the door is still ajar, he hasn't even settled himself into the driver's seat before he's flattening the gas and throwing the car into reverse. The front tires roll right over his dead partner. Speed bump. Then a flash of brakes, a hard shudder in the car as the gunman-turned-driver puts it back into forward.

As Sinclair goes airborne, she can see the car's tires turn to aim toward Runs, who's still moving weakly on the asphalt. He sees the danger. He can't possibly avoid it. Sinclair lands on the roof and the engine screams and the tires go babumpbump over Runs - hot red blood splashes out of the Ragabash's mouth, spatters wetly on the pavement. His eyes roll back, his head drops back, he reverts to homid and Sinclair might think he's dead but he doesn't smell dead

yet. The difference is so small as to almost not matter. But there's this at least. She's distracted the driver. She can hear the metallic clack of his rifle slapping back into his palms, the thump of the muzzle pointing at the roof of the car just under her. She has about an eyeblink before he fires.

Meanwhile, the other car - granted an almost-impossible reprieve - takes off in a mad squeal of tires. It nearly fishtails off the road and into the canyon before the driver gets it back under control. Windows shattered, one doorframe crunched by the enormous force and weight of a Hispo slamming through it, seats bloodied, it whips away up the road.

Sinclair

[raaage!]

Dice: 4 d10 TN4 (1, 4, 7, 7) ( success x 2 )

Sinclair

Either way there's a chance one or both of the cars are going to take off after Alex. But one way, there's a chance her ally dies. So she believes in Alex and Gun's head start, the time they've been bought, and she goes for the car that might send Runs over the precipice.

Not that it matters. She can't tell in an eyeblink if he's dead or not, gone or not, he looks dead, his body changes, and she doesn't know. Sinclair feels it coming up again. That rage spikes outward from her heart and mind, impaling her from within, and for a moment she sees white.

But not red.

She jumps from the roof of the car, twisting in midair, and hardly so much as lets her paws touch the pavement before she lunges for the window at the driver.

Alex

Gunfire. Bullets zinging straight up to fall like deadly hail later. The gunman, she sees him in profile, his face contorted in a mask of hate, blasting holes in his roof where he thinks the goddamn werewolf is. But she's not there. She's beside him, and he feels her hot breath and snaps his face around

just in time for Sinclair to rip it off.

Then there's stillness. Not silence, no: there's still the puttering of the engine, the rasp of her breath. Every inhale tastes of copper, every exhale of rage. And - there's the thin, thready gasping from the Ragabash on the ground. Not dead, then. Not quite dead.

Sinclair

She does not rest. She feels the bone of the man-thing's skull crush under her jaws and she relishes it, tears through him knowing that if there's anyone to identify him it'll have to be dental records, it'll have to be DNA, because there is nothing left of his face and she enjoys that knowledge. But only in a flash, burning through her like the rage itself, as she turns away from him and yanks -- with those bloodied teeth -- a small bag from her fur, as though it was hidden underneath, a bump under a blanket.

It takes patience and attention to get the gourd out, to put it gingerly on Runs' chest, and then smack it down with a paw. She fails once, dropping it, and snarls, barking out her frustration, then gets it. Reddish-gold energy, rather than pale blue or green, explodes with imaginary sparks on top of him, the color and feeling of Sinclair's energy -- so very off-putting to gentler spirits. She does not wait for him to come around. She begins running, tearing off in the direction of the car

that is chasing her mate.

Alex

A wolf - even a supernatural wolf such as Sinclair - tops out at thirty-five, forty miles an hour. Insanely fast compared to a human's bipedal lurch; pitifully slow compared to human machinery, human traffic. There's no way she can possibly catch that second car now, but she tries anyway. Of course she does.

And then somewhere in the distance, she hears gunfire. She hears an enormous crash, metal shrieking and ripping, a hairraising roar. After that, silence.

When Sinclair gets to the scene, there's only one car there. It's the last police cruiser, utterly totaled. The driver is unrecognizable, the passenger red meat beside him. And Smoking Gun is sitting on the back bumper, her sharp-featured face lit from below by the still-burning taillights. She's found cigarettes in one of the dead guys' pockets. They're bloodstained, but she's smoking one anyway, giving Sinclair a jerk of her chin as the stronger wolf comes up the hill.

"Your guy's on the way to the Sept," she says. "I had to stop to clean up our trail, and then I figured I might as well wait for you. Not like we'll catch him running anyway. But maybe this heap of scrap metal'll still run."