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.