Kianan Rowan Abrams ([personal profile] kiananlogs) wrote2012-02-16 12:45 pm

The cause of your difficulties.

Thursday, 16 February 2012
The moon is in the waning Crescent (Theurge) Moon phase (37% full).

Without much of an idea as to where he was going when he left the tenement, Flint's ended up at his grandparents' house earlier in the day, letting himself in with the spare key while they weren't home, and then pretending— just like they did— that he never left to begin with, and keeping himself up and out of the way in the attic in the garage. This was after several excursions, fast food, other things that show the boy's trip across the city— on foot despite the bitter cold— on various traffic cameras.

The Madden residence is an aging two story house, with an attached garage, on a decent enough street for not being in any of the better parts of town. The garden is kept neatly, the house has been freshly painted powder blue. And right now, an older SUV is parked in front of the garage, lights on in one room but none of the rest of the house.

If it hadn't been for Ishmael's daily due diligence of screening the security feeds to watch for oddities, he might not have noticed the cub scooting, given how detached he has been recently. But, having once himself been a Garou-runaway, he screened through the videos a second time, and then between a prompt abuse of the Questing Stone, as well as taking some liberties with the city's digital access to the traffic camera feeds, he, too, slipped out quietly.

Some time later, he arrives at the Madden residence, a backpack slung over his shoulder, and a Yankee's ballcap slipped backwards over his head. Having the look of a professional grease monkey seems to do wonders for staying under the radar, as you're clear… wherever to fix… something. And with that fully in mind, he walks over to the SUV, and uses 'fixing it' as a cover for another go at the Questing Stone.

Either no one's paying attention, or no one's paying attention, because no one comes out from the house to say anything to Ishmael. And although the main centre of whatever activity from the residence seems to be a lower-story room to the right side of the house, the boy seems to be to the left, and up a bit. Approximately over the garage.

Stowing the stone from the ritual in a swatch of silk, it is replaced in Ishmael's pack as he stands, glancing over his shoulder. He moves casually in the indicated direction, pulling out his phone once and making sure to kill the volume. It is also stowed. A half-circuit is made around that portion of the house, a small memo-pad produced so the Theurge looks like he's actually doing something official. Hrm. Doors.

The rear door to the house is certainly closer than the front door, and farther from the room with a light. The window in the rear door reveals a kitchen, darkened, with the cartons from TV dinners on the counter, and overall silence.

Ishmael steps forward and first tests the window, then the door. Of course he would be so lucky if they were unlocked.

As luck would have it, neither entrance is unlocked, the kitchen window proper being the sort that only opens from the inside to begin with. The door has a tumbler, and a handle lock, and although the handle moves, the tumbler has been locked such that the door just doesn't move.

With a sigh, Ishmael glances around once more and then digs into his pack to reveal… a nice set of lockpicks. Which are promptly turned against the door. Where's a Ragabash when you need one?

It doesn't take long before the lock slides backwards and into the open position, the door pushing open with a faint squeaking of hinges when it's then opened. From inside the house, the television blares from somewhere in the direction of the living room, and a hallway leads out of the kitchen.

Ishmael stows the lockpicks, and then retrieves a rather lame pin-on ID tag that reads "Jim" and "Joe's HV/AC" which promptly sticks to his jacket. Just in case. That done, he ever-so-quietly sneeeaks around towards where the Questing Stone indicated.

"Flint?" The voice of an older woman calls out across the house, not particularly pleasant in tone. "That you?" The talking continues in the living room, although the sound of voices doesn't get any closer. The hallway branches, but the direction towards the garage is clear.

Ishmael seems to hope the woman will think she's just hard-of-hearing as he continues to move forward, without pausing, towards the garage. Sneak, sneak.

The interior door to the garage is unlocked, thankfully. No need for lockpicks inside the house, but it too squeaks a little when opened, causing another instance of voices being raised to shout across the house. "Flint! Don't slam the fucking doors!"

The Theurge makes a face to the tune of 'Why the hell would anyone want to come back here' before slipping into the garage and closing the door silently, getting out the damn WD-40 if he has to. Grump.

The inside of the garage is cluttered with various things. Skis, a pair of bicycles, the washer and dryer. The garage however also has a loft that occupies the far side of the space. There are hooks, and where a rope-and-rung ladder has been pulled up to make sure that someone in the loft isn't disturbed, and the cub doesn't actually make an appearance, but Flint's voice carries— thankfully the garage is also relatively soundproof to the rest of the house. "Go 'way."

"I guess you really don't like your grandparents," Ishmael begins with a scoff. "Bein' that your stayin' here's like t'draw all sorts of hell down on 'em." Should Flint bother to look, the Latino is casually leaning against the wall near the exit, arms folded over his chest.

The sound of movement comes from the loft, after a bit, and then the cub appears, moving to sit half on the edge of the floor, legs dangling. "Wha?" This isn't as accusatory as the initial reaction, though Flint does seem surprised to see Ishmael, staring down and over at the Fostern.

Ishmael slowly begins to paint a grim picture: "Uh, yeah buddy. We don't attract the nicest sorts. Black Spiral Dancers, Banes an' Wyrm-taint lookin' to off us. Fomori. Why d'you think we make it a point t'grab up cubs so fast? It's for their sake as well as yours," he says, shouldering back towards the house proper. The grandparents. "As much as they seem like shitheads, I doubt y'want t'see their intestines strewn all about."

"They didn't even notice I was gone th' first time," Flint says, raising a hand to one brow. "My mom left town with some boyfriend." The cub sits near the rope ladder, but doesn't push it down yet. There's a tone of 'why's it matter' to his voice, just overall ill mood not helping very much.

"Cry me a damn river," grumps Ishmael with a frown. "We've all had bad shit happen to us. Kind of comes with the whole sweet wolf package." Sweet in this case clearly meaning not-so. "Look, I came to get you and bring you back before no one else notices so your life don't turn from a suck to shit. I've been there. It's about as fun as givin' head to cactus. So, you gonna come back with me and learn to use your power responsibly, Spider Man? Or do you want everyone around you to die?"

Flint sighs a little, then just nods. "'kay, Ishmael-rhya," the boy acknowledges. The rope ladder is kicked down, and then the boy moves back into the bedroom area of the loft, apparently deciding that while he's here he might as well grab things. Such as a few pairs of clothing that fit better, by the look of what gets shoved into the backpack. "I guess." It's tossed down without ceremony, the cub shrugging on his jacket and then crouching above the rope ladder. "And Devon hates me for the mess that got made last night, and." It's not exactly unwillingness to go, just talking, as the boy climbs down, one rung at a time.

"Yeah, I don't know anythin' about that," says Ishmael, pushing himself off of the wall with a grunt. "I'm sure whatever it was, he can put on his big girl panties and get over it. You always got the Tribe," he says, thumbing to himself, pinky extended towards Flint. "But it's a two-way street. You expect, you get nothin'. You do, you act, people notice." He shrugs a little, hiking up the pack a bit further up his shoulder. "You gonna run away and wait for somethin' that's never gonna happen, or do you want to go out and do somethin' useful about it?"

Flint nods, jumping the last rung to the floor and picking up his own backpack. The rope ladder is shoved back up to the loft by climbing on a box and with a broom handle, as the boy considers what Ishmael has said, then nods again. "I wasn't thinking so straight when I left," the boy says, by way of apology if his posture has anything to say with it, gaze on his feet rather than on Ishmael. "Kavi-rhya says I need to get better on not being impulsive."

"Yeah, well, you're Garou. Good luck with that," says Ishmael with half a chuckle, half a snort, all the cynic. "And you can cut that -rhya bullshit when it's just us. It's a pain in the ass. I know who you're talkin' about." He tilts his head towards the door. "Let's get out of here before the old folks get bitchy."

Another nod, and Flint manages with some restraint to not kick either the washing machine or dryer when he walks past them and towards the door back into the house. "They still watching that stupid show?" the question comes when the boy has his hand already on the handle.

"If it's the cartoony one, then yeah," says Ishmael, nodding. "I kinda snuck in without them noticin', so likely best if we do the same on the way out. Lest they get a heart attack or somethin'." He checks his phone again, briefly. Nothing. Good.

"Yeah." Flint turns the handle of the door, pushing it open enough to let himself out of the garage and into the main part of the house, pausing to listen to the ambient sounds. The boy's brow furrows at what he hears, footsteps and other things. "My grandma's in the kitchen," he says, quiet. "And the front door's in the room with the TV, and he's probably still in there."

Ishmael gestures the boy back into the garage, pulling a small handmirror out of his pack. "We'll do this the other way, then. You been over the other side, yet?" He holds out the mirror.

The footsteps from the kitchen seem to be approaching— slowly, thankfully— the hallway that takes one back to the living room as well as the garage. "Yeah. Went on the revel thing with the Wyld dragon, too," Flint says very quietly, backing into the garage and shutting the door as quietly as he possibly can. "Never in the city."

The cub looks up again, face screwing with thought. "And um. These clothes aren't dedicated," he mentions, tugging at his shirt and jacket indicatively.

Once they're back into the garage, Ishmael briefly glances over his shoulder, then whips out a simple pocket knife, again, from the pack. "Give me your hand," he says, releasing the blade. "I'll fix that real fast. Hope you like these clothes, 'cause you're gonna be seein' them lots."

Flint frowns down at what he's wearing for a moment, then just shrugs, taking a step towards the theurge, palm offered up. "Thanks," Flint adds.

It's a clean slice, a little deep, designed to collect blood quickly. "Shift to glabro," he says, clearly intending the boy to heal before blood gets everywhere. Meanwhile, he begins to recite something that sounds relatively simple, rhythmic, rhyming in Spanish. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he sounds quite fluent. The side of the blade is scratched against the shirt, the other against Flint's pants, and so on, until the ritual is done. "Alright," he says, stowing the knife, and bringing out the mirror again. "Let's git."

Flint shifts long enough to heal, then shifts right back down to homid and nods, looking at the mirror for a moment as well. "Yeah, let's." The agreement is given before the boy begins focusing, in the remembered-lesson mindset as he begins to reach across the much more difficult city gauntlet.

Ishmael is patient, keeping vigilant lest they be disturbed. He follows suit shortly thereafter. Apparently this particular Theurge is all about brevity and function.

Unsurprisingly, there is nothing of note on the other side of the gauntlet where the Madden residence is, save now for the cub and the theurge. Flint looks at his feet for a moment, sighs quietly, and then look to Ishmael for direction.

"Alright, let's get out and back to the real world before somethin' nasty wakes up," says Ishmael, grinning somewhat mischievously as he jerks his head towards the house and the way out (which is ostensibly the same in the Umbra). "I'll get us a taxi when we're clear an' good."

Flint nods, taking tentative and careful steps ahead until they're clear of the house and the yard but not quite where they'd be in the street already. "'kay," the boy agrees, tentatively.

Ishmael leads to them some area approximately behind where the SUV should be, and then invites Flint to cross back over again. "Should be cover here," he says, peeking through the mirror to make sure there won't be any spectators. "Okay, go on through."

Flint stares at the mirror and repeats the process to cross back over to the Realm, though it takes the cub equally long this time.

Again, Ishmael follows suit, following through on his promise to call them a taxi (which he must have had on hold previously, given it shows up quite fast). It speeds them to within a couple of blocks of the tenement, at which point Ishmael makes them walk the rest of the way, for security reasons.

Flint glances at Ishmael, having spent most of the taxi ride (and it's not the shortest distance between the two locations) in silence, brows furrowing. "I…" the boy walks in silence a bit longer, then looking back at the Fostern. "Thanks, again. Sorry, and all."

"Yeah, well," Ishmael begins, as they step in. "Stuff happens. Tell them I had you doin' a personal thing for me and swore you to secrecy, an' they can talk to me about it. Or you can tell the truth, up to you." With a shrug, he moves towards the security room to make sure all there is well.

Flint looks at the floor for a moment, clearly warring about the idea. "Thanks but no thanks, Ishmael-rhya," the cub murmurs before the Fostern has gotten too far away. "Won't lie about it, or anything, so."

"The truth is always best." Salem's voice comes from the laundry room; the battered halfmoon appears a moment after, mug of steaming hot coffee in hand.

Ishmael simply nods towards Flint, and then glances towards the laundry room rather placidly. "Except when it's not," he returns, without bothering to explain further, and finishes his trek to the security room to check on a few routine things. Nothing exploded. Good.

Flint just offers a shrug in both directions, moving over to sit down on one of the couches and pull a knee to his chest.

Salem's eyes narrow at Ishmael, but he lets this reply go without comment. His gaze turns toward Flint. "So," he says, his voice mild, "What happened?" As if to emphasize this facade of casualness, he takes a sip of coffee.

"He was a cub," supplies Ishmael from the security room, helpfully. "And things got crazy." Then he's done. Apparently Flint's going to have to fill in the rest, as he desires.

Lefty appears on the security camera just as Ish gets his last look. she gives a brief look to the eye of the thing, waves, and then presses the buzzer to let people know she's there.

Flint nods at what the theurge has said, gaze steadily at least in Salem's direction, even if the cub doesn't look at the philodox. "Stuff happened," the boy says, equally helpful. "I dun really…" words fade off, and for a moment, cub's focus goes elsewhere, with a very quick muttering of 'shut up' over again a few times, barely audible. "I got upset and left. It was stupid of me."

Salem grunts. It's hard to say whether he accepts this explanation or not. He sips his coffee again, then limps to a seat. "We'll see what Mouse says."

Ishmael glances at the camera and then says over the speaker. "C'mon in, Lefty." The door promptly unlocks.

Lefty slips in, once the door is open, and then pushes the hood of her jacket down. Her eyes dart around as if expecting to see snakes in every corner. When things seem clear, she relaxes, moving further in. "Hey," she greets.

The cub gets the distinct look for a moment like he'd like to just as quickly go right back out the door, even if he's just gotten back, but he doesn't, just nods to what Salem says, another nod given to Lefty. "Yes Salem-rhya."

Salem, settling into his chair, gives a nod over to Lefty. "Evening. What's new?"

Ishmael finishes doing whatever he was doing in the security room, and then shoulders his bag. "Alright. Headed upstairs. Call me if you need me," he says, walking towards the stairwell.

Lefty looks from Salem to the cub and then to Ishmael. Salem's question is pondered, and the ragabash's answer is quiet and succinct, accompanied by the same expression a teenager might have after she's dented her father's car, "Nothin'." Another look around, and she adds a question of her own. "What's up here?"

Flint pulls himself into the corner of the couch, leaning backwards and perhaps trying to catch a few minutes of rest. Mostly, though, the cub just looks resigned to whatever is going to happen.

There's a rattle of keys in the lock.

Salem glances briefly at Flint, then back at Lefty. Ishmael gets hardly a look. "Something happened, and the boy got spooked. Something involving Starcaller, if I had to guess."

Lefty rubs the back of her neck, grimacing as Salem explains. "Yeah, I… heard something about that." The sound of keys gets the Gnawer's attention, and she turns to see who is there.

Flint also turns his attention back and upwards from the door, but then after that, Flint's still quiet, hands coming up to rest his forehead on.

Mouse pushes inside. She looks exhausted, to the point of falling over, maybe, but there's a certain light in her eyes when she pulls her sunglasses off that wasn't there this morning. She takes one step inside before nudging the door closed with one heel.

Salem raises an eyebrow at the arriving Walker. "And there she is." He gets up, gesturing to his chair. "Coffee?"

Lefty stiffens when she sees Mouse, the Gnawer's good hand coming to rest at her waist. She affects a posture that suggests her being her is perfectly normal, and she doesn't move, except for a cursory examination of Mouse's condition and an absent nod.

Flint looks up a little when Mouse enters, ducking a nod, before the boy looks back to Salem. The cub still doesn't say anything, now fidgeting a little. Not nervously, in particular, more like restless, and Flint again looks for a long moment like he'd really just like to dart for the door.

"Yeah," Mouse says in answer to the question. "please." Her voice is quiet, mostly calm, but it's lacking the tonelessness of earlier too. It takes a moment or two, but she eventually glances toward Lefty, and then away. "The Wyld changes might be temporary. Some of them anyway. Might make our Ragabash feel a bit better."

Salem disappears briefly into the laundry room, returning with a fresh cup of coffee the way Mouse likes it. "Good," he says in reply to Mouse, then gives Flint a sharp look.

Lefty doesn't say anything, even when Mouse mentions ragabash. The Gnawer's usual grin is turned briefly into a scowl, but for the most part she actually relaxes. Her eyes remain on the Walker theurge, but she doesn't interfere at all.

The cub turns his head into his lap a little at the look, and the muttered telling something to shut up returns. Shutupshutupshutupshutup!, barely above a whisper before Flint looks back up at the elder Garou present, falling silent again.

Mouse accepts the coffee, looking grateful, but she catches Lefty's scowl. "Not you, the—" And she stops, because Flint has apparently caught her attention. The cub gets a significant frown.

Salem raises an eyebrow. Just that. And he's still looking at Flint.

Lefty's gaze catches Mouse, and she relays in that moment a certain reassurance. Her gaze then shifts to the cub, as well.

"Not any of you," the boy offers, very politely, catching sight of Mouse's frown but not exactly explaining why he was telling apparently thin air to shut up. But Flint's hand raises to rub at his forehead as if a slight headache.

"Are you hearing things?" Mouse asks. It might sound like a funny question, but both her gaze and her tone are intent. Focused.

Salem finds another seat and settles into it with a grunt before taking up his coffee again.

The question elicits what might be a funny reaction from the Gnawer. She snorts, rubbing her temple with her one good hand. Immediately she offers an apologetic look and goes back to just watching in the background.

Flint sits up a little bit and turns his attention to Mouse, then pulling his hands down to fall in his lap and nods. "Kinda," he says, not actually thinking it's a funny question at all. But then again the cub is hearing voices. "Kinda yeah. A little more coherent than usual but still not really?"

Mouse's cheek twitches for a moment, and her interest seems to wane. "You don't need to talk to them out loud." Lefty gets a sharp look that softens after a moment, and she clears her throat. "I took care of it."

Lefty does her best to remain quiet. She examines Flint more closely, gaze shifting between Mouse and the cub often.

Flint nods. "'kay, Mouse-rhya," the boy acknowledges, though there's still the distinct tone in his voice that he knows he's done something wrong, just doesn't want to talk about it until asked directly.

The door to the stairwell opens, not without intensity but it isn't slammed about. Devon's shape is framed briefly in the opening before he proceeds through it and into the lobby. As always the Ahroun's hands are shoved deeply into his pockets though now he lacks the intentional slouch. He stops, on entering the lobby, whatever neutrality he'd accomplished and so worn when he descended the stairs darkens considerably when his eyes touch on those present.

Mouse says to Lefty, with a little more emphasis, if less volume, "I took care of it." Whatever she means by that, however, her attention is tugged away by the entering Ahroun. Devon gets a careful, studying look.

Lefty's focus shifts completely to Mouse when the theurge repeats her words, and suddenly there's real relief in the ragabash's posture. Mouse gets a brief grin in response.

Flint does not turn, and doesn't notice Devon's entrance— but the boy does notice Mouse's attention shifting, curling down further into the couch as he sits there.

Salem's mouth thins out, the muscles in his jaw tightening. He doesn't say anything, but there's a slight racheting-up of tension.

Devon covers the distance in several steps, a walking pace that wastes no motion as he approaches Flint. His steps don't entirely slow, though when it appears that he might walk over the couch or have to turn back that next step turns into a thrusting kick. It doesn't aim for the cub, though, but the arm of the couch nearest him, force enough to push the piece of furniture from its original place.

Mouse straightens from her tired slouch, jaw tightening. "Devon," she says. The word isn't loud, or particularly threatening, but it does carry an undercurrent of warning.

Lefty's grin fades as she watches the young ahroun.

Flint pulls himself further back into the couch, if such a thing is at least possible, not looking at Devon, but a glance does go to both Mouse and Salem.

Salem finishes off his coffee with a kind of controlled casualness and sets the cup down, carefully.

"No," Devon says quietly, so little force behind it though there's a straining chord in it. He doesn't turn to the others nor explain himself. A hand reaches out to grab the younger boy by his shirtfront with every intention of hauling him off the couch and propelling him roughly away from the furniture.

Flint pushes a hand up to block Devon, partially, but the cub isn't putting up that much of a fight.

That has Mouse moving. One moment she's standing there, holding coffee, looking exhausted. The next moment she's in crinos, and shoving her way roughly between cub and cliath. The elder isn't gentle with either of them, and she snaps a harsh, single word at Devon. ~Explain.~ In this form, her body language is more clear. Exhausted, and still quite frazzled.

Poor coffee. Good, wonderful coffee, all over the floor.

Lefty can't help it, and she darts quick glances around the room. First to Mouse and then Salem, then back to the cub. The ragabash doesn't move, but there's a faint hint that she might want to.

A bare heartbeat after Mouse moves, Salem's on his feet as well and also in Crinos. The scarred halfmoon looms, though remains standing near his chair.

Riley's recent interests have swayed more toward the keeping a low profile' end of the spectrum, but that apparently doesn't mean she's keen on ignoring a ruckus audible from the stairwell. Easing the slightly-cracked door open, she pokes her head out for a moment, brows furrowing at the growly war-form convention. She steps out into the lobby, keeping the door from loudly closing by keeping the toes of one shoe in the doorwell proper, wallflowering until she gets a feel for what's happening.

Devon nearly has hold of Flint's wrist before Mouse gets in the way. Lips pull away from his teeth, a silent snarl in a still human face. He doesn't stay there for long, his own form pushing into Crinos just as a growl starts low in his throat. ~It's time he knows where he stands with me,~ the Ahroun states, looking over Mouse's shoulder to the couch-dwelling cub.

The room is getting crowded, so the Gnawer does the only polite thing and takes three steps back away from the ruckus.

Flint scrambles off of the couch, over and off the back and further away from the snarling ruckus. Even if it is about him.

First-Strike is hardly an imposing figure among other crinos. While she's not short, the lack of muscle-mass is obvious, and that long spine of hers only adds to the lean look. Even so, she gets right into the Ahroun's face, close enough that her breath is hot against his muzzle and eyes, and her own eyes bore into his. ~Maybe first you should settle where you stand with me,~ she says. Her rumbling tones are quiet for the war form, but no less intense than if she'd shouted.

Scar does not say a word, but moves around to stand just behind Mouse, at her right shoulder, making it very clear where he stands, at least.

Riley's brows lift from their previous furrow, and a hint of a smile tugs at the corner of her lips at First-Strike's decisive reprisal. She offers a low whistle, the smile trending more into smirk territory.

~Seems like I stand below your cub,~ Red-Hands states quietly, still looking toward Flint. ~Regardless that I've tried to prove myself to you and everyone else even after surviving my Rite of Passage. Yet he's allowed to be disrespectful to me!~

First-Strike flicks an ear towards Flint without taking her eyes away from Red-Hands. ~No, he isn't. Is he being disrespectful to you right now?~

Scar folds his arms across his chest and simply glowers.

Flint watches what goes on, wordless for the moment, head bent and gaze to the ground. Listening, perhaps, but the boy might also be zoning out a little.

Riley clears her throat, taking the opportunity to lean off of the wall and ease her way into the room full of snarly Crinos. "Not to get all technical, Dev, but we're all below Chief, here."

Red-Hands shifts his stance slightly, turning to look at Mouse. A snarl remains in his expression, muzzle furrowed, more teeth showing than necessary. His ears are twisted back, a wolf about to fly or fight. ~He was disrespectful last night. And has been times before. And any time I try to correct him, I end up getting growled and told off. What does that teach him or any other cub we might get?~

First-Strike continues staring into Red-Hands' eyes. ~You are being disrespectful to me right now.~ She's still quiet, but now there's a slight tone bleed. It's just a small one, but it's noticeable. Her inflection is less, if not her intensity. ~See to that, and then we'll see to the cub's teaching.~

Scar continues to stand there like a statue, barely moving but for one claw that taps against one of his clawed arms.

Red-Hands continues to meet Mouse's gaze for several long seconds, though it becomes an obvious effort by the time he pulls his gaze away. Anger causes his body to tremble, however he stands unmoving for another beat. He manages to drag himself back to homid after that beat, though he still shakes with bottled up emotion.

First-Strike is, by this point, growling low in her throat, a sound that dies slowly once Devon backs down. She remains in crinos for a few moments longer, hackling, before shrinking down to homid herself, where there's a certain intensity that lingers even though her expression is calm and neutral. "Flint," she says. Somewhat toneless again. "Are you higher in station than Devon?"

Flint takes two steps forward from where he had been, shaking his head although it remains bowed. "No, Mouse-rhya." The boy doesn't offer anything further, simply waiting.

Scar slowly shifts down as well, though he doesn't move from his place at Mouse's shoulder.

Riley reins herself in a respectable distance from the conversation, her hands shoved down into her coat pockets.

"It's easy to say no now," Devon states through a clenched jaw. "He's got an audience and all the attention's on him."

"Then why," Mouse says, her voice suddenly sharp, edged, as she turns to the cub, "did you disrespect him? Do you have any satisfactory reason? An appropriate excuse for ignoring rank?"

Flint pulls in a deep breath and pushes back the anger that comes up from Devon's comment, looking only towards Mouse from the lowered gaze. "I have no appropriate excuse, Mouse-rhya," the boy murmurs. "I wasn't calm, and I spoke without thinking."

Mouse shows her teeth for a moment. "Then why are you telling that to me, and not him?"

Salem continues to slowly tap one finger against his arm.

Devon takes a half step forward before he manages to stop himself. Hands clench into fists at his sides, gaze resting past Salem and Mouse to Flint.

Flint pauses a moment, and there's that same look of concentration as when the cub had earlier been speaking aloud to no one in particular for that brief flash, before he turns to the Ahroun. Head tilts back to bare his throat, thumbs hooked nervously in his pockets as he speaks. "I'm sorry, Devon-rhya. I spoke without thinking, and I should not have, nor did I mean what I said." The words are sincere, if a little shaky.

Mouse steps out of the way, allowing Devon a free path to Flint. She does, however, flick a brief look up to Salem in the same motion.

Salem moves when Mouse does. He returns her look, briefly, though it's hard to read his expression.

Riley seems more than content to let the elder handle this one, though her lips occasionally part as though to begin to say something. In the end, she elects not. She seats herself casually where she stands, crossing her legs underneath of her and peering not at Flint and Devon, but rather at Mouse.

Devon closes the distance between himself and Flint, a hand coming up to grab the cub by the through. It's not a gentle hand that reaches for him, rough and with just restrained intentions. "Next time," he says quietly, "neither Mouse, nor Kavi will be able to save your ass."

There is a barely restrained tension of anger in the cub's shoulders and posture, but this time, Flint does not attempt to fight it, does not even attempt really, to breathe, acknowledgement given to the Ahroun with a half a nod.

"Listen to me very carefully," Mouse says, without raising her voice. "Because I am not going to say this to either of you again. You, Devon, are Cliath. More importantly, you are a Glass Walker Cliath. That means you solve your own shit. That also means that when you can't solve your own shit, you come to the rest of us, and you explain to us what is going on, and then you work with us to solve that shit. That means that you will not cull any of our cubs," her voice goes very thin here, "without my express permission, no matter how much you may dislike them or how much you may want to. Flint's ass," her nostrils flare, "Happens to belong to me. Flint, you will watch your tongue and you will afford your elders the respect they are due, because if I have to intervene in a matter like this again involving you, I will not be happy. And you do not want me to be unhappy with you." Her gaze shifts again. "And now, to the both of you, listen closely."

Is that a ghost of a smile on Salem's lips? A twitch? Whatever it was, it's gone now.

Riley's attention shifts immediately over to Cliath and Cub, and her expression hardens. Mouse's words get a slow nod, but more… they receive careful consideration. The Ragabash waits until Mouse has said her fill before presuming to interject.

Riley has partially disconnected.

Devon doesn't exactly push Flint away from him, but that's what ends up happening. Slightly. He turns away from the cub and looks toward Mouse, his teeth clenching together, hands rolling into fists until his knuckles whiten.

Flint stumbles back to standing up straight, and nods once to Mouse. It's quite clear, the boy is listening.

Mouse squares her shoulders. "We are all Glass Walkers. The entire Sept has just entered a rough period, one that's going to be nasty and difficult for everyone, but possibly, especially us. If you were not a true Glass Walker," and here, Devon gets the briefest of looks, "Cockroach would not have accepted you. You're allowed to dislike each other. That's fine. What you are not allowed to do is allow that dislike to get in the way of the fact that you are still tribemates. You are not allowed to let it interfere with your duties, either to each other, to me, to your other tribemates, or to this safehouse and this city. You are not allowed to do this at any time, but you are especially not allowed to do it now, because everyone is going to be needed in the months ahead. If something is interfering, you come to me. Or Salem. Or Kavi. Whoever might best help you. You don't let it fester, and you don't let it continue to interfere. This is the one and only time I am going to have this talk with either of you, because you are both smart and capable enough not to need it a second time, and if you were not, you would not be one of us in the first place. Am I clear?"

Salem nods once or twice in conjunction with Mouse's words.

Riley is actively frowning, now, but seems content to keep her thoughts to herself.

"First," Devon says, carefully and still with a dangerous tension in his tone. It's unfocused, not specifically directed at the elder, though she's who the Ahroun is addressing. "I won't cull a cub without permission. They may wish I had, but I won't. Second, I tried to handle my problems myself. But when I went to call Flint on his attitude I got called down and told to back off. And when I went to Kavi for help I got nowhere!" He pauses for a breath, shaking but slow. "It came down to my problems are either imagined or not important enough to bother with and so I should just keep them to myself."

Flint shoves his hands fully into his pockets now, the cub's gaze flicking between Mouse and Salem, and occasionally over to Riley, but he won't interrupt.

Mouse narrows one eye. "Exactly what do you mean by 'they may wish I had'?" Her tone is quieter, and if anything, calmer than it was before, which is considerably calm. "And did anyone actually say that, or is that something that you've interpreted?"

There's a quiet beep from Salem's pocket. He frowns, then quietly excuses himself.

"Meaning I'll make Salem's sucker punch feel like a love tap," Devon answers. "And no one actually said that, but that's the impression I got. That I needed to shut up and deal with it. That's all I've ever gotten, from the time I was a cub. Handle my own problems, suck it up and move on."

Flint watches as Salem walks off, before the cub's gaze returns to Mouse.

Riley remains cross-legged on the floor, her eyes slightly narrowed. Bristling. Finally, she seems able to bite her tongue no more. She surges up to her feet, the frown firmly set on her features. "Aaaand, this has crossed over from annoying to absurd. Devon," She snaps, "Flint ignored your orders, yes? Then yes, punch him until he stops. But this sounds a whole lot more like the kid didn't have his nose up your ass. Part of being Cliath… part of being Garou is respect. Mutual respect. We do each other no favors to tear one another down at every perceived slight. So, which was it? Did he refuse to cooperate with a reasonable request? Did he ignore a direct order, or did he simply speak out of turn? I would hear."

Mouse looks about to say something, but Riley gets there first, and while she doesn't look back at the Ragabash, she does turn her head enough so that one ear is angled that way. Her eyes remain on Devon.

"He told me to fuck off," Devon snaps, turning on Riley. "I offered advice, he was shaken up, I told him to get it together because losing his shit under stressful circumstances isn't useful. And he told me to fuck off. And that's after he went telling Mouse about a decision I made, which likely wasn't the best I'll admit. But during that he started throwing orders around at me and no one told him to shut up then either. I don't care who's ass he's got his nose up and believe me, I've kept my temper and done whatever I could to avoid any more fighting with him. But I'm done with sitting by while he gets away with shit that would have turned me into a wall hanging while I was a cub or even now!"

The cub snarls up into crinos at this, though there's still a vestige, a semblance of control as the cub forces himself through crinos after snarling for a minute, and all the way to lupus, belly to the floor and not moving.

Riley is all but silently grinding her teeth as she sits through Devon's reply, looking more annoyed now than ever, "I will be frank, as it doesn't seem to have seeped into that raging head of yours. This stops. This whole 'Poor Persecuted You' shit? It stops. An—" The girl outright snarls at Flint as he upshifts, stalking over and planting a kick right in his lupus ribs even after he downshifts. "ENOUGH."

Mouse flashes teeth at Flint's sudden shift, but she lets Riley handle that, and a moment later, her gaze is back on Devon. "His telling me you were fucking high off Bawn mushrooms wasn't disrespect, it was what I would have expected anyone to do, tribe or not. I didn't tell him to shut up during that incident, Devon, because I was dealing with you. Now," she breathes, "listen. Do you know how many young cliaths have come to me, saying, essentially, what you're saying now? That they're under appreciated, that they get no respect, that no one is willing to help with their problems, and then whatever new cub is around is getting special favors?" She waits a beat, and then says, enunciating each word with quiet emphasis, "Every. Single. One. Every single one, Devon. It's the transition that a lot of new Cliaths hit when they gain rank, which is not to say that your feelings are stupid, or unimportant, but it is saying that they aren't unique to you. You are not being singled out. And for that matter, I was once one of those Cliaths, though I never went to my elder about it, for better or worse." Her eyes narrow faintly. "Flint is not the cause of your difficulties or your transition right now. He is responsible for his mouth, and his actions. He is not the focus upon which all attention and respect that you feel you are lacking is siphoned away to be heaped upon. Do you understand that?"

Devon shifts himself, slamming into Crinos though he makes no further move save to growl a warning at Flint. And though he hears Mouse clearly, it's a full beat after she's spoken that he looks to her. ~His telling you I was high is not what I'm referring to. And it no longer matters. I understand what you're saying. Just as I understood it when Bridge Builder said it, and when Evac just stated it. I'll deal with it myself.~

All-in-Stride flattens himself against the floor, ears splaying and tail tucked, and crawls flatly backwards several paces from Devon, before the cub looks to Riley.

Her shift is instantaneous again. Mouse is in crinos almost before the 'f' in 'myself' is fully uttered, and she's swinging at his muzzle half an instant after that. As far as crinos punches go, it's not much, but it does have the fury of Rage behind it, and something else, something darker. ~I have enough words in my head as it is, DO NOT PUT WORDS IN MY MOUTH!~

Riley stalks right after Flint, placing her foot firmly against All-in-Stride's lupine chest, glaring pointedly down at him, "Stop. Doing. Things." She snarls, "You're not helping your case, and the next time you shift arbitrarily to warform in front of me, I'm going to knock you the fuck out of it. Clear?" She keeps her foot in place as she snaps her focus over to Devon, looking about to unleash a few more scathing words. Instead, she allows Mouse's to suffice, and focuses her full attention on Flint.

All-in-Stride didn't mean to shift. The cub presses himself to the ground underneath that boot, ears flattening against his head. Yes. Clear.

Red-Hands's head twists suddenly with the momentum of the punch. He's slower to turn back to face Mouse, a growl following, muscles tensed. ~Yes, First-Strike-rhya,~ he manages. ~I ask you forgive my interpretation.~

First-Strike snarls, ~Your interpretation is bullshit. You know that's not what I said.~ The hand she hit him with flexes furiously, opening and closing. ~If you are fucking determined to ignore every last word that comes out of my mouth and continue to consider yourself the singled out victim, you might at least do me the fucking courtesy of letting me know that before I expend time and energy trying to help you. THIS should not be NECESSARY, Red-Hands!~ She snaps at the air. ~We are not the fucking Get of Fenris. We don't communicate basic fucking ideas through violence. And if I thought you weren't a worthy member of my tribe, if I thought you weren't a capable Ahroun, if I thought you weren't ready for your rank, if I thought you were fucking useless from now until forever I would kill you. Have I killed you, Red-Hands? Are you dead?~

Riley doesn't seem shy about leaning her weight into the black running shoe that's pinning the lupus to the ground. Fortunately, that weight isn't especially substantial, scrawny thing that she is. "I praised you not long ago, Flint. Told you that you seemed to have your shit together. I take that back. You can't act like this, doing all the right things until it actually matters. I'd rather you fuck up a hundred million times in front of your tribe than continue on with this farce that you view as composure. You do not speak, and the more you bottle up, the more you'll set yourself up to explode, and your elder will not always be there to haul your ass out of the fire." A beat, "And telling people to fuck off is rude. Bad cub." She momentarily glances over at the louder altercation between Crinos.

There's a jingle of keys, and Kaz lets herself in the door. "Uh," she says, at the general gathering. She manages, "…I was just gonna use the copier?"

~No,~ Red-Hands nearly growls the single word out. He looks like he wants to say more, but either he thinks better of it, or Kaz interrupts at the perfect time. Whichever it may be, his lips pull back slightly, teeth showing for an instant while his ears twist back, eyes remaining on the elder.

Ears push flat against his head, save for a very tiny twitch from the cub as the door opens. All-In-Stride tilts his head to show his throat, turning over a little even as Riley's stepping on him, a whine of submission and acknowledgement given to the Ragabash.

Riley gives a soft little click of residual irritation, and steps off of All-in-Stride, turning her back to him to greet Kaz with a clearly forced grin (complete with gritted teeth), murmuring a simple greeting of "Kaz-Rhya," Along with accompanying nod.

First-Strike says, in very heated, clipped tones, ~Then shift. Down. Now.~ Her ears push forward. ~You are testing my patience.~

Red-Hands shifts, wordlessly, returning to homid. Fists again clench at his sides, his gaze lowers and angles just off center.

"Riley," says Kaz, without any trace of amusement at her her-ness, and trails off into the office, and the sounds of someone wrestling with a mostly-printer can be heard.

The cub shifts back into homid as well, after crawling belly to the ground backwards a little away from Riley. That done, Flint just sits where he is. "I'm sorry," he offers in Riley's direction, audible enough to the ragabash without being stated very loudly.

First-Strike remains in crinos, fur hackling. After a moment, her ears flatten sharply to either side. ~No one would have turned you into a wall hanging when you were a cub without my permission. Do you know why?~

Devon looks up at Mouse when she begins speaking again. "No," he answers, terse and quiet.

"Show it, then." Riley is quick to snap, her back still unhappily turned from Flint, "And I don't mean wriggling around and showing your belly and throat, I mean show it. No more weird complacence when you should be angry, no more silence when you're fixing to snap. No more flouncing away in the middle of a training session from people who are trying to help you." She casts a frustrated look back over her shoulder. "You're sorry? Then stop playing at being emotionally dead."

First-Strike shows her teeth a little as she says, ~Ask. Akultot.~ Then she shifts, though it's with obvious effort, and she snags for longer than she should at glabro before working her way back down to homid.

Flint takes several deep breaths, shifting from sitting into a crouch. "Yes, Riley-rhya," the boy says. "I…" it looks, for a moment, like there's more that Flint wants to say, but a wary glance goes to Devon, and then to Mouse, and the cub shakes his head, silence in favour of words for the moment.

"Why," Devon asks, maintaining the one-word responses. Unable to keep the growling tone out, he errs on the side of caution, keeping it short and to the point.

Riley's gaze slides sideways as she whispers something to Flint, and then irritatedly moves away from him to linger close to where Devon and First-Strike remain entangled, her arms folded. Displeased ragabash is displeased. "No 'Rhya', I said. Pay attention."

Kaz stuffs information packets in a few mailboxes. "F'you, an' you, an' you," she mutters.

Mouse answers what is probably the wrong question, "Because you're mine." She turns away from the Ahroun now, fingers still twitching, and moves across to her long-spilled coffee to pick up the now-empty mug.

Flint just nods when Riley whispers, mute agreement. The cub's gaze then goes to rest on the door as he pushes himself all the way to standing, and his expression twinges through several cycles of visible and obvious guilt and something else entirely.

Devon watches Mouse move away, silent himself and unmoving. After a moment, he does speak, a simple bidding, "Mouse-rhya."

Mouse handles the coffee mug gingerly. "The Wyld effects might not be permanent." She moves off toward the laundry room.

Kaz finishes her mail-delivery and wanders back into the main room. "Man, you guys are busy."

Riley looms over Devon, fixing her gaze directly at his, "…She said it more kindly than I might have." She murmurs, tone frosty. "As I told you before, you did well at the revel. Don't think your actions go unnoticed, don't let your pride blind you, and don't take every errant word as a slight. You'll feel better for it." She glances between Devon and Flint both, frown renewed. "And for fuck's sake, don't make this a Thing. Talk it out, fight it out, I don't give a shit, but don't let tonight fester." With that, the fostern storms toward the stairwell.

"Yes Riley," the cub says, gaze on his feet rather than watch her leave. "Shouldn't've gone. Or come back. Or." Flint puts this out so quietly that it's easy enough to miss or not hear, before the boy returns to utter silence that's probably bottling something he doesn't trust himself to say back.

Devon looks at Riley when she interjects, then angles a glance off to Kaz and Flint when the Fostern leaves. "Yeah. Kind of crazy around here tonight," he agrees, just before turning and jogging after the Theurge. There's no warning, no reason given, and no asking for permission, though maybe a slight expectation of limb loss, regardless it doesn't give way to hesitation when he reaches out to hug her.

Indeed, Mouse seizes up at that sudden touch, and there's a faint, aborted jerk that might have been the beginning of something violent. But it comes to nothing, and she ends up blinking owlishly at Devon instead, as if she can't quite figure out what he's doing.

Kaz mutters, "Aw, they're makin' up," and retreats back to the office. Possibly she needs to pick up her originals.

Flint looks towards Devon, a darker scowl forming on the cub's face as he pushes himself all the way upright. Despite having been told earlier that talking aloud is unnecessary, not aloud doesn't seem to work, quite the same. "I-said-shutupshutupshutup!" It's louder, frustrated this time, and the cub takes a few steps, nonchalantly, back in the direction of the lobby door, pulling his jacket around him.

Devon holds that hug for just a moment longer, before letting go and taking a full step back. "I'm sorry," he says quietly, half looking up at the elder, half affording a bit of exposed throat. "I'd—" He pauses when Flint's voice rises, "I'd like to talk to you. Later. Tomorrow. Mouse-rhya."

"Tomorrow," Mouse says quietly. "I think we all need some sleep." She eyes Flint. "All of us. Where are you going?"

Kaz drifts out of the office, envelope in hand. "Having Chinese with me!" she says brightly. Clearly, she's being sarcastic.

Devon nods, and turns for the basement stairway. He reaches out to high five Kaz in passing, though, giving her also an apologetic look.

Flint shrugs, shoulders rising and then falling as his feet carry him another step or two. No verbal answer's given, though.

"Flint," Mouse says, her tone a little sharp. "Your bed is upstairs, not outside. Go."

Kaz limps past Mouse and tells Flint, in passing, "We can do rangoons an' General Gao's another time," as if it's a glorious vision of promise.