Si vienen, los mataremos.
Nov. 9th, 2016 09:50 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kiananlogsWednesday, 9 November 2016
The moon is in the waxing Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (64% full).
Morning has come, and progressed well into it. The clear evidence of daily activity continues around the sept compound, despite the goings on of the outside world. And then there's Trace. Two empty bottles of Johnny Walker and a host of other empty bottles form a neat pile not far from him, and the ahroun has sprawled out on one of the logs, apparently where he slept judging by the blanket that is half-draped over him. Is he conscious? Is he awake? It's hard to tell.
"Hey, big guy."
The familiar voice is soft and startlingly closeby. A little sing-songy, with a melancholy lilt. The kind of sound that's meant to rouse slowly, so thoroughly exhausted itself that it's almost lulling.
"I know exactly how you feel right now."
There's a slight nudge against the log. The weight of someone's body leaning against it. A sandalwood perfume that he may not have noticed being worn before. The sound of a sigh, slow and measured, where even without seeing it, one can imagine how far the slouch in formerly tight shoulders goes.
"Be right there with you if I wasn't on round two."
Should his eyes open, he'll see the Fury with her back turned and leaning against the log, dangerously close to what may end up being a decidedly unhappy Ahroun on a moon nearing full. Unsurprisingly— given the circumstances— she seems not at all concerned by this, a bottle in hand raised to pull back a swig, the sugary-acrid scent of alcohol undoubtedly clearer than it normally would be. God bless hangovers.
Trace reaches out and manages to grab Mona's arm before full consciousness or recognition sets in. And the grip is hard, distinctly unpleasant at best for a moment if not downright painful.
And then recognition sets in, and his grip loosens and he lets go, to prop himself up with his elbows behind him and mutters not quite incoherently for a long moment, before managing, "Fuck. Everything." The words are full of rage and venom, lips peeling back from his teeth for a moment before he flops back down. Too much movement too fast, it would seem.
The grab earns a slight jump from the Fury, but it's more of an odd look leveled on the rough grip than any actual concern. Really, survival instinct isn't high up on her list right now, apparently. Either that, or she's (wrongly) confident that she can either ragdoll or dodge her way out of something legitimately threatening.
Regardless of the why, she remains more or less where she is, swishing her free hand at his in a vague shooing motion until the hold loosens. "Think someone beat you to it," she says, casually raising her drink again to take another swig off of it. "A lot of someone's," she says, letting out a light cough, arm raised to cover her mouth with the inside of her elbow. "Makes me think spending the whole day in varying stages of trashed isn't such a bad idea, you know?" She pauses, glancing over her shoulder. "Sorry," is added softly. "Wanna be left alone?"
Thankfully, the one flash of outrage and anger seems to be it for the imminent violence. There's a long silence after she speaks, longer than it takes for recognition, before Trace sits up and swings his legs over the side of the log, then slides so he's sitting next to the Fury. "Nah. Alone's the last thing should be right now, really." Whether he's speaking of himself, or her, or in general, it's hard to tell.
Monica seems perfectly content to belt back another shot or two by the time he speaks again, a pack of cigarettes fished out once he does. One is plucked out and lit not longer after, a long drag taken off of it as the Fury looks out at the compound in general, the pack angled in Trace's direction in silent offer. "Looks like you boys had quite a party last night," she observes dryly, noting the bottles and any other potential damage that's still around. "Figures being 'responsible' and hanging back at the 'house would prove to be a silly decision."
The ahroun makes another noise that could be assent, or could be... who knows. Trace is still not quite all the way conscious, though he takes the cigarettes and fishes one out before handing the pack back over. Both Trace and Monica are sitting leaning against one of the logs. "Something like that," he says, a drag of the cigarette later, and then repeats himself. "Fuck everything. Sometimes I almost, almost understand the places where the Nation lives out isolated from human society and culture. Almost."
Into the compound comes Justin who is currently looking worn down and exhausted. He is wearing a pair of destroyed jeans and a baggy hoodie over his body, shirtless from what one can see from the over shirt halfway zipped up. His hair is tangled curly mess of brown locks, sticking up here and there.
"Well," Monica says, pocketing her cigarettes again, "unfortunately for them," attention straying towards Justin, the youth offered a short nod in greeting, "even they'll have to sit up and pay attention. Not a whole lot 'isolation' can do for them, at this rate."
Trace waves at his packmate when he arrives, and nods. "Yeah." The pile of empty bottles on the other side of the log is then considered, for a long moment, and then Trace shrugs. "I have a feeling that... it's going to stay pretty rough for a while. Would have been nice, if we could have held onto the feeling of victory, just a little longer?" He sighs. "Hatred. It all comes back to hatred." And it also all comes back to Rage, which is running close to the surface at the moment, audible in his voice and his intonation and his phrasing. "Fuck. Everything."
Lifting a fingerless gloved hand to them, Justin gives a nod of his head to them. "Hola amigos." He drawls out to them in a tired manner, running his hand through his hair to try and straighten it out. His eyes stray to the bottles, then back to them. "Long night, sí?"
Monica raises her own bottle in reply to Justin's question, and just as quickly takes a pull off of it. "Gonna be a long day, too," she says. "And I plan to stay wasted for most of it." As if to punctuate it, she takes one more pull, and cants the bottle towards Justin— and Trace, if he so desires. "Figure by the time it's evening I'll either be pumped up to pull off an honest-to-god traditional-style Black Fury beatdown with the girls back at the 'house, or facedown in my own puke. One way or another," she takes a drag off her cigarette, "it's gonna be a good night. Whether it likes it or not."
Trace considers the offered bottle for a moment and then snags it and takes a long sip before tilting it towards his packmate— or handing it back if Justin doesn't take it. "Seems like a good plan to me," he says. "I mean, usually, I save getting drunkerthanshit for the full moon." He pauses, and then takes another drag of the cigarette as he attempts to straighten his shirt somewhat from having been slept in. "But today, I'll make an exception."
Giving a wave off for the drink, Justin glances between the two of them for a moment. "I dunno... drinking away misery tends to lead to more drinking. Least that is how I have seen it in the streets. I am... very upset about last night. Maybe a bit scared for those who can't defend themselves like we can. But... I guess... I don't know... the only thing we can do is fight harder and to make sure our people stay motivated, stay positive and continue to push for a better life. One day our voices will be heard," he says softly as he kicks at a rock with his foot.
Monica snorts lightly, accepting back the bottle to take a swig. "'One day,'" she repeats, more absently than anything. "Been saying that for years." She takes another hit off her cigarette, offering the bottle back over to Trace in the meantime. "Good on you for staying positive, really— I mean, you do you, n'all— but when it comes right down to it?" She shrugs. "Everyone's got their own way of mourning. Me, personally, I'll take binge, purge, let it all out, pick it back up, dust off, move on. Back to the so-called high-road 'good fight' that's clearly served us so well. I mean," she shrugs, "useless or not, it doesn't really matter. You gotta do something." Beat. "But not today." She leans back against the log, and declares: "Fuck today."
"Sí, se puede," Trace says, nearly spitting out the words before taking the bottle back. "Look how far it has gotten us. Look how far we have come." Someone's bitter, though at least the anger is still not directed at either of the other Garou. But far from being words of hope, right now the anger behind them makes the rallying cry into something that sounds more like desperation. He pauses, takes another swig from the bottle, and then says, "I wish I could call my mom."
Justin shrugs his shoulders upwards as he runs a hand across the back of his neck. "The last eight years has shown improvement , and there is obviously a movement with the younger generation. Just... life shit the bed last night. I don't know, but it won't always be this bad. It can't be." He chews on his lip for a moment, then settles down onto his rump.
"We're on the same page, man," Monica says to Justin, letting Trace keep the bottle for a while. "We are. I'm just taking a day off. Get all the—" she makes a loose gesture that doesn't really mean anything, except maybe 'out,' "terrible scenarios and 'what now's out of my head in one go. Gives me room to get ready for what's coming, 'cause—" Beat. "Well. Yeah. It can't be, all the shit'n grime'll snap back to something recognizable again eventually, but— for a while, for now, it is, and it will be." Hasn't really made her peace with that, granted, but the wording makes that clear. "Just gotta make sure people don't bury their heads in the sand, and get used to the new normal, you know? Like you said— keep on 'em, keep 'em motivated."
Trace takes another sip of the bottle and looks over towards his packmate. "Today to mourn, tomorrow for action," he says, with a nod to the Fury as she steps up to go and answer a phone call. "This shit's fucked up, that's for sure." He pauses, and offers a half a grin. "I talked to Thane, I'm all clear to head back to the city an' all that. Just... Volví aquí ayer cuando oí la noticia about the election, sí. Yo quería un lugar para poder pensar." Another sip.
"Good. I am glad. I have really fucking missed you out there and we need you back. Tonight, let's go fuck something up. Moon is high enough for us to hit the Umbra. Let's get the guys and let's just take our anger out on the first bane we see. Tonight we do not have to mourn, tonight we can be angry and revel. Tonight is for glory. I am tired of being sad and miserable and scared. I do not feel like we should let today win. We should win today instead." Justin says as he reaches out to hug the other Ahroun.
Trace is tense for a moment at the hug, but a moment later and he's hugging his packmate back, twice as hard, hard enough maybe to hurt a little. "Tenemos un plan," he agrees as he sits back and sets the bottle in his lap. "Those banes don't stand a fucking chance."
Justin returns the hug harder to his packmate, then actually breaks out into a sob as he pushes his face against his friend's shoulder. "My grandma is undocumented, bro. Like... you know how us Gnawers roll. We do not have social security cards and all of that. I was born here and what not, but I am scared that something may happen. Some new law or if someone finds out." His voice breaks into a crack. "And I wasn't even born in a hospital. My dad... you know he was Garou. I do not even know if he even existed legally in the system. What if they come for me too?" he whimpers out. "How do you fight that? I want to stay positive and think the best but I am just... I am fucking ramped up about it and it is hard to fake being strong."
Trace leaves an arm around Justin's shoulder, not pulling away, and there's a long swallow. When Trace is angry, the angrier he gets the quieter he gets, and he's pretty quiet when he speaks. "If they come for us," he says, his free hand going to brush the hair out of his face, first, and then out of Justin's, "si vienen, los mataremos. My mom was undocumented, too. I don't even know who my dad is, other than that he was probably Garou." A long pause, and Trace continues. "We're pack. We are, for each other. And we are stronger together. Sí, se puede." This time, the words aren't bitter, sounding more like a promise.
"Los mataremos." Justin agrees with a wet snuffle as he leans back a bit, reaching up to wipe at his face. "We kill all of them," he says under his breath as he wipes at his nose. "I wish I met my dad. His marker is out at the grave stones here in the bawn. I visit him all the time and sometimes I wonder what our talks would have really been like," he says as he gives a glance off in that direction.
Trace leans against Justin, slightly, and there's a quiet sigh. "He'd be proud of you," Trace says. "One way or another." The silence that follows is an easy one, for a long minute.
Pack> Trace continues mentally, rather than aloud. "I missed you too, man."
A few minutes more pass, and Trace takes another sip from the bottle then sets it aside where Monica can find it when she comes back, and noogies Justin. "We'll get through this," he tells his packmate as he gets up. "I'm gonna take my drunk, hung-over self on a run." There's a brief grin. "Don't worry, I promise not to kill shit without you."
Justin gives a nod of his head as he fist bumps his packmate, then plucks up a bottle from the ground and takes a sip as well. He may as well join in on the ceremony. "Take care. Tonight we hunt."
The moon is in the waxing Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (64% full).
Morning has come, and progressed well into it. The clear evidence of daily activity continues around the sept compound, despite the goings on of the outside world. And then there's Trace. Two empty bottles of Johnny Walker and a host of other empty bottles form a neat pile not far from him, and the ahroun has sprawled out on one of the logs, apparently where he slept judging by the blanket that is half-draped over him. Is he conscious? Is he awake? It's hard to tell.
"Hey, big guy."
The familiar voice is soft and startlingly closeby. A little sing-songy, with a melancholy lilt. The kind of sound that's meant to rouse slowly, so thoroughly exhausted itself that it's almost lulling.
"I know exactly how you feel right now."
There's a slight nudge against the log. The weight of someone's body leaning against it. A sandalwood perfume that he may not have noticed being worn before. The sound of a sigh, slow and measured, where even without seeing it, one can imagine how far the slouch in formerly tight shoulders goes.
"Be right there with you if I wasn't on round two."
Should his eyes open, he'll see the Fury with her back turned and leaning against the log, dangerously close to what may end up being a decidedly unhappy Ahroun on a moon nearing full. Unsurprisingly— given the circumstances— she seems not at all concerned by this, a bottle in hand raised to pull back a swig, the sugary-acrid scent of alcohol undoubtedly clearer than it normally would be. God bless hangovers.
Trace reaches out and manages to grab Mona's arm before full consciousness or recognition sets in. And the grip is hard, distinctly unpleasant at best for a moment if not downright painful.
And then recognition sets in, and his grip loosens and he lets go, to prop himself up with his elbows behind him and mutters not quite incoherently for a long moment, before managing, "Fuck. Everything." The words are full of rage and venom, lips peeling back from his teeth for a moment before he flops back down. Too much movement too fast, it would seem.
The grab earns a slight jump from the Fury, but it's more of an odd look leveled on the rough grip than any actual concern. Really, survival instinct isn't high up on her list right now, apparently. Either that, or she's (wrongly) confident that she can either ragdoll or dodge her way out of something legitimately threatening.
Regardless of the why, she remains more or less where she is, swishing her free hand at his in a vague shooing motion until the hold loosens. "Think someone beat you to it," she says, casually raising her drink again to take another swig off of it. "A lot of someone's," she says, letting out a light cough, arm raised to cover her mouth with the inside of her elbow. "Makes me think spending the whole day in varying stages of trashed isn't such a bad idea, you know?" She pauses, glancing over her shoulder. "Sorry," is added softly. "Wanna be left alone?"
Thankfully, the one flash of outrage and anger seems to be it for the imminent violence. There's a long silence after she speaks, longer than it takes for recognition, before Trace sits up and swings his legs over the side of the log, then slides so he's sitting next to the Fury. "Nah. Alone's the last thing should be right now, really." Whether he's speaking of himself, or her, or in general, it's hard to tell.
Monica seems perfectly content to belt back another shot or two by the time he speaks again, a pack of cigarettes fished out once he does. One is plucked out and lit not longer after, a long drag taken off of it as the Fury looks out at the compound in general, the pack angled in Trace's direction in silent offer. "Looks like you boys had quite a party last night," she observes dryly, noting the bottles and any other potential damage that's still around. "Figures being 'responsible' and hanging back at the 'house would prove to be a silly decision."
The ahroun makes another noise that could be assent, or could be... who knows. Trace is still not quite all the way conscious, though he takes the cigarettes and fishes one out before handing the pack back over. Both Trace and Monica are sitting leaning against one of the logs. "Something like that," he says, a drag of the cigarette later, and then repeats himself. "Fuck everything. Sometimes I almost, almost understand the places where the Nation lives out isolated from human society and culture. Almost."
Into the compound comes Justin who is currently looking worn down and exhausted. He is wearing a pair of destroyed jeans and a baggy hoodie over his body, shirtless from what one can see from the over shirt halfway zipped up. His hair is tangled curly mess of brown locks, sticking up here and there.
"Well," Monica says, pocketing her cigarettes again, "unfortunately for them," attention straying towards Justin, the youth offered a short nod in greeting, "even they'll have to sit up and pay attention. Not a whole lot 'isolation' can do for them, at this rate."
Trace waves at his packmate when he arrives, and nods. "Yeah." The pile of empty bottles on the other side of the log is then considered, for a long moment, and then Trace shrugs. "I have a feeling that... it's going to stay pretty rough for a while. Would have been nice, if we could have held onto the feeling of victory, just a little longer?" He sighs. "Hatred. It all comes back to hatred." And it also all comes back to Rage, which is running close to the surface at the moment, audible in his voice and his intonation and his phrasing. "Fuck. Everything."
Lifting a fingerless gloved hand to them, Justin gives a nod of his head to them. "Hola amigos." He drawls out to them in a tired manner, running his hand through his hair to try and straighten it out. His eyes stray to the bottles, then back to them. "Long night, sí?"
Monica raises her own bottle in reply to Justin's question, and just as quickly takes a pull off of it. "Gonna be a long day, too," she says. "And I plan to stay wasted for most of it." As if to punctuate it, she takes one more pull, and cants the bottle towards Justin— and Trace, if he so desires. "Figure by the time it's evening I'll either be pumped up to pull off an honest-to-god traditional-style Black Fury beatdown with the girls back at the 'house, or facedown in my own puke. One way or another," she takes a drag off her cigarette, "it's gonna be a good night. Whether it likes it or not."
Trace considers the offered bottle for a moment and then snags it and takes a long sip before tilting it towards his packmate— or handing it back if Justin doesn't take it. "Seems like a good plan to me," he says. "I mean, usually, I save getting drunkerthanshit for the full moon." He pauses, and then takes another drag of the cigarette as he attempts to straighten his shirt somewhat from having been slept in. "But today, I'll make an exception."
Giving a wave off for the drink, Justin glances between the two of them for a moment. "I dunno... drinking away misery tends to lead to more drinking. Least that is how I have seen it in the streets. I am... very upset about last night. Maybe a bit scared for those who can't defend themselves like we can. But... I guess... I don't know... the only thing we can do is fight harder and to make sure our people stay motivated, stay positive and continue to push for a better life. One day our voices will be heard," he says softly as he kicks at a rock with his foot.
Monica snorts lightly, accepting back the bottle to take a swig. "'One day,'" she repeats, more absently than anything. "Been saying that for years." She takes another hit off her cigarette, offering the bottle back over to Trace in the meantime. "Good on you for staying positive, really— I mean, you do you, n'all— but when it comes right down to it?" She shrugs. "Everyone's got their own way of mourning. Me, personally, I'll take binge, purge, let it all out, pick it back up, dust off, move on. Back to the so-called high-road 'good fight' that's clearly served us so well. I mean," she shrugs, "useless or not, it doesn't really matter. You gotta do something." Beat. "But not today." She leans back against the log, and declares: "Fuck today."
"Sí, se puede," Trace says, nearly spitting out the words before taking the bottle back. "Look how far it has gotten us. Look how far we have come." Someone's bitter, though at least the anger is still not directed at either of the other Garou. But far from being words of hope, right now the anger behind them makes the rallying cry into something that sounds more like desperation. He pauses, takes another swig from the bottle, and then says, "I wish I could call my mom."
Justin shrugs his shoulders upwards as he runs a hand across the back of his neck. "The last eight years has shown improvement , and there is obviously a movement with the younger generation. Just... life shit the bed last night. I don't know, but it won't always be this bad. It can't be." He chews on his lip for a moment, then settles down onto his rump.
"We're on the same page, man," Monica says to Justin, letting Trace keep the bottle for a while. "We are. I'm just taking a day off. Get all the—" she makes a loose gesture that doesn't really mean anything, except maybe 'out,' "terrible scenarios and 'what now's out of my head in one go. Gives me room to get ready for what's coming, 'cause—" Beat. "Well. Yeah. It can't be, all the shit'n grime'll snap back to something recognizable again eventually, but— for a while, for now, it is, and it will be." Hasn't really made her peace with that, granted, but the wording makes that clear. "Just gotta make sure people don't bury their heads in the sand, and get used to the new normal, you know? Like you said— keep on 'em, keep 'em motivated."
Trace takes another sip of the bottle and looks over towards his packmate. "Today to mourn, tomorrow for action," he says, with a nod to the Fury as she steps up to go and answer a phone call. "This shit's fucked up, that's for sure." He pauses, and offers a half a grin. "I talked to Thane, I'm all clear to head back to the city an' all that. Just... Volví aquí ayer cuando oí la noticia about the election, sí. Yo quería un lugar para poder pensar." Another sip.
"Good. I am glad. I have really fucking missed you out there and we need you back. Tonight, let's go fuck something up. Moon is high enough for us to hit the Umbra. Let's get the guys and let's just take our anger out on the first bane we see. Tonight we do not have to mourn, tonight we can be angry and revel. Tonight is for glory. I am tired of being sad and miserable and scared. I do not feel like we should let today win. We should win today instead." Justin says as he reaches out to hug the other Ahroun.
Trace is tense for a moment at the hug, but a moment later and he's hugging his packmate back, twice as hard, hard enough maybe to hurt a little. "Tenemos un plan," he agrees as he sits back and sets the bottle in his lap. "Those banes don't stand a fucking chance."
Justin returns the hug harder to his packmate, then actually breaks out into a sob as he pushes his face against his friend's shoulder. "My grandma is undocumented, bro. Like... you know how us Gnawers roll. We do not have social security cards and all of that. I was born here and what not, but I am scared that something may happen. Some new law or if someone finds out." His voice breaks into a crack. "And I wasn't even born in a hospital. My dad... you know he was Garou. I do not even know if he even existed legally in the system. What if they come for me too?" he whimpers out. "How do you fight that? I want to stay positive and think the best but I am just... I am fucking ramped up about it and it is hard to fake being strong."
Trace leaves an arm around Justin's shoulder, not pulling away, and there's a long swallow. When Trace is angry, the angrier he gets the quieter he gets, and he's pretty quiet when he speaks. "If they come for us," he says, his free hand going to brush the hair out of his face, first, and then out of Justin's, "si vienen, los mataremos. My mom was undocumented, too. I don't even know who my dad is, other than that he was probably Garou." A long pause, and Trace continues. "We're pack. We are, for each other. And we are stronger together. Sí, se puede." This time, the words aren't bitter, sounding more like a promise.
"Los mataremos." Justin agrees with a wet snuffle as he leans back a bit, reaching up to wipe at his face. "We kill all of them," he says under his breath as he wipes at his nose. "I wish I met my dad. His marker is out at the grave stones here in the bawn. I visit him all the time and sometimes I wonder what our talks would have really been like," he says as he gives a glance off in that direction.
Trace leans against Justin, slightly, and there's a quiet sigh. "He'd be proud of you," Trace says. "One way or another." The silence that follows is an easy one, for a long minute.
Pack> Trace continues mentally, rather than aloud. "I missed you too, man."
A few minutes more pass, and Trace takes another sip from the bottle then sets it aside where Monica can find it when she comes back, and noogies Justin. "We'll get through this," he tells his packmate as he gets up. "I'm gonna take my drunk, hung-over self on a run." There's a brief grin. "Don't worry, I promise not to kill shit without you."
Justin gives a nod of his head as he fist bumps his packmate, then plucks up a bottle from the ground and takes a sip as well. He may as well join in on the ceremony. "Take care. Tonight we hunt."