When: Thursday Afternoon
Who: Urick, Mouse, Kaz, Kavi, Ishmael, Zeke
What: Some things come to light, and people try to help Mouse put herself back together


Morning has come, but nothing much has changed in Mouse's room. She's still laid out on the floor in homid, curled against hispo Urick, with one arm wrapped around the small roll pillow as though it were a comforting teddy bear. It hasn't been a /restful/ night, but at some point her leg stopped bleeding through the bandage. That still leaves almost an entire half of her pants stiff and brown with dried blood, and probably a spot on the carpet...but ah well.

Hunts-the-Storm has spent the night much like his Elder, curled protectively around the metis and sleeping as best he can. With morning, though, he begins to stir, yawning with a truly impressive gape of jaw before starting to gently inspect Mouse, snuffling at her hair and face before starting to sniff the rest of her over. He pauses over the bloodied pants, but can tell the wound's calmed down by now, at least, and the stains are old enough not to make a difference. So he remains quiet.

Whilst the Walker elder dozes, her cellphone begins to once again, ring.

Mouse may have begun to stir at Urick's motions, but the instant her cell phone goes off, her eyes snap open, and the hand around the roll pillow disentangles as she shoves her hand into her coat pocket, pulling out, not her usual phone, but the prepaid one with the number she gave to Adam. It's a very groggy sort of voice that speaks into it, with a rawness that speaks to something a little beyond mere tiredness. "H'llo?"

Hunts-the-Storm growls faintly as the phone begins to ring, taking a moment to brush Mouse's cheek with his nose as she struggles awake. But, for now, he seems to have little intent beyond providing support, both physical and mental.

A raw voice on its own answers Mouse, audible through the speaker on the phone to Hunts-the-Storm simply by proxy of his lupine senses. However, this voice is not male at all, but female. "Hello? Who's this?"

Mouse frowns as she tries to straighten up. "Someone Adam knows. Who're you?"

Hunts-the-Storm adjusts his posture slightly, bracing Mouse with a shoulder, but lays his head back down and simply listens, one ear cocked back towards the phone conversation.

"It's someone Adam kn--" The woman's sigh cuts off her own statement. "This is Rita. Adam's... friend."

Mouse glances at Urick, lifting a finger to her lips and then settling that hand on the hispo's neck. "It's Mouse," she confirms into the phone.

Hunts-the-Storm flips his ear at Mouse's gesture and even foregoes his usual rumble, settling for a flick of his tail that probably sounds like somebody dropped a bag of flour.

"Mouse. Right, the ah- well anyway." Rita sounds awfully distracted. Distraught, even. "Adam gave me this number," she offers as her vouch. "I guess he wants someone else to do some talking. But important things first... have you seen Jorge? Or Adam? Lately?"
You paged the room with 'Oh shit.'.

Mouse stiffens a little. "...No. I haven't seen them since the night we were all near the old hospital."

A mild, off-the-mouthpiece curse makes it through the mic. "Fuck." Then, Rita resumes speaking in a calm, polite manner. "Alright then. Thank you." Her tone sounds as if she's about to say her good bye.

"Wait," Mouse says, actually sitting forward, as if by motion she could prevent the hang up. "Rita, are they /missing/?"

At the prompt, Rita doesn't hang up. There is, though, a very long pause that almost seems like she might have. When her voice answers again, it's tight with restraint. "I don't believe they are, but it /is/ a full moon. He's probably out somewhere. And if Jorge's with him, then I should rest easy." A beat skips. "Are you sure he's not in St. Claire? ... Did you check the news or something recently? He - Adam - he was supposed to stay out of there. After we found your friend Riot, though, he..." Again, another pause. This one longer.

"Talk to me, Rita," Mouse says. "I haven't seen either of them. But I meant what I said, I want to /help/ you guys."

If only the phone had video capabilities. The shake of her head is verbal enough, though. "I know you do. And this is... it's bigger than we can handle ourselves. Especially for him." The woman's tone softens briefly. "You should keep an eye out. He's likely to be hunting down another of his 'old friends' around this time."

Mouse's lips tighten. "We will. Listen. Rita. We've been hunting ourselves. Can you tell me anything about Monty?"

"Monty?" Rita echoes the name, her tone questioning. "Monty who?"

"The guy you bought your car from," Mouse says. "That Monty."

Rita's volume drops a moment. "Monty's Used Motors. You- you looked up my /car/?"

Mouse grunts. "I didn't, but someone caught the license plate number when you guys brought Stacey. Rita, please. This is important. It can't possibly be any worse than how it looks. Can you tell me what you know about him?"

"I don't anything about him," answers Rita, though she does sound a little more annoyed. "Never met the guy. I just bought the car from his lot out here. Why?"

"Because he's one of them," Mouse replies, sparing a glance toward Urick. "He and some of his buddies. When we went looking for Stacey we stumbled across him."

Hunts-the-Storm's other ear turns back towards Mouse as he feels her shift, but he remains quiet.

Rita's volume gets even quieter. "You mean..." Continuance in the statement doesn't happen until a good long minute. "Sonuva /bitch/. You mean that the owner of that car lot is a friend of Carnage's? How long? What else do you know?" The questions come fast and with a degree of ferocity laden in her voice. Rita also snaps a foreign curse, Greek it sounds like, out from beneath her breath.

"Easy," Mouse says, in an attempt to be calming. "I don't know. I know he likes some freaky rituals. I know his pals are into shipping a whole lot of weapons into St. Claire sometime in the near future. I don't know if any of them are fuzzy, or just /family/. We're looking into it. But this is why I want some cross information going on. They're working together, but we're not. And things are really getting down to the wire."

Hunts-the-Storm's ears flips back forward at the knock on the door, the Hispo tensing immediately, heartbeat speeding up a little against Mouse's back, though he remains lying on the floor, curled protectively around the metis.

From the long pause on the other end, it sounds like Rita's doing just that. "What wire?" she asks briefly, tone clipped.

Mouse glances sharply toward the knock. She doesn't make any move to answer the door herself, however, instead giving Urick a look. "Weapons are being shipped into the city," she says into the phone. "Unless it was you guys behind all the eyes watching us here, they've all seemed to drop off, and that's /not/ something I take for a good sign."

Hunts-the-Storm grumbles softly at the look, clearly not wanting to move even that far, but settles for nosing his Elder before levering himself to his feet, making sure she's not going to fall over before padding towards the door and shifting up to Crinos for the thumbs. As soon as the latch is disengaged and the door opening, he's back on all fours and heading back towards the metis.

Kavi opens the door, and moves to stand just inside it, looking from Urick to Mouse. He doesn't say anything, but moves to the side to allow Kaz entry.

Kaz ambles in. "Oh, yeah, of course, more phones," she mutters, and slides down the wall into a seat. "How you doin', Urick?"

"Have your Kinfolk said anything? You do have Kinfolk you can ask about that sort of thing, right?" Rita offers somewhat unhelpfully, and once again distractedly. She mutters off away from the mic of the phone again, this time far enough away that it isn't coherent. When she speaks into the phone again, it's in hushed, clipped frustration. "Regardless. If you see him... if you see Adam, tell him to come back."

"I will," Mouse says, eyes flicking to Kaz and Kavi as they enter. She's tensing up again. "Look. Things are...happening. I may not be reachable, but if not, I'll have some of my tribe available for you to contact. Just ask them what their favorite animal is."

"What do you mean you may not--" Rita cuts herself off again. "Fine. Who should I ask for? And where should I call?"

Hunts-the-Storm resumes his curled lounge behind Mouse, obviously inviting her to resume using him as a backrest. ~Tired, sore. Yourself?~ He certainly seems all back to normal instead of the glazed overload of last night. ~She is speaking with one of the Ronin Dancer's friends.~ He keeps his voice quiet, so as not to intrude on the phone conversation, but that only goes so far when rumbling out of a Hispo of his size.

"Same number," Mouse replies. "We like bugs, you know? And there's that guy you met at the old hospital, and also," she hesitates, "A guy with a really big beard. I'll make sure they know to expect you if it comes to that, okay?"

Kaz shrugs a shoulder. Which, given her wince, appears to have been a mistake. "Enh. Tired and sore about covers it." She glances at Mouse's conversation. "Oh, joy. Lovely people, I'm sure."

Kavi lifts his chin slightly, focusing on Mouse's face as she speaks.

"That doesn't sound very secure," Rita comments with a grumble, "but fine. I'll let you know." And then, the phone finally clicks in a hang up.

Mouse closes her hand over the phone and lowers it into her lap. She doesn't seem terribly eager to look toward either Kaz or Kavi. She's still wearing those pants from yesterday, which means one entire leg is covered in dried blood, but a bunch up near her thigh suggests that it's at least been bandaged, and it doesn't /seem/ to be bleeding any more.

Hunts-the-Storm noses Mouse gently as the call ends, but doesn't actually say anything, apparently deciding to let the Fosterns talk if they wish.

"So what's up in Roninland?" asks Kaz, who doesn't appear to be treating Mouse much different from, say, three days ago.

"Adam and Jorge are missing," Mouse says, quietly. "Rita thought he might be out hunting another one of his former Spiral buddies about this time, and wanted us to keep an eye out. Tell him to go back to them if we see him or Jorge." Her lips thin. "I also asked her about Monty. She didn't seem to have any clue about him."

Kavi's bandages are gone, having been in lupus in the hall, but the majority of his injuries are hidden beneath his shirt and jacket, and only close inspection would show where they've started to weep and wet the dark cotton. The wound to the side of his neck is visible, however, and though open and ugly, at least looks to be clean. He listens closely to Mouse, eyes alighting on hers briefly.

Kaz says, "Yeah, I'll keep an /eye/ out, all right." But she nods. "OK. Can't tell much over the phone, but Monty does seem t'have a perfectly reasonable business in the daytime."

Mouse nods slowly. The attempted eye contact by Kavi is pulled away from almost immediately. Now that the phone call is over, Mouse seems to be back into her 'woe' mode of things.

Hunts-the-Storm wurfs softly as he notices the change in mood, shifting to lay his chin on Mouse's thigh, tail whisping against the carpet as he emotes wordless support.

Kaz snaps a finger at nothing in particular. "Hey, I came up here expressly f'this and then forgot about it." She rummages in her pocket, finds Mouse's gun, and hands it over.

Mouse looks up, gives a slow blink, and then reaches for her gun, which she takes and cups in her lap much like she's doing the cell phone. "Thanks." It's a very, very quiet murmur. Her cheeks also redden faintly. "...I'm sorry, Kaz."

Hunts-the-Storm's attention sharpens immediately when the gun comes out, tail going still and shoulders tensing visibly, though he otherwise doesn't move. When nothing comes of it, though, he relaxes again, sighing gustily.

Kavi watches the gun change hands, no outward show of reaction to it. And if the apology to Kaz catches him by surprise, there's no sign. He does shift his gaze back to her face as she speaks it, watching silently without looking to Kaz for her response.

Kaz looks confused. "For what?"

Mouse looks up just enough to see Kaz from under hooded lids. The question seems to put her off guard, and she looks very, very uncertain. Kavi gets a glance. So does Urick.

Hunts-the-Storm lifts his chin from his Elder's leg just enough to touch his nose to her cheek, then lowers it again, curling a little closer around her in a protective semicircle. He's not showing any signs of hostility to anyone assembled, but the impression that he's watching for potential attacks is certainly there.

Kaz says, "'Cause I mean, you ain't actually done nothin' t'/me/. And sure, you've kinda gone a little hog wild on the like, twitchiness and stuff, past couple days, not to mention people jumping to conclusions and fuckin' with your head, but that's... somethin' they kinda owe you an apology for, on some fronts."

Mouse's uncertainty seems to grow with this, though her attention has moved back to Kaz. "...Where's Vera?" The question is, to put it mildly, rather shaky.

Kaz says, vaguely, "Somewhere that ain't here."

Mouse's teeth brush against the side of one lip. "I'm not one of them." This, too, is said in a shaky voice, but it's a lot more firm than the rest of her words.

Hunts-the-Storm gruffs at Mouse's words, tail starting to wag a bit, thumping against the carpet. ~You are one of us.~

Despite the cold calm over him, Kavi's eyes go a little brighter, a little sharper at Mouse's words. "No," he agrees, simply. "You're not."

Kaz does not, for once, join in the chorus of affirmations. "Which 'them' are we talkin' about, here?"

Mouse inhales deeply. "...I'm not a Dancer." This, in strange contrast, is the shakiest thing she's said yet.

"No," Kavi agrees again, his cold voice firm. "You are not."

Kaz says, with perfect, baffled confusion, "Oh. No. You sure ain't."

Mouse swallows. "So...so I'm /sorry/."

Hunts-the-Storm doesn't speak again, but his attention his shifted to the other two garou in the room, watching them carefully, ears turning towards them, then back to Mouse, then forward again, disquiet easily read in his expression, though not anger. He's apparently had to deal with this line of things before now.

Kaz's nose twitches, just once. Then she says, "For... fuckin' Riot up, or what?"

Mouse swallows again, and nods, glancing toward Kavi as she does so. Her eyes are looking a little watery again.

Kavi return the gaze, calm and quiet. He doesn't say anything in response.

Kaz says, "Well, don't apologize to /me/. You didn't do that shit t'/me/." She rummages in her pocket, finds a Coke, and adds, "And I mean, one moment of over doin' it don't mean you're evil f'life. Geez."

"This wasn't just..." Mouse drops her gaze to her gun, fingers tightening. "I.../hurt/ them. Look. Look at him. I..."

Hunts-the-Storm moves deliberately, turning his head to close his jaws firmly yet gently around Mouse's wrist as she grips at her gun. He doesn't bite down, doesn't even apply enough pressure to be uncomfortable, but the message is there without words. Careful. No more hurting.

"I'm fine," Kavi intones, still looking at Mouse with his cold, empty gaze.

Kaz says, "Well, I admit, that is pretty specific evidence," a little wryly. "But even though you did hurt him, he hurt himself too, and it was, mostly, /past trauma/ that hurt both of you." She pops her Coke open. "But even screwin' up to this level don't mean you ain't a worthwhile person that can apologize to the right people, do right next time, and, in the interim, stop beatin' yourself up." She adds, after a moment of thought, "Mentally, I mean. I'm assumin' you ain't bein' some literal flagellant."

Mouse lifts her other hand and lays it softly on Urick's muzzle, running her fingers lightly over the short, bristly hair there. There's yet another swallow. "She...said. She said, when I hit her, that the...that the Wyrm must have taught me better than that. And. And I /proved/ it. I didn't...I wanted to...scare her. I wanted to show her that...show her what she was /saying/. I didn't know it would be...I didn't think it would be that..." She's going very, very, very tense again. "But I...proved. It." Exhale. "And...Vera's going to kill me."

Hunts-the-Storm releases his grip on Mouse's wrist at her touch, a deep, almost subsonic rumble starting in his chest as he presses into her hand, giving her something real, something physical, to focus on. Tension has begun to touch his body language as well, but he keeps it contained for now.

Kavi gives a glance to Kaz when she starts to speak, but he doesn't interject. The final words from Mouse get sharper attention, the closest he's come to showing real emotion as his jaw sets and his eyes narrow. "She won't."

"She ain't gonna kill you," Kaz says, flatly. Like it's fact. "If she tries, we will fuck her /up/. That's all. And them philodoxes know better'n /that/. Geez. As f'Riot..." Kaz trails off. "You didn't think it'd be that bad, she keeps saying Wyrm do this, Wyrm do that, Wyrm take you, Dancers take your city, blah blah blah. Well. Y'know what? She really /does/ need to know what she's saying. The fact it hurt, the fact it left a scar, fine, whatever. You went too far. Lots of people go too far when layin' beatdowns, too."

Mouse continues to brush the fur on Urick's nose, and for the moment, her physical attention seems to be mostly there. She exhales again, and a little of the visible tension leaks away. "She said, before that. That after her rite, she was leaving, and the Dancers could have this city." Yet another swallow. "Kaz, I did what...I did what.../they/ do. I. I had no right to...to show...that. Even if she...even if she deserved...something. I...know better."

Hunts-the-Storm finally speaks again, voice low, ~It was a bad night, Elder. For everyone. But it is done. We cannot go back to it. We can only go forward.~ He presses his massive head against Mouse's chest, ears low in a carefully relaxed posture, ~And knowing and doing are rarely the same thing.~

The tension in Kavi's expression leaks away after a few seconds, Kaz's reassurance apparently enough to remove the need. There's no response to the rest; no word, or gesture, or change in his expression.

Kaz says, trying to think it out, "I'm not sure. I mean, I think you was wrong and all, that ain't the point, the point is, you didn't /do/ that shit to her. You didn't do any of that... loneliness and silver and filth and whipporwills laughing and... all that shit, to her. Showin' her ain't the same thing as doin'. The /fact/ you did it out of anger makes it harder because you can, if you want, look at it continually as you abusin' her. But there was good reason behind it. Strong reason. And forgettin' that or makin' it all about you being a horrible person /ain't productive/."

Mouse drapes an arm over Urick's neck now. She's silent, Kaz's words evoking a few twitches in her expression. It's quite a while before she speaks again. "...I...lied to you. By...by omission. The...the thing that happened wasn't just. Wasn't just a friend...turning."

Hunts-the-Storm falls silent again, though he wiggles a little further under Mouse's arm to lay his neck across her lap, oh so accidentally hiding her phone and her gun at the same time, one ear tilted towards the metis to listen carefully.

Kaz tilts her head slightly. "Yeah?"

"...Yeah," Mouse says. For a few moments, that's all she says. "I...know. What...what happened to Stacey." There's a long pause. "First...first hand."

A flicker of confusion crosses Kavi's face, a fleeting furrow of his brow. It disappears even before she speaks, and he watches Mouse with absolutely no emotion in his gaze at all.

Hunts-the-Storm rumbles softly, licking his muzzle before saying simply ~I knew. Your eyes did not lie when I asked.~ But he doesn't explain for the others, leaving that to Mouse. This is her story. Her pain.

Kaz looks down at her Coke for a moment. When she looks up, there's a minute smile on her face, although her eyes are pained. "You, uh, you're kinda transparent, actually." Her tone is wry. "I sorta figured there was more... direct knowledge... than just what you said. But sometimes... Sometimes, you can't tell all your truth at once, y'know?"

Mouse gives a miniscule nod to this. Once again, her attention seems to be on Urick's fur, rather than anyone or anything else. "I've been...I've been /okay/. I didn't want people to know. E...Except Basil figured...some of it out. And all these Dancers kept popping out of the woodwork, over and over, ever since I got here. And...and so when I, when I asked Kavi to help me...show Riot...and it was...I also didn't expect it to be...be so vivid...to /me/."

Hunts-the-Storm sighs softly, long and drawn out, but doesn't speak, just letting the tension leave him as he listens, trying to give the impression that Mouse is perhaps calming him down with her touches and continued speech.

Kaz exhales, carefully. "Yeah. It... opened them wounds up again? Kinda thing?"

Mouse nods again. She glances briefly toward Kavi, and then back to Urick's fur. Whatever else, curling her fingers into it seems to be doing something to calm her as well.

Kavi lifts his gaze from Mouse to Kaz, just for a moment and then back to Mouse. He doesn't speak, and there's nothing to contradict the words that are spoken around him. There's nothing to show agreement, either.

~Wounds are wounds, Elder,~ murmurs the Hispo, eyes closed, ~It doesn't matter if they're on the skin or deeper. They hurt, they bleed, they take time to heal. Some more than others.~ He's still showing signs of his and Kavi's mutual frenzy, though the cuts and gouges all pretty much stopped bleeding, looking to have been seen to by a healer at some point.

"I ain't gonna go treatin' you like some halfwit cripple or nothin', but yeah. People that're injured, we know they're injured, how they're injured, and make allowances. Same thing here." Kaz adds, popping her Coke open, "I imagine it's gonna suck f'awhile."

Again, a nod. "I didn't want anyone to treat me differently over it." She licks her lips, and finally lifts her head, though her eyes are still looking a little dulled. "...Wh...why did Vera come after me like that then?"

~She thought you might have Fallen, I think,~ Hunts-the-Storm speaks up, licking his muzzle again, ~You ran from pleas to explain. You ran from orders to return. You acted sick, in fear. Like prey.~ He sighs unhappily, ~You should have come home.~

Kavi turns from Mouse to Kaz, but when Urick speaks his gaze settles on the hispo, and there's something the registers faintly in his eyes. Some unhapiness, or distress. But it's vague and far away.

Kaz says, "And I think Saul set her off. He said Riot was actin' weird, like a human woulda if they'd seen a Crinos, or," and her words barely falter, "As if someone'd tortured her. So Vera... sorta leaped t'conclusions, I s'pose. Given the times, it ain't..." Kaz sounds galled to have to admit it, but she says it anyway. "Given the times, it ain't completely an insane thought."

Mouse curls her fingers a little more tightly into Urick's fur, and buries her face into his neck. There's a faint, muffled groan from her direction.

Hunts-the-Storm lifts his head as Mouse moves, pushing her against his flank, gathering her close as he gives voice to a soft, soothing whine. ~The Judges will do as they must. Justice will win out, not torture, not fear, not hate.~ Idealist, maybe, but he believes in it with earth-shaking conviction. ~/We/ are not Dancers, Elder.~

Kaz jerks a thumb. "I'm with him."

Mouse says, into Urick's fur, "She told him she wanted to take my rank." Which 'him' she's talking about isn't clear. But there is just the faintest note of panic in her voice, which is possibly a little out of sync with such a possibility.

Kavi lets out a breath, faintly edged with voice, not quite a sigh, not quite a grunt, and that nameless unhappiness comes closer. It forms creases around his eyes, and the cold in them is touched with the sharper edge of ice.

Hunts-the-Storm chuffs softly, nuzzling at Mouse like trying to soothe a frightened cub, ~Rank is not everything. You are Fostern, now. You met your challenge before. You can do so again, if you must. There is /always/ a chance to go forward, while there is life.~

Kaz says, "Shya, good luck with that. She can whine at the half moons all she wants, I don't think they're gonna go /that/ far."

Mouse says, quietly, "I can't go through that again."

Kaz looks a little confused. "How did you get Fostern in the /first/ place?"

Hunts-the-Storm rumbles softly, then turns his head to look at Kaz before turning back to his Elder and licking at her hair gently, wordless and directionless encouragement.

Mouse's reply is oddly hollow. Enough so that one might suspect she's momentarily traded places with Kavi. "I killed her."

Kaz blinks slowly. "Killed /who/?"

Hunts-the-Storm blinks a moment, something obviously clicking into place, then quickly turns his head back to look at Kaz, asking without words for her to leave it. Leave it alone. Not now.

Mouse's answer isn't all that helpful. "Her."

Hunts-the-Storm sneezes softly, and shifts again, moving a foreleg so that his shoulder is more squarely between Mouse and the rest of the room, his attention still fixed on Kaz. It isn't challenge or even dominance, just a sort of declaration that he thinks Mouse is in danger.

Kaz glances at Urick, a little confused, and then she looks back at Mouse. "OK. But not all Fostern challenges lead to your acting as if your mother stomped on a duckling in front of you. Mine sure didn't."

Kavi shifts his gaze to each of the others, one at a time, and then returns to Mouse. The ice is still there, but the lines have disappeared. He nods once. "Her," he says, as a statement of understanding.

Mouse swallows. "I know that." Pause. "But...but it's like..."

Hunts-the-Storm whines again, fur puffing up a bit, his posture not changing in the slightest. He obviously wants to go back to offering comfort to the metis, but also obviously feels he needs to protect her from something. What, even he isn't sure, but the intent is there.

Kaz tilts her head a little.

Mouse doesn't seem to know where she's going with this particular line of thought, because she quiets again, and keeps her face buried in Urick fur.

Kaz says, "It brings it all panicky back into your instinct-brain, basically."

Mouse grunts.

~Please, Ears-rhya,~ and the Hispo seems to finally remember how to use the Mother's Tongue, his voice soft, quiet and just a little pleading, ~not now. Not when she's still clothed in her own blood.~ It could be a metaphor. It could be referring to the blood-caked pants the metis still wears.

Kaz says, "Hey, /she/ keeps talkin', I just keep..." She trails off. "Nevermind. She levers herself to her feet. "I'm too poky f'comfort right now. I'll go run a patrol, catch you people later, OK?"

Kavi looks once between Mouse and Kaz and then reaches to open the door.

Hunts-the-Storm lays his chin on the carpet as Kaz rises, ears splaying flat as he makes a conscious show of submission, again not bothering to use words to declare that her wishes overrule his own. But he worries.

Mouse doesn't say anything. She seems entirely content to remain with her face buried against Urick for the moment.

Kaz says, to Urick's ears, "It's OK, Urick, y'right." Then she limps off.

Kavi doesn't turn back, once the door is open, and as soon as Kaz moves through the door, he steps out himself, and closes it behind him.

Hunts-the-Storm relaxes visibly at Kaz' words, then turns back to his Elder, nosing softly at her and whining in query. The tone and pattern mean 'are you injured?' but the physical gestures accompanying the sounds are very much an offer to leave things alone.

"I don't know," Mouse says very, very quietly.

Hunts-the-Storm sighs at Mouse's response, then nudges at her shoulder with his muzzle. ~You should clean up. Can your wound go without its dressing?~

Mouse grunts. "Probably," she replies. And she eases very, very carefully off of Urick to squint dully at it. "...Maybe later."

Hunts-the-Storm leans in as Mouse pulls away, licking carefully at her jaw and cheek, trying to offer what comfort he can. ~You stink of blood, pain and fear, Elder. It is not good for you.~ He snuffles briefly at her shirt, an obvious comment as to its wear, but doesn't push the point further.

Mouse looks dubious, and uncertain. But there's not a lot of argument left in her, it would seem. And, as she glances toward the bathroom, it seems to make up her mind. "...Alright." She pushes against the floor, getting rather wobbly to her feet, though one hand cups around both the gun and the cell phone. "I could use a shower." Pause. "...A long one."

Hunts-the-Storm stands as well, offering himself as a place to lean should the Elder wish it, ~Leave those, Elder. You do not need them. I am here. I will stay.~ His tail waves slowly, his ears flicking as he rests his cheek briefly against Mouse's shoulder.

Mouse again looks very, very uncertain. Her fingers close particularly around the gun. "Let me know if I get a call." She seems to be willing to abandon the cell phone, at least. "And...don't give that phone to anyone else. Not even to look at."

Hunts-the-Storm chuffs softly, then reaches out and tries to take hold of the gun with his jaws, moving carefully and slowly, both so as not to startle and to avoid accidentally chomping fingers or anything else. ~You are safe here, Elder. I have made it so.~

Mouse's hand goes very very tense and tight under Urick's careful grasp. "I know," she says. Though she doesn't release her hold.

Hunts-the-Storm doesn't let go, but doesn't pull, either. Instead, his ears splay and he whines, tail and posture lowering slightly, words again replaced with communication that is much older.

Mouse seems to be having a strenuous debate playing out over her facial features. "...I'm not going to do anything," she says, giving the gun just a very slight tug. "I promise." Pause. "I just. Want it. With me."

Hunts-the-Storm keeps his grip for a moment longer, then releases the gun and lifts to head to look Mouse right in the face, though his expression is gentle. ~It won't help you against yourself. It won't make the screams go away. Leave it, Elder. Please.~ He touches the top of his muzzle to the line of Mouse's jaw, ~It will only remind you of pain.~

"It helps," Mouse says, and her voice trembles just a little. "It helps when it's...when it's there. Like. Like you being here."

Hunts-the-Storm rests his jaw briefly on Mouse's shoulder, his throat against her collarbone, and huffs softly. ~I will protect you.~ But he lets it drop, instead just turning to follow Mouse to the bathroom, acting as support as needed. He won't try to force himself in with her, though, waiting patiently outside unless asked otherwise.

Mouse is limping very heavily, and the observant might note that it isn't just her leg that seems to be giving her trouble--her spine seems to be very stiffly held as well. She selects a change of clothes before she reaches the bathroom, and then disappears inside. There's the dull 'clunk' of the gun being set on the counter. And the door locks, though this, like the gun, is likely only for mental support. No ordinary lock, after all, will keep out a Garou.

Even if he couldn't just tear the thing loose, he's a child of Cockroach. Locks are polite suggestions, most of the time. However, Urick's only comment on the locking of the door is a brief wuff that can be heard through it before he moves off. He will resume his previous lounge, keeping one massive paw atop that cellphone, and doze until something happens.

The door opens, and Ishmael enters yet again with /more/ grocery bags. Good grief.

The shower is running. Mmm, shower. Door to bathroom is also locked. There is no singing coming from within.

Hunts-the-Storm is instantly awake and alert as the door's latch operates, and Ishmael finds himself stared at by a Hispo for a moment before he relaxes, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. ~Paladin. Good.~

Ishmael blinks, and then lifts the bags. "Just more groceries and cleaning supplies. I've already tidied up the break room." Hum, hum. He heads towards the kitchen.

Hunts-the-Storm nods, settling himself and scooting something small under his own belly with a forepaw before speaking again. ~First-Strike is cleaning herself. Ears-rhya and Ringtone were by, earlier. No more damage, I think.~

"Talked to Kavi outside," Ishmael calls from the kitchen. Clink, clink. Glasses or something. "Want anything to eat or drink?"

Hunts-the-Storm remains silent a moment, then rumbles ~Probably a good idea.~ He seems oddly reluctant to leave Hispo, though, turning to look at the closed bathroom door a moment before just laying flat again, chin on the carpet.

Clink, clink. "Beef, or chicken?"

Hunts-the-Storm says, ~Beef.~

The bags rustle as Ishmael finishes putting the things away. "I'll make some manwich. Also got some sodas an' shit if you want any."

Urick's next response in in English, though his voice carries the rough tones of Glabro, "Thank you, Ishmael. I... haven't been thinking of that sort of thing, really."

"It's part of the Theurge spiritual thing," Ishmael explains, searching about for a can opener. "Sacred cockroach groceries and snacks. Blessings of the crumbs. Want cheese?"

Urick laughs, perhaps a little more energetically than the joke deserves, "Can use all the blessings we can get. Yes, please."

The fridge opens. Clatter. Closes. Various other sounds of food preparation. The stove is turned on, among other things. "Don't worry about it. I'm also trying to catch up with everyone. See what's going on. Was evening thinkin' we should try to have tribe meetings some time. We don't ever seem to be talkin' amidst ourselves much, yeah?"

Urick grunts, "Apart from the security stuff, yeah. Just haven't had time, these days. Too much crap all exploding at once."

"Don't think we've actually had a Walker Moot since I've been here," Ishmael muses. Sizzle.

"Certainly not since I showed up," the Ahroun rumbles in return. "...put something together for Mouse while you're in there? She won't want it, probably, but she needs it." Like he's one to talk.

"Already two steps ahead of ya," Ishmael calls back. "Gonna make some tea too. If ya don't want, there some other stuff in the fridge."

Urick sighs, suddenly sounding just /tired/ in ways that naps don't fix, "Whatever, Ishmael. Liquid. Gaia's Bones this has been a hell of a week."

Ishmael snorts. "You're telling me."

Urick makes a noise that manages to convey annoyance, agreement, and sad displeasure all at once, "You weren't the one tackling Mouse while she screamed through a fox frenzy. Some days I don't think I was built for this line of work."

"Had I known," Ishmael adds quickly. "I would have been there with you. /IF/ I had known, however, I'd have shot the fucking idiot that thought chasing and growling after a scared, broken woman on a /Full moon/ was the best of plan of action. But, I wasn't. Instead, I was here making sure worse things didn't happen."

"Wasn't my call," sighs the Ahroun, though he doesn't sound happy about it anyway. "Vera decided we were going to hunt her down and that was that. I'm not contradicting an Adren, thanks."

"I don't blame you," Ishmael agrees. "But Vera seems to occasionally think Adren means perfection, and she can be very dumb. But that's just my view on it." Sizzle, sizzle.

Urick snorts, sounding a little scandalized but not by munch, "By the time I got in a position to try and find out what was /really/ going on, it wasn't much worth it. Mouse was so freaked she shot me." His inflection and tone indicate he's more annoyed that she shot at /him/, instead of the fact that he was shot.

"Cornered animal," Ishmael explains.

Urick grumbles, "Yeah, I know. Shouldn't have come to that, dammit."

Ishmael returns, "No, it shouldn't have. But oh, well. Lesson and shit."

Urick snorts, sounding disgusted, "Lesson for who? Doubt Vera cares." There's sounds of him moving out in the main room, then he leans against the wall in a position where he can watch both Ishmael and the bathroom door, or at least the area near there.

Ishmael glances over his shoulder, frowning. "Jus' tryin' t'be positive."

Urick grimaces, "Yeah, but I'm worried." And we all know what that means. "I'm going to be staying arms-reach of Mouse."

"Not a bad idea, at the moment," Ishmael agrees, stirring the concoction on the stove. "She won't /like/ it, but it's not like it's a punishment that's going to be any worse that what Vera comes up with."

Urick shakes his head a little, "I'm not doing it for that. She needs it." He pauses a moment, then lowers his voice, making sure it goes no further than Ishmael's ears, "Had her sobbing into my ruff more than I like, but it's better than her trying to bottle it in."

"I don't mean it as a punishment," Ishmael says, lifting the spoon to gesture emphatically. "Just means she needs the support. And idly, I think Vera should be punished too, but hey."

The shower is still running in there. Mouse is apparently determined to use up every drop of hot water available.

Urick snorts, "Not my call. Or yours, really. But if a Philodox asks, well." He crosses his arms, aiming a worried look at the bathroom, but leaves it be, for now. If it goes for too much longer, he'll check. Not yet. "I do what I can, Ishmael. But I'm just me." Big hulking brute of an Ahroun that just cares too much.

Ishmael returns the snort. "The Philodox don't control how I /think/. 'Course, that means I can't do anything with concerns to punishment, but I can still have my opinions. An' I'm not criticizing you, at any rate." He pulls out some buns and slices of cheese, and begins preparing them.

Urick's lips twist in wry agreement, and he shrugs, "I just want to see it all in order. Mouse, Riot, the whole works. We've got enough trouble without inventing enemies in our bedrooms."

Ishmael spoons some of the slop onto the bun, and retrieves a plate to place the thing on. He then moves to hand it off to Urick. "Here ya go. An' I agree with ya." Now, for the tea. Shuffle, shuffle.

Urick takes the plate with a nod of thanks, but frowns and sets it to one side for the moment, "Back in a sec." He moves back over to the bathroom door and knocks at it gently, trying to not startle with the sudden sound. "Ma'am? Ishmael's here." He's more checking for a response than anything, but it's good to pass on the info anyway.

There's a voice from the other side, muffled by the sound of falling water. "Okay." Hey, she lives! And she hasn't like, escaped through the Umbra or something. Always a good thing.

"There's food, too," Urick offers, a bit of tension he didn't know he was carrying unraveling with Mouse's voice, "When you're ready, ma'am."

An "Okay," comes through the door again, though there's no sound of enthusiasm, and the shower water continues to run.

Ishmael has already prepared Mouse's plate, and is working on a large batch of tea. Hum, hum. Hey, domestic labor isn't so bad.

Urick nods, even though Mouse can't see it, and turns back towards the kitchen, breathing a little easier for now. "No idea when she'll be out of there." In the meantime, he's just realized that his stomach is trying to chew a hole in his spine, and will nearly inhale the food Ishmael prepared for him.

Ishmael adds some sugar to the hot tea mixture on the stove, stirring generously. Then some honey. Then some spices. It's like he's brewing a potion. Smells good, though.

Urick's only realizes he's finished when he finds himself sucking a finger clean and eyeing his plate in challenge. Oh, the food's gone. "I think I was hungry," the Ahroun muses, sounding sheepish.

"There's more," Ishmael says, pointing with the tea spoon towards the manwich pot.

The shower water finally shuts off.

Urick considers the pot for a long moment, but then his ears perk up (yes, visibly) as the water cuts off, and he's back on four paws even as he leaves the kitchen, lumbering over to plant himself by the door to the bathroom, close enough for easy reach, far enough away that he's not RIGHT THERE and a traffic hazard.

Ishmael is still busy with the tea.

Unfortunately for Urick, Mouse seems about as fast about after shower things as she was /taking/ the shower, and there isn't much sound coming from inside the bathroom, and no indication she'll be out any time soon. Le sigh.

Hunts-the-Storm is patient, but once Mouse is no immediately forthcoming, he moves away again, padding back out into the kitchen and wuffing quietly into Ishmael's hair just because. Appreciation for support and help, probably. ~You decide if she's been in there too long, this time.~

Ishmael snorts softly, stirring. He ford pat the Hispo's head all friendly-like, though. "She's the longest shower-taker an' shit in the universe. Y'd think she was was swappin' skins or somethin'."

Silence from the bathroom. If she's getting dressed or toweling off in there, she's being ninja stealthy about it.

Hunts-the-Storm mimics the snort himself, settling his haunches on the floor and looking back towards the bathroom door abstractedly, ~May not be far wrong, this time. Some nasty things came out of her past.~ He looks a little worried at the lack of sound, ears swivelling as he brow bunches.

"Just go tell her we're gonna dip her laptop in the sink if she doesn't hurry it up," Ishmael offers with a grunt.

Hunts-the-Storm huffs a laugh, though there's little feeling in it, then starts back towards the bathroom, listening carefully as he goes. His nerves are going to be a wreck, at this rate. He doesn't actually say anything once he's there, instead just making a querying little yip outside the door, unable to keep some of the worry out of his tone.

There's no sound at all, nothing beyond one single odd drip from the shower faucet. There's no answer to his query either.

This isn't good. This is in fact probably bad. ~I'm coming in,~ is all the Hispo says before locking his eyes on the doorknob. A moment of concetration and focus convinces the simple locking mechanism it'd much rather pop open, and then the Hispo leans his shoulder into the door, peering inside with his head low.

The inside of the bathroom is a nice steamy mess. The gun is still on the counter, well out of reach of the tub. The curtain is pulled back, but it seems Mouse never actually made it out of the tub--she's half sitting, half lying there, head back against the wall, looking up at the ceiling through hooded lids. One would think she'd be /cold/, but she's not showing signs of it. And wherever her thoughts are at right now, they're clearly not in the present. She doesn't even twitch at the door opening.

Ishmael continues to stir.

Hunts-the-Storm lets out his breath in relief when he spots the metis still there, flicking his tail towards Ishmael to signal it's mostly alright if the other is looking. Then he slides down into Lupus to better fit and pads quietly into the bathroom, claws clicking on the floor before he stretches his head out to nose lightly at Mouse's shoulder.

Mouse only seems to stir at the nudge, and this only reluctantly. She turns her head, looking blearily at the wolf, and one damp hand reaches to touch his nose. There's no sign of embarrassment at her current state of nakedness, but then, she's metis. And if seeing her in other forms hadn't already made the point clear, those spidery scars really are everywhere.

Hunts-the-Storm doesn't seem to notice or mind the fact that she's naked, either, nosing into Mouse's hand with an encouraging whine. Come, Elder. Do not rest here, it grows hard and cold and numbs the tender parts.

Mouse brushes the short hairs on his muzzle again. "Give me a little longer." Her voice is quiet, raw as it's been all day, and she turns her head to once again lean against the edge of the tub and look upward.

Hunts-the-Storm whines again, but simply stretches his neck a little to brush a lick against Mouse's shoulder and neck before backing and turning, padding back out of the bathroom. Sadly, he leaves the door open, so the steam will start to dissipate. Or maybe that's part of his nefarious scheme. In the meantime, he'll just flop down on the carpet and get his nerves to quit twitching. Calm down, boy.

Ishmael calls from the kitchen, "Your god damn food is gettin' cold, Mouse." Taciturn, much?

Mouse doesn't respond to Ishmael. And there's no immediate stirring from the bathroom. La la la.

Hunts-the-Storm aims a faintly exasperated look at the kitchen at Ishmael's words, then shakes his head with a flapping of ears and stretches, paws splaying out in front of him before he flops over. This one is going to be flat until First-Strike needs him.

Ishmael is now busy getting the tea into a pitcher and filling it with ice.

Still no sound from the bathroom. Apparently 'a little longer' was used as a very flexible term of the phrase.

...alright, this is getting a little tiresome. He's willing to wait a bit, but once the wait stretches too far, the wolf sighs heavily, pushes himself to his feet, sticks his head back in the bathroom and barks, a sharp note that echoes wildly in the small and tiled space. Elder!

Mouse hasn't moved a single bit, but the bark inspires a jump and a visible flinch from her. Rather than clamber out of the tub, she lowers her head so that her chin rests on her chest and closes her eyes.

Hunts-the-Storm sighs again, then pads back over once again and starts to nuzzle at the metis' hair, whining softly in appology for the startling noise. It has been long enough, Elder. You can think better when you've eaten. Get up, come on. Get up.

Mouse is currently sitting in the bathtub of all things, with her head bowed, eyes closed. She seems to have just taken a shower or bath, as she's still damp, unclothed, and the bathroom still contains whiffs of steam. Her injury is a great big ugly burned hole that goes straight through one thigh and out the other end. Urick's encouragement doesn't seem to be working. Her shoulders hunch forward, but there's no other change.

Hunts-the-Storm huffs in irritation, then sits down and glowers at his Elder. This one is going to pick you up and carry you if you do not walk on your own, First-Strike. You know this one is not lying. His tail thumps into the floor for emphasis.

Ishmael is too busy to join the pair, as he promptly gets a call. "Yeah, sure. Hold on," he says into his phone before clicking it shut. "Be right back," he calls, and then exits. A number of moments later he returns, Zeke in tow.

Zeke follows the young Walker up with a worried, but stoic look on his face. He stops just outside the door of the apartment and gives a faint, "Hello? It's Zeke. I came to see you Mouse."

"She's in the tub," Ishmael clarifies, opening the door to Mouse's apartment to let Zeke in. "Maybe you can get her to come out."

Mouse lifts her head slightly at Zeke's voice, eyes slanting toward the door.

Hunts-the-Storm swings an ear back towards the main room at the voices, then chuffs at his Elder again. She has until the Fury gets to this door, and then this one will pick her up and carry her. Or she can get up and walk on her own. Enough of this.

"I'd really like to see you Mouse, but I am not sure that catching you mid-bath will do either of us any good. Would you come out to see me?" asks Zeke with a soft, almost light tone. Something has definitely changed in the metis Fury.

Ishmael leaves the door open and returns to his labors in the kitchen.

Mouse curls her fingers against the side of the tub. And then, wordless, she begins to stand up, favoring her injured leg quite obviously. She grabs her clothing and the gun from the counter, almost as an aside, but she doesn't bother to put them on before she steps out of the bathroom.

Hunts-the-Storm yips a little in satisfaction as Mouse gets up, moving to stay out of her way, and follows her out of the bathroom watchfully, flipping his ears in an absent greeting to Zeke.

Ishmael reminds Mouse, "Dinner's on the counter."

Zeke waits patiently outside the door like some well trained gentleman.

Mouse grunts at Ishmael in response. "C'min," is what she says toward the door, muffled, raw. She begins pulling her change of clothing on, but given she's apparently not willing to put her gun down to do it, it's an awkward affair at best.

Hunts-the-Storm sighs faintly as he watches Mouse struggle with the gun and her clothing, but doesn't comment this time. So long as it doesn't go off, he's fine. If vaguely irritated with her. He'll just sit here and watch.

Zeke steps around the corner and stops just as he crosses the threshold. "Hi Mouse," his greeting is fond and gentle. "We can talk if you'd like, or I can just hang out. At some point, we should probably talk officially, but I'm not interested in that just this moment."

Mouse's jaw tenses just before she pulls her shirt over her head. At least the safety on her gun is in place. "Whenever you're ready to be official," she murmurs. She's not looking at him. But then, neither is she looking at Urick. Or Ishmael.

Hunts-the-Storm grumbles faintly, then steps away from Mouse to go and push the door to the apartment shut, making sure it latches with a thump of his head. Hmpf, there.

Ishmael is still busy in the kitchen.

Zeke looks around and then steps in a bit, "Mind if I sit on the floor? Feel like getting a little less stuffy-shirted. And if you'd like, and if you're ready, you could just tell me about everything. You can tell me whether you want to talk to me as Zeke, or as a halfmoon."

Mouse lifts her eyes a little, but she merely gestures toward the floor as she sets about pulling on the rest of her clothes. Her hair is still wet, but it's quite short and she doesn't seem to be bothered over it.

Hunts-the-Storm sits by the door, watching Mouse for a little bit, then sighs and paces over to her side of the room, bulking up to Hispo as he goes, then flops himself down by the wall, getting comfortable as he settles in to keep an eye on the pair of metis.

Zeke drops down to the floor and stretches out his legs, nodding and tugging his hat off. "Don't mind if I get comfortable, do you? It's warm up here on the upper floors." His hair is longer and frizzy-fuzzy, so it partially hides his ears anyway, but they're there to be seen now by anyone who got the notion to look or stare.